Mudlark The half-realised#moonfalls away as the sun conquers the heavens. Suspended against the sky, the sweeping metal skeleton of Tower Bridge tenses its exposed muscles against the traffic of London. The city starts to wake up as alarms pull absorbed mindless out of sleep and into the cacophonic dawn. It's quieter down on the mud of the Thames and the air is sharp with smell of low tide, interrupted only by the languorous sounds of the water pulsing against the shore and the occasional bird pecking expectantly at the grey sludge. I feel forgotten down here, like one of the old discarded pipes that was thrown by a nameless hand and the living cannot be bothered to scoop up from the ground. Insubstantial memories that I try to conjure up to give me company swiftly dissipate into reality as my mind stumbles over the distracting city. As I walk, the sounds of broken history clatters around my boots; the blue china, coins, nails, pipes and a thousand other oddities that makes me feel the immense loneliness of time apathetically rushing me towards an end. I crouch down to look at a brown square that half sticks up from its hiding place. There is a stick nearby which I use to scrape the object from its muddy prison, from which it finally comes free with a small sucking noise. I can feel the indents on the surface as I clean it with the pad of my thumb and turn it over in my palm. A wooden die is jostled between the moving bones of my hand, swapping from six then rolling to three. The object has taken on a water-lodged mahogany hue which contrasts with the little black circles that lose or win a game. On the side with the four uneven indents, a carpenter's tool must have slipped and scarred the wood. I decide the object must have come from the Jacobean era and press my lips to the surface in a kiss. I take the bag off my shoulder and place my newest find within the dark interior. A soft breeze brushes my face and I smile as the summer months bloom around me. The Thames glistens like a crinkled mirror under the sun that strives towards the zenith and causes sweat to break out along my back. I take off my purple coat and loop it around my waist allowing the cool air to breath along my exposed skin. A guide boat glides past me shouting loudly from the tannoy about the history that it sped through and the tourists on the back wave merrily at me as it disappears from sight. I wave back before spotting another area that catches my interest. A metal pile of three coins leaves rusty stains on the mud which squelches as I start to extract the artefact. The faces of the coins capture a haughty looking man with the words 'senatus populusque romanus' printed around the outside. I look over into the river and try to imagine the person who threw this offering into its body. I wonder if they wanted protection? Or love? Or maybe to help a soul travelling down to the underworld? The gods must have felt so real and tangible in the vast undiscovered world. Our world seems smaller now that so many stories and wonders have been explained away, as though the human mind is not allowed to speculate in the face of mysteries because we are told the answer has been found. I wonder vaguely if we might be blinded by human achievements that leave us mocking the past and solidifying our ignorance. The nostalgic grief of the last year starts to come back and with it a jealousy for the past. Rather than place them in my bag, I step closer to the water and throw the coins in. This time with a different prayer, one which carries a quieter hope for an answer from a god that I cannot see. I watch as the ripples from the coins disturb the water and gently petter out and fail to reach my feet. Bruised, purple clouds blot out the sun and cast a brooding threat over the city. The rain starts to fall with a polluted coldness that splashes over my skin. Mutineers, smuggles and murderers who brought death to the seas were hanged here at low tide. Guided by a silver oar, the accused men who still smelled of ale were brought to the shores of the Thames. The chaplain would talk of sin and redemption while the short rope swung in the flapping wind above their heads. The primal terror of so many ends coats the air and seeps into the green stone. Bile rises up my throat as I think of the convulsing bodies watched over by Justice as the rope painfully fractured away the lives of the hanged by collapsing their airways and asphyxiating their brains into darkness. I walk over to the replica of the noose and pole before stopping and gazing out at the modern apartments that sit on the bank. A woman wanders past a big window and out of sight, only to reappear in another were she turns on the television which bursts into lurid colours. A family cruises by on their bikes, laughing and talking loudly before their words are whipped away and it falls silent again. The rain starts to ease to a drizzle and sunlight weakly streams back through the misty obstruction of clouds. I place my bag down on the sand above the high watermark and take out the moleskin notebook. An envelope slips out from inside the creamy pages. I snatch it from the wet sand and take out the letter. I do not know why I bother reading it I could recite it word for word but I can never quite remember the distinct undulations of the handwriting. I thought I was past the crushing grief that made me curl into a foetus position in an attempt to stop my soul escaping but the tears and pain returns as the voice in my head reads the letter: To Alice, Now that I have to write this letter I find language to be completely inadequate. It all just feels too big to fit my handwriting, too hard to explain. I tried. That's what I want, no need you to understand. I really tried. For years I thought I would get better, that the future would be brighter if only I waited and now I don't think that anymore, hope can only last so long. I never was good at any of this, but I have a favour to ask. Do you remember when you were little and we used to go mudlarking? Remember the place were we found the gold and ruby ring? The one I gave to you when you turned eighteen? I have enclosed a notebook and a metal box, I need you to bury it under the low tide mark. I know it's odd, but will you do it for me? I couldn't bear to stay living and for that I am sorry but I don't think I am ready to be forgotten yet and I want someone to find that book in the future. Don't tell mum or dad, they will only try and find it. Also, please don't read the notebook. Do not blame yourself. Love, Your Mudlark The half-realised#moonfalls away as the sun conquers the heavens. Suspended against the sky, the sweeping metal skeleton of Tower Bridge tenses its exposed muscles against the traffic of London. The city starts to wake up as alarms pull absorbed mindless out of sleep and into the cacophonic dawn. It's quieter down on the mud of the Thames and the air is sharp with smell of low tide, interrupted only by the languorous sounds of the water pulsing against the shore and the occasional bird pecking expectantly at the grey sludge. I feel forgotten down here, like one of the old discarded pipes that was thrown by a nameless hand and the living cannot be bothered to scoop up from the ground. Insubstantial memories that I try to conjure up to give me company swiftly dissipate into reality as my mind stumbles over the distracting city. As I walk, the sounds of broken history clatters around my boots; the blue china, coins, nails, pipes and a thousand other oddities that makes me feel the immense loneliness of time apathetically rushing me towards an end. I crouch down to look at a brown square that half sticks up from its hiding place. There is a stick nearby which I use to scrape the object from its muddy prison, from which it finally comes free with a small sucking noise. I can feel the indents on the surface as I clean it with the pad of my thumb and turn it over in my palm. A wooden die is jostled between the moving bones of my hand, swapping from six then rolling to three. The object has taken on a water-lodged mahogany hue which contrasts with the little black circles that lose or win a game. On the side with the four uneven indents, a carpenter's tool must have slipped and scarred the wood. I decide the object must have come from the Jacobean era and press my lips to the surface in a kiss. I take the bag off my shoulder and place my newest find within the dark interior. A soft breeze brushes my face and I smile as the summer months bloom around me. The Thames glistens like a crinkled mirror under the sun that strives towards the zenith and causes sweat to break out along my back. I take off my purple coat and loop it around my waist allowing the cool air to breath along my exposed skin. A guide boat glides past me shouting loudly from the tannoy about the history that it sped through and the tourists on the back wave merrily at me as it disappears from sight. I wave back before spotting another area that catches my interest. A metal pile of three coins leaves rusty stains on the mud which squelches as I start to extract the artefact. The faces of the coins capture a haughty looking man with the words 'senatus populusque romanus' printed around the outside. I look over into the river and try to imagine the person who threw this offering into its body. I wonder if they wanted protection? Or love? Or maybe to help a soul travelling down to the underworld? The gods must have felt so real and tangible in the vast undiscovered world. Our world seems smaller now that so many stories and wonders have been explained away, as though the human mind is not allowed to speculate in the face of mysteries because we are told the answer has been found. I wonder vaguely if we might be blinded by human achievements that leave us mocking the past and solidifying our ignorance. The nostalgic grief of the last year starts to come back and with it a jealousy for the past. Rather than place them in my bag, I step closer to the water and throw the coins in. This time with a different prayer, one which carries a quieter hope for an answer from a god that I cannot see. I watch as the ripples from the coins disturb the water and gently petter out and fail to reach my feet. Bruised, purple clouds blot out the sun and cast a brooding threat over the city. The rain starts to fall with a polluted coldness that splashes over my skin. Mutineers, smuggles and murderers who brought death to the seas were hanged here at low tide. Guided by a silver oar, the accused men who still smelled of ale were brought to the shores of the Thames. The chaplain would talk of sin and redemption while the short rope swung in the flapping wind above their heads. The primal terror of so many ends coats the air and seeps into the green stone. Bile rises up my throat as I think of the convulsing bodies watched over by Justice as the rope painfully fractured away the lives of the hanged by collapsing their airways and asphyxiating their brains into darkness. I walk over to the replica of the noose and pole before stopping and gazing out at the modern apartments that sit on the bank. A woman wanders past a big window and out of sight, only to reappear in another were she turns on the television which bursts into lurid colours. A family cruises by on their bikes, laughing and talking loudly before their words are whipped away and it falls silent again. The rain starts to ease to a drizzle and sunlight weakly streams back through the misty obstruction of clouds. I place my bag down on the sand above the high watermark and take out the moleskin notebook. An envelope slips out from inside the creamy pages. I snatch it from the wet sand and take out the letter. I do not know why I bother reading it I could recite it word for word but I can never quite remember the distinct undulations of the handwriting. I thought I was past the crushing grief that made me curl into a foetus position in an attempt to stop my soul escaping but the tears and pain returns as the voice in my head reads the letter: To Alice, Now that I have to write this letter I find language to be completely inadequate. It all just feels too big to fit my handwriting, too hard to explain. I tried. That's what I want, no need you to understand. I really tried. For years I thought I would get better, that the future would be brighter if only I waited and now I don't think that anymore, hope can only last so long. I never was good at any of this, but I have a favour to ask. Do you remember when you were little and we used to go mudlarking? Remember the place were we found the gold and ruby ring? The one I gave to you when you turned eighteen? I have enclosed a notebook and a metal box, I need you to bury it under the low tide mark. I know it's odd, but will you do it for me? I couldn't bear to stay living and for that I am sorry but I don't think I am ready to be forgotten yet and I want someone to find that book in the future. Don't tell mum or dad, they will only try and find it. Also, please don't read the notebook. Do not blame yourself. Love, Your sis A tear falls onto the ink and I rub it quickly with a shaky hand. The paper starts to get rough and come off in wet patches. I stare at the ruin before folding it carefully and placing the letter back into my bag. The world seems emptier somehow, quieter and less colourful. My sister took a piece of me, the piece I had given her when I was born, the piece that loved her, away with her. I like to think that I do not know were she is because the idea that I do know, that she just ended in the graveyard at home, hurts too much. It takes me until the twilight hours to dig a hole that I am pleased with. I go over to my bag and pick up the notebook. I never opened it. I used to want to fall into the spidery handwriting and be consumed by the thoughts of my sister, but now the idea of spending hours inside her mind scares me. I pick up the box, the final coffin into which I place the last of her thoughts and memories, and lay the notebook to rest on the metal. My fingers fumble with the key until I manage to turn the lock with a click. I walk below the tideline and bury her forever. sis A tear falls onto the ink and I rub it quickly with a shaky hand. The paper starts to get rough and come off in wet patches. I stare at the ruin before folding it carefully and placing the letter back into my bag. The world seems emptier somehow, quieter and less colourful. My sister took a piece of me, the piece I had given her when I was born, the piece that loved her, away with her. I like to think that I do not know were she is because the idea that I do know, that she just ended in the graveyard at home, hurts too much. It takes me until the twilight hours to dig a hole that I am pleased with. I go over to my bag and pick up the notebook. I never opened it. I used to want to fall into the spidery handwriting and be consumed by the thoughts of my sister, but now the idea of spending hours inside her mind scares me. I pick up the box, the final coffin into which I place the last of her thoughts and memories, and lay the notebook to rest on the metal. My fingers fumble with the key until I manage to turn the lock with a click. I walk below the tideline and bury her forever.