DirectionOfTime

Something Strange lifted the shoe delicately, careful not to spill the contents as he took a long, overemphasised sip of a rich, dark, thick liquid and began to slowly chew. He turned to object hanging in front of him; at a cursory glance, it looked not unlike a wind-chime made of mirrors rather than chimes, but it was something so much more. It danced and twirled of its own accord, a thousand images of a thousand things in a thousand different places, only to completely switch half a second later. “Show me a child whose curiosity is the only thing not sullied by a broken heart.” Something Strange asked, taking another, smaller, slow sip; the ornament twirled around before all fragments faced the same way and, collectively, the same picture. A small child sat on a wooden step, the cold air evident on pale lips and blushed cheeks; their expression was forlorn and their limbs huddled together. Cold in only the way loneliness could invoke. Something Strange drew in a deep breath and

“I started my day mopping the floor and I ended said day by pissing on it. Do I sound like a fucking lawyer to you?” Penn snapped. “Ai’ight, was jus’ askin’.” De’nt replied, a note of offence in his voice though whether it was due to the response he’d gotten or whether it was masking some shame for his stupid question was hard to say. His antennae waved around in the air with real purpose for a few seconds, but that was hardly unusual for his type. Six eyed freaks, the lot of them. And asked an awful lot of questions to be such goddamn idiots. “Why’d yer piss on a floor, anyway?” “I didn’t mean to, obviously, it was a minor miscalculation on my part.” Penn said, “One that directly contributed to my being in this shit hole. I was this close to escaping but that goddamned mop fell over and I literally pissed myself.” “Hajajaja!” De’nt laughed, “Clattered to the floor, did it?” “No. It clattered out of it’s steel cubby with enough noise to wake the Ul’ulkalata spirits

Deep within the petals of a sweet-pea flower, which had been folded and sewn in such a clever way so as not to damage them, lived Altheantitus. A rather long name for such a tiny fellow (a fact he’d be the first to attest) — but it he wore it like a crown, or a halo. The running joke that should he ever be in want of a home, all he’d have to do is write his name down and wrap it around himself and he’d be set. But that was not Altheantitus’ manner: he was a man of finery. If it was in some way unique, rare, pleasing to the eye, or excessive in some way, the it was claimed for the flower-fort. The rest of his people (who went by several hundred different names for their group, as changeable as their little minds were), on the whole, were much more economic. With everything. Houses, food, shoes, letters, the truth. If it was something enough to have a name, then it was used sparingly. They were practical, too, why bother with petals when leaves were more readily available, waterproof and

On and on the cat walked, with a slow and graceful purpose; its long legs stepping delicately over brush and twig as it followed no notion but its own. The wood was dark but abuzz with the chirps of insects and caws of some avian or other; the cat’s own light, burning as deep an orange as the embers which had birthed it, brought forth the shadows: a deep, flat darkness. The creature, unconcerned with the darkness continued on and on with its purposeful yet graceful walk — the way cats do — unbothered by the multitude of eyes which followed it. It darted up the chainlink fence surrounding the mine’s entrance with ease and down the other side, slipping through the ajar doors and into the cool, dark corridor. It brought with it a soft, unobtrusive glow which seemed all the more gentle, welcomed even by the artificial gloom. It was trotting now, close to its goal. Hurrying through the small room and down further and further into the earth; bounding down the large, roughly hewn steps with

HOLLER-WEEN To The Editor, 4th November, 1904 As a longstanding (and, might I add, well respected) denizen of Glensteadwell, I feel it appropriate to share my version of the now-infamous events of last Thursday night, the 31st October. Or, as it has now become known, the Great Insult. I arrived on time and was greeted with an aperitif whilst I made some idle chatter with a man, dressed sharply in an officer’s uniform, who requested to be addressed only as Lord-Lieutenant. ‘What, exactly, is a Lord-Lieutenant?’ I asked him, to which he answered that it is a relic position, formerly a field rank and which first arose — out of some necessity or other — during the Great War. Now just what a man is doing flaunting his fake position around in a small, peaceful town such as this I had no idea, though it was clear that the fellow had had several glasses of brandy beyond his limits. And that