Short Story: Human Stupidity The goat stands in the centre of the field, nibbling casually at the green grass at its feet. Gradually, Jacob approaches, and other men of all ages, all dressed in dark clothes, arrive equally slowly and silently, until at last there is a cluster of about thirty in the middle of the pasture, all surrounding the lonesome goat. There is a great silence for a time, and people begin to whisper amongst themselves. Confused whispers, they were, and confused glances followed, all at the solitary goat and at the faces of the crowd. Eventually it all becomes too much. A tall man, with a grey, almost white beard contrasting with the black of his clothes, steps forward, introducing himself as Graham in a deep voice. "Why are we here?" Graham asks, his voice rumbling. A hush comes over the crowd. It seems they all had the same question. Jacob glances around. Most present seem to be older than him, in groups of two or three, and some hold a letter in their hands, identical to the one he had received the afternoon before. The letter had spoken of a cult meeting on that field, and to meet at the goat. "I only came to find out what this cult was preaching." Jacob says, surprising himself by speaking, his voice higher pitched than the other man's. It was true, too, and, judging by the bewildered faces of the other men, they'd come for same reason. "What is the meaning of this?!" Grumbles someone angrily, moving forward. His face was gruff, his scraggly facial hair black, and a large belly protruded from underneath his dark coat. "Someone had better tell me why I'm here, or so help me..." he continued. "Can't you see? No one knows!" Shouts someone, his voice high and proud. "Someone has to know what's what, or else why are we here?" Comes yet another voice, from yet another overly muscled man, pushing his way roughly to get a better look at the pale goat. Angry shouts follow this man's outburst, leaving Jacob looking around anxiously, until Graham pacifies them all with a single yell, saying, "can we not just think about this rationally!" A silence comes over them, and all eyes turn to Graham, Jacob's included. "Perhaps this goat is some kind of riddle?" He suggests, eyes scanning the crowd. No one seems to have any ideas on the subject. "I never thought I'd have to say this," says Graham, shaking his head, "but, take me to your leader!" The goat does nothing, merely chews at the long grass. "Perhaps it is meant to be the Devil?" A familiar voice, Jacob's neighbour, Andrew, suggests. The goat doesn't react, and it is generally accepted that it is not, in fact, the devil. "Is it a prophet?" Comes the voice of Andrew once more. "Then why hasn't it spoken yet? It can't be a prophet." Says Jacob, his eyes scanning Graham's face. "Is it God?" Another suggests, but the idea is quickly shut down by a number of voices. All eyes turn back to Graham and the goat. "You seem to know an awful lot. Perhaps you can tell us something?" Accuses the second man, his belly rising proudly, his flabby double chin wobbling with the words. Others join him in the accusation of Graham, but he seems to have as few answers as they do. Jacob watches as the fat man moves to tackle Graham, joined by most of the other men. Jacob backs away, his eyes darting about in fear, though he seems to be the only one doing so. The goat is startled, and bolts, but is stopped from escape by the presence of a fence surrounding the field. "Please, please. Calm down. Why would I do this?" Graham shouts, fighting his way out of the crowd. "Why would anyone?" Patrick shouts, and a number of disjointed voices sound their agreement. Graham sighs, the sound louder and more theatrical than any regular sigh. He moves his hands up and down, trying to signal for quiet, and says, "maybe it's time we all just left." "But what about the cult? Why the fuck would we be invited?!" The fat man says in his rough voice. A number of voices agree, but at the same time a number of people turn and leave the field. "Jacob!" Andrew calls upon seeing him. "Hello." "What is a young lad like yerself doing in a place like this?" "Like everybody else, I received the invitation." Jacob replies cooly as Graham opens his mouth to address the crowd once more. "I think it would be wise for us to leave. There is nothing for us here." At last the fat man with his scraggly black facial hair nods his agreement, and, knocking Graham aside as he does so, leaves the pasture. As do many others, Graham included, until at last only Andrew and Jacob remain. "Yer need a lift home, lad?" "No," Jacob answers, looking at the goat. "Then why aren't yer leaving?" "I just thought the goat may have been something interesting. You know?" "Aye, I understand, lad. But sometimes a goat is just a goat." Jacob sighs and moves to leave. "Wait!" Andrew calls. Jacob stops and turns. "If I told you what was meant to happen tonight, would yer continue the practice?" "Perhaps. It depends on what it is." "I'll show yer." He pulls a knife from the pocket of his hoodie, and Jacob instinctively backs away. "Yer need not be afeard, lad. I'm not going to hurt yer." He turns to the goat. "We are gathered here today," he says, looking at Jacob, "to celebrate the extent of human stupidity. We have given yer a fair example, gathering thirty unwitting men around a single white goat and watching them struggle to piece it all together. A riddle, a prophet, a God, and a devil yer were called before a struggle broke out, and still no one left any the wiser. And so, if Lucifer will take my sacrifice, I give yer this goat in exchange for a continuation of the sampled stupidity." Jacob could not help but laugh as the goat was stabbed six times. "What do yer think, lad? Will yer join me?" "I was looking for an adventure when I joined this cult, and I do believe I have found one. So yes, yes I will join you." "That's good, lad! Now, stab this goat six more times." Jacob, not without his fair share of winces and almost-vomits, complied as best he could, blood splattering messily over his shoes. Andrew then took the knife and stabbed the goat another six times. "This is yer cult now, lad. Welcome." Andrew offered his hand. Jacob smiled, and almost sadistic smile, and shook on it. And, a great many similar meetings passed, afterwards all led by Jacob, and not once did anyone figure out the mystery of who was behind them all.

Short Story: Cinders Of A Fairytale You know how the story goes. It escalates rapidly until the final showdown between the villain and the hero, and the hero always comes out the victor and the villain is vanquished. The hero always writes the story, and should the villain try to share their side of the tale, no one believes them, for why should a hero lie? I'll tell you why the hero should lie. When they're not the hero. You know who I am. Lady Tremaine, stepmother of Cinderella. But what you don't know is my side of the story. The truth. I do not write this story to absolve me of guilt. I wish only to show you that you should not always believe what you are told. Question the facts presented to you- you may find yourself looking at a very different tale. Once upon a time (since everyone uses that beginning nowadays), I lived with my sister and my father on a farm. It was a beautiful farm on the far edges of the county, with many fields. My sister and I were as different as night and day- and I use this similie knowing full well that I represent the night in it. She was everything a woman of the time was supposed to be- beautiful, graceful, eloquent of speech, and utterly charming. I was more interested in, and consequently better at, the more practical arts- farming most particularly, surpassing the abilities of even my father. In appearance, too, my sister and I varied greatly- she was blonde and blue eyed, whereas I was brunette and had heterochromia iridium- that is, my eyes were of different colours, and in my case, grey and brown. Heterochromia iridium was frowned upon by the general population at the time, and the superstition held by many was that I was a fairy child, a changeling swapped at birth. My sister and I, despite all our differences, were close. We told one another everything, or at least we did until one day. "Do you ever," she said, staring longingly out the window, "think about running away? Seeing what the world has to offer?" "No, of course not. I am content here. So much so in fact, that I think if my #life should change for what most would consider the better, I would not want it, and I do believe I should find it quite dull in comparison. Why do you ask? Are you thinking of leaving?" "No," she said with a sigh. I didn't think more of it until the next day, when my father and I woke to find her gone. It was not long after that I met my first husband. He was a merchant's son, learning the trade from his father, who was, at the time, buying from mine. Unlike most, he was unafraid of my eyes, and it was only a year before we were married. As predicted, I found that #life quite dull for a time, until almost a year later when my daughters were born. I named them Anastasia and Drizella, and I suppose I spoilt them to some level in doing all I could for them to distract me from not being on the farm. After a while, a year in fact, I realised that I was becoming used to that #life. It was then, late that morning, that there was a knock upon the door. I answered, and standing on the doorstep was my sister, a baby in her arms, presumably her daughter, and a man with her, presumably her husband. We were overjoyed to see one another again, so much so that I saw tears in my sister's eyes. During her time away, my sister told me, sitting at the fire late at night (they were to stay a few days), she had gone to a number of balls, and at one she met her husband. The rest seemed almost sickeningly romantic, with nothing of note, except that my niece was named Ella. Yes. Cinderella is my sister's daughter. In a hushed tone my sister told me that, at an earlier ball, she had met someone who had claimed to be a fairy. This fairy had offered to teach my sister her art, to which my sister had agreed. And, in turn, my sister offered to teach me, an offer which I readily accepted. And so commenced a series of late-night lessons, some at my place, others at hers. The thing about my sister is that, while she proved a rather enthusiastic teacher, she's not actually very good at it. And the thing about me is that, despite my heterochromia and being allegedly a fairy child, I lacked the most basic magical ability. My sister, being not overly patient, gave up after a month. And action which made me very angry. The thing about jealousy, not the false, simple jealousy commonly experienced by the everyday human, but true, overpowering jealousy, is that it festers for as long as it has, always growing, and it gives you blinding strength when it finally breaks loose, and everything in it's path it consumes until there's nothing left but painful regret. And while I may have lacked all magical ability, there is power in jealousy, and it seemed it was enough to curse my sister to be forgotten by her own husband and daughter. And after I did this, she left, and I, myself, never saw her again. For whatever reason, my sister's husband kept in contact with my family and I. I do not know how he thought he knew us, or, indeed, thought he'd ended up with a daughter. But it did not matter. It wasn't long before my husband died in a hunting accident, leaving my daughters and I with not quite enough to continue to live the way we had been. I considered going back to farming, but it wasn't long before my sister's husband, Lord Tremaine, asked my hand in marriage. And while I knew it was wrong, I was desperate, and so I became Lady Tremaine. But it was only another year before Lord Tremaine died, and I was once again widowed, though this time with just enough that I would not have remarry, nor go back to farming. However, there wouldn't be quite enough money for us all to live the way we used to. I suppose it was cruel of me, but for us to continue I had to fire all the servants. To get all the housework done, my own daughters, who had never worked a day in their lives, would be useless, and I, due to my overly strong jealousy leading to this situation, decided that it would be better for Ella to complete all the menial tasks. I know it was not well of me to do it, but I told Ella that it would help her deal with her grief if she were to do the work. And so, she did. I also moved her up to the attic. I don't know why I did so- perhaps she reminded me too much of my sister. The attic got awfully cold during the winter, and so, sometimes, she would sleep on the floor, by the fire. When she woke, she had cinders in her hair, and so came to be known as Cinderella. Years later, we received a letter. It contained an invitation to the royal ball. The prince, it seemed, was looking for a bride, and every woman in the kingdom was invited. Including Cinderella. I know it was cruel, but I couldn't have Cinderella marry the prince, for I knew that I would receive none of the money, and not only that, I would no longer be a Lady and could easily lose all the money I did have. So, I told Cinderella that she could attend the ball if she could complete all of her chores and find herself a dress before we left. And she very nearly did. While myself and my daughters were being fitted for our dresses, she completed all her chores, and made herself a dress, parts of which I recognised from my sister's favourite. "It was my mother's," she said. I mentally panicked that she may, indeed, remember her mother, and I couldn't have that. I, too, recognised parts of the dress as items my daughters had rejected over the past month, and somehow knew how to stop this. I nodded at my daughters. They tore into her dress with no remorse, until it was left as rags. Cinderella ran away crying, and my daughters and I left for the ball. It was as Anastasia and Drizella were being introduced to the prince when she walked in. A beautiful girl in a beautiful gown approached the ball, her head turned downward, shyly. There was something of my sister's style in that dress- a blue like the one you see when you look at something very far away. I almost couldn't stand to look at it- my sister still haunted me to this day. The prince rudely pushed past my daughters. He only seemed to have eyes for the beautiful girl entering the ball. He asked her to dance- I couldn't watch. She still looked too much like my sister. So I turned away from the party. My daughters continued to crane their necks to find a glimpse of the girl, but I didn't stop them. We left the ball just after midnight, knowing we had made no impression on the prince. He'd spent all night with the sickeningly perfect girl, and, rudely, hadn't paid the least bit of attention to anyone else. Surely he'd been raised better! "Cinderella!" Came the daily shriek from my daughters bedrooms. I sighed. If only one of them had won the heart of the prince! Cinderella would no longer be a servant. But there was an air of happiness in her countenance that morning which was almost unsettling. She came into my rooms to hand me a letter that had just arrived. She left the room. I scanned the contents quickly, and, upon seeing that it was from the palace, immediately called my daughters. They rushed in excitedly, almost knocking over Cinderella (who had just arrived with my tea). "The prince has found a lost shoe, a glass slipper, belonging to the mysterious maiden with whom he danced last night. He is trying the shoe on the foot of every girl in the country, and if the shoe fits, he will marry her!" Just then, there was a crash. Cinderella had dropped the tray and the tea, and it had smashed all over the rug. "Clean that up!" I snapped at her, almost without realising it. "Yes, Stepmother. Sorry." She responded, but without her usual nervous manner. Something had definitely changed. She hurried off, and I shook my head. I had other things to worry about. First of all, the glass slipper. That was, without a doubt, my sister's touch. She'd adored the appearance of glass to a great level when we were younger. It was transparent, but yet, had a slight bluish tone to it, especially when it was thick. She'd even spoken about glass shoes once- but I'd reasoned that they'd be extremely uncomfortable. However, perhaps with her magic, it could be possible. Then there was the issue of my daughters. Without a doubt, the slipper would be tried on their feet, but there was no way it could fit them. The letter had claimed that the shoe had been "unusually small", which was quite the opposite of what my daughter's feet were like. I briefly considered attempting some magic, but the last time I'd done that I'd cursed my sister, which was not something I was willing to risk repeating unto anyone, especially now, with my sister's memory haunting my every moment. Besides, even if I did try, the chances of my being successful were, at best, slim. As I reached this particular point in my musings, Cinderella walked back in with her dustpan and brush. But that wasn't what caught my attention. She was humming, but not just any tune. She was humming the tune that had been playing as the prince and that girl where dancing for the first time. The realisation hit me with a shock. She was the girl with the glass slippers. My sister had returned. The next day, I gave Cinderella less chores than usual. I'm not entirely sure she noticed- but she was certainly as happy as she had been the day before. When she had completed her daily tasks, I gave her the afternoon off. She first headed up to her attic bedroom. I stole up after her, and locked the door. Only moments later, there was a rhythmic knock upon the door. I answered, and there was the duke, with the glass slipper on a red velvet cushion. As I welcomed him in, my daughters rushed down. "These are your daughters, ma'am?" He asked. "Indeed they are." I answered, silently cursing them for their rash and hurried descent. "There are no other ladies in the house? No servants, for instance?" "None. After my husband died, we had not the money to sustain such services. It has only been the three of us." "I see. I suppose we should get this underway." "Indeed. Girls? Please, sir, take a seat. Would you like a drink?" "No, thank you." And so he commenced, taking first Anastasia's foot, and trying it on. "If I could just-" she said, squeezing her foot as well as she was able into the shoe. However, she was unsuccessful, and the shoe comically launched off her foot, and into the duke's face. Stifling both a laugh and a sigh, I asked Drizella to try. The duke lifted her foot. "Look! It's a perfect fit!" It seemed so, but when her dress was pushed back, it was revealed that the shoe was hanging before her heel. This time, I was unsuccessful in concealing my disappointment. "Are you certain that there is no one else here? This is the last place of residence in the kingdom. The prince will be awfully disappointed." "Yes, I am sure. My apologies, sir." "Wait!" Came a cry from the stairs. "Let me try!" Either it was the animals or her mother who had done it, but somehow, Cinderella had found her way out of the attic. The duke looked excessively gratified. "Oh, I don't think that's necessary. You see, she didn't even attend the ball." "But the prince's order was for every maiden in the land to try the shoe. Please, miss, take a seat." Cinderella nodded and sat down. As the duke moved forward, I extended my foot just a little, tripping him over. He went flying, as did the glass slipper, which hit the parlour floor with a smash, sending broken glass everywhere. "Oh! Oh no! My apologies, ma'am. I'll clean this up. How will we ever find her now!" "Oh, it's alright," said Cinderella, pulling something from her apron, "you see, I have the other slipper." The duke took it from her hand and slipped it neatly onto her tiny foot. "Would you care to come with me to the palace to marry your prince?" The duke asked. "Oh, yes!" She replied. As they walked out the door, Cinderella turned back to look at my distraught expression. "I forgive you." She told me. If only she knew how much she was forgiving me for. As I finish writing this tale, it occurs to me that I may have been the true villain all along. And there is nothing worse than knowing you were the antagonist of your own story.

Trapped Within A Dream You lie in clouds of sunset, Mist floats gently through your hair You close your eyes Relaxing Relaxing finally. You turn your head Your eyes are open again, You don’t know how. You see them, They turn to you and smile. A crash. Thunder, lighting, Shattering the perfect sky, Mirrored in the uneven glass of the lake. You fall. Darker, Darker the world turns Rushing up to meet you Panic in your gaze, You try to scream No sound comes out. Impact Or at least what was supposed to be Yet no jarring sensation touches you No searing pain. You’re floating again, Floating on the night itself, Stars weave through your hair. You turn again, They’re next to you, smiling, You smile back. This time, This time you won’t fall in love. You’re floating above this strange world, Red soil, Grey trees. Lakes, not reflecting the stars you float amongst, Reflecting you. But not you, you notice, You’re covered in blood and scars, Not the real you, The other you, The one reflected back. The other you waves. You don’t wave back. You’re stuck there, you notice, You can’t climb down from the stars, You try. No mystical ladder appears. You begin to slip down, Slowly, slowly, And then you fall. You hit the lake. Water splashes everywhere But you don’t notice, You’re trying to swim to the surface. You can’t get out. The surface is like glass. You hit it, But it hits you back. Your face is bruised and bloody, But you try again Over and over. You see yourself, floating in the clouds, The other you sees you, You wave. The other you doesn’t wave back. The other you begins to fall. Slowly at first, Then quickly. Faster and faster the other you falls, Hitting the glassy water with a great thud Water splashes everywhere, But you don’t care. You’re already swimming to the surface. You burst out, Climb onto the glass, More glass slowly covers where the other you fell, And you walk away, Leaving yourself trapped, Trapped in a world within a dream.

A Maze Of Reality Spinning, turning, twisting, Up, down, around, constantly spinning A rollercoaster, A race, A maze. Your feet drag heavily in the grey and empty soil, You can see a way out But that way is cheating Isn’t it? You don’t know. Still, you keep moving, Forward, faster, slower, Never a steady pace Never a moment to breathe Never a moment to rest. Move Keep moving Faster, slower, Spinning, spinning, All the words you never said All the words you wish you hadn’t Whispered back with the harsh and constant wind. It never goes quiet It never shuts up It never stops. You see a quick way out You see it It’s just there, within your grasp You reach out But, just as quickly, you pull your hand back, You won’t cheat your way out this time. Up, down, around, Screams of ever departing souls around you All race for that exit, The end of the rollercoaster The end of the maze, A simple leap would be all it would take, People choose that way all the time, But not you, not yet. Wind, rain, lightning, thunder, Harsh and strong with the reality you try so hard to ignore, The storm will never stop. It will never end. Unless. Unless. You take one more glance to the quick and easy exit But you won’t take it. Not yet. The branches of the lies and half truths scratch your face Marring the sky alongside ever brighter lightning, Cracks in the perfect grey glass of the sky. Painful and cruel dots of blood appear across your skin You wipe them away, but the scars remain, The scars of words you wish you’d never heard. The scars of words you wish you’d never said. You cast a glance at the way out, But still you run toward the true end of the maze. Always, you run. A gasp, a fall, grey earth in your face, Tasting of all the pain you tried so hard to ignore, But you get back up quickly, A moment longer and time might sweep you away As it has swept away so many others, Those constantly falling behind Those who brave the jumps, The bullets, The cuts, The overdoses, The pain. Around again, spinning, shrieking, Up and down, forever and a day But still you gaze upon the quick way out, But no. Not yet. You hear a scream not far behind, Another one jumped, another one cut, Another one no longer enduring the pain of #life, But you don’t even turn your head, One day that might be you, But not this day. You’re no longer as fast as you once were, Your bones creak with each familiar movement, Your bones scream with the agony of days long past And the days yet to come. Your hair is now as grey as the empty soil you kept falling to, The earth you keep falling to, Less people race around you now, They’re all long gone; They took the easy way out. You’re one of the last left. You take your final glance at the exit This time you don’t talk yourself out of taking it. You fall through. You’re no longer a part of the rollercoaster, The everlasting race of existence, The maze. The maze of reality. You are gone, with the others, A little bit more of that grey and unkind soil. A little bit more dust for someone else to fall to, A little bit more dust to never get up from.

A Blue Dress: Short Story She stands silently, looking down and to the side. Her dress flutters with the wind but she barely notices as she remembers the day she last stood at that beach, all those years ago. The day of the accident. FLASHBACK: "Daddy!" The child shouts across the water. Her father lifts his head and treads the water, listening. "Help me swim!" "You don't need my help anymore. You know how to swim." Says the father with a sigh and a playful, yet tired, twinkle in his eye. "But daddy, I'm scared!" "Of what, child?" "Of drowning!" "What makes you think you'll drown?" "Daddy, please?" "You can do it yourself!" And so, the little girl in her bright blue bathing suit slowly entered the water, concentrating intensely on what lay in the water. A moment later, she looked up, and her father had disappeared. "Daddy!" The little girl called, taking another step forward along the rock. There was no answer. "Daddy, where are you?!" Another step. Slipping slowly, unnoticeably. That is, until she hit the edge and slipped. Down, down, down she fell, a shortage of air in her lungs as she screamed before she hit the water. Forgetting herself for a moment, she continued to scream as she went deeper and deeper into the hostile waves. Her eyes are open and stinging, but she catches a glimpse of her father, swimming peaceably toward her sinking form. She thrashes around, but her father holds her still, and swims toward the surface. She continues to thrash as she gets closer, and an unlucky kick hits her father in the face. He blacks out and sinks, his grip on the girl slipping as she kicks her way toward the surface. She dives back under, forgetting her fear in search for her father. Deeper and deeper she dives until she finally catches a glimpse. She makes a grab at his arms a number of times before finally taking a grip, and she pulls him toward the surface. Weighed down by the man, she doesn't get far before she lets go to catch a breath. Again and again she dives, but to no avail. She can never pull him far enough. After a while she gives up and swims back onto the rock. "Daddy!" She sobs repeatedly, until her mother sees her. But by then, it's too late to save her father. And then, another story plays through the woman's mind as she stares at the place she fell, and where she caused her father's death. FLASHBACK: "No, mummy! I don't wanna go!" Screams an angry child in a navy blue dress. "But you have to say goodbye to your daddy!" "I already did. He said to stop crying, that it wasn't to be changed. He told me to tell you that he was sorry that he had to go, and that you'd be alright." The mother is shocked for a time, but it wasn't long before she spoke again. "Why don't you want to go?" "Daddy told me not to. He said you shouldn't go, either." The mother again appears shocked. Tears in her eyes, she walks over to the house next door, hand in hand with her daughter. An elderly couple answer the door, smiling pleasantly. The child's mother explains that the child will not attend the funeral, and the couple agree to babysit as the mother attends. The child sobs that her mother should not go, but the elderly neighbours comfort her and she soon forgets her fears. The child passes the following stormy night in the house of her neighbours, and she never sees her mother again. And the last story plays in her mind, earlier than the others. FLASHBACK: A child stands at the foot of the stairs. She cannot sleep for the nightmares of her father drowning. But the child makes no sound, for the scene in front of her is too fascinating and sweet. Her father zips up her mother's blue dress, and he turns her toward him. "You look just like you did the day I fell in love with you." He says. "Older, though." "You look as though hardly a day has passed." He turns and presses a button on the radio on the cabinet behind him. A slow song begins to play. "May I have this dance?" He asks, extending a hand toward the child's mother. "Of course you may." She answers with a smile. The child creeps back up the stairs and into her bed. She does not disturb her parents that night. And there was that child, grown now in her mother's image, wearing the dress her mother wore the night before her father died, standing on the rocks that saw her father's death. Her mother's dress flutters with the wind, as does the hair she inherited from her father, but neither parent stands beside their daughter as she wallows in her sadness at their memory. A gun glints in her left hand, her dominant hand like her mother before her. There are no tears in her eyes but her misery and suffering is unmistakable. "I could've stopped it." She whispers, though no one else stands on that beach. "I knew. I knew what was going to happen and I did nothing! All because of this stupid dress!" Tears form in her eyes as she looks again at her surroundings. As she sobs she collapses onto her knees, cutting them on the rock, but she doesn't mind. If you looked, you'd see scars and open wounds on both her wrists, travelling right up her arms, but there was no one on that beach to look, and no one to stop her. She holds the gun to her temple. With a last-minute decision, she jumps and treads water as she shoots herself in the head. And that was the last time anyone wore the blue dress.