Balloons and Smartest Suits

He did not look impressed as he straightened his tie and poked one of the balloons outside the venue. There were a fair few people around, milling about, looking for something to talk about before the start of the event. Wedding. That word scored into his mind like a branding iron. It was the kind of event he thought would be boring and tedious, but now it was here, it was an event that almost made him shake with excitement. A wedding. His wedding.

Kyle looked around at the gathered crowd. New friends and old. He felt nervous, like butterflies weren't just in his belly, but rising up his throat...he felt sick. Nearby he had elves, who had helped him to get ready for the big day. His hair was brushed neat, his braces polished, his clothes freshly washed and pressed. He looked perfect. He was worried that something was wrong but every time he turned to look, he was assured he looked fine. Kyle looked around, waiting for his future. His future, that was coming fast in a car in the form of an excited young man in suit and bow tie. Tobias Cranapple III. Kyle's future...

A car pulled up and Kyle rushed inside, disappearing from sight. It was bad luck for them to see each other before the event, after all, and he more than recognised Tobias' car straight off. There was definitely more excitement than anxiety, but there was still enough that any moment he thought he might fart up fairies. He stood at a mirror above a sink, in the bathrooms, waiting to be called as planned, smoothing down his hair and picking at something he thought he saw stuck in his braces. Shortly after he contented himself, someone stepped in.
"Kyle, c'mon, it's time."
He looked over, took a deep breath, smiling before turning, expelling a fairy from his backside and hurrying out, looking embarrassed beyond belief.

Tobias and Kyle stood side by side in front of two large oak doors. "You good?" Tobias asked.
"I'm good. It's a party, it should be good."
"You kidding? This is gonna be the best night ever!"
Kyle bit his lip. "Actually, with you there instead of...more elegant people..."
"Oh Kylie, don't start that."
"Don't call me Kylie..."
"That's another thing to cross off my list then."
"I don't need a pet name."
"I like giving people pet names. By Man-Arctica I am going to think one up that you'll at the least tolerate."
"Yes, like that will ever happen. The highest you could ever score in an exam other than Drama was a D."
"Maybe I was hinting."
"Eh?"
"Maybe I was hinting about what I wanted from you."
"D?" He thought for a moment and pulled a face. "Am I seriously about to marry you?"
The doors were pulled open and music played. Kyle's favourite song. A grin split his freckled features as he walked to the head of the room, the two of them arm in arm. Toby looked mixed between embarrassment and joy. The room was just as it had been before. White, silver, cream, beautiful. Mahogany benches. A pleasant, slightly musty smell. It was lovely.

~*~*~*~

A long ceremony of gazing into one another's eyes, one flirty, one shy, as general lawful things were gone over such as several repetitions of the full damn names 'Kyle Bloodworth-Thomason' and 'Tobias Cranapple III', hand holding and vows, and stumbling over words so that the young adult wizard accidentally swore.

What had he to show for it, he wondered as he sat in the corner of the disco-esque reception, staring at the ring on his hand and sending a glare to Tobias. The reception wasn't quite Kyle's cup of tea, and he had learnt to steer clear of the flailing limbs of his new husband while he danced. He rested his cheek against his fist with a sigh, but got a shock when Toby snuck up on him, hugged him from behind and tied a purple balloon around his wrist.
"What are you...?"
"Bringing you into the fun. You looked bored. Look! My balloon's green. We're opposite, but maaatched."
Kyle rolled his eyes. "The speeches are coming soon."
"We haven't even had our first proper dance yet." He extended a hand, giving his best pleading face.
"I don't dance..."
"Aw, come on! It's tradition. You like tradition."
With obvious reluctance, Kyle took the offered hand and was pulled quite fiercely to the dance floor.

Four trampled toes, one head bonk and a twisted ankle later, and they were cuddled up together. Kyle was sat on a chair and Toby was spread across it, across his husband's lap, arms around his neck while the wizard's arms supported his back, as they listened to Toby's best man babble on about how he had always believed Fanboy would become a great superhero and end up with an amazing super chick, and then told the story of both men's coming out adventures, to which people laughed, and admittedly they were quite amusing. He spoke of the adventures he had had with these great best friends, and how Kyle had always been rather camp and he had always had his suspicions. A toast to the happy couple and a party blower explosion all around. Confetti, that was a nice, unexpected touch. The 'happy couple' held hands, fingers entwined like the winding vines of climbing roses.

Speaking of roses, there had been a bouquet of flowers at the front of the room in which the ceremony took place, which they picked up and held between them. Symbolism and all that jazz, and amongst semi-drunk caterwauls were the begs for the flowers to be thrown. They sat on Kyle's lap earlier, but now were on the floor, getting sorrowfully trampled. Sighing, he went to rescue them.
"Am I throwing these?" He asked Toby, arching an eyebrow.
Toby shrugged. "Go for it, man. Don't look where you throw it, backwards to the crowd."
He did as he was told, and heard an excited screech. Looking round, he saw Yo with the flowers, making eyes at Chum Chum. He arched an eyebrow at Toby as if to ask if she was for real. They both laughed. Step one of the adventure of a lifetime.

The Life and Times of John St Crow

I was born in a run down shack on the east side of a city. There were riots in the streets and my mum couldn't get to hospital in time, and she was hiding from the riots in the shack. Born to her was a baby boy with tan skin and hazel eyes, and a tiny bit of brown hair. She took off her clothes to wrap him up warm, and ran home through the backstreets, naked, scared of the riots going on. She didn't make it all the way home. A man stopped the naked woman, tore her infant from her arms, held her up against the wall.

That is interesting. I was born from rape, and my birth mother was lost for the same reason. The man rode her like a horse and snapped her neck, and then he left me there, to cry and cry, new to the world.

Someone found us, my mother dead, viciously assaulted, and myself, wrapped in her clothes, still screaming. I was taken to an orphanage. It had colourful walls and lots of noise and other children who the adults there wouldn't talk to, and windows and toys, and they gave me a name. I was named John by them. John was an okay name. I didn't mind it. I was three before someone saw me, thought 'what a pretty child' and adopted me.

I was taken home to a nice house with comfy beds and carpets and sofas. There was always a warm smell of cooking, and Mr and Mrs Blatt were very nice. Mrs Blatt wanted to change my name. I wasn't John when I was with them, I was Louis. I preferred John by far. I would often refuse to answer to 'Louis'. No, it wasn't my name, it never would be my name. After a year or two, the Blatts grew tiresome. They found adopting me had lost its novelty, and they weren't cut out to care for a child like me. I used to fingerpaint on the walls, you see. I saw myself as an artist, and they saw me as a little monster. I was passed on to the next foster carers, the Walkers, who I told I wanted to be John again. Well, ask and you shall receive. They saw me into school, and school was...interesting...

I didn't like the Walkers. The man was strict and vile, and believed in hitting children. I hated getting told off enough, but being told off and slapped until I have a baboon bottom is definitely not my idea of a picnic. It didn't mess me up any. It wasn't like it was major abuse or something. The woman didn't like me. She wouldn't talk to me, and often brushed me off, and never let me watch TV, and she had very few toys. I missed toys. The Blatts had loads of toys.

The school was a single storey high, and my classroom was an ugly shade of orange. All we did all day was learn to count, sing songs, eat fruit and play with toys. I hadn't been mixed with other kids my own age for two years by this point, and I found it weird. I guess I wasn't very good at socialising. I didn't stick around that long anyway.

No, one day Mrs Walker was drunk, and she threw something at me. I got a scar above my eye as a result. I ran away that day, out of fear. She had gotten drunk in mourning of her late husband. Anyway, I slept in the dark, wet and cold that night without any supper. I was five now.

I went on a lot of missing child things. The world was watching for John Walker, but I was just John now, a street rat who ate out of rubbish bins and slept by the Pizza Hut and drank water out of fountains. This went on for three years, it did. I carried a knife with me. You would not believe the amount of people who have tried to attack me and have their way with me. I usually chop their junk off the moment I see it. Boom, no sexual assault, but a lot of punching. My cheeks are probably the colour of salmon. Anyways, I survive. I'm good at surviving. I am John, and I have killed. I know how to hide bodies. I know how to cover my tracks. Sometimes I sit on benches and read newspapers, if I feel unwell or tired or dizzy, and that's when I saw it.

The article about Michal St Crow.

In the picture, there stood a man, tall and great, with warm smile and substantial belly. The article spoke of a great, kind man who was in the news for doing great, kind things. The bit that got me was the skin, like mine but darker still, and the golden-hazel eyes, and the ever familiar nose and mouth.

He looked like me, but older. I had that thought in my head a long time, kept the newspaper with me. I had to see this man, this likeness to myself. Only it took a lot of deep research and sneaking around. Well, they don't call me Clever St Crow for nothing. My research led me to St Crow manor. I wrote a letter and hand delivered it to the gate, and said I would sit outside until I got a reply. I was a stubborn boy, and tired. I wasn't sure how able I was to move along. I hadn't eaten in a while, and sitting down by the wall wasn't very draining, so it was fine. A man came out, pulled me to my feet and pulled me along. I was dizzy and sick, and I didn't pay much heed until I was propped against a wall and a man turned my head from left to right. He was looking me over and when my eyes focussed, I saw Michal St Crow. Dark skin, hazel eyes, black curls and a thick beard, and round glasses on the end of that familiar nose. He offered some food and I took it gratefully.
"My, you do look familiar. I think you might be right, boy. You may well be my son." He stepped back, leaning against the opposite wall. We were in an alley, with wooden fences either side of us. My father nodded. "Yes...my son...what's your name?"
"John." I told him eagerly, thinking this would be the end of my troubles.

How naive I was. He grinned and took my hand. "Years ago, I did a few things I'm not proud of. Linda, Vick, Flo, embezzlement, fraud, ever so much...I thought I'd eliminated all evidence, but Linda survived my attack." My smile was gone now.
"Why are you-?" I cut off with a scream. The most excruciating pain was flaming from my eye, and there I was, screaming. Through my tears I saw a gun. The bastard had shot my eye!

Through the pain, I did something amazing. I heard the gun being reloaded and I lurched forward. Stab. Knife in his belly. Drag. A long, long slash. His screams mixed with mine. Slash, the gun was released from the hand in my desperate attempts to cut him. People came to see what the hullabaloo was and saw a grown man strangling a young boy, and the whole alley went crazy. I wasn't able to breathe and the whole world went fuzzy.

When I next woke up, I had tubes in me and I was surrounded by beeping, whirring machines, and I had a mask on my face for air. I had never been to a hospital before, so I was frightened. I'm healthier, body no longer that of a starved toddler. I'm still very small for my age. That's what comes from such ill living. When a doctor came in I started begging to be let free, and then I had to endure all the cursed tests and whatnot, and then I was sat up in bed. I had a scar near by eye, which was covered by a thick bandage. When it came down to Michal, my father, I had killed him. I was not in trouble for it. It was in self-defence, according to many eye-witnesses.

If I had lived a normal life, with my mother and father, or at the very least with my mother, I would have a name like St Crow. That's what I told them all my last name was. It was what I wanted to be officially registered as for the rest of my life. My inherited title. I felt I deserved that. Now, I never ever found out my mother's last name, so my father's was the best I could go, despite his vile ways.

I was adopted by another family. I took to wearing an eyepatch after leaving the hospital. My sight wasn't salvageable and neither was a decent looking eye. On my first day of my first secondary school, I couldn't find the patch and had to go in with that mutilated goop on show. I can't close that eye, and the eyelid twitches. Even so, I made some friends. Divan, Eric and Riordan. All bigger than me, and Eric could be just as mean as me.

Well, that lasted well until Eric had a falling out with Divan. Lovers' tiff. I hung around the girls after that, and at 16 a girl who wasn't quite my girlfriend gave birth to a girl who was my daughter. Brook died in labour, and the child was left to me. I named her Agnes, and oddly I think she was the first person I ever loved. Darling Agnes, who never did live to an age at which she would attend school.

I did my very best to be a good parent. I knew all the things about disease spotting and avoiding cot death, and I didn't drink or smoke, and I was careful but not too careful...and my latest foster family was very supportive. Agnes lived to the age of three, when in the middle of one night my house went up in flames. Choking smoke and burning flames all around, already in my room, and I went straight for Agnes'. Her bed was on fire. My adoptive sister forced me out of the house in the end. She was younger than me, and in the end?

A charred corpse of a little girl. Confirmed, Agnes St Crow. It was even more devastating than losing my eye, and that certainly left me with trauma. The crying every night, having disturbing dreams, turning into an emotionless man before others that people label a complete piece of excrement kind of trauma. The memory of Agnes, of seeing her burnt, innocent body, it made me physically sick.

I never did quite get over it. I was trusted with that little life, and I lost it. I wouldn't leave what next became my room for days on end, just crying. Camilla, the little sister, brought be in food every day and glasses of water every hour she could, and would sit on my bed and try to sooth me, giving me hugs and trying to say the right things.

Eventually, I allowed myself to socialise again. Still, I distanced myself. I was a sad, sad person. I was 20 now. I had spent months locking myself away, falling apart at the loss of the only one I ever loved...and slowly I was clawing my way back up, back to John St Crow. Then I met an old school friend. One of the girls. Penny. She had always been a good friend to me, and when I told her what I had been through since leaving school to care for Agnes, she was there to help wipe away the tears. I don't want to do into specifics. It would be five years of specifics, turning to dates and all that jazz and a real, a real romance...the second person I ever loved...Penny Merryweather...

And we married, and this time I won't lose my daughter. Maisie, my Maisie, our Maisie...the whole experience with Agnes made me rather...pyrophobic...but in the end it's fine. Everyone has their fears, after all.

The life and times of John St Crow...so far...

Peace out.

Raining Fire

I didn't do well at school. There weren't many options open to me when I left.

I was in good shape. A dancer's body. Muscular and able to go on for an age. I could dance no matter how high the heat, but I was a bit nervous in front of others. I could twist myself into unimaginable knots, hold myself up with just one hand, and I was brilliant at acrobatics. I did not, however, think that I would find my calling with that. Then again, all my father did was stand outside a carnival and advertise it with his voice.  The carnival travelled a lot, so when I saw it come to town, I would go to it just to see my father, and there was a big top circus in among the lot.

I auditioned on a whim. I needed money, and I had my father's backing, so I danced. They liked my act. It was a dance I had practised many times before, and so one I had little chance of getting wrong. It had been a routine I had envisioned when younger and had honed to the point of perfection, and they liked it, and then all that remained was to bid my mother goodbye, looking like an excited little kid.

I needed a good costume, and in my wardrobe I had a white shirt with a pink band. The pink band had white stars on it. If I wore that with blue shorts, it would be okay to start with. We all lived in motor homes, but mine needed to be driven by a colleague as I did not yet have a licence. I fell asleep with some difficulty that first night, as everything got packed away, ready to move on to the next venue. There was too much noise and the strange bed was uncomfortable. Eventually I managed to drop off. I dreamed. Of what, exactly, I am not sure. Of dolls. Rag dolls in little green shirts with terrifying grins. I woke with a start, unsure of what all that had been about, and went to my door. We were moving, so I got dressed and watched the world pass by the window. It rushed past in a blur of colour and beauty.

I was practising by the time we stopped. It was all fine. I could easily cling to something should the road take a sudden twist or jolt, and then we slowed and eventually stopped. I did not know anyone here as of yet, so was nervous to meet them. I did not hear the door open. I was not even aware anyone would care to come in. "That cannot be healthy."
I dropped my foot, letting it fall to a more normal-looking position. "It doesn't bother me."
"Contortionist?" Asked the redheaded girl at my door.
"I guess. I do dancing."
"I play with fire." She smirked, stepping in. "You're new to the company then. Haven't seen someone like you in a while. I'm Anna."
"Peter."
"Nice to meet you, Peter." She gave a curtsey and offered her hand. When I accepted it, she pulled me to my feet as well as shaking my hand. Anna was extra friendly, and grinning widely. She stuck close to me, being a good friend, and I made a few other friends as well. Amos, Cyrus and Dudley. We were roughly the same age, but Anna and I were younger than the other three.

I found my time in front of the audience a thrill. Rushes of adrenaline. I was always scared stiff behind the curtain, watching the act before me do her stuff...Anna was beautiful in her make-up and glittering leotard as she blows fire like the breath of a diamond dragon. Then she walks towards me, gemstone cape fluttering behind her, looking like a masterful angel, and I step aside to allow her through. She wishes me luck, and I smile, my heart fluttering. Nerves. I hear the big top ringleader call to the audience, introducing me with a silly name that I doubt took much thought. Plastic Peter. I raise my hands above my head, ready for my entrance, ready for spilling straight into the acrobatics, waiting for the right beat of the music. I have practised and performed this many times. I know what I'm doing all too well, and a smile slowly spreads across my face, and in I flow, as if by second nature. The nerves fade, and I feel good.

As time went on, I grew closer to Anna. We became an item, I guess. One day, when camping by a lake, well into the deepest reaches of our relationship, we stood at the edge of the lake, skimming stones, talking and laughing. I won't bother going into details with our relationship, but let us just say by this point we shared a bed. I was twisting my whole trunk around to wind up my launch, and she was laughing at me as I went. We weren't in costume. She was in a summer dress, and it was a warm night, and I wore a tank top and trousers. I was barefoot, feeling the soft, wet grass between my toes.
"Peter?"
"Mmm?"
"You ever made a wish upon a star?"
I looked up at the sky curiously. "Not since I was especially little."
"I always do. It's like a piece of childlike magic that's always stuck with me."
"And does it work?"
"Sometimes."
I looked at her, arching an eyebrow.
"Well, it's brought me things I've wished for. Better purpose, someone to love...you."
"Are those all the same thing...?"
She laughed, punching my arm playfully. I smiled, keeping my eyes trained on the moon and let her talk on, almost missing the point at which she casually dropped the P word into the conversation.
"Wait a second." I said, holding up a hand and waving it as though waving her off. "Backtrack a second. What was that about being pregnant?"
She bit her lip, shuffling her foot. "Well, pretty much the one word sums it up, Peter."
Uncertainly, I put a hand on her belly. She laughed.
"There you go, at least you can get it through your thick skull." Laughing, she knocked on my head and I stumbled away, scowling.

I was the amazing Peter Merkel. I could bend myself into unimaginable shapes, all fast and to the beat of the music. I looked like a break dancer, except with joints that bent in all directions, and with ballet moves, standing on my chest, leaping through the air...There were posters about me. I was one of the great acts. The man's favourite. I guess a bit of a freak.

And then I had a son. I named him Stanley. In the darkness, we slept. I slept peacefully the night everything started going downhill. It was a normal night, until Anna started shaking me awake. "Peter! Wake up! Wake up, Peter!"
I gave a whine and tried to push her away, but I was awake now, so it didn't matter.
"Peter, something's on fire!"
I mumbled something, half asleep, before that information set in and I pushed myself up.

I ran out of my little mobile home in my dressing gown, Anna following in hers with our child in her arms. The tent equipment was on fire, and it was expensive. I had this sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach as I watched it all burn, not really able to do anything myself.

The expense? Too much to afford straight off. The best they could do was try and rake in as much as possible with the stalls, and soon people were being laid off. Losing a job that changed my life so immensely hit me hard, and not to mention suddenly losing that safe home and having no income. I mean, where did that leave me? I'll tell you where, on the streets, sleeping under cardboard. Then one day, one unusual day...I found my way to claw my way back up, to face going back to Anna and Stan. That was when I saw an untouched barrel of a hundred little rag dolls, quite, quite large. They all had tan skin and the same green button eyes, and the same cloth triangle nose, and the same grey-green trousers, and the same forest-green jumper. No-one was interested in them, nobody but me. Me, who genuinely believed I could pass myself off as one of them.

And let me tell you, when the Rag Doll in that over successful store came free, he slunk down the stairs, to where they kept the money, and even before the cameras, they saw a Rag Doll rob them blind.

And then the doors opened once more. Anna, money, comfort...everything.

Filth

I've seen the looks people give us. My mum and dad are about sixteen, seventeen. People give them nasty looks. They are dirty. There is grime on their faces, filthy clothes, matted hair streaked with mud, and they smell awful. It isn't made much better by the fire.

The fire is coming from a bin. Daddy set it alight, the rubbish inside, and is now tearing a discarded newspaper and throwing bits in in an attempt to keep the fire going. He's kind of noble. He doesn't like children. He never has. He seems bent on looking after me anyway. Even though there isn't enough food to fill bellies if both of them eat, he makes sure Mummy's had enough to eat so she can feed me. I'm only a few months old, you see, and often I can hear Daddy's stomach rumble, especially if he's holding me. He does eat, just he's scared of letting us starve.

Mummy is sick. She is coughing, her chest heaving violently, as she stands as close to the fire as she can without hurting one of us. That is quite close, though, because the fire isn't very big. We are all wrapped up warm, but the cold still stings through our skin. It is winter, and the wind is high and icy. It threatens to blow the fire out and I know that they are scared. I am wrapped in layers of cloth, but I am still cold, and I am crying. All I can hear is myself and the wind, and part of me knows my parents are talking, but I can't make out the words.

Sometimes I wish I could sleep the rest of my life away. I've never been much of a life lover. I guess part of me knew I was destined to end up here, looked down upon by all society. A young father, a homeless runt. 'What use is he or his bastardised family?' I'm the kind of guy the whole world wishes didn't exist. If I go home, to my father, I will be beaten to death for my 'lack of responsibility' and 'besmearchment of the Peterkin family name'. I don't think he cares that I am gone. I think all I was to him was a fuck buddy. I look across, to Angel, who even looks beautiful now, when we are at our worst, and down to the baby in her arms and do my best not to pull a face. Infants are hideous things. Their faces are twisted and crumpled, and they are covered in unusual wrinkly things, and right now, red faced with mouth open, that awful caterwauling that will haunt my nightmares...I can't take it, but I can't move away without risking freezing. I stomp my feet and wonder if she can quieten it.

More pressing matters arise as the fire dies away and we are left without our source of heat. I try and get it going again, I really do, but it doesn't work. The smouldering rubbish has no more fuel to give. Angel huddles close to me and I think to myself that anything is better than home, with my father.

We keep the baby hidden from people. One of us will hide away, scared of getting our child taken away from us without any attempt to help us as well, and the other one will keep their head down and put their hand out, looking for money. People pity me more or something, because I always make more than Luc does. It's sick.

I can't go home. My foster parents are so strict they didn't want me to so much as look at a boy, and when they found out I had a baby...all hell broke loose. I can't go back, and I'm pretty sure they don't want me back.

I don't need glasses to see, only to read. I can't do that right now, I got rid of the glasses ages ago. Dirty, cracked glass and snapped frames. It was of no use to me. In the state they were in, they obstructed my vision rather than aided it.

There's a dusty feeling in my throat. It's almost like I can't breathe. I feel tired, and I just want to sleep, and Lucas seems to pick up on that. He nods and sits, gesturing for me to do the same, and the three of us sleep, huddled together against the cold. This is love, the way we care so much for one another.

My name is Charlotte. This is the life I live.

If I go home, I face death.

I have no home to go to. To turn up on the doorstep would merely merit a door in the face.

My mother has bipolar disorder. My father has PTSD. They're an interesting pair, and very different in many ways.

And yet, this isn't the end of the story, because we're all three still here to tell this tale. I get into school. At some point, they must pick themselves up, get back up the ladder.

Because don't get me wrong, this family isn't a dying star.

This is love, the way we care so much for one another.

Nobility. I give myself so that others may live. I sacrifice my own wellbeing, for them, my girls.

My family

My daughter.

My girls.

And we're fighters.

Survivors.

Defeat all the odds

And come out the other side.

You have a bug in your hair.
When you hear the story from him, just remember, I'm up and down, I can't control my temper.
I don't like seeing you upset.
You just what?
I dunno if he's a whore or not.
Half the time I'm not even aware I'm doing it.
Did I hear 'voodoo crap'?
I'm just sick of hearing you whine on about your problems!

And in the night, when myriads of nightmare visions and echoing voices fade away, sat bolt upright in a proper bed in a warm room with my wife sleeping peacefully by my side, I don't quite feel at home. At the same time, I am the safest I have ever felt.
I hear all the noises in the house, even when it's loud. There are creaky floorboards and drippy taps, and the thudderthudderthudder of fingers drumming on wood, and the house smells of pine. An almost Christmassy smell, and I do like it, because it makes me think. It makes me think of red baubles and sparkles.
It's a place without judgement, or at least with as little judgement as possible. It isn't a house as such. It's a residence. It's a home, but we're not the only ones living within its walls, but I feel I have all I need. People here are only here to support us, with coming off the street and with our illnesses. We are allowed to stay together. A loving family. All I have ever wanted.


Now all that remains is to wrap this in a bow, give the finishing spit and polish. Happy birthday, Shannon, with love, Musket and the Mouse Killers.

The Divide

Once upon a time there was a love match, created by the exchange of rings encrusted with real rubies. Emrys Padarn Weldon-Whitlock and Francyne Hagar Todd were in love. Her, a delicate flower of a woman, a rare flower in a wilted garden. The Todd family had a bad history when it came to disease, and many died before they reached Frannie's age. Frannie herself was the youngest of her family, with long red hair and big, wide, innocent blue eyes.

He was a strong man, from an industrial family, or as industrial as magical folk could get. He had two brothers, the extra nice Blythe and the extra sour Theron, and they were all born brunette. Blythe and Theron could change appearance at will however. The twins were younger than Emrys, and he felt he had a power over them when dad was away, but that just didn't seem so. The twins were clever and took great enjoyment in bothering and confusing their bossy elder brother.

Frannie and Emrys met at a carnival. There they were with friends, and there they met. Glimmering eyes that met across the way, blue butterflies and grey diamonds. When they met, they were a love match. Frannie's friends had often warned her about boys like Emrys. He was bad, he was only after one thing. He would play with Frannie and leave her in the dust, but she said no, this boy was perfect, he was true. There was no danger here.

And so she married him, and became Mrs Weldon-Whitlock. Things stayed delightful. Things stayed wonderful. This was a match made in heaven. They were meant to be.

Then along came Adam and shattered this illusion.

Frannie was so excited to announce her pregnancy. Emrys barely paid any heed, and when he looked at her, saw the enlarged belly months later, he hit her, yelled at her for keeping it covered. He was drunk. He often was. Adam grew up with an almost permanently drunk father, but that didn't much bother him. He never knew the difference between his father drunk and his father sober. No, the bother with Adam began when he wouldn't stop coughing. Something was clearly bothering the infant, but it bothered Emrys more, because the child would not keep quiet. He did not like holding his son, as his son was a sweaty and very, very smelly thing. In the end, with all the coughing and wheezing and crying, they had to take him to a hospital, and that was where they learnt their son had Cystic Fibrosis.

Having a sick child to care for sure takes its toll. Frannie was swept off her feet, trying to keep up with all the work, while Emrys sat there and yelled at his son to stop coughing, saying it was just him seeking attention.

Six years later, Adam was out at the park with his father, but not willing to go very far, because he really was struggling to breathe. Daddy dearest crouched beside him smoking pack after pack of cigarettes certainly wasn't helping. Mother was at the swings, with new baby Nicholas. Things seemed better for her. Emmy wasn't hitting her any more, and he was the same Emmy she had fallen in love with. Still he drank, and smoke, and lazed about the house, and threatened to throw his defenceless newborn into a swimming pool, but he was her Emmy.

Nicky wasn't ill. He didn't have Cystic Fibrosis or any other genetic horrors. He was the adorable kind of boy who people would pat on the head and claim would break hearts when older. He liked all the attention, but strangely, he liked to share the attention with his big brother. Part of him liked having this sick older brother. They played doctors and nurses, and dragon training, and all sorts of games that would be easy on Adam's lungs, and when people would start cooing over Nicky, he would bring Adam over and point out all his best points. They were very close siblings. Emrys and Frannie liked that. Few fights between their little angels.

Only three years on did they have George. George was always a little podgy, and always cute in a little kid way with his chubby cheeks, but never exactly attractive. He, like Adam, was brunette, whereas Nicky was ginger. They all had grey eyes.

Georgie wasn't allowed to play with his big brothers. Nicky didn't want him to, and Adam didn't want him to, so playing with them was dangerous. So was bugging daddy. Drunk daddy. Daddy who one day threw Georgie out of a window and onto the concrete poolside. Lucky little Georgie, only living in a single storey house.

When Georgie was five, Frannie fell pregnant once more, and Emrys quite firmly told her four children was enough and threatened to mutilate her you-know-what after the fourth baby was born, but then they went and got a scan, and Emrys decided he never wanted anything to do with this girl again.

Emrys didn't like his children. Adam was a pain, Nicholas was too girly, George was too shy. Worse still, Nicky was the one who found out about Euphemie, Odelia, Joyce and Goda, alongside countless other cheats he had done and prostitutes he had gone to. The next two coming would be twins. Emrys hated twins. They were unnatural. They were irritating and always played games with your mind. He got home and slapped Frannie, yelling at her for the existence of the twins, and Nicky came over with his arms full of papers and pencils. He had been drawing. Nine year old Nicky, who cared about two things: His looks, and drawing. And he had found these papers and started drawing, then saw the words and the photos, and realised why his father had kept them hidden. As Emrys attacked his wife, the middle son, the beautiful redhead, came over and tugged at his shirt.
"Dad? Who's Odelia?"
"Not now!"
"Who's the lady in this picture you're kissing? Is this in Paris? I know it isn't mum, mum doesn't have skin that dark."
"Go away Nick!"
He blinked but stayed where he was. "This picture has writing on the back. 'Oh my darling Joyce, how I would once again like to taste your delicious pink pudding. Allow me to drive my bulging quaffle through your goal once more-'" Emrys threw his nosy nine-year-old to the floor, roaring at him to shut up and demanding to know where he had found all these things. Adam scurried away to hide under his bed, and he was in his teens. Georgie cried. Frannie pulled at her husband's arm and begged him to leave Nicky alone. Nicky admitted to his snooping and showed his dad the pictures he had drawn, pictures of a big, happy family. He thought he would like it, but he got a boot in the stomach and a belt across his face. He was sick, and then through the tears and the vomit he saw his father come for him again, furious at the boy for throwing up over his carpet, his belongings, his letters and photos, and he threw his still begging wife violently into the corner. Nicky tried to squirm away, but he was too slow. Flesh tore and bones broke, but the only damage to his beautiful face was one deep, ragged cut to his forehead.

He probably would have killed the unborn twins if given half a chance, but Adam knew a few spells, and that he threatened to call the police took attention away from Nicky and Frannie, got the thin and sickly child one punch in the face, and then they heard Georgie talking on the phone, giving details to a police officer...and Emmy fled.

Nicky and Frannie ended up in hospital.

Amazingly, the twins were okay. Jaimes and Dorcas, they were named, and as they grew up, they saw their biological father. They preferred their step father by far. Arnold was nice and gentle, and only sharp when need be. Emrys however, laughed whenever he saw the little redheaded twins, and always joked about how unfortunate they were to look so much like their mother. He had made fun of Georgie's glasses, and now did the same for Dorcas. This carried on until the boys outright refused to see him.

That was Emrys, the man who ruined six lives with his vile actions.

9 Levels Below

"Hey! Stop! Let go of my arms!" I yelled, struggling against the big burly guards. The ginger one twisted my arm to shut me up and the stinky one stepped away and opened a prison cell, aiming a large, ornate gun at the wall. They threw me in and locked the doors behind me, and I banged my fists painfully against the bars. "Let me go! Let me out! Please let me out!"
Someone laughed, the voice coming from the corner. I turned, scared.
"Is there someone else in here?"
"I never thought I would get a cell mate." Came a low, creaky voice. He sounded like bed springs but much more menacing. He had an accent. British, I think
"Why am I here? Why have they locked me up? I haven't done anything wrong!"
The other man snorted a laugh. "Oh contraire, nobody is such an angel that never once in their pitiable lives have they done any wrong. Have you not even ever uttered a curse or rude speech, or so much as raised a hand to another person, or 'borrowed' without first asking?"
"But why am I in prison?"
There was silence. It was cold and I was hugging myself for warmth. I was a little overweight, and dressed in a smart suit, brown in colour.
"I do not know. What is your name, flower child?"
"Flower child?"
I saw a movement in the darkness as the other man nodded. "We are all flowers in this great garden of life!" He proclaimed loudly, spreading his arms. Through the darkness I heard vicious shouts and threats, aimed towards this strange man.
"How long have you been here?"
"I was born here." He replied evenly. "My mother was a prisoner, a sweet woman, smelled of rose and oranges and hope. She was beautiful, but scared of me, because I look like my father, and my mother never wanted to sleep with my father."
I nodded, understanding. This man spoke strangely. "I'm Stoddard." I told him finally. "What's your name?"
He shrugged. "Not important. I've never had an identity outside of this place. I am a prisoner for life, cursed to grow old and disgusting in this foul cesspool."
"Does anyone know why we're here?"
The man pulled himself forward. He had dark hair and a pale face, and eyes sunk deep into his skull that had very little light to reflect. There was a milky quality to one of them, and I believe he may have been blind. I could see cataracts, which really in this day and age would have been of no bother. He was very tall, unnaturally so, and very, very thin. It looked like he had not eaten for a long while.
"I barely know anything. I know the name my mother gave me, and I know the texture of the bars and the cold, wet ground, and the slop they give us once a day with as much nutrients as we need, but it is tasteless and bland, and the texture makes one sick. I know what it is to hear and feel and smell, and that once someone comes in, they never go back out. We are held back here, lost to hell, stuck in limbo...what is the world outside like? Is it akin to anything in here?"
I was kind of scared of this guy. He was creepy, and right now he had his hand to his mouth and nose, taking deep breaths to smell the musty mould on his fingertips. His hair looked to have never been cut. Long and unruly, and the same went for his nails. He was wearing women's clothing. I assumed, him being alone and never seeing the sunlight, that they were his mother's clothes once.
"What is it?" I asked. "The name your mother gave you."
"Lancelot." He rasped, nails gouging at the filth set into the tiles. "Is the sun as beautiful as they say it is? Mother used to tell tales about the sun. This bright, shining gold in the sky, that warmed body and soul. I would love to see it, to see if it lives up to legend. It only comes out when the sky is happy."
I gave him a strange look. "Listen Lancey..."
"Is the sky happy today? I never know. Was the sky happy when they took you or sad to be losing a curious citizen?"
"What is this place?" I yelled, eager both for Lancelot to shut up and to get answers. He seemed taken aback and looked around in fear.
"This is where the people that talk go. People who ask too many questions or get too close to the truth, they come here."
Well, the problem was Lancey was clearly off his rocker, so I wasn't sure how reliable he was. I didn't believe him. It sounded like some crazy conspiracy theory.
"And what else?" I asked, humouring him.
"And they come in the night to take you from your home."
"Why?"
"Because they like taking victims for the picking. The guards like to have fun with us." He looked up and I believe he may have smiled. "let the darkness embrace you. It is a very loving thing, with an ice cold touch, that envelopes you entirely."
I couldn't suppress a shudder. "Do you like the darkness?"
"It is what I am used to."
"But do you like it?"
"And in the darkness, you cannot see the people approaching, with malice in their hearts. You can't see the people! You can't see them or the sharp, pointy things they hold in locked fists!" He broke down crying, and I sat there, feeling awkward, as more shouts for Lancelot to shut up rose through the dim light. That was when I made either the biggest mistake of my life or the best friend.
"Leave him alone, you vultures!" I screamed, silencing the prison. With those words, I sided myself with Lancelot for the rest of my days, which would either be a disaster or something amazing, as soon I would find how he really was.

Nature Babies

When I found out I was pregnant, I ran away. I didn't go far. I lived in a children's home, and I'm sure there was a huge fuss made, but I like to think no-one noticed I was gone, because I don't like thinking about them being upset about me disappearing. Worst still, I couldn't turn to the father of the baby. He had cheated on me, and when I got upset about it he acted like I was crazy. So there I was, expecting a baby, alone in a forest near the home, alone and hoping, for their own good, nobody even notices I'm gone. I had my sleeping bag and changes of clothes, most of them stolen and far too big, so I can grow into them with a baby belly. I have a bag of food that shouldn't spoil, and several bottles of water. I knew it wouldn't last me nine whole months, but all I could really do was do my best, you know.? Get at least one good meal a day, keep warm, keep well, sleep well.

So I watched the months rush by, winter turning to spring turning to summer turning to autumn. The beauty of nature, first hand. No give, all take. Eating apples and chocolate and pastries, and doing well, and slowly running low on supplies. I never threw up. Morning sickness just wasn't there for me.

Before I go any further, my name is Stephania-Raven, better known as Stevie Rae. I am 15 years old, I know, young to be becoming a mother. I was going out with this boy. He was the same age as me, his name was Raven (heh) and he knew how to really get into a girl's head. I tried to abort the baby first, when I found out. I was too young for a child, had been nothing more than a game to the father and didn't feel I'd be good enough, but the damn thing wouldn't miscarry. I was stuck with them, and I panicked, and then there I was, running into the forest.

As month four approached all I had left in terms of food were two chocolate biscuits, and even then I hadn't eaten for three days. I'm so hungry I could eat all the food back at the home and then some. I stuff the last two biscuits in my mouth greedily, savouring the taste as the spit floods in to finally get some digestion going. I'm getting awful migraines. I swear once one even made me black out, and I can't sleep. I'm showing, and I keep having to wriggle out of my sleeping bag to squat behind bushes. I was actually confident about my body before this. I wasn't fat...what fat I did have stopped me looking too top-heavy, because I guess I had a rather substantial chest. I had short, blonde curls and guys liked my looks, so much so they didn't much care to get to know me. I was a shag puppet to them. Or maybe that was just my imagination. Raven was my first after all. My stomach growls and I have to find something more substantial to fill it, or else. I don't want to starve, and it'll happen much faster with a baby inside me. I worry then. What if the baby dies, and it's gone to the point where I'll have to endure awful pain just to push a corpse out of my body? That would be much worse than giving birth to a live one, even if I did try and get rid of it. A crawl around (when I stand I am oh so tired and dizzy) shows me there are berries and apples around, as Spring has come again. I start eating, and I eat and eat until I can no more, and even then, some berries are not yet ripe. I eat them anyway. Food is food, and I think I have a strong stomach. I can't fit in normal clothes any more, I'm already on the extra big stuff. I hate it.

I was certain my baby was dead after a while, the way things were going. I'm still dead hungry, no matter how much I eat...although I can't find much, so I can't eat much, so I understand how I'm so damn ravenous. Then I feel something. I haven't been looking at how big I'm getting. I know I've been getting bigger, but hey, maybe I'm dumb, or just pessimistic, but I've cried over it before. I'm too hot. It's summer and I'm roasting, bordering on heatstroke. I'm staying by the river in the woodland, so I have plenty to drink but little to eat, and god, I feel awful, and my legs are cramping. I've lost track of how many months along I am, and I feel a strange feeling beneath my belly, like something in there is moving. I look down and put my hand on my belly. I've been wearing the same shirt for a long time and I think it's too tight to remove now. I sing. I sing a simple song.
"You think I'm an ignorant savage
and you've been so many places, I guess it must be true...
But still I cannot see
If the savage one is me
how can there be so much that you don't know?
You don't know.

You think you own whatever land you land on
The Earth is just a dead thing you can claim..." I trailed off as the baby kicked. My baby was alive, but I wasn't relieved, I was scared. How do I care for a baby in a situation like this, I mean?

Some time on I sat under a tree, rubbing a hand over my swollen belly and eating the last apple of the season. It was winter again, and the apple was long past realistic edibility, but what the hey? I'd been eating leaves and grass I've been so hungry. I haven't slept for a while. Not with my back and my legs, and how hard it is to get comfy, and how cold it is. The baby isn't moving much, and I still don't know how far along I am, but it's far enough that I'm getting those weird practice contractions. The next time I go to the toilet, there's some strange goop in my underwear. Pink. I dismiss it. If it has any serious relevance, I don't know it.

Later on I read up on this stuff and find out it's a sign of labour.

Alone, in the woods, a couple of days later, I have these dull aches in my belly. I've eaten fine, found some chocolate someone had dropped on a walk. It had popping candy in it, and it was divine. I don't know what the ache is, but it's probably, like, the weight of the baby. Then one really hurts! I gasp and grab my belly. I look down and I know. It's on its way. Instantly I'm in tears. I'm scared, so scared. I want to go to hospital, but I don't even know the way out of the woods. I'm hopelessly lost. I want my mum, which is something I haven't wanted for a long while. Her name had been Edna, and she had been beautiful. She was American, but she was also dead. "Mummy!" I mewl out pitifully anyway. Another contraction comes and I keep walking, hoping I'll find some way out of the wood, somewhere I can have my baby. But by the end of the day, I'm still in early labour, and I eat and drink and sit down, wondering what to do. There's no change in the pace for the whole of that first day, and the next, and then slowly, on the third day, they get closer and longer and stronger. I'm walking, and then one comes on so strong I have to stop and lean against a tree, moaning and covering my mouth with my hand. I throw up at the next one and the tears start again. I sob, cry loudly. I don't want this to happen and I just drop to my knees, wrapping my arms around my belly, curling up. It hurts, and I can't move when the contractions come. I'm curled up on the cold ground for hours, sobbing and whining, and ever so scared. It's dark soon, and they're these cascading waves of pain. When it becomes dark, my waters break, and my tears have died down. I've no more to cry, and I'm sat there, giving shouts of pain. I feel shivery and sick, and I probably am, but at the same time I'm covered in sweat and it's awful. I'd do anything for a little pain relief. I'm digging my nails into the tree, biting my hair which has now grown very long. I'm screaming. I'm keeping my teeth clenched, but even that's a chore. I get this need to start pushing and drop to all fours, following the need, doing as my body commands and screaming. I want my mother! I cry for her again.

I'm exhausted, but the child finally comes. I roll onto my back, force myself to sit up, open my bag and wrap my baby into a jumper, and cuddle it close. It's a she. Then, I have another contraction, painful enough to make me yell. I'm still having contractions. I lie down again, and cry and whine and want it to be over. Another amniotic sack burst? Waters break again and another baby, I feel another one coming and all I can think of is my own panic, pain. The second twin is born and my tear-filled eyes glaze over. I bring the second one close and shuffle her into the same jumper, and pass out.

When I wake up, I hear screaming. I'm sore all over, and both the twins are still moving, like some demented miracle. I look at them a long while, their skinny frames, goosebumps on their bloody skin, gummy mouths open and screaming. They must be hungry, I think, and as though it's an instinct, I lift my shirt and hold each one so she can feed. They're both girls. My girls. I have no home, but I have a duty to care for, raise and protect my girls...

My Ruby and Violet...