From the right point of view the day, like most, seemed normal. However, surprisingly Vienna had turned left. Hans Von Heinz glanced up at the glass panels guarding the staterooms, his dripping fedora barely shielding the water from his eyes.

The call came in at 0700 hrs; a theft they said but alas, Reinhold the day guard found a man, top heavy, lying on his side, a large gash pouring Viennese red onto a white button-up.  So, the detective was called.

“Alfred Stix, pleased to meet you.”

“Detective Heinz, Sir.”

“The egg’s handler was found but my precious Faberge egg is nowhere in sight. You’d better have your best men on the job for this one, detective.”

“Believe me, sir, I am perfectly able to handle this situation.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The curator started walking towards the stairs, gesturing for the detective to follow him. On the stairs they bumped into Maria Koller, trusted associate of the museum.

“Ahh, Miss Koller, this is detective Hans Heinz.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance Detective. I do hope that you can help find my egg. As its owner I will be awarded sizable compensation, but it’s just not the same. Please do excuse me, I must be going.”

Maria began to walk towards the entrance before the detective stopped her by saying.

“Actually Mrs Koller- “

“Miss Koller; I lost my husband in the war.”

“My condolences, Miss Koller. If you wouldn’t mind staying here while the investigation takes place, I would like to ask everyone a few questions.”

“I would love to comply, but I absolutely cannot wait.”

“I understand. Could you return within the hour?”

“Of course, detective.”

Maria walked hastily toward the exit with her heavy bag. The two men turned, and Alfred led the detective to the central exhibit.

The exhibit like, all the others, was untouched except for the empty egg pedestal. Without hesitation Hans approached the empty pedestal. The detective enquired about the egg; he learnt that it was on loan to the museum from Miss Koller and had been delivered to the display on the previous evening.

“I assume you will need to see the body. Such a shame about Manfred, I mean, I saw him just last night when the egg arrived. I must have been one of the last people to see him alive.”

The detective, who by this point was in his own world examining the podium, barely heard this. Alfred pointed to an open doorway to the left of the entrance.

“Down that corridor; you should be able to find it.”

“Aren’t you just going to show me?”

“If you don’t mind, I would rather stay here, I am not completely comfortable with seeing a man in that state again.”

Hans turned the corner to see the body laid on its front. He approached solemnly and found the stab wound in his back. The dead man, with his brown hair and blueish eyes, appeared to have put up a fight. His left eye was black and there was evidence of bruising and contusions on his face. Hans checked the dead man’s pockets but found nothing of any relevance. He walked back into the central gallery to ask Alfred some more questions.

“What was his name?”

“Manfred M – ” he stuttered momentarily “ – Manfred Mayer.”

“Was he a worker at the museum?”

“No, he was not directly employed by us, he was just a night mover. I doubt anyone other than me had ever even met him.”

“Did anything seem off about him last night? Maybe paranoia, or him being anxious?”

“Not from what I could tell. He was just his normal self. His shirt and tie always so perfectly in place. Placing the exhibits seemed an ideal outlet for his OCD. You see, everything had to be placed ‘just so’. If had a keen eye for anything out of place, he just had to adjust it. He noticed everything.”

“Does anyone other than you and the man who called the station know about the body?”

“I shouldn’t think so. When Master Weber told me I strongly requested that he not tell anyone else.”

“Well thank you for your discretion, Mr Stix. If you would please call everyone into the foyer for questioning.”

“Immediately, Detective”

As the curator left the room Hans noticed a glass case. It displayed a beautiful jewel-encrusted knife, owned by the monarchy before their recent end. It was at a crooked angle. Perhaps the case had been disturbed somehow.

After 30 minutes everyone was assembled in the grand entrance. Alfred Stix, curator; Egon Weber, the day guard who had called the police; Bernard Binder, night guard; and Maria Koller, donor of the egg. These were the only people who had access to the establishment at the time of the theft and subsequent murder.

The detective locked the door; no one could leave the room.

“Egon Weber?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Would you please accompany me into the stateroom?”

“Ok”

They walked to the room and took seats facing each other.

“So, Mr Weber, I believe that you were the one who contacted the police after you found the body. Yes?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind going over the events for me.”

“Yes Sir. I arrived earlier this morning to take over guard duty from Reinhold Binder.  I said ‘hello’ to him; we usually have a chat, but today he had to rush off quickly for some reason. I started my first patrol of the exhibit spaces just before opening; that’s when I saw that the egg was missing and ran to raise the alarm. As I was running down the corridor I found the body of Mr Mayer.”

“Thank you, Mr Weber, for your cooperation. I have just a couple more questions for you.”

“Ok”

“What time did you first arrive here at?”

“6.50, just ten minutes before the opening “

“What did you know about the stolen egg before its theft?”

“Not much. I am still very new to this job. I just turned 18 last month and must admit I don’t really care for a lot of the antiquities in this place.”

“Well Mr Weber, that will be all for now. Could you ask Mr Stix to come in, please?”

After Egon left, Alfred entered immediately.

“Hello, Mr Stix.”

“Nice to see you again, detective.”

“You will understand from my lines of enquiry that I need to ask where you were last night.”

“Of course. I was working late in my office, until about 1am, then I walked out the main entrance and said goodnight to Bernard, the night guard, before walking home.”

“Did you see anything unusual on your walk home?”

“Not that I recall. There wasn’t anything out of the normal, except… no, nothing worth mentioning.”

“No, go on. What was it?”

“Well, there was a man who was running the opposite way to me.”

“Opposite way to you. Do you mean towards the museum?”

“Yes, I guess. Do you think that could have been the thief? It’s not really the hour for joggers.”

“It just might have been. What did this man look like?”

“I didn’t see his face, his hat covered most of it, but I remember thinking he had very long legs”

“What time would you say this was?”

“Maybe around 1.15am.”

“Ok, thank you. Just one more question. As the curator, I assume that you are very knowledgeable about the egg. Its history, its owners?”

“Well naturally, its history is fascinating inasmuch as it is a complete mystery. An authentic egg, fabricated at the same time as all other Faberge eggs, but completely lost for many years. The egg was very recognisable from the other ones due to its crimson red colouring. Several scholars have different theories as regards its backstory, but there has never been any evidence to substantiate any of them.”

“Thank you, Mr Stix, I think that is all the questions for you. If you could send in Maria Koller. “

“Certainly, Detective”

Mr Stix left and Maria entered.

“Hello Miss Koller”

“Let me just stop you there. I don’t know anything about the egg being stolen. I simply loaned the egg to the museum, and I don’t think I should be here.”

Maria turned to leave.

“Miss Koller, I assure you this is just procedure. Please sit, I have but a few questions to ask you.”

“Fine, but make it quick.”

“Can you tell me how the egg come into your possession? Where was it being kept before you loaned it to the museum? And can you tell me where you were around 0115 hrs last night?

Maria paused as if calculating her reply.

“I was in my house sleeping. The egg was my father’s; he acquired it at auction. It has been kept securely at my residence since the passing of my father. Now, if you will excuse me, I will be going.”

“Just one more thing, Miss Koller. How well did you know Mr Mayer?”

“Not at all. I never even met him.”

Maria left. Detective Heinz rose to his feet and asked Reinhold Binder to enter the stateroom. Whilst standing at the doorway the detective saw that Maria did not head for the exit but rather to another doorway leading to an anteroom at the far end of the exhibit space.

“Mr Binder, how are you today?”

“Good.”

Mr Binder entered the room but didn’t sit.

“I just have a few straightforward questions for you.”

“Fine.”

“What is your job here at the museum?”

“I’m the Night guard”

“So you were here over night, yes?

“Yes”

“Where were you at 0115 hrs?”

“Here”

“Not very forthcoming, are you?”

“What’s the need?”

This interaction was like talking to a brick wall.

“It would be helpful to pinpoint where exactly in the building you were.”

“I will have to think about it.”

“Okay. Could you stand next to me, please? I just need to see something.”

“Sure.”

Bernard Binder stood beside Hans. The detective towered over him, 6 feet 4 inches compared to Binder’s modest 5 feet 11.

“Well, Mr Binder, why don’t you go back outside and see if you can remember.”

Mr Binder turned to leave. Once he had closed the door, the detective started reading over his notepad, which contained almost every word said in the conversations. He just couldn’t help but feel he was missing something.

After 20 minutes, Alfred knocked on the door.

“Please excuse my intrusion but how long will you be? All of us are getting quite annoyed with how long this is taking. I am starting to think about escaping out the window.”

It was at this moment that something clicked in the detective’s head.

“Mr Stix, when you saw that man running outside, which side of the building was he on?”

“I suppose the east. Why? Is that important?”

“Are there any windows at ground level on that side of the building?”

“Yes, there are. Do you think that’s how the thief got in?”

“Maybe. Show me the windows.”

The two men walked to the east side of the building’s exterior, where there were four windows. The first was fine, the second just the same, and so were the third and fourth. There was nothing wrong with any of the windows, and the detective established there wasn’t a single other way to get in besides the entrance at the front. With this information, he walked back into the state rooms.

“If everyone could please meet me in the Central Exhibit.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to tell you all something.”

Everyone made their way to the Central Exhibit, where Heinz made his final remarks.

“Well, everybody, after all of my findings I am able to say that with absolute certainty that I am unable to work out who did this and it is with great sorrow and annoyance that I must call this case unsolvable.”

All the assembled people looked at the detective in disbelief.

“But what about the man I saw running towards the museum?” asked Alfred.

“That could have been anyone; there is no way of knowing that it was the thief.”

“What about the egg?” said Maria

“Just take the insurance money and go on with your life.”

“But the egg is missing.”

“And it may never be found. That’s just how it is sometimes.”

The detective turned and left the museum via the front door, leaving everyone very lost and confused. As he walked towards the station, he placed his hand in his pocket and stroked the smooth, shiny and red surface of what was inside.

I first saw his death in the newspaper: THE WORLD’S 5^TH RICHEST BILLIONAIRE HAS PASSED! WHO WILL BE THE NEXT DOLCE INHERITOR?” was the headline. I never bothered to read the article; these people have more money than sense and it never has interested me to read about a life that has no relevance to my own. My eyes fell to the poster opposite me: ‘Pay it Forward’, it read. I thought of my father, Ethan Crass. That was his favourite saying; he lived by it. It’s the idea that when you complete a good deed for someone you wish for nothing in return, except for them to pass it on and in turn do a good thing for someone else. I pulled my thoughts back to the present, threw the newspaper on the floor, and left the house. Little did I know I would later read every inch of that article; an article that would then have every relevance to my life.

I am sitting in a hot, stuffy classroom when I get called into the office. “Probably just another routine check-in with me,” I think. However, as I enter the principal’s office, it becomes apparent very quickly that I am wrong. Along with the principal, there are three other people in the room. Two men dressed in suits, one in navy and the other grey, and a woman whose perfume is so strong it makes me dizzy. Or maybe it’s what she says next. “A man named Benjamin Dolce has died.” The headline flashes before my eyes. “You been requested to attend the reading of his will. Does this mean anything to you?” I stare at the man in the grey suit as if he can somehow give me the answer. He does not. “No,” I finally manage. “Well, it’s clear that you must be there. We will arrange a flight for you.” I stop listening after that, overcome with the thoughts in my head. A flight? A flight to where? I have never been out of Seattle, let alone on a plane. A voice brings me back to reality. “Lily?” It’s the principal. He speaks gently, as if he can somehow tell there is a hurricane happening in my head. “We have notified your mother but do you want her to bring anything from home?” I say only two words: “a newspaper”.

As we touch down in South Carolina hours later I have read the article approximately 42 times, along with having had a short nap that was interrupted by various dreams, all centred around the character Benjamin Dolce. As we step off the plane, I no longer feel a part of myself. It’s as if I’m watching my body from above. I get into the waiting car; it’s a black limousine. We drive. I look out of the window; it’s getting dark now. We’re in the countryside. And finally, we turn to go through a set of gates. I look at my mother’s hand placing itself in mine, but I don’t feel it. I can only hear, see and think one thought. What is my place in all of this? One knock on this door in front of me and I’ll find out.

Massive would be an understatement for this house. I have never seen anything like it before. It’s quiet too; eerily quiet. “Come with me,” the man in the grey suit says. He’s the only person that has remained with me the whole time apart from my mother and I have learned that his name is James. He does not wait for me to answer and so I follow, slightly scared to be left in a house that I’m sure could very quickly become a maze. James takes my mother and me to a hallway with pictures lining the walls. He stops outside a room. “You can sleep in here,” he says and leaves. The room is beautiful, with high ceilings and big windows, not to mention the intricate artwork decorating the place. I immediately collapse onto the bed, my mind and body exhausted from the day.

I don’t meet Benjamin’s family until the reading of the will the following day. We’re all sitting in a large room awaiting our fate as a man at the front begins unravelling a sheet of paper. It seems to take forever. A woman, I’m assuming Benjamin’s daughter Gabriella, is pacing the floor. His sons, Alexander and Marco, sit in two armchairs, the in-laws and children sitting behind them. I’m sitting alone: my mother wasn’t allowed in with me. The man clears his throat. “We are gathered here today for the reading of the will of the late Benjamin Alexander Dolce.” He looks at all of us in turn, his eyes lingering on me for a moment, and continues. “I leave my work and business to my three children, along with $1 billion for each of my grandchildren.” Gabriella turns to look at her brothers, shocked but not quite angry. “However, my estate, assets and entire fortune I leave to Lillian Crass. She will inherit $46.8 billion.”

When I was younger I fell out of a tree. It was at such a height that everything was muffled and the world was spinning. It felt as though I was underwater, not knowing which way to go to break the surface. I feel the same way right now, except 20 people are either staring at me or shouting about the mistake that has been made. All I can do is sit there, staring, wondering, trying to break the surface.

I am the last person in the room. Everybody else left, either sulking or still shouting about the unfairness of it all. The man stops me before I leave. “I’m to give you this. It might explain some things.” He hands me an envelope. “Read it alone,” he says. I thank him and go. I decide to go outside: the gardens stretch for miles so I can be sure no one will find me. I sit down at the base of a giant tree. The grass is soft and I am bathed in the morning sunlight. Daisies and daffodils dance around me in the soft breeze. I stare at the envelope. My hands shake as I tear it open, ready to know the truth.

Dear Lillian,

You don’t know me, but I feel as if I know you. These past years I have kept an eye on you, waiting for the perfect opportunity to give you everything. Your life has inspired a lot of mine. More specifically, your father. I have thought a lot about you reading this letter, about what I would say. About your emotions, as you hear the news of the money I have left you. And so I think it’s only fair that I should start from the beginning.

At 23 years old, I was alone here. Having recently moved from a tiny village in northern Italy, I knew nothing and nobody. But I had an idea, a brilliant idea that would be the spark of everything I have today. After my request for a loan was rejected by countless banks I was tired and frustrated. And so, when I went for an appointment at the bank your father worked at, I was feeling hopeless. As a young man, I was not used to rejection, and the fight in me had started to go out. I had no collateral, no reason for them to grant me this money except for my pure genius, which unfortunately most people didn’t accept. Except for your father. Ethan Crass saw my potential and fought for me: he got me my loan. He’s the reason why I am who I am today. I asked him how I could ever repay him, how I could ever express the amount of gratitude I have for this man. But he told me he didn’t want anything; all he wanted was for me to pay it forward. Nobody knows this Lily, but I dedicated my life to searching for a way to pay it forward. But I never could find one that would leave me satisfied; not one deed that I could be sure was going to help someone as selfless as the man who gave it to me. To someone who I knew would carry the torch on. I’ve failed, Lily. I’ve failed your father. And so, I have to cheat the system. I am paying it back, to you, in the hope that you will pay it forward for both of us.

Benjamin Dolce

She started applying her makeup, pressing the fine powder onto her flawless skin, scraping the dregs from the pallet. Her lady’s maid began pulling at her hair in all directions, rushing her along.

“He’ll be waiting on you, ma’am,” she said, grabbing Clara’s dress. “The tailor has been working on your dress all night: he thinks it’s his best yet.”

Clara took the dress and felt the silk slip through her fingers. Her lady’s maid helped her slip into her petticoat before helping her into the dress.

She looked at herself in her mirror, and the crack made the green shimmer and her look beautiful.

The ballroom was larger and grander than anything she’d seen before. It was lit by rows and rows of chandeliers, and was full of crowds of people drinking and dancing to the sounds of the orchestra. The gowns, the jewels, the crystals dripping from the chandeliers, even the floor beneath her feet appeared to sparkle.

He was mingling with royalty from far-off countries. But when he saw her, they seemed to disappear. Everyone else around him was like a blur; he was the only thing to make sense.

His hair had fallen into his face, hiding his emerald eyes. Her favourite colour. His blood-red suit stood out among the black and white. The crown on his head shimmered like the chandeliers.

She watched him from the other side of the ballroom. He looked naturally like a Prince.

She was wearing a green dress that night. No, she was wearing a red dress. The one her mother said makes the boys in the village stop to get a second look. The one that transformed her into a different person.

Clara knew her biggest challenge of the night would be not to make a fool of herself, but a part of her knew that wouldn’t happen. She felt a new confidence in herself; she guessed the thought of him being finally near her again calmed her nerves, but obviously that was all in her head. What if he didn’t even remember her? That was a possibility. As much as her mother said ‘she’s a catch’, somehow she had not been able to believe that. Yet.

The nerves were biting at her stomach as she stood waiting. Every possible outcome of the night was darting around her head. Why would he remember her? He was a prince, for crying out loud. She’s made a mistake. This whole night was a mistake. She should just have stayed and watched the village performance, at least they’d have a-

“Clara?”

That voice. She turned around and there he was. He’d pushed his hair out of his eyes, allowing the emerald to be seen. His crown sat slightly slanted on his head. And his suit matched her dress. It was meant to be.

He took her hand in his and bowed. She giggled and wrapped her arms around him.

“I missed you,” she mumbled.

“I missed you too, my love,” he smiled.

“Shall we dance?

They fell in step, letting the rhythm control their movements. All the scenery and people around dissolved. It was him and her, alone.

His emerald eyes glistened, and a smile spread across his face.

Uncontrollable feelings surged through Clara’s body. As if she was dreaming, her body was acting on its own, no chains to hold her back from this pure paradise.

“I was waiting on you,” he said, spinning her around.

“My carriage took longer than expected.”

“Well, you’re here now” The most perfect smile spread across his face. She couldn’t help herself, and soon her face mirrored his.

They danced, they laughed, it was perfect. She’d never be able to describe this feeling to anyone. The feeling of love and being free.

Before she knew it, they were sitting by a fire, drinks in hand, laughing about an old family portrait.

“I wasn’t ready,” he said rolling his eyes.

“I don’t think it’s awful,” she lied.

“It’s bad.”

“Definitely.”

Clara placed her head on his shoulder. She wished they could stay like this forever.

“What time will your mother be wanting you home?” he mumbled.

“She wanted me home before ten,” she said, looking up at the clock, “but I think I’ve missed that.”

“Well, one more dance shouldn’t hurt.”

They made their way back to the ballroom, just in time for the final dance. He took Clara’s hands in his and swept her across the floor. When the music began slowing down, he cupped her face in his hands.

His hand felt cold on her cheek. When she met his gaze, his eyes were no longer emerald but blue, like her own. The guests around them started shrinking. His hand no longer looked like his, but smaller and more petite, like her own. A shiver ran down her spine as the chandeliers began cracking, splintering into the rotten wood of her floor. The gowns, the jewels were just attached to her dolls, sitting as they always were in their dollhouse. Playing make believe. The floor beneath her only sparkled with the glass from her mirror. Clara felt tugging at her hair, her little sister was pulling at it in all directions, rushing her along.

“Mum’s waiting. The production is about to start,” she complained. “And she said you’ve to get your mirror fixed.”

“Late again, I jumped out of my bed. I put bird fat in my hair and slicked it back into the regulation bun. I quickly ran across the metal landing and down the stairs to the flyers’ room. There was no time for breakfast, which was a shame because balut was on. The texture of the squishy surprise inside! Nothing can top it.

The flyers’ room was the loudest of them all, as you could hear the last call of the bird before darkness embraced it. Not to mention the slice of the quick metal sliding down the wooden guides. I was at station 7 today. It was a big upgrade: I was usually in charge of the flightless birds, but today Ines was ill so I got to fill in for her.

They delivered my first bird. I’d never really done this before. It was a black and white hawk-eagle: it had bright, yellow claws and a sharp, curved, beak of a vibrant orange. It must have come all the way from Argentina; wasn’t I in for a treat? Usually they only give this type of bird to the experts, as they are extremely strong flyers. The strong flyers are normally put at the front of the pack.

The bird was locked in a plastic box, with its head poked through a hole created to hold it in place. It looked up at the blade, begging it not to fall. Then it looked to me, with a glimmer of despair in its eyes. They were striking, a piercing yellow surrounded by black plumage.

A strident call shattered the air, louder and more desperate than the others. That’s when I let the blade drop. With a satisfying thud the bird’s head fell on the table. I unlocked the plastic box and removed the body, which was enveloped in a thin layer of sticky blood.

I picked the carcass up by the neck and took a plastic tube. I threaded it right into the jugular vein and took a blowtorch to it. The plastic melted right in, sealing the wound.

The tube delivers blood to the body to make the wings flap. The head is cut off to remove any chance of rebellion, to take away the bird’s autonomy, thoughts and power. It was then time to fuse the legs. Having both legs moving separately can sometimes scratch the tubing, so to avoid that, we bond both of the legs together to create one limb. We pull the claws off and make a cut on the inside of both legs, creating two wounds which we then sew together to form one leg.

Bird after bird I got, head after head I chopped.

Before I knew it, it was feeding time. We all gathered in the feeding hall. We were having whatever birds had passed that morning.

After afternoon feeding I was back on the flightless birds. I was assigned to hook up a cassowary. I was in the blood chamber in the belly of the aeroplane; the cassowary was sedated on a roll-away table. I took the butterfly needle and inserted it into its throat. The tube was connected to the churners, two cylinders attached to every aeroplane that hold the blood. The churners are spun by owls: their heads are attached into a mechanism where they turn them from side to side to side. They spin it so that it doesn’t clot. Whenever it does clot, however, we all get bird blood clot soup for lunch. It has a funny texture: it’s very slimy yet not cold in the slightest, as they heat it up beforehand.

I locked the cassowary in one of the plastic-screened boxes lining the wall of the blood chamber. The door had a hole in it for the bird’s neck, in order to ensure that the tubing isn’t ripped out. It woke up half an hour later and panicked, as expected. It banged its body against the walls, twisting back and forth. This part was critical. I had to make sure that the tubing remained intact and that it couldn’t retract its head back into the box.

It started to growl. The cassowary has a strange call, a sort of dinosaur-esque growl. It sounded like a song of sorrow. No matter; its blood will fuel the plane for at least 30 years. Usually they live to about 60, but fuelling really sucks the life out of the birds, causing them to age faster.

I then went to the blood chamber in the next aeroplane, as there was a problem with the tubing. A rook had escaped and chewed through a quarter of all of the tubing. I had never heard of this happening before; a bird has never gotten out in the 5 years that I’ve been here. There was blood everywhere, birds squawking and screeching but worst of all, a ton of work to do. The rook was nowhere to be found. Probably dead somewhere. We sent out squadrons to capture it.

A team of three in my squadron and I rewired the blood chamber. It took hours. Thirty of the birds were dead, the rest were nowhere to be seen. Most of them flew out the second we opened the doors; the others bled out on the floor. I had never seen anything like it. By the time we were finished, I was starving and exhausted. I went straight to the feeding hall and got my portion of chicken broth with a side of talons. I was surrounded by hushed, curious conversations. Everyone was in shock; nothing like this had ever happened at the factory before.

How on earth had that rook escaped? We tested the cages so many times. They were supposed to be proofed against this.

As my head hit the pillow that night, I couldn’t help but think about where that rook had flown off to. I wonder if it knew how much chaos it caused? Of course it didn’t; it’s just a bird. A few hours later, I finally fell asleep.”

Their mother puffed out her chest, put the book down and sighed. She was wearing a pigeon-breasted blouse, with an impeccably-made skirt. On the tip of her hooked nose, balanced very delicately, were a pair of pince-nez glasses.

 ‘And that, my nestlings, is how the Great War began,’ she said softly. ‘This diary entry was taken by one of the Great Master of Espionage’s closest friends. The Master of Espionage was captured after his wrongful exile by the jealous King. The humans bundled him away and tried to make him work on the aeroplanes. They locked him in a cage and stole his blood. He was stuck there along with many other brethren.’

She continued, ‘Then he escaped: he destroyed the wiring in the aeroplane, taking with him countless others. He flew all the way to the Great Assembly, he pulled the sheep out from our eyes, allowing us to see again. He explained to us all the atrocities he saw there; he wanted to take action. However, the King and Queen were cowards, so he killed them.’

She spoke with a rush of pride: ‘He took over as our leader and led us into war. He created not only a united population but also an army! He gave us all tasks and duties, he made a place for us all.’ Then her voice took on a tone of warning: ‘One thing you need to learn, my nestlings, is that humans are never satisfied. They have legs, they walk. Then they want to swim, because walking isn’t enough. After swimming, they want to fly, so they steal that. They tried to strip us of our flight, but we will not have that. We will drop our droppings on many a human to come. We will grab garnets by the thousands and we will devour doughnuts aplenty! Because that means war.’

The 8th of April, 2000. 20:22, precisely.

Mina was waiting beside the grandfather clock, like she did every year. Except this year, she was all alone.

With each year that passed, her birthday had slowly dwindled to become a party of one. First, her cat died, then her dog, then her grandmother, then her other dog, her father, then, in January, her mother. Not to mention that her grandfather was in the hospice and her sister was in a boarding school in Germany.

As in many aspects of life, she was totally alone. Sad, but at least the fact that she was used to it softened the blow.

Mina had given up on wishing. Specifically, blowing out her candles and hoping upon a miracle that this year wouldn’t be as bad as the previous one. Instead she had resorted to a scornful remark as every year she grew older. Eventually the birthdays seemed to blend together, and she wasn’t sure if it was her twelfth or twenty first.

Mina saw that the sun had begun to make its sad journey to the bottom of the hills, signalling the end of another day. To the majority of the seven billion other people out there, it was just another Thursday. They didn’t even think it was someone’s birthday today, and they probably couldn’t care less if it was. Taking an opportunity to bathe in her own pity, Mina decided she would blow her candles out while enjoying the slow sunset, acting as though she were the only person alive. So, she stepped outside, laying her cake on the patio and sitting down next to it, waiting a few moments, allowing herself to take in the cool breeze which was painting her face.

Then she brought the cake closer to her face, and without thinking too much about it, stated her wish out loud.

‘I wish this year… I had someone to spend it with.’ That was it; that was the wish she made, as her weary breath dissipated the lonesome flame into the atmosphere, her hope subsiding with every particle which vanished before her eyes.

As she walked back into her house, carefully ascending the steps so as to not drop the only thing she had, she found humour in her statement. What was she thinking? She was perfectly fine by herself. She didn’t need someone at her party. Just her, and her cake. That was fine. She liked cake.

Just as Mina set her cake on the kitchen counter, there was a vigorous knock at the door. And that was odd; she had a doorbell. Even more odd, there was someone at her door. That only settled in Mina’s head as her feet shuffled along the hallway and her hand reached for the handle of the door. Gently, she pulled it open and was surprised to see a girl standing there.

She had a poorly-wrapped box in her hand, and as Mina scanned her face, she realised she had no clue who this was. However, what struck her was the remarkable resemblance this stranger bore to her own features. In fact, her entire body was almost a mirror image of Mina’s own. But something was older in her face. More mature. The girl spoke, without any prompt from Mina.

‘I’m here to hang out.’ The girl walked in without invitation, her expression mostly unmoving, totally calm, with just a slight essence of a smile on her face. Mina was rather taken aback; who was this person and why had she walked into her house? Finally, she had to say something, after she was taken out of her state of shock.

‘I’m sorry, who are you?’ The girl turned on her heel and for the first time, the two really shared eye contact.

‘That’s a good question. But it has a very long story to go along with it.’ The mystery woman waltzed nonchalantly through the house, as though it was her own. Then she paused suddenly and pushed the gift towards Mina.

‘Oh, I almost forgot. This is for you. Happy birthday, kid.’

Mina’s brows knitted and her mind filled with questions.

‘Me? How do you know me?’

‘I’m still trying to decide how to phrase that.’ The girl responded to Mina’s confused expression with an even more perplexing answer.

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, second guessing herself. Finally she said,

‘You’ll understand one day.’ She glanced around the kitchen before speaking once more. ‘Well look. I’d love to stay for cake, but I’m not a big fan.’.

‘Wait, but what was your name?’

The girl sighed inwardly, not answering, then produced a crumpled piece of paper from her jacket. She handed it hurriedly to Mina, whose eyes widened with confusion at the object.

‘Don’t open this until I’m gone. Or ever really, you don’t need to. Just, it’s important: don’t open it until I’ve left.’

And with that, the second Mina glanced at the gift, she had left, ambling out the door, prompting Mina to follow. She called after her, desperately not wanting to be alone again. Mina stopped at the door frame, staring longingly at the girl who now stood outside in the middle of the road, waving with an almost disappointed disposition.

Then, Mina blinked, and the girl had gone. Her mind’s creation had vanished before her very eyes, just like those flames did. Gone, almost in an instant. As the lonely feeling sunk in, Mina felt her eyes prick with tears, but she didn’t let any come out. It was her birthday after all. No one should be crying.

But she began to. Without her consent, tears came trickling down and soon her cheeks were stained and her eyes were blotchy and itchy. That feeling of loneliness was even more heart wrenching. It had more impact, the absence of someone.

At least, she thought, still blinking at the spot in the road she had just watched the female disappear from, at least she had gotten her birthday wish.

It was then her memory sparked, and she remembered the note the girl had given her and told her not to open until she had left. Mina rushed back inside and found it. She unfolded it gently, revealing the text across it:

‘You’re going to be fine. Ana will come back from Germany, bearing good news that she’s coming back to the US permanently. Sadly, grandpa doesn’t make it. He died peacefully, in his sleep, and you at least get to visit him one more time before he passes. This is your last lonesome birthday, I promise.

See you soon (literally). From Mina (you).’

He loves me.

‘How to know that you are in love’.

 ‘You can’t stop staring at them.’

Check. When I see him, everything else in that room goes dark, it’s like he’s the only thing that matters, he is the only thing that matters.

‘Time flies by when you’re together.’

Check. I’ve known him for eleven years, it feels like it’s all gone by in a couple of seconds.

‘You want to touch and kiss them.’

Check. The way he holds me in his arms makes me feel on top of the world, I never want it to stop. And when he kisses me, it feels like gold dust falling on my lips.

See, I am in love. It’s normal to get cold feet before your wedding, right? It’s normal to feel like your life is ending, right? I love him. I’ve loved him since we were sixteen. We grew up together. We got each other through the end of high school, college, my mom dying, his dad leaving. He’s the only boy I’ve ever loved.

Which makes me wonder; what if I had never met him? Maybe I would’ve became a doctor like I’ve always wanted to, and not a useless girl with a useless degree because, ‘why should you need a job if I can provide for us?’ Or maybe I would have travelled the world, gone to all the places I’ve always wanted to go to but ‘I have to finish my law degree, maybe we can travel another time’. I never planned on being the ‘trophy wife’, but here we are.

Its not like he isn’t good to me; anything I want I always get. Whether it’s a Chanel bag, or Dior perfume, or this massive rock on my finger. He ‘provides’ for me, we live in a big penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. It’s a dream. We have five bedrooms, one for me and him, three for our future kids and a guest bedroom. It always feels cold in the house, he’s never home, just me in a big house myself. Maybe it will feel like a home when we have kids.

He loves me, he always tells me that. But sometimes, sometimes I don’t feel like he does. It didn’t use to be that way. But once he started working, he became angrier. He wasn’t the sweet boy I fell in love with anymore. Then it got worse: one day after a long day in the office he came home, dinner had taken a bit longer than usual and wasn’t ready. I’ve never seen him get so mad. It took me a while to cover the bruise, slowly I got better at covering them. No one knew, no one knows.

I’m getting married in an hour. I need to decide, do I go to the wedding, get married, have kids, grow old with the ‘love of my life’? Or do I run away, start fresh, travel, become a doctor? But who am I without him? The only ‘friends’ I have are the wives of his friends. The only source of money is from his pay check. The only life I’ve ever had is with him.

Suddenly I’m back in the room; I must’ve spaced out because now my hair and makeup are done. I wanted to wear my hair up, but he prefers it down. The room is in panic, we must be running late. I have 3 bridesmaids; my little sister, his big sister and my best friend. His mom is here running the show. Thank God for her, because she basically planned the entire wedding, apart from my dress.

My dress. It’s the dress I’ve dreamed of ever since I was a little girl. It’s slim fitting, mermaid shape, with a long train. It has white roses patterned all the way down it, it’s perfect. It’s the perfect dress, for the perfect wedding, for the ‘perfect’ marriage. ‘We’ve got to go! We’re running so late!’ I hear his mom shouting from down the stairs. We rush out of my room, down the stairs and into the limo.  

My hands are shaking. I’m really doing this. I’m signing myself away to this man, this life. Cooking dinner, gossiping with other wives, waiting for him to come home at night. Or finding out about his mistresses, covering bruises, convincing myself that he loves me. We are almost outside the church, the girls have music on, champagne is in everyone’s hands.

‘Why is everyone standing outside the church?’

Silence

Every head turns and looks towards the church. I can hear my heart pounding. My legs are shaking. Every girl is looking at me for answers, I am looking at his mom. We link eyes; she looks as worried as I am.

His mom orders the limo driver to stop. ‘Wait here I’ll find out what is happening.’ She opens the door and gets out.

The chat between the girls continues, more champagne is poured, more gossip is spilt. I don’t join in, however; I watch his mother as she approaches one of the ushers. The usher puts one hand on her shoulder, pulls her in and whispers in her ear. She looks at the limo and looks back at him.

Slowly she walks towards the limo and opens the door. ‘Can you all get out, please?’

She sounds pleading; something bad has happened.

The girls are slowly budging out and taking their champagne with them. It’s just me and his mom sitting there now.

She is upset, she’s crying.  

‘He’s not here, they can’t find him anywhere’.

He loves me not.

Have you ever seen a pin, dropped in a crowded room? That was my life, a bustling room. Hundreds of things going on all at once. Until at one point everything stopped. Why did it stop? Well, that’s because somewhere along the line, somebody made the mistake of treading on that pin. The pin that I fatefully stepped on was Alma. It was my decision to do stupid things for love. But just like finding a pin in your foot, there was going to be blood. Blood that I had to live with, which stained my life forever. In that moment I didn’t care about the boy staring daggers at me. I didn’t care that hours later I had assignments due. I wanted to be with her. I shouldn’t have gone out that night. I didn’t think of the blood.

The investigation began on the 2^nd of February. When interrogated, both suspects seemed to distance themselves from the victim.

3^rd February – Interrogation Room: Suspect One

Oh yeah, Alma. That girl from art? She’s confident, way more confident than me at least. Maybe that’s why we didn’t get along. But what happened to her was a step too far. Listen, just because we weren’t ‘best mates’ doesn’t mean I’d do something like that to her. The night she went missing, I was home alone. 11 Priestly Gardens. We’ve never spoken outside of school, there was no reason for me to be with her that night. I don’t know why I’m here, my parents are going to kill me if they find out that I’ve been brought in by the cops. I don’t know what you want to do with me. I’m no expert, but you could try your luck with that girl from art class. She’s always had some obsession with Alma. Since day dot. Always staring at her. But what do I know, huh? I just want to get outta here. So if that’s all you wanted to get out of me, I’ll be on my way home.

3rd February

I couldn’t tell them the truth. My mouth was coated in the metallic taste of my blood. I’d been slowly nibbling at my lips as I was sat in front of the officer. I’d been summoned to the station earlier in the morning. I knew that they’d found out. I couldn’t tell them that this was all my fault. I couldn’t tell them that I was the one who had said she should go for a walk to clear her head. I couldn’t tell them that I was jealous of the girl in our art class. I couldn’t tell them that I was going to meet Alma the same night she went missing. I was going to meet her. I swear I was. I kept telling myself that she’d never want me. So I sat in my hallway. While she was pacing down the street, waiting for me to show up. I sat there, staring at the rough soles of my shoes. Eventually I shook off my nerves and left to catch up with her. I was too late. I should’ve gone. I should’ve been there. Those few minutes of contemplation would make the difference of whether or not she was alive right now; I think. I can’t forgive myself for that.

3^rd February – Interrogation Room: Suspect Two

Alma. I’d heard of her. I’d talk to her in art, period five on a Tuesday. I didn’t know much about her but her art was beautiful. She’d use colours to communicate animals. Butterflies. She’d paint hundreds at a time. I’d never admit it, but I watched her from the corner of my eye. I couldn’t help it. She was mesmerising. I got lost watching her delicately swipe at her canvas. Each stroke led to another array of bright butterflies scattering across her work. I couldn’t imagine what she’s going through, but I’d never hurt her. She was perfect. Everything about her. On January 31^st  I was starting my art project, due the following day. The only communication I had with her was that I tried contacting her about what pastels she’d use for her realism portrait. I didn’t get a reply. You can check my phone. I had run out of charcoal and it was late so all the craft stores would be closed. It sounds awful, but I wandered through her location on Snapchat. I had seen that she wasn’t home. She was near this address that I’d never heard of. It was called Priestly Gardens or something. I didn’t pay much attention to it. A few hours later I got a message. Through Instagram a guy from my art class who I’d never talked to before. I can show you the text, but from what I can remember he asked if Alma was with me. That’s when I knew something was wrong. I would never have spoken to him but he seemed really worried. I said I hadn’t heard from her but if I could help, I would. I’ve not heard from him since.

3rd February

She had called me that same night. She was alone. She was going to meet the guy from art. Apparently she hadn’t heard from him. He’s always hated me. I could see him scowling at me whenever I got too close to Alma. His eyes would burn into the back of my head. Especially in Tuesday art. I said that I was free if she needed a rebound. I could tell she was upset. When she agreed I quickly packed up some of my dad’s half empty gin and slipped out into the bitter night air. Christ, I wish I hadn’t been so eager. I’m the reason she was wasted and out of control. I should’ve stayed with her. Made sure she got home safe. I didn’t though. I met with her and we went out to the park. She was wearing nothing but a butterfly patterned dress. I offered her my jumper and she took it. That’s most likely how I ended up interrogated by the cops. The girl that went missing was last seen wearing my clothes. I couldn’t tell them that I left her crying for help.

19^th July

I still think about her. I think about how I got jealous of anyone she spoke to. That guy from art class? I never spoke to him again, we occasionally catch each other’s eye. I can’t hate him, I can’t bring myself to. We’ve both lost someone we loved. Alma. God, Alma. I like to think of her as one of her butterflies from her paintings. Beautiful, bright wings sprouting from her back. Unlike her paintings that are now hung next to a memorial of her in the art classroom. She’s free, and she is as perfect as ever.

The glove. He’d left it in the ticket office as he ran out. Maybe they wouldn’t notice; after all, to them it would be nothing more than two pieces of brown leather stitched together and at least every man in the city owned a pair just like them, there was no way it could be traced back to him. Or could it? Because then again, if stitching is picked it can loosen the leather letting everything fall, just as one slip could unravel all his secrets.

He was normally more careful in situations like this, even going as far as to wipe the fingerprints off a glass of wine before leaving a restaurant. In his profession you could never be too careful. He had been following Case 29 for many years; it had led him through the generations. It had all started just after the war in ‘46. Smith had joined the intelligence in 45 after two years fighting on the front; because of this, not only did he have intel on the soldiers, but after what he had experienced he figured he could handle anything.

The Berlin air was cold as Smith ran to catch up with the lady in the navy blue coat coat. She was the newest edition to Case 29: tall, thin, with jet black hair pulled tightly into a bun. She wore large tortoise-shell sunglasses that covered her face, and her coat was embellished with three white letters: NHS. Smith presumed they stood for Nazi Headquarters Saldenburg, which is where the lady was heading. Throughout the years Smith had been able to pick up on details such as the brief case she was carrying: Bottega Venetia. That’s how she could not be mistaken: ever since the brand was founded it had been a trusty transporter of the Germans’ plans and files, and another reason she could not be mistaken was the fact that the briefcase could cost about two and a half grand. The women he was following was pretty and in her early 30’s; possibly a new recruit to the Nazi organisation. In his younger days, Smith would have maybe gone for her but now he was on a mission.

Smith had been informed by his colleagues that the briefcase contained the blueprints for the next attack from the German Troop 87 on the British troops at the western front. If Smith could reach these in time, he could report back to the station and compromise the mission so the British soldiers would have more time to react. His role was vitally important to save the lives of thousands.

By this point he had followed the lady with the jet black hair outside a cafe where she was then greeted by another lady in the same navy coat, again embellished with NHS. This lady had dirty blonde hair that rested gently past her shoulders; she was about the same age, still thin but smaller. They began to talk as the lady with the blonde hair lit a cigarette. Some people think you should be seen and not heard, others heard and but not seen. Smith disagreed with both: in his job he had to be completely in the shadows, therefore he stood a couple of yards away from the two women. They kept mentioning “The Doctor”. Smith figured this was the nickname of the man the two ladies were working for. Smith glanced at his watch: it read 8:39. He looked back at the two women: the blonde one caught his eye, then the two women hurried away in the opposite direction.

Damn! thought Smith; they had seen him. He decided that the most likely way to complete Case 29 was to follow the two women to wherever they were going. He began to run after them. After several minutes he reached a large, modern, white, square building. It was multi-storey and had lots of windows. Many people gathered around it, probably discussing the organisation’s business. The two women had made it to the entrance, but before he could follow, each of the women pulled out some form of ticket and scanned it on some piece of technology he did not recognise. After all, this was a secret organisation. Trust the Germans to have the highest equipment, thought Smith.

Smith had grown up in a very poor area of Manchester, therefore he had had to learn ways to survive. One of the greatest skills he had gained was pick-pocketing and now there was another chance for it to come in handy. Smith looked around for the unsuspecting bait. He spotted him: an older gentleman in a camel coat. There was no way on earth he did not work for the organisation: he had a narrow, bleary eyed stare but other than that, blankness spread across his face like ice over a lake as he lit his cigar.

“Excuse me” Smith said in his best German, “your lace is undone”. As soon as the man reached down to check, Smith swooped in to his pocket, grabbed the ticket and swiftly walked away. Child’s play, he thought to himself.

Getting in to the Headquarters with the pass was surprisingly easily: it was navigating the women with the blueprints that was hard. Luckily the woman with the dirty blonde hair was a bit of a loudmouth, and led Smith directly to them. He had reached a corridor with five or six small rooms in it; the walls were white and the bright lighting hurt his head, but finally he spotted it: in one of the rooms, on the corner of a table, lay the Bottega Venetia brief case. Smith secured the pocket-knife hidden up the inside arm of his shirt, as he did not know what he would encounter in the room. He stepped inside.

The room was strange: it wasn’t really a room, more of a cell and the only light that entered was that from the corridor. The strangest thing of all was that the walls were padded and covered with a white leather. Boom. Before Smith could think any more, he turned around to face to men wearing white masks that covered their noses and mouths, probably to conceal their identity. “Dammit,” Smith thought. He’d been trapped by the Nazi organisation. He tried frantically to figure his way out, but there was nothing! No window, no door handle. All he could think to do was rattle the small double glaze window and scream “Help!” “Help!” “Help!”

* * * * *

A tall, thin women with jet black hair pulled tightly into a bun stands outside the cell door. She holds a file that reads: ‘Bert Smith, patient, Heartwood Mental Institution.’

“Poor thing,” the nurse turns to the doctor and says, “fought in WW2, diagnosed with dementia and PTSD from fighting, still thinks he’s in Germany sometimes.”

“Let’s keep him in solitary until he calms down” says the doctor. “They found him with a knife and he was very distressed, shouting for help and everything.”

Chapter 1

It was a beautiful morning as the sun lit up the sky around the village of Frigidaire. The gentle hum of the wind passing by was quiet and calm. Raindrops of water were scattered along the village pavements and a few still trickled down the walls of the neighbourhood’s houses. ‘Must have been a cold one last night’, Graham thought to himself, scratching his head. He clambered out of his bed, reaching for his glasses by the bedside, his green tartan quilt still wrapped around his large frame, contrasting against his milk-white skin.

He stood up and started towards the grand oak mirror standing opposite his wardrobe. This was where Graham would decide what freshly ironed shirt to wear and what colour of tweed jacket to match, and of course, which Cap to finish the look. You see, Graham was a very important ingredient when it came to the mix of the village. He always had to look fresh and presentable when he was around the villagers.

“I’ll top it off with a green cap today,” he announced cheerily to the fat reflection looking back at him through the mirror.

Graham was very tall, bulky and always wanted to look his best. Sometimes, he wished he was more tanned than his natural pale skin, but he was proud of it nevertheless. With a final nod of approval towards the mirror, Graham grabbed his keys and headed out the front door.

He stepped out onto the cobblestone walkway in the garden. The  wind whooshed around him, harsh and chilling, the air like shards of glass against his face. Unlike me and you, these villagers always had to live in a cold environment and enjoyed the freezing weather.

A sudden blast of wind hit Graham, causing his cap to fly off and dance in the air, almost as if it were performing right before him. It took its final bow and  gracefully landed in the Pineapple Patch in Mrs. Muller’s front garden.

“Good Heavens!” A thick German voice from the rose bush squeaked.

“I am so terribly sorry, Mrs Muller,” Graham cried, “ But I seem to have  misplaced my cap.”

“That’s quite alright, Mr Mayor.”

Slowly, a small and slender figure emerged from behind the roses, holding the escaped cap. This was the famous garden of Anna Muller. She spent a lot of her time outdoors. She loved flowers. Anna was particularly well known as the villages’ Green Grocer. From the fattest peaches to the sweetest strawberries, her garden was the main source of fresh fruit that every villager was desperate to eat from. Anna would open shop in the morning with  fruit baskets all  lined up and every basket would be empty before noon, Graham was in a privileged position, not only with having the advantage of being the charming mayor whom everyone adored, but also with having the pleasure of being Anna’s next door neighbour.

“Any exciting news for us today?” She asked, polishing the deep red apples that hung above her head.

“Oh no no, nothing too important. I’m just going off for my daily walk around the village, making sure everything is intact,” he responded, eyeing up the plump blueberries that were beginning to be picked off their stem, ready to fill another fruit basket.

“Well, it would be a sin if I let you go hungry.” She scooped up a dozen fresh blueberries into a cloth and handed them over to Graham.

“That is ever so kind of you, Mrs Muller. Your fruit never disappoints.”

Anna, bashful from the compliment, waved him off as he began his journey in the village.

Chapter 2

Graham was the most respected and admired person in Frigidaire. Everyone idolised their Mayor. His daily walk around the village would consist of constant smiles, waves and “How are you today, Mr Mayor?” He would never admit to it, but Graham loved the attention and the feeling of power it brought .

‘Okay, lets get started,” he thought to himself, nibbling on a blueberry. As Mayor of Frigidaire, he felt it was his duty to make sure he had seen every house, street, road sign and crack on the pavement before he arrived at ‘Cartone Inc’ . This was where Graham worked,  in the centre of the village.

His first stop was Brie K. Racker’s house.

Brie was an old friend of Graham’s, a soft person on both the inside and out , but with a sharp tongue when required. The Mayor strolled over to the front gate and let himself in.

“I see you are hard at work over there” he declared, looking round to see Brie standing in a big Vat, stomping down on hundreds of grapes.

“Well hi, Graham!” She grinned up at him, while continuing her stomping.

Graham smiled. Brie was the only member of the village who ever called him by his first name. Although he liked the feeling of importance the title ‘Mr. Mayor’ gave him, he also liked the feeling of love and welcome when he was called by his real name.

Graham cocked his head to the side in interest, reaching  for another blueberry.

“So, how is the wine coming along”

“business is booming, I seem to be selling bottles every 5 minutes! It’s never been better!” Brie responded.

“That’s great! I am extremely happy for you,” he laughed.

“Well, I just came by to check that everything was running smoothly and it seems that it is!” Graham looked down at his watch, suddenly realising  he was running behind schedule.

“Oh! I’m so sorry but I must be off. It was lovely seeing you.” He began towards the front gate.

“Wait! Wait!” Brie jumped out of the Vat and ran over with a glass in her hand, “take this with you, I want to know if it tastes good enough to start selling.”

With a quick sip of the wine, Graham nodded in approval and tossed one of Anna’s famous blueberries to Brie.

“Those new grapes really seem to be doing the job.” He shouted over his shoulder as he continued his walk.

Brie smiled to herself, jumped back into the Vat, and started stomping again.

The rest of the journey went rather quickly. A short hello with Tom Ketch, An exchange of waves with Colonel Colman and  and a quick catch up at Betty Anchor’s bungalow.

Finally, Graham arrived at Cartone Inc. where he was ready to finally sit down and rest. He looked forward to  having a quick cup of tea and devouring the remaining blueberries in his pocket before tackling his paperwork.

However, unknown to him , in his office there waited the bearer of news which would alter his plans for a lazy day.

“Mr Mayor! Finally, you’re here!” A voice cried from behind the office chair.

There stood Evan Boil, the village’s investigative reporter who’s job was to travel around the area, bringing news back to the mayor of any local events. Evan Boil worked for Graham. He was the most reliable source of information about what was happening outside Frigidaire. His news was usually very boring, mainly just the weekend weather forecast. Graham was fond of Evan, he could always crack him up with a good joke.

“Evan, what seems to be the problem?”

It seemed he had something more important than ‘rough winds’ to inform the mayor about today.

“ It’s terrible. Terrible!” he announced, holding back tears, “It started in Freezaires in the village of Solero. I was going there to do a report and it all happened so fast, everyone screaming. I barely made it out in one piec-“

“ Okay, okay! Calm down Evan.”

Graham tried to reassure him by sitting him down on the couch. “Don’t get into such a scramble. Now, tell me what is going on.” He nibbled nervously on a blueberry, waiting for Evan to respond.

“The sky went black. It was as if the sun had melted into nothingness. It was so strange. Despite the sun being gone, it felt as though someone had set fire to that village. People were collapsing everywhere I looked because of the heat.”

Evan paused, a long silence filling the air. His head turning both ways to make sure no one else was around. His eyes slowly traveled to Grahams’, and prepared himself for what he was about to say.

“Frigidaire,” he whispered, “Is next.”

Graham stood still  for a moment, his mind racing. He jumped up and started rummaging through his file cabinet, desperately trying to figure out what exactly this meant.

He pulled out a pale grey folder, marked : ‘Natural Disasters’

“An.. Apocalypse” He read aloud. Evan cracked his knuckles loudly. It was a nervous habit of his. “What does this mean?” He asked.

“Call a village meeting in the Cartone Hall immediately.” Graham declared.

He picked up the final blueberry and popped it in his mouth before racing out the office door.

Chapter 3

As usual, in Frigidaire, news had spread like wildfire and everyone rushed to the hastily arranged village meeting in the Cartone Hall.

“Settle down please. Now please, settle.” Graham announced over the worried voices filling the Hall.

“Why is this happening now?” Karen K.ale shouted from the crowd.

“Is Frigidaire going to be destroyed?” Mary Hellman, another scared voice, called out.

“Are we going to melt like everyone in Freezaires?”

What about the children?”

“Why aren’t you fixing this, Mayor?”

Questions were being fired at him from every direction and the frantic voices grew increasingly loud.

“Alright!” Graham yelled, shocked silence descended as no one had ever heard him raise his voice before.

“I understand you are feeling confused and scared. However, due to the circumstances of this situation and the information I have been given about this particular..erm.. event.. There is nothing in our power that we can do at this moment in time.”

An angry outcry arose filling the air.

“What do you mean there’s ‘nothing in your power’?”

“You’re our Mayor- start acting like it!”

The crowd began to get angry and frustrated. This was not going well for Graham.

“Surely this won’t kill us all?”

“ Now now, we cannot confirm any outcome of This.. um.. event.. but-“

“What is this so called ‘event’ “

Graham froze. He knew if he divulged the news Evan had brought him, there would be whole scale panic.. He couldn’t have everyone in turmoil. He needed everything to be intact and running smoothly at all times. Telling them this would ruin everything he had ever worked for. All the admiration and respect he once had would be lost. But he knew he could not keep this from them.They had a right to know what was going to happen. He took a deep breath, and leaned into the microphone.

“An Apocalypse”

His head slumped in defeat. It was his job to protect his people, and he felt he was failing them. Everyone was screaming and yelling at him for walking away. There was nothing he could do, it was out of his control, but as mayor, he had no choice but to take the blame.

“Coward!”

“You’re No Mayor!”

“You’ve gone Sour!”

So much noise blaring behind him, but he couldn’t hear them. All he could hear, were his own thoughts,

‘The village is going to be destroyed. People will suffer in the sweltering heat and pitch darkness. And the worst thing is …

there’s nothing I can do.’

Chapter 4

Graham hid in his house for the rest of the day, too embarrassed to come out. He knew he would have to at some point. But not yet. He decided he was going to keep an account of all the strange things happening around him.

Day 1

Temperature : Normal

Light : Normal

It’s the first day of the apocalypse. I have been in my house for the past 24 hours. Nothing too bad has happened. Yet.

 It still seems cool enough to go outside and begin my daily walk, but I don’t think anyone will want to see me. They say I’ve grown sour and mean for not doing anything, but this whole situation is completely out of my control. I really hope Brie isn’t angry with me- or Anna for that matter. It’s pretty Incredible, all this is happening and there she is, still out In her garden.  

The sun is still out, which I suppose Is a good thing. I wonder how long It will take for the heat to travel from Freezaires to Frigidaire.

It all seems so unreal. Nothing like this has ever happened before, why now?

Graham woke up during the middle of the night, sweating. He put his hand to his forehead and scrunched his face in confusion.

“What is this?” He asked, “Is this.. sweat?” The mayor leaped up out of bed, in  horror at the thought.

“No, no this doesn’t happen. This isn’t normal..” He shuffled over to his bedroom window and opened it cautiously, sticking one chubby arm out.

“ It’s.. humid?”

Graham reached for his diary and started scribbling.

Day 2

Temperature : Humid?

Light : darker

I just woke up in a sweat! this doesn’t make sense. It’s supposed to be cool in Frigidaire and now it’s getting warmer. I can’t tell whether it’s night or day. I really hope the sky lights up again.

I fear the Apocalypse will begin soon. I just pray it doesn’t get any hotter.

I wonder how the villagers are holding up. Anna is still out in her garden, she appears more tired than usual. Why on earth would she be gardening during the night? or at least I think it’s night. I’m not sure. Anyways,  I will continue logging in regularly to update on the current situation at hand. In the mean time, I need to get back to sleep.

Once again, Graham woke up, hungrier than last time.

“Still dark?” he thought. His stomach grumbled. He stood up and reached for his coat.

Crash! The next thing he knew, he was lying on the bedroom floor.

He whimpered in shock and fright as he tried to drag himself up.

“it must be getting warmer now.” He groaned.

He propped himself against the mirror, panting in the heat, and began writing once more.

Day 3? or 4?

Temperature : hot

Light : almost out

Dear diary, I fell this morning getting out of bed. I feel so faint from this heat. i sense a bitter, spoilt taste in my mouth. I feel like such a lump. I’m also really hungry. Maybe I can ask Anna for some fruit, maybe an orange could help freshen me up. However, I can’t see her in her garden anywhere. I’ll just sneak in and take one. Hopefully she doesn’t notice. I really must go now, if I don’t I’ll starve to death.

Graham chucked his diary back onto his bed and struggled his way to the door, knocking a blue cap off its hook.

As he stepped outside, the heat intensified.

“How can it possibly get warmer!” he exclaimed. He looked at the ground. No raindrops. He looked at his garden wall. Not a single drop trickling down.

‘This can’t be good’ he concluded.

And then, his attention drifted from the dry wall to a rather peculiar sound. he looked up from the wall to see a terrible sight.

Chapter 5

“Mrs Muller!” he clamoured, running over to her garden. Anna was kneeling on the grass holding her blueberries, sobbing.

“What’s happened? Are you hurt?” He inquired as he knelt next to her.

“It’s ruined, all of it” She motioned to her garden. “ The peaches, the oranges, the berries, the apples, everything!”

Graham lifted up one of the apples, its once deep red now a bland grey. He examined it in shock as he saw that the inside was black.

“They’re rotting from the inside out.” She stuttered through tears. “my beautiful garden is dead.”

She collapsed into his arms, crying uncontrollably. He wiped her eyes and gave her a hug, trying to reassure her. After sitting in silence for a while, he told her to stay inside, out of the heat. As she went to leave, The mayor stood up, becoming dizzy in doing so.

He waved her off and began to walk back to his house.

Just as Graham was reaching for his keys, he froze. At that moment, he thought to himself,

‘If something like this has happened to Anna Muller.. What has happened to everyone else?” Graham swerved back towards the street, and began to take his daily route through the village.

“This is a bad idea” Graham stammered as he swayed along the pavement. At this point, It was very, very warm outside and it was dangerous for him to be walking around the village.

He came to a sudden halt, as he saw Brie K.Rackers, pacing angrily in her garden.

“What’s the matter, Brie?” he asked with concern.

“My grapes, every bunch of them have gone sour! I don’t know how this could have happened they were growing so well!” she roared. Graham had never liked this intense bitter side of Brie, It made him forget about the soft, good part of her.

“I cannot believe this has happened” she snapped, swaying from the heat.

“I hate this stupid apocalypse. I hate the heat. I hate the darkness” She ranted,  “ And I hate you, for not doing anything about it!” She turned her back to him. This hit Graham hard. Brie would never say such a horrid thing. He could feel tears welling up. He blinked furiously, refusing to show her how hurt he was.

“Just get out of my garden, before you spoil anything else.”

He obeyed her orders and left.

Everything was falling apart.Graham was hopeless . What kind of a Mayor would let something as dreadful as this happen. As he stumbled along the pavement, he saw Betty Anchor collapse. He sprinted over and tried to revive her.

“ Please, Help me.” She whispered, drained of all energy . He looked at her, completely helpless, as she melted in his arms. He looked up to call for help, only to find more villagers begin to drop to the ground.

Graham was running. He rarely did that. He never enjoyed sports, but that would have to change. At least for now. His heart was pounding and his mind was racing as he turned the corner into Quality Street, trying to figure out what on earth to do. He was the Mayor. It was his duty to ensure all his villagers were safe.

He  was blind in the darkness. There was a horrible smell of rotting in the air. His villagers were dying. All of his friends were near death.

“There’s, Too, Many, People” he gasped between heavy breaths. His head had gone fuzzy and his vision blurry.

“W-what’s happening?” He yelled in terror.

He looked down at his fingers, they appeared to be morphing into something different.

‘I’m- Hallucinating’ a voice in his head whispered. Everything in his vision started to spin, every shape morphing. He couldn’t hear anyone’s cries or see anyone’s burning faces anymore. Just as he thought this couldn’t get any worse, He was blinded by a bright , white light..

And then everything went black.

Chapter 6

Graham slowly opened his eyes, trying to adjust them to the new environment.  His body felt stiff and uncomfortable, he couldn’t move.

‘Am I dead?’ he wondered. He looked around to find 4 white walls surrounding him. He looked down and saw his arms and legs were gone. There was a green label wrapped around him that read In big white letters

‘ Graham’s’

Before he could figure out what to do next, a thunderous voice boomed from behind him.

Suddenly, one of the 4 walls opened up, revealing a petrifying sight. A colossal creature stood there, its face the size of Graham’s body.

‘What is that.. thing?’ he thought in alarm.

The creature frowned and scrunched up their nose.

“Mum!” The creature roared , “The Power went out!” Graham was paralysed by both fear and shock as he looked closer at what was around him. His house was no where to be found. The village had vanished.

The ground shook as another larger creature arrived. It reached into the box next to him.

“ Oh no, all the Soleros  have melted!”

‘Soleros ?’ he thought, ‘that’s the name of the village in Freezaires’

Graham looked closer at his surroundings and recognised several items around him.

“There’s Anna Muller!” he exclaimed as he saw a tall slender figure. “she looks very different.”

The wild hand reached for Anna and yanked her out of the box.

“Hey!” Graham screamed, “Stop!” But the creatures couldn’t hear him. “Let her go!”

“Ugh, my Yogurt is all lumpy!” The taller creature bellowed, “ I was excited to eat that. It came with blueberries !” And with that, the creature threw Anna into a black hole.

“No!” Graham cried.

One by one, all of the villagers were being plucked from the box.

Graham watched in horror ;

“This butter is completely melted!” – Betty Anchor Disappeared .

“Mum, This cheese is mouldy !” – Brie K.Rackers Vanished.

“ Yuck! This kale is all wilted!” – Karen K.ale was snatched.

“ Those eggs have gone rotten!” – Evan Boil floated away.

“Oh no, the condiments are nearly empty. Let’s replace them.” – Mary Hellman, Colonel Colman and Tom Ketch, all lifted away.

Graham was left in the box, all alone.

Then the massive hand reached for Graham and he squeezed his eyes shut, afraid of what was going to happen next. The pink, squishy flesh wrapped around his large frame and twisted his green cap off.

“Ew!” The smaller creature squealed looking into the Carton , “The milk has gone off. It’s all sour and lumpy!” And with that, Graham was tossed away to join his friends in the deep dark hole as he fell he heard the creatures speak…..

“I can’t believe the power cut. All the food is spoilt.” The smaller creature squeaked.

The taller creature shook its head and rolled its eyes, “That’s the last time we buy a fridge from ‘Frigidaire’.”

“Let’s try Samsung next time.”

I sat on the cliff, my legs dangling off the edge. I looked down at the valley surrounded by tall rock walls built by Mother Nature herself; in a day my dream would become a reality.

I lay back on the soft, green grass. The wind blew gently, making all the plants shift, and the clouds; all sorts of shapes sailed across the blue sky. I reached in my jacket pocket and took out the neatly handwritten letter.

“Into the valley where I shall go,

Where no one else does do know,

No turning back,

On the track,

Goodbye, goodbye,

In case I do…”

With a heavy sigh at the torn part of the letter, I folded the paper and put it back in my pocket.

In case of what, dad?

I got up and looked once again at the valley; its colourful flowers stood merrily, its trees tall and sturdy and the grass wilder than the grass where I stood.

 I’ll come and find you… in the valley..

Reluctantly, I turned my back to the valley and headed into the woodland. Before going home I stopped at a willow tree and checked its hollow to make sure the rope was still there. After patting my compadre – the willow tree – I headed home.

The sun was setting as I hastily climbed the fence that separated the town from the woodlands. My feet touched the ground, I breathed in relief as I hadn’t been caught then “Willow!” A voice yelled from behind me. I felt the blood drain from my face as I slowly turned. The sheriff stood there and my mother next to him – looking even more furious and worried than the last time that I had been caught. “Willow! What did I tell you about the woodlands?!” She sobbed more than shouted. It hurt to see my mother crying because of me, but this was an exception, it was something I couldn’t avoid.

“Willow!” She yelled, she realised I was blocking out her voice. “You’re grounded and banned from going to the woodlands!” This time I listened, I clenched my fists.

“What!” I said

“You’re never going to the woodlands again!” She exclaimed. Anger boiled within me, my nails dug into my palms, tears threatening to surface. “You — You don’t know anything!” I yelled then ran.

“Willow!” My mother called but I ignored and kept running, wiping the tears from my face.

She doesn’t get it, I need to find Dad…

I found myself in front of my house. The little cottage-like house at the far end of the street. No smoke puffed from the chimney, meaning my mother was not home yet. With a sigh, I unlocked the front door using my keys. After I had entered the house, I locked the door behind me. The house was dark and empty. I made my way upstairs to my room then slammed the door shut and switched the light on. There was silence as I stood still, then I got my school bag and flung my school books out. I packed a sweater, jeans, a hair brush, spare shoes, gloves, socks and a woolly hat and scarf. I breathed heavily then got up and collapsed into my bed. I stared at the ceiling of my room, the spiral patterns swirled like mini tornadoes. With a reach into my pocket I took out the ripped letter, and read it again.

“Into the valley…” I murmured then I turned onto my side and closed my eyes, setting the letter down on the bed near me “…Where I shall go” I said, with a tune this time “Where no one does do know…” The sound of the front door creaking open rattled through the house. “No turning back, on the track”

“Willow?” My mother called

“Goodbye, goodbye” I ignored my mother’s voice “In case I do…”

The sun started to rise; light spilled into my room. I quickly got the school bag and went out into the hallway. Quietly, I made my way down the stairs and to the kitchen. I opened the cupboard for tinned food, took a three tins and stuffed them into my bag. Then I made my way to the bathroom and took a tube of toothpaste and one of the spare toothbrushes. “Willow?” I heard my mother call. I panickedly ran into the living room and looked around for a spot to hide my bag. “Willow!” Footsteps sounded from the stairs.

 The couch!!!

I put my bag behind the couch and sat on the couch to look as normal as possible. “Willow?” My mother said as she came into the living room. “Why weren’t you answering?”

“I – I…was asleep in the living room” I lied.

“But you were in your room last night.”

“I woke up to have breakfast, but I fell asleep on the couch.”

“Oh, alright… I’ll make pancakes then” she said, then left the living room.

After making sure my mother had gone into the kitchen, I got my bag and hurriedly run up the flight of stairs to my room, then pushed the bag under my bed.

 I woke up too late… far too late

I sighed from disappointment then got up and headed down stairs.

After breakfast I made my way to my room – luckily avoiding my mum – and got my bag, then went downstairs.

“Willow?” My mother said looking at me. I nearly jumped when I saw her. She was standing between me and the front door.

“Darcy invited me to go shopping” I replied, I lied.

“Darcy?” My mother said. I walked past her and opened the front door.

“A friend from school” I said then I closed the door and walked calmly to the pavement then burst into a sprint down the street.

I ran and ran until I reached the fence. I scoped around before I flung my bag over and began to climb up the fence then I jumped over. With one last look at the town through the fence, I headed to the willow tree. Once I had arrived, I reached into the hollow and took out the rope “Thanks, compadre” I said as I put the rope on my shoulder. I continued in the direction of the valley. I stopped and looked down the cliff edge at the valley. Clouds started to form above. I went to the nearest tree and tied one end around the trunk of it. Droplets of rain started to shower down. I looped the middle of the rope around my waist twice then put the rest down the cliff.

The clouds roared with thunder.

“What’s with the weather?? Of all days, it had to be this one?” I said to the angry sky. The sound of rain and thunder continued on. I sighed heavily and looked at the sky once again then at the valley, I shook my head then began to go backwards towards the cliff.

 No, nothing is stopping me… No turning back

I leaned backwards over the edge making sure the rope around the tree wouldn’t go loose. After a few seconds, I stepped on the side of the cliff, then another step.

 Don’t look down…

I breathed to calm myself then took another step making me parallel to the ground on the cliff. My hands tightly held the rope, I moved back a few more steps. I stopped for a second, shivering from the rain. Each breath I took turned into a cloud of mist. I could feel my bag weighing me backwards towards the floor below. Cautiously, I looked down. A thick mist had formed below. With a sigh I took another step. Then came the dreaded sound of something tearing.

The rope suddenly jolted downward. Panic-stricken, I froze. Then I saw the tear on the rope at the cliff edge.

 No, no no no!

I pulled myself up and took a step towards the top, but this only caused it to tear more. My eyes widened as I realised how little of the rope was left. How little of what was keeping me from falling to my death was there. I should have stayed home, eating pancakes with my mother.

 My mother…

She already had to bear losing dad, and now me. I had been so selfish that I didn’t think to ask how she felt after dad left. Again the sound that made me aware of what was awaiting me in the future came, the quiet yet frightening tearing.

Only three thin strings of the material were left. Tears formed in my eyes as I knew what would happen after those three strings tore. I took a breath shakily and closed my eyes then recited what would be my last words.

“Into the valley where I shall go,

Where no one else does do know,

No turning back,

On the track,

Goodbye, goodbye,

In case I do…”

The sound of the three strings tearing echoed through the empty valley, I felt my weight shift as I began to fall. “In case I do die” I finished.

 

The little girl was sitting on her chair “What do you mean you have to go??” she questioned. Her father’s face fell. “I have to go somewhere you can’t follow” he said with a weary smile. “But mummy said you’re not feeling well!” the girl said with a frown. “Yes, that’s why I must go to the valley. I won’t feel unwell there”

“You won’t?” The girl tilted her head in confusion.

“It’s a happy place, some people call it paradise. No one is sad or sick there. I call it the valley, because a valley is very peaceful.”

“Why can’t I come too?” The girl asked. A pained expression crossed her father’s face

“Only when it’s your time to go to the valley.”

 

“Willow!” A distant voice shouted.

“Willow!!” It drew nearer.

“Willow wake up!” This time it was next to me. Suddenly I opened my eyes. A spotlight of some sort was shining into my face.

Beep…Beep…Beep…