Last Sight

'Why have all prison transports such lousy suspensions?' Jerry thought to himself, as the retro-fitted school bus bounced him around like a bucking bronco. They hadn't even bothered to take the faded, No 26, off the side.

He knew the world looked at him as a third-class entity, or even fourth, if there was such a thing. He was a three-time loser: drugs, laziness, and greed. They made sure he stayed locked up.

If anyone ever asked what he was in for he'd reply, "stupidity." In prison, he was even more of a nobody than he'd been on the street. Any mystique he'd welded with the fools he called friends cut no mustard with the hard men behind bars. Life in prison was long stretches of boredom, punctuated with moments of outright fear. That's what prison was - fear.

Jerry's eyes were stinging.

“Hold still,” the doctor had said, pinning his eyes wide open as he sprayed that horrible smelling stuff in them. “This will make defects clearer on the scan.” 

For months, his eyesight had been failing. His vision was blurred and narrowing. Now, things were just smudges of light and dark.

He gazed through the grill fitted outside the bus window. He wondered if these snow-covered fields were going to be his last glimpse of the world. The trip to the eye specialist, in Fargo, had been a welcome break from the daily grind of life in the James-River Correctional Facility.

The James-River bus was decrepit. He was surprised it still ran. It was colder in here than outside, if that’s possible. He shivered, despite the duffel coat he wore over his prison jump-suit and the shackles on his wrists rattled. Fat Pauli was driving the bus and guarding him. Fat was no understatement when it came to Pauli. He was two hundred and eighty pounds of bone-idle blubber. They didn’t bother sending a second guard, with Jerry being nearly blind. The falling apart bus, and lack of guards, reinforced Jerry's belief that he was less than worthless.

Fat Pauli fumed behind the wheel as they crawled along at four miles an hour, his massive bulk blocking the tiny farts coming from the air-con unit. Whatever the hold-up was, it didn't bother Jerry, he had years to kill. Pauli, on the other hand, was going to be late for his Friday night poker game. When they reached Casselton, his minder had had enough of the tail-back. He swung the creaking rust-covered bus off the Interstate, and onto a rutted back road.

"Hold on to your breeches, this is going to be bumpy," he yelled over his shoulder, as he ground up through the gears. They gathering speed and shimmied on down the road, sliding on the frozen snow. They should be using snow-chains for going on such backroads, but Pauli probably knew what he was doing.

"I know every shortcut in the state," he yelled back at Jerry, sounding like a red neck tour guide.

"Don't go rushing on my account, Officer," he said, settling back like he was being chauffeur driven. He caught the angry crease in Pauli fat forehead and smiled to himself. The bus picked up pace, making the ride even more uncomfortable. The road narrowed and soon trees replaced open farmland. Then the road began to snake. Pauli’s fat foot was still planted firmly on the accelerator, when a deer bounded out of a bush. It was only a reactionary flick of the wheel, but it was enough to send the rickety bus sliding full force into a massive pine tree. Like all the bad luck in his life, Jerry never saw it coming.

***

Cold air brought him round. He was sore but not the searing pain of broken bones or ripped flesh. His eyes took in what they could and he picked out the slumped figure of Pauli, his jelly belly swallowing half the dash. Jerry got his feet under him and moved to the front of the wrecked bus.

"Hay," he called, but the guard didn't move. "Pauli, wake up man!" That was when he noticed the trickle of blood that ran from the man's cauliflower shaped ear.

"Aww shit man, what the fuck Jerry?" he said to himself. He didn't like Pauli but he didn't want him dead either. The cold rushing into the wrecked vehicle soon snapped him out of his stupor. He couldn't just stay here; he'd freeze to death. He was on a tiny back-road, miles from anywhere and in the middle of a blizzard. If he was getting out of this, he was getting himself out. Through the separation grill, he could see the bunch of keys dangling from Paulie’s belt. He reached his fingers through the metal lattice but couldn’t reach. He looked around and noticed the grill on a window near the back of the bus had popped off. He shuffled back and got his fingers around the edge, then pulled for all he was worth. He shot back on his ass as the grill came off.

He eased himself out the smashed window and sank up to his knees in the fresh snow. He waded toward the crushed front of the bus and climbed into the cab. He shook Pauli by the shoulder, but it was useless. He was gone.

"Looks like you took your last detour, Chief," he said to the dead man and unclipped the keys from his belt. Once he'd got his handcuffs off, he took Pauli’s winter coat and snow boots. They were no use to him now. Jerry took the guards wallet but left the gun. It was one thing to be on the run, but another thing to be on the run and armed. That was sure to get you shot first, questioned later. Time to move.

***

All night, he ploughed through the woods of Fort Ranson State Park, the trees blocking the worst of the winter wind. Even double coated, he was frozen to the core and now it was snowing again.

"Just keep moving," he said to himself, but his body desperately needed to stop. His limbs were numb and he was dog tired.

"You stop, you die," he told himself again and again, but his lips couldn’t stop trembling. At least the falling snow covered all signs of his passing, not that his eyes could see his trail anyway.

Morning came, and with it the first helicopter. Twice he had to bury himself deep in snowdrifts to hide from the thermal cameras. Eventually, they moved off and he trudged on. The woods thinned out as he rose higher into the mountain. Scrub, covered by deep snow, made the going hard.

"Shit! Fuck! Bastard!" he exclaimed, each time his numb legs vanished under him, threatening to break a bone or twist an ankle. Eventually the inevitable happened.

"For fuck sake! Fuck!" he shouted, grabbing his shin. His fingers came away covered in blood. His numb hand felt a taut string of barbed wire, hidden under the snow.

"Barbed wire means livestock. Livestock means farmers, and farmers mean farmhouses," he said, trying to see the best side to his injury. His deficient eyes scanned the vast expanse of white, squinting to help them focus. In the distance, he had a notion of a darker area, squarer than nature is fond of making. He moved toward it slowly, testing each step for hidden dangers.

The barn was abandoned, or only used for high grazing in the summer months. The door hung by one hinge and slammed in the wind. He slipped inside, pulling it shut behind him. This felt like heaven, anything to be out of that wind. Gaps in the timber siding let in beams of winter light but they did little to dispel the gloom. In this half-light, he was as good as blind. He felt his way deeper into the barn and found a mound of brittle hay. He threw himself into it, exhaustedly, and sleep came in an instant.

It was fully dark when he woke, the growling of his stomach rousing him. He hadn’t eaten in two days now, and was starving. But worse than the hunger was his thirst. He pushed himself up on his elbows, hearing another low, rumbling, growl, but this one came from his left, not his stomach. Wolf, was all he could think. He backed away until his shoulders brushed some tools leaning against the wall. He grabbed a handle and held whatever it was out, to fend off the attack that was sure to come. The growl came again.

"Easy boy," he said, and felt along the wall until his fingers found the door. He pushed it open and felt the bite of the storm outside. Inside were fangs, and outside was freezing. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Keeping the door open, he huddled out of the worst of the wind and waited for something happen, but nothing did. The hours passed and the growls subsided. An uneasy truce seemed to have been called. Both beasts realised shelter would have to be fought for, or shared. Sharing seemed to be the common choice.

Dawn came, sending golden light creeping into the barn. In the far corner, Jerry could just make out glowing yellow eyes, hovering in the darkness. As the light grew stronger, the wolf in the corner was transformed into a skinny mongrel, its ribs standing out under paper-thin skin. Jerry lowered his shovel, and said, "You scared the shit out of me boy." With the immediate treat lifted, his thirst returned with a vengeance.

He found a rusted bean tin which he filled with snow and held it close to his body. As he waited for the snow to melt, the dog watched his every move. He searched the building for something edible, and came up empty handed.

 "I may as well be on a desert island," he mumbled to himself. He was soon getting sips of metallic tasting water from this can. As he drank, the dog watched him, pleadingly.

"What lockup are you running from?" he asked the pup, and as if knowing the question was for him, the dog's ears pricked up. This got Jerry laughing and the dog settled his chin against the floor.

"We'd picked a hell of a barn to hide in," he said to the mutt. With that, the dog began to whine.

"Oh, come on! It's not that bad," he said to his new cell mate, but soon the dog began to shiver and shake. Jerry edged closer, a step at a time. That was when he found out this little dog wasn't a dog at all, but a bitch, soon to be a mommy.

"Good Girl, it will be ok," he cooed at her, but stayed out of snapping range. She eyed him with pain filled eyes, deep pools of hurt and mistrust. They said to him, I got bigger fish to fry right now, you can stay but no touching -OK. Jerry got the message loud and clear.

The morning hours passed as the mangy little dog shuddered through labour and into birth. Jerry found a dish and poured some water into it for her, shoving it towards her mussel with his toe. She cocked her head and lapped it greedily. Jerry topped it up as quickly as his body could melt more snow. The hours ticked by and three little puppies arrived. Two flopped to the ground, slimy and still. The little black dog nursed them with her long pink tongue, but her efforts were for nothing.

"You're a great little mommy, you know that girl? It’s not your fault," he said, but the sight of the two little puppies broke both their hearts.

As the third pup entered the world, the little dog licked with vigour. She cleaned his baby-pink nose and rubbed his chest with her glistening snout. She licked and licked until the puppy let out a weak cry. The dog's ears perked up, and if a dog is capable of smiling, this one grinned from ear to ear.

"Would you get a load of that," Jerry said, forgetting himself and reaching out to rub the little dogs head. As his palm touched the dog’s neck, she went rigid, looking sideways at him. They both stayed like this for what seemed like ages but she made the first move. She lowered her head and she resumed cleaning her new-born, happy to have Jerry’s hand resting on her fur. He stroked her neck and felt the touch of another living creature for the first time in years. There’s not much touching in prison, well, not the enjoyable kind anyway. When nobody else on earth could give a damn, she accepted him. He watched as the little mother pushed her baby toward painfully empty teats and that was when he noticed a small dribble of blood.

"That don't look right girl, that don't look right at all," he said, but what could he do about it. He watched as the little pup began to suckle, as its momma's head flopped to the floor. Jerry stroked the dog’s neck. Slowly the pool of red was getting bigger.

"You did so good," he said, feeling his eyes grow misty. In the distance he heard the, woop-woop-woop, of a chopper as he looked into those innocent eyes. They were closing in on him. It was only a matter of time. Her eyes began to close and her breathing was getting rapid and shallow. The life was draining out of her and Jerry hoped she wasn’t in any pain. She lay her head against his leg as the effort of holding it up became too much. She was slipping away. She had given up everything for her baby, but it hadn’t been enough. It was going to become an orphan, and in this frozen wasteland, survival would be impossible.  

"No more pain for you. Rest now, Girl. I'll take care of your little one," he said, rubbing the dog’s neck one last time. He scooped up the tiny crying pup and laid it where the little dog could see it. Weakly, her long pink tongue licked the tiny blind pup, and with three happy swishes of her tail, the light in those beautiful eyes faded. Wiping away tears, Jerry held little pup against the dog’s tummy, helping it to find a teat, and take in whatever milk it could. The next few hours could be very long for the both of them.

Jerry found some old sacking and made a pouch, which he stuffed with straw, to keep the pup warm on the journey. Once the pup was well wrapped up, he opened his jacket and put little fella inside, where it could feel the beat of his heart and get the heat of his body. He trudged out into the night, heading back toward the road. It was a huge chance to take but this little guy needed his help.

He hadn’t gone very far when a bull horn blared, "Freeze! US Marshals. Put your hands in the air."

"Don't shoot," he yelled, to the voice he couldn’t see.

"Get your god-damn-hands in the air," came the reply.

"OK. OK, don't fuckin shoot," he shouted, realising that this was going to be for the best. It was a pipe dream to think he could have made it back to civilisation and still keep his freedom. This way, he'd be back in custody, but the pup would be warm and safe. They might even let him keep it. Jerry raised his left hand high, but as he tried to pull out the hand holding the pup, a shot rang out. It was like being kicked by a mule. He’d never been shot before. He lay on his back, gasping for air when a forest of gun-barrels filled his vision.

"Get that god-damn-gun," a faceless voice commanded. Jerry sucked at the air but it wouldn't go in his lungs. He felt the blood bubble up in his throat.  A rough hand ripped open his jacket and grabbed the piece of sack cloth. The pup gave a cry.

"Jesus, it wasn't a gun," the trooper said, pushing back his helmet, reviling a startled, but kind face.

Jerry managed to wave the man closer, and whispered, "Take care of that little guy, he's all I got." Jerry looked down and saw the tiny black puppy lick once at his knuckle, before the sight finally fell from his eyes.

The End.

Inside

Have you ever woken up and not felt yourself?  I stood before the shaving mirror, shaking every so slightly, my feet rooted to the chilly bathroom tiles. Something wasn't right. I felt...strange. It wasn't ill exactly, it was something different. I seemed fuller. I was feeling things where there were never things to feel before. I ran the cold tap and splashed my face, the bite of the water flushed my mind clean and the feeling receded.

Later, on the bus-ride to work, the feeling came back but stronger this time. It's hard to describe how your own body feels. Mostly you don't feel it at all, and when you do, it's rarely good news. I felt a tightness down my right-hand side spreading up along my neck. I could feel my blood as it moved, my head throbbed, as if my brain were pulsing against the inside of my skull. I felt uncomfortable but still somehow normal.

I was still concentrating on this paradox when I felt someone poke me in the side. I turned my head but there was a good foot of space between me and the young woman who looked out the misty glass. I was poked again, but this time I could see that nobody had touched me. I ran my fingers under my coat and explored my skin. A tiny bulge pressed back against my fingers before withdrawing slowly and vanishing.

I bolted from the bus the moment it stopped and ran to my office building. I dashed to the toilet and locked myself inside. I stripped my jacket, jumper, and shirt. For an age, I explored my body with eye and finger. I could see nothing, I could feel nothing. But it had been there. I dressed and went to my desk where I was less than useless for the day. Time and again I caressed my side...searching without wanting to find.

That night, I examined myself in a full length mirror. Lights on full, with extra lamps plugged in and shining on the my torso, I searched in vain for the mystery lump. I had nearly satisfied myself there was nothing to be found when I felt the pressure again. This time it was deep under the muscle. With horrified eyes I watched the skin of my side push out. Slowly it rose, paused then quivered before sinking back. My fingers, now frantic, searched and rubbed my skin until it was red-raw. I dug and kneaded to find what should not...could not, exist.

No sleep came that night. I lay awake, searching for an answer that wouldn't come. The pressure came several times, each time stronger than the last. I spent the whole night with my left hand resting on my ribs, waiting for the next appearance. I was just dozing off when pain shot through me. My hand clamped down against my ribs and the lump reared up with a vengeance. I felt it wiggle under my fingers, causing unbelievable pain as it burrowed through flesh and nerve. I felt the thing force it's way between bone and skin before diving deep into my body. The pain was incredible, like shards of glass being driven deep. I leapt from the bed, soaked with cold sweat and sick to my core. I could still feel it moving, burrowing, deep where the nerves couldn't reach so the pain was ebbing. I was not alone, there was something inside.

The following day, I was at the doctors office hours before it opened. I had a feeling the thing inside was growing. I was hyper-aware, feeling every fiber that tickled my skin, every stretch of a muscle. As I sat in the waiting room I felt a strange sensation on the back of my hand. I turned it over and glared at the skin. It moved and I hadn't made it happen. I froze, afraid to watch, afraid not to. A ghastly shape swam under my skin, hurdling my tendons as it moved from my thumb to the base of my little finger and then it vanished. I was still staring at my hand with horror when my name was called.

Once in the office, I tried to explain but I could see my doctor thought I was crazy. He examined my skin, probed my flesh, took my fluids and measured every vital statistic know. He settled in his chair and said it was going to take some time for the test results to come back. Then he fondled an organ responsive to the touch of logic. He delved into the far reaches of my brain and I actually wished he would call the men with white coats to cart me off. At least then I would know I couldn't have felt, what I felt.

He declared me sane and blew my mind.

That had been two days ago. Since then I've not slept, not eaten, I've only felt. What exists within me is feasting now. I can feel it's tiny teeth tearing at my organs. I feel it writhe and squirm just under the skin before dividing once more. An hour ago, a white hot needle of pain pierced the back of my eye and I screamed a long gurgling scream. A shadow swam through my vision before it shot out of sight with a flick of it's rat-like tail. More pain but this time I passed out. When I woke, I knew I could not continue.

I had to get away, I had to be free. I fled from my home, heading west, stopping for nothing. But it was useless, wherever I went I took this abomination with me. I ran out of road so I walked and then I ran out of land to walk on. I stood with my toes on the edge of a cliff, gazing out over Atlantic waves as they marched in from the horizon. My phone rang, disturbing this one perfect moment.

"Hello?"

"This is Doctor Casey. Your blood work back and we need you to come in for a second test," said the man on the other end of the line. His words were insignificant, he was powerless against this. What could they do? Poke? Point? Name something they could never understand? I felt a cough come from deep inside and the air that escaped was flecked with droplets of blood.

"Are you OK?" the physician asked hearing the cough. "You've got to get in here, and fast. You are a very sick man."

"Thanks, Doc. I'll be on my way now," I said, turning off the phone and popping it back in my pocket. I looked down and saw waves breaking on razor-sharp rocks. I swayed a little and that scene hurtled toward me. That was when I felt the thing inside squirm in terror. It knew...it knew what was coming and was trying to push it's way free of this meat coffin. I wrapped myself tightly, holding it inside and then...it was over.

Boom!

If you start any sentence with, In my day, it automatically qualifies you as a fuddy-duddy. The truth is, in my day the world was a whole hell of a lot more exciting. Twelve-year olds today spend their free time crushing aliens on x-box or texting. When I was twelve, I built a bomb to blow up the widow Flannigan’s wall.

It all started on a summer’s morning when I went to visit my friend Johnny. Johnny lived with his gran, a few minutes away from my house. Johnny’s grans house was a huge old place with loads of bedrooms, sitting rooms, and parlours. It was always cold, even in the summer time and it smelled like an old man’s coat. The house had once been a bursting full to the seams with people but they had long ago vanished to the four corners of the world.

We explored the house from top to bottom, but it was the attic that was most fascinating. The attic ran the full length of the house and you had to use a hatch in the landing to get up there. It was packed with old furniture, suitcases, and boxes filled with the most amazing things. To a twelve-year-old, this was an Aladdin’s cave of treasures. That morning we’d been rummaging through boxes when we found a steamer trunk pushed into a corner. It looked like a pirates chest.

“Would you look at that,” said Johnny, pulling it under the light.

“Open it up,” I said, imagining it full to the brim with gold and treasure. Little did I realise that the treasure it contained was much more valuable than any ruddy gems. Johnny flipped the clasps, opening the lid gave with a rusty creak. The first thing that came out of the trunk was the stuff of dreams. It was a Second World War helmet, with a bullet hole. Can you imagine, a real bullet hole? This helmet must have saved a soldier’s life, why else would anyone keep a helmet with a hole in it. In my mind I could see him peeking out of a fox hole when, Ping, the German sniper gets him, blowing the helmet clear off his head. Johnny sat the helmet on his thick curls as he ducked behind boxes, making a pistol out of his fingers.

We soon delved deeper into the trunk and found a gas mask, a funny torch with a red lens which was bent in half, a bunch of black and white photos and a load of letters all tied up with a blue ribbon. Down at the bottom of the trunk a uniform, boots and all. We both had a go at putting it on, but it was miles too big. While I was strutting around pretending to be on parade, I felt a strange bulge in the breast pocket. It a field manual for the Irish Ranger Unit – 1943. On the inside cover was pencilled the name, Private James Quigley. Just imagine the places this little book had been. It could have ridden across oceans under bombardment from sky and sea. It could have parachuted out over enemy lines. All the adventures this little book had and it ended up with us.

For the rest of the morning we read through the little book. A lot of it was just lists of rules and regulations, none of which mattered a jot to Johnny or me. It was at the back we came across a section called, Disruption of Enemy Activities. In here, it described how to put a land mine in a sock coated with grease so it would stick to the tracks of a tank, it described how to cut communication lines, report on troop movements and improvise explosives from readily available materials.

“That can’t be true,” said Johnny.

“Why not,” I asked, believing that the Irish Ranger Unit knew more about making bombs than two twelve-year olds.

“I’ve never seen sugar blow up anything, except Mary’s backside.”  Mary was Johnny’s second cousin and they hated each other. She always called him stupid and he called her big arse, which was at least technically true.

“It says here, you have to mix it with an ignition source, and a detonator; whatever they are.”

“I bet we could build one, just a small one,” said Johnny, bubbling over with excitement. Now I know you’re thinking, this is a bad idea, but you have to remember we’re talking about two twelve-year olds with a trunk full of Second World War stuff and heads full of dreams. The only thing better than blowing something up, would be blowing it up twice. That was how, operation boom, was born.

“Read back over that bit,” Johnny said. He preferred to do the thinking and planning; I was relegated to the secretarial pool.

“It says, items such as icing sugar and nitrogen rich dry fertiliser, can be used to create an expanding gas explosion. A detonator is needed to begin the reaction, such as gun powder, or explosive fluid, and a fuse.”

“Most of that stuff is just lying about the place. There are bags of icing sugar in the press and tonnes of 10/10/20 in the barn. But where will we get some gunpowder?” Johnny wondered aloud, walking around the attic stroking his chin like some mad scientist.

“It said we could use explosive fluid. Petrol might work,” I offered.

“It’ll make the sugar all squidgy. I can’t see that blowing up,” scoffed Johnny.

“What if we filled a balloon with it, and put that inside the sugar?”

“You’re a genius,” Johnny said, jumping around like a loon and slapping me on the back.

We snuck in the kitchen and Johnny pinched a bag of icing sugar while I distracted his granny. We took a bucket of fertiliser from the shed and filled a jam-jar with petrol from the lawn mower. I had to run home to get balloon because Johnny had none. We got to work in our laboratory, better known as the potting shed.

“I still don’t see how this will explode,” I ventured.

“I think we have to get it all wrapped up together; good and tight. You mix the sugar and the fertiliser, I’ll find something to do the job,” he said, running off towards the house.

“How much will I mix,” I called after him.

“How do I know. Guess,” he shouted over his shoulder. I found a big flower pot and mixed scoops of sugar and fertiliser equally until I ran out of sugar. Then I poured some petrol into a balloon. Johnny came crashing back into the shed, in one hand he had a pair of tights, in the other he held a pair of his grans thick woollen socks.

“What do you think, will these work?” I eyed the two options. I didn’t fancy handling Johnny’s Granny’s tights, so pointed to the socks. “They’ll do the job, I think. All we need now is a fuse.

“Ah, I was thinking about that,” said Johnny, dropping to his knees stripping the laces from one of his shoes. He held the lace out, “What do you think?”

“Perfect,” I agreed, and we got to work making our bomb.

We tied the lace around the petrol filled balloon, put it in the sock and then packed the sugar/fertiliser mix around it. We tied the top of the sock with a piece of string. I have to admit it came out great. It looked like it could go, bang, at any second.

“What will we blow up?” I asked.  

“What about the stone wall around the widow Flannigan’s paddock. Gran said she is nothing but a strap anyway.”

We ran across the fields and picked a spot in the wall, near a big tree. We could set the fuse and then run behind the tree to shelter from the blast, assuming that is the tree wasn’t ripped from the ground by the explosion. Johnny wedged the furry bomb into a crevice in the wall, then struck a match, but the lace wouldn’t light. The most he managed was to singe the plastic bit on the end.

“Run back to the shed and bring the jar of petrol,” he shouted at me, and I didn’t have to be told twice. My feet flew across the fields. I was back in no time, with the golden liquid sploshing around inside the jam-jar. Johnny unscrewed the lid and dipped the end of the lace into the petrol, letting it fully soak. This time it was sure to work.

You could cut the tension with a knife as Johnny drew the box of matches, one last time. The head of the match flared and he moved the flame closer to the petrol soaked shoe lace. As soon as the flame licked the lace, it shot along it, faster than the eye could see. Johnny had over-soaked the lace. We never got to take a step before it went off, and go off it did. It was more a, Phifft, than a bang. We were enveloped in a huge plume of stinking smoke. Chocking and half blind, we picked ourselves off the ground. When the acidic smoke cleared, the Widow Flannigan’s wall stood exactly as it had before. Johnny turned to me, face streaked with soot and tears, his voice raw from inhaling the stinging smoke he croaked, “Perhaps we should have used the tights.”

Every time I pass that stonewall, I remember that day and all the other days I spent with Johnny. His love of all things explosive never left him as he’s now a captain in the Irish Rangers. The story of his first attempt at making things go, bang, is a favourite with his troops.

It's tough being nine.

Let me tell you being nine is tough and it is even harder when you have a cousin like Tommy. First off, Tommy is ten, and makes sure everyone knows it. Second, he does karate. I’ve nothing against karate, but the way he was always chopping and kicking things made me sick. He thinks he’s so much better than me. Sometimes I hate him, most of the time, I want to be just like him.

In the summer, every kid in my village would hangout above the weir, where the water was deep and slow. Spending long lazy days taking cooling dips in the cold river water. There was a rope hanging from a branch and we would take turns launching ourselves out over the water. Some of the biggest kids had it down to a fine art. They would run hard, letting go of the rope at just the right point, sending them flying impossibly high in the air, seeming to stall before gracefully dropping into the water. They’d stroke back to the shore, under a cloak of hero worship, from us lesser mortals.

One day, Tommy and his gang came biking down the street in a V formation. Tommy was in the middle, his hair slick with hair gel, sweating in the black leather biker jacket. A folded playing card brushed the spokes of his wheel and rattled like a machine gun. They threw their bikes into the long grass basicly took over the weir, pushing others out of the way as they took over the swing.

Tommy stripped to his swimming trunks and grabbed the rope. He ran, but still only managed a feeble swing, hardly getting him clear of the bank before he let go. He spun, like a fat white starfish, and landed with the most painful looking belly flop…ever. Everyone laughed, me more than most. Tommy struggled out of the river, glowing red with embarrassment. He stopped in front of me and said. "What are you laughing at, Dumbo?"

"You did a belly flop," I said, rubbing salt in his open wound.

"You're too scared to even try it," Tommy said, with rage in his voice.

"I'm not," I said. "Anyone could do what you just did."

"Prove it," he said, wrapping himself in a towel to hide his glowing pink belly.

"I will so," I said getting to my feet intending on trying the swing dive.

"That's too easy, get dressed, I’ve something better for you," he said, smiling at his group of goons.

Like I said earlier, most of the time I hated Tommy, but here was my chance to prove myself. I just had to take it.

When we were dressed, we rounded up our bikes and cycled off into the countryside. After nearly an hour, mostly up hill, my legs were getting sore.

"Where are we going, Tommy?" I asked, trying to keep the whine out of my voice.

"We're nearly there, only a few minutes more," he said, smiling over his shoulder at me. You would have sworn he was actually nice. A few minutes later, we dismounted and pushed our bikes through the knee-high grass. We entered a glade which ended in a giant stone buttress. It reared out of the ground like the bow of a mighty ship. At the base was a small opening.

Tommy faced me, like a headmaster addressing his class. "What we're going to show you is top secret," he said. "Only members of our club have ever been inside to see the bones. Do you accept this challenge?"

I was scared but more than anything, I wanted my cousin Tommy to like me. I stood taller and said, "I do."

From under a pile of rocks, Tommy scooped a battered biscuit tin. Inside were a dozen candles and a pile of match boxes. Tommy handed each of us a bunch of candles and a box of matches. Following the lead of the others, I put all but one candle into my pocket and lit the one I held, cupping a hand around the flickering flame, protecting it from the gentle summer breeze. Tommy ducked into the opening, followed by his friends with me in last place.

Under my hands, the rocks were slippery. The passage angled down sharply, the stone roof just inches above my head. I climbed and scrambled over boulders, following the light of the boys strung out in front of me. Soon, the only light visible came from the procession of candles. I felt the cave growing around me, rather than seeing it. No longer did the sides of the tunnel rub my shoulders, the glow of the candles no longer reflected off glistening rocks, it just died away in the never-ending darkness. Down and down we ventured, mainly in a straight line. We were all walking upright now, with lots of room overhead, the floor levelled out and became a smoothly polished grove in the earth. At last, we reached a part of the cave that echoed like a cathedral.

Tommy and his friends formed a tight circle around me, the flickering of their candles making horror masks of their faces.

"No one has been in this cave for hundreds of years, except us," he said.

"Is this where the bones are? Is it an accent bear, or even a wolf?" I wondered, getting excited about seeing them. "Where are the bones?" I asked Tommy.

"The only bones in here will be yours, if you can’t find your way out," he said, shoving me to the ground. My candle spilt out of my hand and quenched on the wet floor. The others sprinted away, howling and shouting in the darkness, taking the light with them. I scrabbled around on my hands and knees, searching cold floor until my finger brushed the warm, soft wax of the candle. I dug the matches from my pocket, and only then, remembered the spare candles I’d had all the time. Shouts echoed all around me, they could have coming from beside me, or miles away. In the complete darkness, I couldn't tell. I struck a match and lit my candle then turned in circles, looking for something I would recognise, but every rock looked like the next.

I thought I could make out the grove of the path, and having no other choice, I started to follow it. Just then, the shouting stopped, not faded out, just stopped. With no idea whether I was going further into the cave, or back for the entrance, I blundered on. I thought I heard voices but they were very faint. Tommy and his friends must be watching me panic, they would surely come and get me.

Time passed, but no one came. I couldn’t just wait here forever. I had to do something, so I pushed on through the dark, guided by the weak light of my candle. I just wanted out of this place.

Soon, my candle burned down, and died. I had to light another one. It seemed like I had only just done that, when I needed to light my last one. I realized by rushing forward the flame was fluttering in the wind, making the wax melt faster than if I walked. My last candle was dwindling when I felt the floor begin to slope upwards. I must have found my way back to the entrance. With tremendous relief I rushed forward, following the grove in the earth as it rose, climbing over boulders and rocks towards, each step taking me closer to safety. The candle burnt down to my fingers and I had to drop it. I felt my way forward on my hands and knees, inching along, finding my way by my fingertips.

I felt the walls and roof bare down on me, like it had been when we first entered the cave. I kept moving forward, bumping my head from time to time. Now and again, I lit a match from the box to see what lay ahead. Every time, it was just more dark.

Panic swamped my excitement. I kept moving, lighting one match after another. The tunnel had narrowed to the size of a barrel. I knew it was not the way we’d come in, but I still hoped it would lead me out. Going up had to be a good thing. The second last match fizzled and died, I lay crying in the moss and dirt for a long, long time.

At last, I wiped away the water from my face. Some was moisture from the cave, but mostly were the tears of a nine-year-old boy. Rubbing them made me realise something, the blackness wasn’t as black anymore. I concentrated on the way ahead, I was sure it was brighter. Light must be coming in from somewhere. It had to be a way out.

I crawled on, and it was definitely getting brighter, but the walls were closing in all the time. I had to wriggle now, there was no space for anything more. The hint of light grew into a promise. Every inch forward made the glow stronger. I could feel the first hint of a breeze, and smell fresh air, but cave was now no bigger than a drain pipe. I stretched my hands out ahead of me and pulled myself forward by my fingers. My shoulders squeezed against the rocks and I fought them for every inch. Freedom was in front of me, I could smell it, I could nearly see it.

One more push and I’d break through. I squirmed hard, but a rock above me shifted, crashing down on my lower-back. I tried to free myself, but the rock was jammed in its new position. I couldn't go forwards, nor backwards. I couldn't even take a deep breath. I kicked my feet behind me, and my hands stretched out in front, looking for a hand hold. Uncontrollable panic gripped me. I beat my fists against the rocks, tearing my skin, as I fought with every ounce I had. Only exhaustion stilled my body, and my mind. My fingers touched the match box and with trembling fingers, I struck it. It flared into brilliant life and lit up my tiny world. Just ahead of me lay a bunch of withered fingers, covered in blackened leathery skin, tipped with long broken finger nails, stretching out towards me. A lifeless skull framed with wisps of wild hair screamed silently in my direction. As the last light my eyes would ever see faded, my screams filled the dark.

Like I said, it’s tough being nine.

The Rip

It was a gloriously bright Tuesday in September when he crested the ridge and got a glimpse of the ocean stretched out to the horizon. He'd never approached his secret cove from the mountain before and the view was breath-taking. It was as if a whole different world lay hidden behind a bend in the road. He eased his vehicle to a stop and rolled down the driver’s window to take in the magnificence of the scene.

"This is what it must feel like to be an eagle," he whispered to himself, as his eyes took in the islands in the distance, dwarfed by the vast undulating water. White lines of surf, tiny from this vantage point, broke on a sliver of golden shore.

He looked down at his tattered wool jumper and fingered his jeans which were ripped from age, rather than fashion. A smile spread across his face as he realised he was the luckiest man alive. Whatever money he had jangled in his pocket, and when the van ran out of petrol, he’d call that place home. He wasn’t ashamed to say, he’d eaten from more than one dumpster, but at moments like this, he wouldn't trade lives with any billionaire you may care to mention. 

He slid the camper into first gear, and steadily descended, past boulders and waterfalls. He inched down the mountain until the road levelled out, and his destination neared.

Once the distraction of Gods personal view was removed, his foot lay harder on the accelerator. He was eager to be one with that vast body of water. The cove was known only to few, and the first time he had stumbled upon it, it had been an accident. The waves were pristine, and looked lonely. He felt they had been waiting an eon for him to come and carve them up with the fins of his surfboard.

With the thought of what was waiting for him looming large in his mind, each second seemed an hour, every foot a mile. At last, he turned into the unmarked Bohereen which ended before he’d reached his destination. He unloaded his board and wet-suit, shouldered a backpack, and trekked the last mile across the fields. As he marched, he thought about the word Bohereen which meant little road. It had such a musical sound, perhaps Irish was the language of happiness. Once he'd asked an old man in a pub, what made a Bohereen a Bohereen? The old fella wiped a Guinness moustache from his top lip and said, "A Boher is a road where two cows can pass. A Bohereene is where there’s only room for one." Such a simple, but beautiful, explanation sums up Ireland nicely.

At last, he stood looking out over his promised land. He salivated over the huge glassy waves, forced to die a virgin death upon the unfeeling shore, without ever knowing the caress of a surfer’s fin. Such an ending is a travesty for waves as perfect as these. Zipping himself into his wetsuit, he had his first twinge of doubt. From the shore, the waves looked substantial. but perfect. The substantial part would be magnified when he got in the grip of them. The question in his mind was not, if he could ride them, but could he get past them.

He strapped the board's leash to his leg and sprinted, undaunted, into the chilly Atlantic swell. His board skimming the surface of the foaming white water with ease, powerful strokes drove him further into oncoming waves. Some waves broke before he reached them and he had to power through the boiling froth, others paused just long enough to let him crest the lip before he plunged down the valley they left behind. Muscles aching, he battled the massive swell. Stroke after stroke taking him into deeper water. Then the feel of the waves changed. The colour of the water darkened from foam flecked grey to dark brooding green.

The water was freezing and his battered wetsuit did little to keep him warm. His fingers were already numb, and his feet were turning blue. He sat up to take a rest, confident he was past the impact zone. He scanned the horizon for an approaching set, and the horizon was filled with promising shadows. Wave after wave marched toward him, but none broke. He wasn’t sure how long he bobbed in the water before it dawned on him that something was wrong. The massive waves should be breaking, but weren’t.

He turned, but the beach was gone. The only land in sight was the upper reaches of the hills he had so carefully navigated earlier. “Damn,” he said and turned his board toward shore. He had paddled right into a rip-current.

Despite his experience, panic made him do the ridiculous. He tried to paddle directly back toward shore. Each frantic stroke sapped him of vital strength. Where he gained a foot, he lost two. Every second, the flow of water carried him further from land. The ocean seemed to have discarded all the heat it gathered from the sun and was now as cold as the grave. Layers of protective rubber couldn't stop the fingers of icy water probing his skin, robbing him of his most precious resource - heat.

He battled the rip for what seemed like hours before the shakes began, torturing his already jaded muscles, but fear made him push through the agony. Slowly, the shakes dwindled, and the cold seemed more bearable, but he was so very tired. He continued to paddle, but his arms had gone to jelly. It wasn’t just tired, this was something more. He knew he was in trouble…big trouble. His body was shutting down. He’d heard about hypothermia but never thought it would happen to him. He dug deep and gave it one last try, but it was futile. He collapsed on the board, in utter exhaustion, letting his arms hang below the surface of the frigid water.

His could see his ragged breathing create tiny waves on the top of the water. He felt drugged, as if he were tripping. Piece by piece, his body was closing down. All the pain was gone, all the fear had vanished, and a state of complete calm descended on him. Euphoria engulfed him with warming hands and he felt start to take him. Heavier and heavier his eyes grew, until he could hold them open no longer. He was past caring when a wave tipped up his board and his body slipped into the ocean. Some ancient part of his brain sensed the danger and forced his eyes open one last time.

In the depths, shadows condensed, moulding themselves into gracefully swirling nymphs. They danced as if to welcome him to the kingdom of Neptune, a brother eventually come home. Without fear, or sadness, the surfer surrendered the last of his strength and accepted this final embrace.

Liebster Blog Award

The Liebster Blog Award is a way for bloggers to highlight Blog's and Bloggers that have small followings but deserve acknowledgement for their hard work, excellence and contribution to the world of Blogging. I was honoured to be Nominated by AJ Long who is one of the best bloggers out there always ready to give encouragement and advice when it is most needed.

So here we go!


The rules for accepting the Liebster Blog Award:
1- List eleven random facts about yourself.
2- Nominate eleven other bloggers.
3- Notify these bloggers.
4- Ask eleven questions that the bloggers must answer upon accepting the award.
5- Answer the eleven questions that you were asked when you were nominated.
6- Link back to the person who nominated you.

 

11 Facts about me you might not know.

1.       I have been a surfer for 18 years and still in love with it.

2.       I won a jumper once at a Christmas party for having the hairiest chest.

3.       I have wrote off one car.

4.       I have been back stage at a London west end show by accident (During the show)

5.       People are always asking me things in shopping centres as they think I work there

6.       I have a corgi – Holly and Half a corgi – Lofty (More precious than diamonds)

7.       I have slept in a phone box, the boot of a car and a bath to name only a few places.

8.       I like to collect my own fire wood, it makes the fire seem more deserved.

9.       I listen to classical music when alone, studying or writing.

10.   I spend more time on G+ than writing but this is a hobby after all and I Like G+

11.   I still can’t spell to save my life, thank god for spell check.

 

The 11 Bloggers that I would like to nominate for this award are as follows in no particular order.

Karie Thoma - http://fictionalcatterflymusings.blogspot.com
M.A. Barr - http://mabarrjournal.blogspot.com
Nikkah Lubanga - http://factperfiction.wordpress.com
Amy Galmos - http://muffinsandmetaphors.blogspot.com
Ben Roach - http://thewritingwanderer.blogspot.co.uk
Matt Ewens - http://mattrobertewens.wordpress.com
Lynn Marie Le - http://finscribeofwisdom.blogspot.com
Dyane Forde - http://droppedpebbles.wordpress.com
Francine Hirst –  Puts her posts directly on Google +

Ann Lee - http://sexyannlee.blogspot.co.uk

Bill Dove - http://billdove7.blogspot.com

It was super hard to just pick 11, I avoided picking ones that I knew AJ or others had already nominated.

 

11 Questions for the people I have nominated.

1.       Where were you when you had your first kiss.

2.       Your house is on fire what 3 things would you save (Kids and people excluded)

3.       What is your favourite blog post of your own blog.

4.       If you could switch with one person for 24 hours who would you pick

5.       What 4 famous people would you invite round to your house for dinner (Alive or dead)

6.       Your guilty pleasure.

7.       Nicest thing another person has ever done for you.

8.       Nicest thing you have done for a stranger

9.       What is your partners (Present or past) most annoying trait

10.   Greatest Fear

11.   Your new year’s resolutions from last year.

 

Here is my Answers to AJ Longs questions.

1. What was the funniest movie you have seen?
The life of Brian – hands down the funniest ever

2.What’s your earliest memory?

I remember trading my tricycle for a bag of marbles when I was 3, mom was not pleased 

3. What was your favorite school subject?

Building Technology and Tec Drawing

4. Have you EVER had a need to use algebra away from a school environment? (No, seriously!)

What’s algebra??? Only kidding, no

5. Do you understand modern art (or even know if it’s hanging the right way up?)

Understand it – no, like it - yes

6. Most enjoyable book?

Loved the first half of the stand by Stephen King, it made a great impact on me partly due to where I was in my life but then it got a bit airy fairy in the second half but still a great tale.

7. Ever spent money to buy something you really wanted, although you could hardly afford it at the time?

Yes I once got an advance on my wages to buy a surfboard I fell in love with, wish it was still with me but sadly it went to the surfboard heaven a few years back.

8. Apart from when you were a child, have you ever danced in the rain?

Yes and done a few other things in the rain as well. You should try it.

9. What country would you like to visit that you have not yet been to?

Tonga

10. What makes you grumpy?

Stupidity in all its ugly forms

12. What’s your ’Go To’ switch to make you feel better on a gray day

Lofty and Holly my dogs 100% happy all the time.

 

_______________________________________________________________________________

So looking forward to hearing back from people listed above with their 11 answers and once again Thank you AJ and everyone that I could not nominate for making the world a more interesting place to live in. 


Squid McFinnigan