But you don’t really, you don’t forget the old shortcuts from x spot to the other, the cafe down the corner on your way from somewhere else. Objectively we spend more time here than in the moments that would once consume us, yet it can be so easy to forget the beauty of the mundane. Why not make the meaning here?

between the bogs

glasses black not rose

and blisters on my toe

the shoe it does not fit!

Not comfy where I sit

beginning to rise

a pain in my leg

a crack in my spine

relief in the air

I let myself sigh.

Ribbets in the woods,

Skinned rabbits hang up high.

looking left you see

an early morning rise.

Day dreaming in the sun

when one is young and dumb

my eyes they do adjust

in careful time I trust

Returning to the road

I cannot drive I roam

a bike I do then find!

the thought consumes my mind—

I've forgotten how to ride.

Legs they still are sore

Belly now grueling gore

Eyes then spots a well,

a bucket below you drink

and now you stop to think

to see a sign...

the trains to the city with times!

These eyes they are aglow,

and limping on my toe

step on board - no bags

and gazing as I go

blurred trees as if they lag,

Calm on my face,

and go back heading

trains do not race

Like skin that is shedding.

when paper bag streaks on lawns

map the crossing of the sun.

The great illusion has spun

the white light strong,

but small it seems

when relative to my gaze.

I wonder at the amazement

felt at the realisation

when someone above my station

told me

big things look small from afar.

Signs blur in the speeding car.

Rain pours from above,

grass rises below.

Rain on dirt makes mud,

footprints you would follow.

And turn your eyes to see

across a bridge, moss green—

gazebo on a hill,

and race towards the hut.

The sound

the gentle rush

of water on the roof

falls down railings

as if to soothe

the bed to bloom.

An orchard time will see

how branches weave

around the lattice,

and tangled leaves exalt the scent

of hope

well worth spent.

neon snow

Cooling steps looks down

as you go

Neck curled, eyes obscure

the glow

Of strangers everywhere

with somewhere else to go

Red and green men

flashing as you wait

Which way would you fend

to hear the sounds of fate

Like a ticking clock

concealing glocks you made

Familiar steps

familiar routine

The letterbox

with letters not seen

Familiar ache

Familiar place

A different face in slumber and wake

A different number at the door

A different creaking on the floor

But is the same

At least in my head

The very same rain

That fell as she left

Shedding of skin

as time changes all

But still remains

bones at the core

I know it rains in the northern streets she roams

I know the heart is where one finds a home

But there she was

walking through the door

Stuck in time

in absence only four

Did it fester

her silence says it all

She’s still smiling when she runs

And in time nearing twenty one

Can make no sense what for

She has done what she has done

What wreaths does she adorn

Upon her crooked door

A new Street

The same feet

Retracing steps

at the seat

A dinner table

A Christmas tree

She wasn’t willing

to make a feast

Silent nights

not the kind I craved

Violent sights

the only gift she gave

To let me out

he locks me up

Screams and shouts

Muffled by wood

Thoughts aloud

Of would she could

For only just some time before

She came to class at the door

Crayons, textas, kids uproar

A wheeling suitcase comes

A knot inside your tum

Ms Adams let’s you know

Next moment both alone

On her lap

your face

her hand

She promises with age

you’ll understand

A new street

The same feet

to the door I run

No keys

The roomies lost the lock

I’ve lost my mind more times

than I have my socks

Too trusting of neighbours we don’t know

The lock rusting as if swept in an undertow

Down in a trench her thoughts consume

On the backbench is where I resume

My place in her mind

Not kind to say but true

And wonder if anything at all

What would she do

She doesn’t know how easily I lose my things

She doesn’t know how much like her I love to sing

Then all of the sudden I hear a ring

The courier with food for tea

And wonder how yours would be

If raven haired you’d tap on my door

Heels inside

steps on my floor

Held in her arms my sweet Lenore

And truth be told,

Nevermore

And then comes the sun, her fire of life that breeds the grass and everything in or out of sight. Today she is kind, only 25, and the wind dances with the willow tree. And there is me my delicate wings and silk chiffon dress sway in the wind as if they were to embrace one another. Grey clouds gather round the edges of the forest, it is coming and there is nothing I can do to stop it. She is angered, the wind now violent, fights my wings as I fly to my nest. Twigs and chains of daisies hidden in the breasts of a willow tree. I think of all that has happened to me as the rain pours like cement on the gentle grass and bleeds green. I cannot stay in this nest; it is home to my mother and father whose love extends only to the kept gardens of our little kingdom. I fly despite the wind and tremble and shake as I grow tired and sore of fighting. So, I give in. And then the memories return like parcels of bombs, the words the blows the booze. One large droplet escapes the mouth of the clouds and attacks my back, my wings are gone. I fall to the grass, red and green bleeds on the dirt of which the earth worms drink. And I think. And I sink.

I woke to the blinding light of my lovely sun, and I wailed at the sight I’d rather not write. My wings were gone. With swollen feet and an even more swollen heart I paced back and forward along the bed of daffodils. They spoke to me.

‘Do not frown child, go to the witch, she will mend your wings.’ They sang

So I marched to the witches lair, one does not dare to visit. I’ve heard many fables about her magic, it is evil surely. But it is my only hope. I drudged through mud that stuck to my soles and left stains I will most likely never clean. Soon I saw her mushroom house, I am told it is poisonous and she in her evil ways is the only person capable of living in such quarters. Slowly I made my way towards her house, there was a letterbox surprisingly and I gently knocked on her door.

‘Hello, is there anyone there?’ No answer

So I knocked again. No answer.

I turned my back and was ready to meet the face of disappointment when all of the sudden I heard a creak as I turned.

I look again.

The door is open.

I’m assuming this is my invitation and I cautiously entered the house. I saw rows of jars with all sorts of trinkets inside; flowers, bark and somethings too disgusting to name. The scent of sandalwood lingered and there were stacks of books with all sorts of insignia on the cover. It was beautiful really. I picked one up and as I opened the book I was startled by the sound of an elderly lady clearing her throat.

‘I’ve been expecting you’ she said softly

Words escaped me and I stood awkwardly as she gazed, there was something not quite right in her demeanour.

‘how did you know?’ I asked

‘well you’ve no wings. I heard the agapanthus gossiping. I know what you want and I can make your desires come to fruition. But know they come at a heavy price ‘ she explained

‘what is it? I’ll do anything’ I cried

‘You reap what you sow, you live and live, to find comfort in tomorrow you must forgive’.

That’s all she would say. But I thought my message was clear. I must forgive all those who have wronged me. I made my way back to the village and knocked on the doors of all those who may have in the slightest wronged me. First was old friend who had spread lies about me. Second was my parents.

‘I’ve forgiven you’

I returned to the witch.

‘Can I have my wings now?’ I gently asked

‘No you’ve forgotten one’

Who could it be? Perhaps my old lover. I wrote him a tiresome letter. Signed ‘all is forgiven’.

I returned to the witch.

‘You’ve forgotten one’ she explained

I sent cupcakes to my cousin that used to tug at my wings as a child.

I returned to the witch

‘You’ve forgotten still’

I was enraged and confusion melted in my brain

‘I do not understand. I have no quarrels with anyone. Is this a joke?!’ My voice had risen

‘Child why you are so easy to forget. Tell me have you faced the pains of life, I see it in your eyes.’

‘As everyone else has’ I replied

‘But who do you believe was in the wrong?’

‘the wrongdoer’ I answered

‘But who do you believe is the wrong?’

I went silent.

‘Only those who are clear, not pure, but clear of hearts can undergo the spell. You must forgive the figure that is in all shadows where you stand, for it is you.’ She sang

She gave the ointment and told me to apply it to my back on a full moon once I’ve allowed myself the grace, I give others and eventually my wings would return. I did as she said but it did not work as I thought. The first full moon came, and I did as she said. Nothing happened. However, when met with the face of time I noticed a bump, and then a shard like thing and then a wing. It took 26 moons for my wings to fully heal, and at first I couldn’t fly they were dormant. I thought to myself that perhaps that the witch had cursed me to this fate – flightless wings. But then slowly I set my sights higher than the bog of the swamp and practiced. I climbed to the top of a boulder and met the edge. The next part was a gamble. I stepped off the ledge and was lifted by the wind to meet the stars. I was home once more.

Rapid, reckless, and careless, those laughs echo in my memory. The hilly terrain, rocky road that beckons to be conquered. And you conquered it. The rapid turn of your neck, her half scream. Then nothing. That void, the sparce and steep gorge. Windows open, dusty, the dirt escaped the baron earth, panicked in the air, and attacked my eyes. Eyes saw little, short point of view – short height, short of breath. And slowly I opened the car door and was met by a light but cruel wind – the dust. And cautious, I crawled, felt the coarse earth cut my soles. And then nothing. I remember nothing.

‘Nothing? What do you mean by that?’

‘I mean nothing.’

His face was gaunt, with sunken kind eyes and a genuine smile. voice was calm, horsy, and somewhat monotonous. His echo bounced between the walls, back and forth, fast, and slow, just like her laughter - mocking me. But his words were kinder, like his eyes. He reassured, nothing but sweet words with no taint of a patronising kind.

‘My child, have you told anyone about these supposed prophetic dreams?’ he whispered

‘No, why?’ In that moment, I knew he was just like the others. Why else would he have used the word supposed? How could such a kind man say such brutal words?

‘Good, I think it best you keep it to yourself. It’s not good you know, what will people think?’

‘I suppose you’re right’. I care not of what people think. It is unfortunate, that now includes you. Please know I part you with grief, my solemn heart shall always remember you. How you have hurt me. I am easily fooled, too easily swayed by kind eyes – a trait from my father.

‘Best be off to school now. would you like your regular coffee?’

‘Yes please’.

it seems hotter than usual, the cup. Even in this blizzard, this brings me no comfort. The heat just scolds, much like her words. Perhaps he has done this on purpose. My gosh, the heat could melt my gums, but fortunately hasn’t. what kind of sick man would play such a cruel trick. If you wish to murder me, I will much prefer the old-fashioned ways. Perhaps a gun, though it would have to be small and not too loud. Objects, sharp and blunt make too much of a mess, and I loathe the colour red – far too bold. The woman’s way should do the trick – poison. Perhaps that was his trick. He has laced my coffee with poison. The bastard. I shall never forget your name, I have reserved a place on my list, the cold and malicious…Bob Weiner. What a sadistic mastermind, I have underestimated your genius, your cunning. Quick action is required.

‘What’s the matter?’ Mrs O’Connell. A rude and vulgar woman. About 45, and sure does look it. you would be surprised to learn she used to model for Ralph Lauren when she was young.

‘Is there something wrong with your coffee?’ her shrilly voiced whined

‘Rat poison!’

The most likely choice. I doubt he would have the resources to find something better.

‘What?!, everybody, stop! The coffee is contaminated with rat poison!’ She shrieked from the top of her petulant voice. Though her neck was attractive. Slim.

‘Excuse me! Linda, I assure you there is no rat poison in my coffee’ he reassured. That’s your trick isn’t it bob? Reassurance.

‘Poison? What?’

‘It’s nothing, enjoy your coffee’ – oh bob. How you lie. It’s almost sad, how far you have deluded yourself.

‘Rat poison’ I warn again

‘Now you! Oh, I know… This is some joke isn’t it. Everybody he was just joking’

‘No, I’m not. I heard you say so yourself’. Perhaps not in the moment, but there is no doubt.

‘What?! Why would you lie about such a thing?! What is wrong with you!’ the wrinkled skin gathered around his orbital bones as he squinted and frowned.

Nothing is wrong with me.

‘I’m not lying.’

His face turned even more sour, surprising that was possible. I walked calmly out of his pathetic excuse of a café, it wasn’t worth the energy to stomp. I was joined by a few others, who were clever enough to see reason. I suppose there is still hope in this shit hole of a town.

Part II: (Redacted POV)

8,621 people, you would think that out of 8,621 people, there would be more decent people. After a thorough and extremely extensive examination I have concluded there are only 4; Maggie, Richard, my father, and myself. Maggie with her striking beauty has not been corrupted by the slew of foul men (and some women) who wish to take advantage of her sweet soul. Richard is the only true stoic that I know, certainly the only one in this town, perhaps the state. Richard is beyond pettiness; he speaks only the truth and accepts only the same. His gravitas, the respect he commands, his presence – it’s truly ineffable (the sheer awe and my inability to describe his awe is extended with consideration of my extensive vocabulary).

My father, like Maggie, striking, and my mother sure knew it. It puzzles me to this day why such an intelligent, handsome, and virile man would settle for the mediocrity my mother could offer. She is plain, overweight and has the cognitive ability one could expect from her kind. But I suppose she has paid the price; his death is on her hands, and she must live with that guilt. Truth be told sometimes I wish she didn’t. She has stained me with her DNA, half of myself is spoiled. Her blood runs through my veins and shares that space with my fathers – a crime. It would be like mixing 20-year-old whisky with cheap mountain dew – not that my mother would know the difference.

I marched in snow drenched cobblestones and followed the path towards my idiot-controlled thespian of an educational institution, sometimes referred to as high school, though the high youth was already implied. As I made my way towards the cocaine like oval, I searched for Richard amongst the sparse groups of jocks. They are the worst of the worst, after the hippie pumpkin spice latte sipping woke dropkicks. Anyway, I gazed and panned the whole oval but no sight of the stoic. We had planned to meet by the bleachers at 8:45 am to exchange calculus notes. He had taken the test before me and agreed to aid me in this predicament. I have never been good with numbers, unless it’s measuring, I’m always curious how I measure up in numerous ways – I won’t get into that now, it’s not appropriate. Richard was nowhere in sight, I’m sure he had good reason, perhaps in his good Samaritan ways he was aiding a sickly old lady or saving a cat from up a tree. If I know Richard, which I do, then it can be assumed that it must have been serious. I hope he is okay.

Grey ADIDAS marks printed amongst the cement as I drudged my way towards calculus, unprepared. The thing is, I would have studied but I was preoccupied with helping Maggie with her French assignment, I haven’t taken it in two years, but she is so atrocious with languages it hardly matters. It’s hard to focus on conjugation when her hazel eyes meet yours. My stomach drops immediately and falls into itself to be met with butterflies, anxiety and intrigue. Fortunately, I don’t blush, else I would transform into a sweet cherry tomato. If only she knew that those seeds of life could fix her numerous issues. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a pure soul, but the girl has her issues with her occasional anger and the worse… her slightly loud voice. Aside from that, she is perfect, perfectly divine. Sometimes I imagine us getting married, obviously my mother would not be invited. I would prove a wonderful husband and provider, who would satisfy her monetary needs and when I get sexual experience, I will give her pleasure like she has never known. Oh shit - my pants.

Passing the maze of metal lockersa nd laminate floors a slight echo followed me before the piercing bell rung. I hate it. It reminds me of my mother, the uninvited shrill and the commanding tone yelling ‘shouldn’t you be somewhere you complete and utter failure’. The only thing I failed was the test. A blizzard arrived mid-way through the test, and I thought to myself ‘shit now I’ve failed the test, and I have to walk home in this weather’, it’s not like my mother would pick me up, not that I would want that she is an awful driver – though that is to be expected. I then thought it would be funny if I didn’t return home at all, make a temporary home in the gym and just wait. Perhaps Richard would stay with me, we could talk and perhaps his gravitas would rub off on me. That sounds selfish but I assure you it’s not, the world could use more people like Richard, why couldn’t that be me. I made my way out of the class and went to Richard’s locker in hopes for some clarity. I found him there, looking as stoic as ever with his blonde hair and deep brown eyes - one might assume he was a puppy, but I assure you Richard is nothing but a true man.

‘Hi Richard, I didn’t see you this morning’

‘Wait that was this morning? I’m so sorry Kid I completely forget. You know with football practice and the upcoming finals my mind has been all over the place. You understand, don’t you?’ He said in a calm manner. He had a white stain on his jumper, wonder what from?

‘I get it. Hey since there’s a blizzard and I can’t find a way home what do you say about joining me in the gym’ I was nervous to ask. I don’t know why.

‘I think we’ll have to stay. It wouldn’t be safe to travel in this weather’

Damn, why didn’t I think of that?

‘But you know what, I would love to be your gym buddy we can work out and after we can try this stuff I picked up in the city, it’s amazing’ he exclaimed

‘You mean like drugs?’ I had never done drugs before; in fact, I am sternly against it. But if Richard sees value in it there must be some.

‘Don’t say it so loudly. Yes. Ket to be exact. We can do it in the disabled bathroom and then return to the gym once we’re sober’

‘won’t they notice if we’re gone?’ I’m not used to being noticed but there must be some administration.

‘Look at this place, the halls smell of weed, they don’t care about anything except the football state finals’ he justified.

He had a point, administration really didn’t care. God knows the number of times I’ve told the councillor about my heinous mother and found no result, no child protective services or even sympathy. At least they didn’t pity me, I loathe pity.

‘Alright, but we have to be discreet’ I yelled.

Richard was right, we were all under school arrest and were gathered in the gym. We asked for a bathroom pass and made our way to the surprisingly clean disabled bathrooms. It was like slipping from the hands of a blind man, they couldn’t catch us. I was startled by the creak of the doors hinge, paranoid that this might give us away, but this proved thankfully false. I was anxious about the drugs, my father had warned me about them. He lost one of his closest friends to a heroin addiction and told me that all drugs including weed begets more drugs and that eventually ‘the corpse becomes a hollow vessel only capable of the fiendish desire for the next hit’. I’m sure he was right, but he didn’t account for the character of those impenetrable to the allure of such vices, such as Richard and I.

Richard didn’t show me how to snort it, I didn’t even know if that’s what you do with it, he just took his hit covering the sides to avoid spillage if that’s even what you say. Once it was my turn, he told me to snort in one nose as hard as i can while simultaneously pressing the nostril of the other.’

’Snort it like you’re eating pussy’ he said.

And so, I did as i would imagine. Within the next few minutes everything changed.

I rose from my body and was met with the collapsable ceiling. Disoriented, my body numb and tingling I found my chest felt as though it opened like petals in bloom. The red is vivid and for once, i don’t hate it. My tongue was an octopus and my eyes a kaleidoscope. When met with the reflective tiles, I saw triangles and all kinds of shapes. They weren’t like normal shapes. They glowed as if they were lit from within by a tiny bulb and swayed with the wind, which seemingly made its way to the enclosed room. Perhaps I imagined it, but everything really is just imagination. Those who disagree are in denial. These sorts of thoughts danced in my mind, words bouncing once more in my skull to make both a symphony and a cacophony of my deepest fears. I entered this dream state, a hyperreality where dreams and real life marry, and are indistinguishable from each other. Even in this state my dreams are the same, well there are two types, the desert and the waterfall, this was a desert dream. I imagined I was in a car, chasing some poor man. We raced uphill and I’m sure you can see the issue here. I tail the bugger with dust flying upwards to my windows and wind violently moving my hair and I eventually with all my might ram him over the hill. He dies instantly. Sometimes I wish I could do such things to my mother and all those who hurt myself, Richard and Maggie. The justice system has failed us, and it is up to those strong enough to enact the right from wrong to supply what government cannot.

I woke up.

I wonder why my head is pounding to the beat of regret, my body sore as if it had the life squeezed from it. I rub my palm onto my dry eyes and call for Richard as my eyes adjust from the blur.

‘Richard’ I sigh but he is nowhere to be seen.

I smell the faint odour of a woody cologne, perhaps Bleu de Chanel, I see a faint blue in the corner of my eyes. The tiles are white. The figure is still and doesn’t move. It’s shaped almost like a hill. I am struck by it; I sense it is something I do not want to see or touch or feel. Yet I am moved by this spirit to face it, slowly at least. I tilt my worn neck to the right of shoulder, where the figure lurks. I pause, I’m not sure if I can follow through but then I am reminded of Richard’s bravery and what he would do. Why am I behaving like a little child who cannot sleep without the nightlight on. I know monsters are real, but they are only ever human. This figure is most likely a remanent of my previous indiscretions, however long ago it was. I turn my neck once more and open my eyes to the light and the figure.

I scream.

Someone opens the lock and finds me there at the ghoulish sight, my eyes bloodshot red. Though there was no red on his body, but it is sure - he is dead. The body was still warm, I could feel it. In a blue suit and red tie as he was always dressed, Mr Aquille my old French teacher was all but an empty vessel.

I didn’t particularly like him, but I didn’t despise him either. I didn’t believe the rumours and I still don’t. Women lie to destroy a man’s career all the time, why should he be the exception? The shock has worn off, after all it is but a body, I’m sure he has just as much a soul now as most of this town who are living. Then I ponder, how did he get inside the room anyway? It was locked and the only person who has the key is Richard and me. Where is he? I could use his stoicism right about now. I’ll admit the thought has crossed my mind that something happened during that dream, it can’t be a coincidence. I’m not insinuating I murdered the poor fella but perhaps something spiritual happened, perhaps his soul gave up on his pathetic life and simply decided to quit. I wouldn’t be surprised if he offed himself. Yes, that is most likely it.

‘This has now been announced as a murder case, all students and staff are required to remain before future action is made’.

We remain in the gym for 10 hours as all 400 of us are being questioned. The air felt colder and more filled with anxiety as the 400 people were left speechless and undoubtedly annoyed at this predicament. I was first to be questioned, insulted they would dare to insinuate such a thing. It was obvious what happened, the man grew tired of his pathetic life and wished to go off with one last hurrah once he learned of the blizzard.

‘What were you doing in the bathrooms?’ the stern face asked

‘I was meditating with a friend, we fell asleep’

‘So, in the middle of a blizzard, you and Richard Markson decided to sneak into the bathrooms to do nothing but meditate?’

‘Yes, introspection is important to some men like Richard and I’ I informed him

‘Some smart lips you have there. Perhaps they could tell the truth ‘He whispered, his brows arched, and gaze widened.

They then told me to stay in the gym as they asked every single body what they saw – which was nothing but standard procedure I suppose. In my own mind, I walk towards the crowds as a sea of converse welcomes me and I question why Richard was gone.

‘I needed some space; it was getting claustrophobic in there. It must’ve been quite the shock to witness such a sight. I’m sorry I couldn’t share that burden’ he answered

It made sense, if I had been more capable, I too would have left the room. It’s just unfortunate that I must now be suspect uno, I mean what motive would I have? Maggie has more motive with her failing French and all.

The blizzard continues and torments for what feels like years. Awkward silence and serious breaths were felt with exhalation as if the shock was expelling itself and reinvigorated with each inhale. In with the shock out with relief that such an annoying man would no longer bother us with his poorly accented French. Eventually we were given the green light to go, and I made my way home, to my dismay. Even in these conditions, I would much rather that then home. I won’t speak of the events that transpired with my mother after, she’s not worth the air thatI would need to breath to utter such futile stories. They are routine, the shouting the degradation it’s all the same to me.

Part III

Mr Montaigne was an interesting man, with his Burberry trench coat, top hat and argyle vest one would assume he was a time traveller from the 1930’s. He was of course a detective assigned to the case of the deceased fake Frenchie, and as he walked into the office these thoughts entered his marvel of a mind.

(Montaigne POV)

I woke to the chill of January snow, as my bare feet drop from the bed, I am met with the cold wood floors which wake me even more so. I make my way to the kitchenette of my studio apartment and prepare my usual – porridge with honey drizzled on top. All dressed I nearly forgot to get my maroon top hat, how could I, my love for that artifact always elicits shock from strangers and the familiar alike. But they don’t realise that she is my thinking cap, I could not understand the psyche of a criminal without her. I wonder what mysteries she will face today. I drive to the office and treat myself to some krispy kreme donuts along the way. I walk to my desk and place my petite derrier on the thinly cushioned chair that has seen me through all my major breakthroughs. A file is dropped on my desk and a thud is heard.

‘This one, is clear as day. Thomas Aquille, 45, found dead in the school bathrooms with a teenager who claims he and his buddy were meditating. Can you believe that - who the fuck meditates these days. But get this, the victim was a suspected sex offender. Students spoke of rumours of his interest in students if you know what I mean’ The co-worker explained

‘Tell me Marsha, was this boy a suspected victim of Aquille’s transgressions’

‘Possibly, he took one of his classes, but that was years ago. Why act now’

‘Why indeed.’

When the young man is brought in for questioning, I will be the one asking the questions.

The next day I enter the observation room and am met with a scrawny young man with greasy hair and a sweater that dearly needs a wash.

‘Look Mr, I’m sure you’re a nice man but you’ve got this all wrong,’ said the scrawny child

‘Is that so?’

‘I invoke my right to a lawyer. I know how you lot work.’

‘I will of course respect that, and I can assure you will have representation soon young man’ Aside from maintaining my integrity, it is always important to appeal to the suspect. Build a relationship that is both respectful yet intimidating. And boy I tell you I could not wait to see him crack; they always do.

Upon meeting the lawyer, predictably he was silent. Back to the old ways it is.

PART IV (REDACTED POV)

I cannot believe that I had to mindlessly enter the dungeon of the lousy investigators. It’s insulting really, insinuating that I would be capable of such a thing. I am capable of many things, but murder is not one of them. There is only one solution; to clear my name I must find the killer.

There was a three-day mourning period for the death of Mr Aquille, surprising considering no one was mourning his sorry ass. Nevertheless, life goes on and I eventually return to school. Richard and I speak on the phone.

‘How you holding up kid’ asked the stoic

‘Why do people ask me that. They either must be deluded that I would care for such a man or they’re trying to bait me to confess to a crime I didn’t commit’ I wail

‘Calm down, clearly it has gotten to you’

‘It’s just not nice having people think you’re a homicidal maniac, and now rumour has spread that I was weak enough to be one of his supposed victims. It’s just lies after lies, and don’t get me started on the police and the pseudo suave detective with the stupid top hat’ I continued

‘Yeah, he’s an interesting fellow. But hey you didn’t do it so there’s nothing to worry about’

‘The police have a cumulative IQ of an 8-year-old, there is plenty to worry about’

‘If I’m being honest if you continue sounding like this, people are gonna assume you’re guilty’ Richard exclaimed

‘Please don’t say that. The only way to prove my innocence is to find the real killer’ I explained

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, there’s a killer on the loose and you snooping around puts a target on your back. Who knows what they will do.’

He was right. But I need to do this for myself and my dignity, I must do it alone.

To my heartache, the event affected my relationship with Maggie, she too now thinks I am some homicidal maniac.

First step, to discover who is the killer one must live as the killer, find out if they’re the kind for sorbet or ice-cream, morning or night, freeze or fight kind of guy or girl really. Now why might I understandably loathe a man who has failed dreams of a doctorate and instead pursued a career teaching French at a high school in Bumb fuck nowhere. I have no charisma to admire, nor looks to mask, my crusty moustache is campy, and I play into it - Its tres French you see. Might as well chuck in a beret and striped black and white turtleneck. I’m getting off topic. Mr Aquille was…

‘An austere man’

‘A rubbish teacher’

‘Ghastly host’

‘Pas francais’

All words mentioned in his official goodbye note from the school to the family of the late Mr Aquille.

Not a well-liked man, and what’s to like. And if rumours are to be believed than much indeed but I am reluctant to indulge is such delusions that form from believing women. Nevertheless, I should investigate, except it can’t be me - they’d know…

‘$50 and all you must do is ask people about the rumours. Don’t make it obvious, crack a joke something like that’.

‘deal’ he kneels and shakes his hand.

Part V: Kid’s perspective

‘Can you believe it, I just scammed that guy out of $50’

-a prepubescent voice

‘How?’ enquired their gingham decked friend

‘All I have to do is ask some guy about Mr Aquille’ they replied

‘don’t get the dead guy involved in this’

‘Too late…’

Before their friend could interject

‘don’t worry I’m not stupid enough to enquire about the dead guy during an investigation. I’ll just make it up, he won’t know the difference.’

Part VI (REDACTED POV).

‘oh, Richard I got some good intel. Fake Frenchie was a soviet spy. Can you believe it!’

‘What makes you say that?’ uttered Richard

‘I have it on good authority that he was putting soviet propaganda in the French audios’

‘If you say so,’ – Richard.

Part VII (Mr Montaigne POV)

Hmm, Richard and the kid, not just the kid. He’s not bright enough, perhaps he is playing dumb, but I doubt it. He didn’t strike me as anything special. But Richard, what’s he doing here? Top student, Football hero and admittedly very good looking. He didn’t even take French. Excuse the murder, the real questions lie – what is a golden boy like Richard Markson doing with a hermit like the kid? It makes no sense, they could be connected by drugs, or a woman. What was her name, the one who the rumours are about – Maggie. She is our top culprit.

‘Are you kidding? Have you met her. As shy as they come?’- Marsha laughed

‘In the eyes of the offender, see her as they would. She is a target. We must take these allegations seriously, and if we were to go purely based on history - IF the rumours are to be believed, that the late Mr Aquille took advantage of her and began an affair to which a 14-year-old girl could not consent. Now your reputation is ruined, and everything you hate about yourself has been exacerbated – and everyone knows’ – I ramble

‘But she was in the gym at the time of the murder’

‘I know.’

‘How can you explain that.?’

‘Nothing burns like a woman scorned – and she my dear was at the very least more than scorned’

Part VIII (Redacted POV)

‘Richard, I think it was an assassination attempt from the CIA’

‘Slow down – if you say so’.

Part IX (Mr Montaigne POV)

A call from non-other than the golden boy himself.

‘Sir, though I personally cannot account for my time due to my indiscretions which I am sure you are aware of - I was witnessed by many during the time of the crime and pray you see reason. I cannot however say the same for my friend. It brings me great pain to admit that I do not know him like I thought. I took pity on the troubled junior but am fearful of his full capabilities. He confessed to me of the crime.’ Whispered Richard

‘And how exactly did he do it?’ I ask

‘A rare poison from his mother’s supply’

I don’t believe it. But my boss does. Senior detective Marshall.

‘Case closed’.

Part X [REDACTED POV]: I made my way to get my morning coffee when my worst apparitions came true.

‘You are under arrest for the murder of the late Aquille, anything you do say may be used against you in a court of law’.

Part XI:

The phone rings.

Maggie ‘did you do it?’

Richard - ‘yes exactly as you asked. I love you’

‘I love you too. Goodnight’.

With tea and rum

How well doth he take her

When she rests on her tum

Oh slimy captain

Every action I observe

You tear at the factions

And serve their just desserts

You’ve many wives from every dock

You’ve a compass, blade

Sundial clock

You’ve many coins from seven seas

You’ve trinket, lockets

And stolen keys

Will never belong to thee

Mutiny! Revolt catapult

Your boys and ship

Sink sink you silly man

Do not lose your grip

Callous hands and gentle too

Can both twist the knife in you

Unless you;’ve gold or treasure divine

In love, in script, in touch, in bets,

In words in depths descent,

In essence that you so ensigned

You are no comrade of mine

Where borders divide

See my sign

Where oceans collide

Hear my call

Where treasures confined

I do keep

I’m willing to share

With those worthy to seek

Unless he reeks

In essence in time

Was part of the pack

Turning backs could soon attack you at your face

No shame in thoughts that do not dare

But give it a name when the shadows arrive

No Shame in the joy I bared

But ache in all that is unfair

Shared my bed

Tummy fed

Wine fuelled head

Tipsy tongue

Young and dumb

Fight and fun

What is done

is done

Now drift in the sea

Thinking of me

Of trees so foreign

Imagine

Pick the fruit from branches joined

Prune the stems not employed

Drift and shift In sleep

As the captives weep

Lulled

The ship sways mimics a cradle

Just like old fables

Sweet song the sirens have arrived

Let me rest tonight.

I do not choose to live like this. Running town to town, living on forests edges feasting on the flesh of dreamers and cynics. I can tell a difference. Every drop is different like a Red Sea with seven sources, all from different terrains. Sediments, water and flavour. Not all is nice. You can taste the remnants of a soul in the aftertaste of its dripping veins. Sometimes it is violent. But there are ways to quell the pain so that the feast feels nothing - if you do not want your meat to be tense from fear. The taste is bitter. Far too bitter. They need to be calm, that is why a dream state is best. At first they shudder. Their eyes pinch and often times open. Try not to look. Be quick and savour the warm wine. replenish your spine as they will eventually become cold. If they remain asleep during the whole thing, In their last moments of life, see flashes of their dreams. I enter theirs and calm their fears, show them a vision of what they yearn for, even the ones they fear to claim. Some visions disgust me, but that is to be expected of humanity. They must be calm. Else their blood pumps too much and the veins don’t take well.

Rouge rubbed onto the lips, the young woman gently presses her cupids bow and raises her eyebrows before she looks in the mirror. Her eyes gleam with a quiet intensity and she smirks. Art witnessing art, she pauses and takes a deep breath.

‘My lady, he is here’

She glides down the marble steps, her petticoat more full than what is in fashion. A deep azure dress, with layered ruffles gently tapered, black lace frills, with geometric lines that led to a blooming flower. The main garments neckline plunged and underneath revealed a blue blouse of an even deeper almost navy blue. No jewellery on her neck but in her deep pocket she kept five items. A gilded compass, a basic pen, a small leather bound notebook, stick matches and a small gun. All items stolen, or as she would say ‘collected’ over the course of her 22 years on earth. She was a curator in every sense of the word; her speech, her breath, her touch, her gaze, the fit of her dress was all purposeful and effortlessly selected. She had style and a wit to match, yet remained shrouded in an invisible fog that guarded her eyes. They were deep black, not cold and reflective but warm. They were black in most light, but in the presence of rare glimpses of our merciful sun, they are almost red I swear. She speaks more than one might anticipate from a woman, though never without reason. Every word follows a perfect order and cadence that anyone could only seek to emulate. She is an angel, but she is the devil and she is mine.

You began your habit 6 months ago, but I could hear the justifications of her fiendish desires as you wrestled with your saints. Across the town, while I stare at the fire, an echo of your sweetly grave voice, a laugh that cannot be real yet is so beautiful though you know it is indeed, not real. You are not real. Yet you are alive. I hear your gentle moan as you take sips from your tea, I hear the rough drop of glass bottles as you roll your eyes and allow terrible men inside. You both laugh, but there are so many of them. Not all men - some women too, you take to your room. And I hear the sync of your hearts as you are soft and rough, I feel the nerves in your belly and theirs excite with every stroke. I feel the breaths be stolen by the force of heaven as you delight in the devils den. I feel their ribs stretch as you wrap your legs around and tightly bound yourself to their grip and then you grip and close your eyes. Mouth gently opened wide you sigh, a beat of catching breaths as you take it in. You grin, a flush to your cheeks and water to skin. How is it possible? That you feel as beautiful as you look, as you sound. How is such perfection allowed? I watch from the flames, your handkerchief in my hands, I raise to my lips and then I inhale and for a brief moment I am a man again. Tonight I must have you.

‘Two shillings and sixpence.’ An older scrawny woman said.

Her thoughts are surprisingly boring for a woman of her profession. I cleared my throat and feasted before so that I would not be overtaken by your beat. Steps, gentle and echo. Fearing you might recognise me I look up to the stairs where you floated down, gentle hands on rail. Perfect posture and those eyes I saw in a dream. And for the first time, you see me too. I follow you up the stairs towards your room, your waist even smaller than imagined and your beautiful neck with soft curls framing your lovely face and such tiny veins. Greeney blue, and gentle hands and gentle wrists. The veil of warmth, a trail of sweet fire as you dance, so I have imagined.

I shut the door, cautiously quiet as to not make you nervous.

She turns to me, and I was frozen in a state like a statue, for a glimpse of a second, before I maintained composure. She reaches for me, her dainty hands rise to her hips as I look to her eyes and she grins. How does she know? Does she know? She cannot. It isn’t possible.

‘Why don’t you rest?’ She whispered caressing the skin of the back of my hand.

’No. I mean. What is your name? I need to know your name,’ I was sure to be clear

‘Whatever you decide’ she responded

‘Oh dear’ I replied

‘Dear it is then’ she exhaled

‘No I mean your real name’

‘Is this what you paid for? Questions? you’re an odd one’ she smirked

‘How long do I have to ask these questions?’

‘Depends on the question. But you paid for an hours worth so I owe an hours worth of questions and answers or something else’

‘Are there limits to this something else?’

She laughs

’There are limits for everything, but depends on what the reward is.’ she responded

‘So you’ll do anything I say as long as I pay?’

‘That can be your new prayer’ - she responded.

I like you, I do.

She sits on the ottoman, held tilted up near my hips I place my hands on the outside of her skull and trace her beautiful orbital bones with my thumb. She is warm, and she is pumping and she is kissing, and she is sucking and she is scratching, and she is bleeding and she is -my god- she is alive and she is grinning and she is teasing and she is laughing and she is spitting blood and grinning and crying and free. This is what she dreamt of as I was lulling her to sleep. But I could not let her go, I was given the rare opportunity by will of the gods curse to bless her with mine. It is time. You must still be alive in order for it to work.

I meet you in your projection, a realm of fire and ash, decadent fruit and booze, carnations and tea in the air. is this what you dream of? You are alive, you are risen. I saw you not in flesh or dream but in a dream of another dream - one of my meals thought of you and I recognised you straight away. And 6 months ago, you arrived like a quiet meteor. With your filthy habits and dirty grimace and groans you are mine to hold to break to make to take, you are mine.

Her eyes meet mine, a refrain

’Can I stay here?’ She asked

Her eyes glassy in reflection and hungry

‘You will die. You will need to end a life to sustain your half life’

‘Half life?’

‘You will know not of the joys of pudding of tea of the beach’

’Then let me rest’

‘But you will never die, and you will find that in the world of dreams, especially those witnessed before death, there lies mortality’

‘I do not understand’

‘You can enter dreams, but you cannot dream for yourself. For your body can never truly rest nor can your mind. You enter states and trances but you are always tethered to this ground. Death does not fear you. Death does not welcome you. He mocks you. There are unlimited ways in which you would normally die. Believe me I have tried. But at least you will be semi alive, and more alive than any mortal . I do not let fear of death stop me, it is judgement. Though I cannot die, I can be locked in chains kept away for decades at a a time. You and I are alike. Join me. follow me and I will follow you. I promise you. He leans over and massages the fourth finger from her thumb on the left hand side.

He presses his temple towards hers and bears his teeth to meet her neck. She holds his hands and she gasps and sees white and his guiding voice

‘Do not worry, it is like this at first, your body will not remember yet. But you are still alive’

You see black and white and crooked lines. No hunger no thirst, just a wondering eye stuck in the stars. But I am below

‘You are alive’ he says

You feel cold and nothing. A face.

Then. A warm glow. A spark. Red brick. A fireplace and his Italian shoe.

My eyes stretch and blur, I am held in your chest and you are caressing me

‘You are alive’ he says

We are not in my room. We are in a library, the one lit room in this den. Same dress. But you are frail you are sticks and you cannot walk.

‘What is this?’ She wailed

‘Rest my love, your soul took long to take root but I have waited patiently’

‘How long?’ She asked

’50 years’

A broken look took to her face

‘Do not worry,’

‘What did you tell them?’ She inquired

‘Nothing,’

‘Who asked about me? What did you say ? ’ her voice raised

‘Let that all go. It is too late now.’ He kissed her forehead and she was still sore.

It is time for your meal,

a fruity floral newspaper boy,

‘I believe 11 years old, try’

He hands her a mug with the juice inside and she slowly slips and he wipes the edges of her lips.

Gums sore. Her teeth begin to deform, they change at command. Though it took a while for her to achieve that feat. Her beauty has returned like no other, but she is cold now. Though she simmers with vengeance and wrath she is poised. She is perfect. She is mine.

‘Tell me your name’ he says

‘Tell me yours then’

‘You know I cannot do that’ he replies

‘Tell me’

She looks down

‘I do not remember’

‘You lie’ he jests

‘I do’ she replies

She closes her eyes and rests in his arms. He slowly feeds her more wine and the colour returns to her cheeks and flesh to her bones. She grabs his wrists and grazes her teeth

‘My blood will not feed you, it is dead’

She pauses before sinking her teeth into his wrist lips pushed against his skin. He leans over and closes his eyes

‘You taste of salt’ she slammed his wrist down

‘I need warmth, I am starving bring me food now’ she grabbed his hand again

‘Please’ she sighed

‘Rest my dear, I am making you a feast of sailors. They are sleeping and you will eat. I promise.’ He twirls her hair

She closes her eyes. Not to Meet sleep but black. She meets the sailors their dreams before she meets them in flesh.

Your first feed I witnessed you. You squeeze the blood from flesh like grapes. You kiss the tips of your fingers and you like them terrified. Sometimes peaceful. Sometimes you induce their greatest fears and feast only in those faded moments of faith. That is what you feed on. Your eyes revealed their red core as your veins lit up as for a moment while inhaling a dream and biting necks you felt alive. And for a brief moment I imagined your heart pumped. Wait. No. How is that possible. You are alive. you are breathing. And you are looking at me.

The black. Your soul is black but it is not cold it is on fire.

We leave, returning to my rooms.

‘Your heartbeat returned. Its not possible’

‘You said so yourself you sense another beat’

‘I felt young. Like warm honey was soothing my soul. Why is that so bad?” She wondered

‘Because it is wrong’

‘What is wrong?’ She inquired

‘Your heart should not beat. For any reason.’

‘If I can have moments of mortality then let me have that joy’

She walked away but he gestured to the door shutting the thick wood. She quietly turned around to meet him again.

She stood still. He moved to her. Staring at her from pupil to lips, inner corners of eyes he touched her. To his amazement she was alive. Alive. It was faint but it was sure. she was alive.

She placed her fingers wrapped around the back of your neck and she lightly grazes your skin and dipping deep she pulls you in you fall and you kiss. She shows you visions of fire and flickers of light, she is warm and you are too. Your lips parts. a reaction in her chest. She is alive. But she does not rest. Years and years with middle breaks to feast on strangers, lambs and each other. Your blood was sweet, stung and always tasted the same no matter what you took.

Take me now. I cannot die. I cannot live but I will serve you. Death shall never part what consumes a heart. And hers is alive.

3 months later.

They wander a foggy morn, lantern over his imposing stature, his shadow stood taller than one might imagine though he is of fair height. You stand beside but at an angle toward the beam of light as the trees bark mark your way through the forest to the grave you have identified.

They both stood tall and sombre. Silence befalls them like always but this time she is punching with all the possible words to say. So you wait. You wait. You wait and so does he. You stare and ponder and wonder and ache, an anger an expulsion of what is revered, what you hold so dear…

You do not speak her name.

The year reads 1828-1901

She spoke. Her voice calm and sound and steady and sure

‘I already knew you see. When I was in that state akin to sleep, the false sleep. I saw her face. She smiled. She was not vengeful, nor sad nor happy. She just was.’

She began to speak at a more variable pace

‘While I was there - I couldn’t place it immediately but I knew that she was dead. She did not cease to exist, she will as you will - always exist. But she is no more in a form I used to recognise, I still recognise. I see her in the face of a tulip. She is alive! She is buried. But she is alive! Not just in my mind. Not just as a past time. She is alive!’

Her voice grew convicted and deep the more she spoke, the more certain she was. yet she was calm.

He consoles her, both arms around back, rubbing on my tepid flesh he spoke, solemn and sober

‘This is a trick of death. he wears a familiar cloak. He rarely shows his truest form. Like a snake shedding skin, leaves behind with him what he used to bring - sometimes hollows of what in you might recognise, but it is not life. It is not real. It is not warm. it is not who you think it is.’

She held in a breath, one filled with rage

He speaks softer and holds her more loosely but still close

‘This. I have learned, any excuses or confusion will torment you. You are’

His voiced slowed

‘Well, I do not fully understand what you are, what you have become’

‘Save your words’ she snarled

‘You are dead’ he spoke

‘I am not.’ she announced

She continued

‘By every standard or metric you are more nothing than I ever will be. A void. A hollow noise who can only ever listen. That’s what you are.’

He let go. His eyes fumed with deep fire before lighting out into confusion

‘You’re being terribly ungrateful’ he quipped

More stern in posture he stared her down. She did not blink.

She spoke

Reserved, yet undeniable of fury

‘My body never changes beyond a certain state. I will not age. the length of my hair will only ever grow to the length it was when you took my life away from me. No matter how much I eat, drink, bleed, fuck. I still feel this ravage hunger in me for more. I hate it and it does not go away. Even gravity cannot tie me down, I fly but I cannot risk being seen. I must move town to town to escape recognition. I can never have a family, or friends, and if I do, I will always outlive them and the more my heart grows with love the more their death stings.’

‘But you are alive!’ He remarks, a tone of envy in his voice, and lust - desire

‘Barely’ she responded. Out of breath

He uttered

‘More than man can imagine’

She looks to the stone

‘In the same breath. She is alive’ her voice gentle yet solid

She looked up again, a grimace on her face

‘Why did you let me sleep for all that time? Tears began to stream down her now glassy eyes and flowed down from her cheeks

She continued, this time more engaged and quick

‘What did you even do? During that time’

‘I witnessed you. Isn’t that enough? I witnessed you before, during and after’

She begins to turn her head away from his

He continues, this time more slow and concise but still soft

‘I fed you as you shrunk. For 50 years, I centred my entire being for you and only you. I still do the same and always will. I promise’

A silence. She walks

‘You lie!’

her arms towards the sky, the clouds grow murky

‘Why not 1 year, or one week, or 10 years, or even 20. You were too late’

A sudden thought entered his mind

‘Was she your sister?’

‘Not by blood’

‘Who was she?’ He spoke

She gazed at him, a look of distrust and disgust followed. Her voice. Steely spoke

‘I will not stain her memory with your presence’

He looks down

‘I am sorry’ his brows crossed and his jaw clenched, his eyes stressed

I have to know

‘What are you sorry for?’ Looking up she met his eyes and prayed silently that he would say the right thing

‘I am sorry to have hurt you in any capacity, it was not my intention. ‘

‘What was your intention’ she remarked with Feist

‘To keep you as you were. As you are. It needed to be preserved. You have never been of this earth. I thought you were imagined. a shadow in the visions of dying men. I had to know you. Hold you, touch you. Then I caught the whiff of your scent like a trail, first in a vision and then reality. You came.

‘You paid for me’ she retorted

‘That is true’ he replied

‘As many have’ she continued

‘It is not like that’ he assured

She returned her neck closer to her spine and spoke with an infallible force

‘You are more man than creature’

He shivered at the phrase

But a quiet look on his face

‘Then let me devote myself to you, unbroken as penance’

She replied swelling of eyes

‘It is too late’

‘Is there no end? Lord please help me.’ She sobbed, wrists covering mouth turning in shame and slouched in posture

He held her once more

‘I’m afraid not. This is how it is. every time you approach, you revive.’

‘How do you know for sure?’ She inquired

He spoke under his breath

‘I know’

‘How old are you?” A question she had been purposefully avoiding

‘I’ve lost count’ he replied

‘You lie’ - she snorted

‘You count everything. The cutlery, flowers, books. You must count your years?’

‘I stopped’ he replied

‘Tell me’ she was angered

‘I cannot give you a date. My birth was not recorded. ‘

She shook her head and began to drift

‘You tell me nothing’ she said with spite

He reached out his hand

‘Wait’

‘It had been no more than 100 years since I had become what I am now, and that was Vesuvius

She was not shocked she was calmed but she was surely still. Heart still beating, increasing and then slowing down.

‘What do you want from me?” She questioned with a reflex of hurt and inquisition

‘I told you ’ he exclaimed, confusion growing stronger

She turned, swayed back once more and she spoke

‘I am not yours to preserve. You have cursed me to a fate worse than death, for which I will never forgive you’

‘I love you’

‘You! Do not know me’ she yelled

‘I know every rhythm every beat your heart has ever sang and ever will sing. I know the pull you feel when you sway and dance and turn. ‘ he grew passionate

‘But you cannot tell me what for’

He was perplexed

The sky beamed with a white light and they were in that familiar state akin to sleep akin to death.

‘Where are we?’ He asks

‘Don’t you recognise it?’ She replied ‘You saw it before. no more than 100 years before Vesuvius

He quivered

‘Stay’ he said

‘Never’ she replied

and disappeared in a vision of light and he was alone. Before his eyes he saw, flashes, memories, possibilities of everything he had ever seen, thought, heard, felt or read. Everything known in the mind body and soul. He was stuck. But instead chose to focus on memory - her eyes. His hands and feet in silver chains and a silver box she lowers him down with the wave of her hand. But she is not alone. She is never alone.

She travels, she squeezes, she sniffs she wheezes, she sobs she lies, she cries and cries and rage and repeat. She feasts on the flesh of cruel country men, she dances in thunder with a violent breeze. She is heat! She is electricity. She is not by my side, at least on this side, but she will never rid of me. For she is alive.

New Year’s Day 1998

Peruvian hills with hits of stone rising from the earth to meet the sky to meet your eyes as you sip your velvet wine touching crystal. The clear window , the Belmond and lapsang souchong. The careful cuts that catch the light as you take the blood.

‘Don’t worry it’s symbolic, it’s not real’

‘I should hope not. Not with your habits’

‘Wow. That’s your tactic? Insult gatekeeper so intelligent’

‘We both know this whole thing is a farce. For once in your life Ned shut the fuck up’ - said a woman

Her hair was raven and full of gentle curls that framed her delicate face.

‘Shut up and drink it. You want in. Drink up’ she said

He sips the wine

‘How did you find us?’ The second man said

‘My methods are meticulous, evident in this initiation’ - she responded

‘To get the job you need to discuss your methods’ said the older man

‘Your trail. Though hard to trace I must admit you sure know what you’re doing.’

‘Yes but how? - i used different names at every station changed appearance accents direction everything’

‘Yes but it was the names you used’ the second responded

‘How so?’

‘All the origins of the names were Homeric - pretentious to say the least but befitting of every location. I must applaud whoever chose the names you have a flair for the dramatics which I can appreciate’ she explained

‘Thank you’ - he replied

‘How did you track us? You knew we were following you.’ The second man inquired

‘when we were in Cuba I put trackers in your phones’

They both sighed.

‘Does this mean we’ve failed?’ Asked the second man

‘I’m afraid yes. If this were real life you both would be dead and the entire fate of the nation compromised’

‘I’m sorry professor stilson’ - begged the girl

‘Word of advice. Don’t get off the station in pairs. It’s easier to track. Now run away again. I will give you 3 weeks head start and 3 weeks to find you. If I don’t find you in 6 weeks from now you pass. If it takes me more than 8 weeks you get honours and if it takes a year you will be promoted’

‘A year? In hiding?’ - whispered the woman

‘It is crucial’ - the professor replied

‘I wasn’t aware of the time commitment I have plans to go yachting in st Martin’s’ - answered the woman

‘When?’

‘6 months’

‘Failed again!’ - the professor yelled

‘On a more important note have you signed the NDA?’ Sighed the professor

‘Yes my lawyer looked at it and advised against it’ said the second man

‘As did mine’ - said the woman

‘Have you all gone mad?!!! It’s an ancient tradition?’ The professor bemoaned

‘Yes we are aware’ said the woman

‘Then sign the bloody papers’ scorned the professor

‘It seems an awful lot for some party’ remarked the second man

‘It’s not just some party. It is a rite of passage. An initiation. If you want to join us you need to sign. As your forefathers did before you’

‘Sounds Faustian to me’ - said the younger man

‘That’s hot’ whispered the woman.

‘It’s yours by will of the gods. take it. Sign. We have always known this day would come. It is your time to prove your worth.’

Procuring from his pocket the professor handed the fountain pens to the young newlyweds as the ink dried and they had signed.

1998 malta

Valletta golden stones basked in the sun, meeting the rich waters. Here you are calm here you are safe

‘Why the fuck are you wearing stilettos on cobblestones? We need to be fast, they slow you down and they make too much noise?’

Said dean.

A lanky but handsome boy. Stood 6ft 2,With hazel hair and hazel eyes, soft tan skin and eyes that sure do lie.

‘I’m cosplaying as a housewife tourist’ - said isa

Her raven hair and blank stare intensified with every step of her overpriced shoe.

‘That’s not the point, the point is to be ignored’ argued dean

‘Everyone ignores tourists! T’is universal law’

‘No one could ignore you’ smouldered dean

‘Stop you’ll make me blush, though I’m already wearing it’ giggled isa before flattening her voice and speaking plainly

‘The Nars one I remember, reminiscent of the name… what was it called? Nars…’

‘Le petit mort’ she replied

‘A fate you are familiar with’

‘Fortunately’.

New Year’s Eve 1997

Havana. More Cobblestones and colourful tiles. Echoes of dancing tapping feet. Blues and jazz vibrate in your brain

‘Quick where is the gun? Yelled dean

‘Lower your voice’

‘They don’t speak English’ said dean

‘You don’t know that’ whispered isa

‘Damelo ahora’ he softly replied placing his fingers on her fist she flinched and opened her palms to reveal a signet ring

‘Where did you find this?’ - dean inquired. There was a faint tremble

‘in professor Stilson’s room.’ she exhaled

‘What were you doing there?’ He shook his head and cleared his voice

‘Nevermind. I don’t need to know. Are you sure it is real?’

‘I am sure. The insignia. The keys. The crow wings and the black stain on the inner ring that my father told me about. The stain gave it away’ she repeated

‘Hide it. No one can know’ he commanded

‘I already know that. I’m leaving now. It’s not safe. Sooner or later he will discover it is gone. It is only a matter of time and he will know it was me who took it and then I will’ she paused and her eyes glazed

‘Nothing will happen. I promise. But you need to hide it and tell no one not even me. Isa?’ He leaned in towards her and placed his forehead against hers. She shook her head.

July 1999 rainy season

Cape Verde. The mountains beaches and serene seas. Calling me like sailors to the siren. A cave. That is best.

August. Macau. Summer

The neon lights and dollar signs. the green carpet and tasteful wallpaper

A gasp. Onlookers stare at the ceiling and sky.

‘Damn it! I really thought he was going to win’ jolted dean as she lit her cigarette indoors smoke veiling her face.

He tilts his head towards the floor and slowly looks up before making a stern remark

‘Did you do it’

‘It is done’ she replied. An exhale followed by smoke.

1995

Atauro Island. Timor. Volcanic stone and overgrown tropical bush.

‘They say it is haunted’ spoke a Brutish short man

‘Shut up. We’re looking for a sacred object’ ordered an austere older woman. Spotted of skin with age but piercing of gaze and undeniable of authority.

‘Care to enlighten us on this object? We have 20 men scouring for something we have no idea about. It takes money you know? Resources! They get paid by the hour and with new legislation I have to pay them extra after working hours you understand?’

‘You’re a fucking mercenary’ groaned the woman

‘It’s a union thing’ explained the man.

22 souls drudged in mud in search of a band.

Oxford England (oxenforda) 1066. A priest speaks to a child.

Burn it now child. Before the Normans arrive. He will know and he will destroy it. A child drops a letter into the throes of fire and eyes reflects flames as the paper rose to meet the sky in ash and smoke. Sealed the letter was unopened. Sealed in wax with crow wings parading as angels on the front.

Venice. 1999 September. The gondola waddles as night blankets the sky and twin fire signs exchange a sigh

‘I need water’

‘Me too’

‘You rest. I’ll get it’ he leaves the bed

She closes her eyes and dreams of him.

They wake spine to spine feet’s entwined and a calm embrace.

They leave different times. At varying intervals. Switching who leaves first and how long for.

Heathrow Airport three times. First two weeks after. Second 3 days after that. The third 2 months after.

They arrive separate gates seperate days. A cafe. A random place, a brief glance a recognition in alleyways and different clothes every time.

‘I think he’s getting closer to finding us. We can’t meet anymore’ dean uttered under his breath

‘I agree. We need to meet at the deadline else it’s too dangerous. At the party. New Year’s Eve. Vienna. ‘She murmured

‘I wish we didn’t have to murmur. I like hearing you laugh’ he confessed

‘Don’t be cruel’ she responded

Thebes Egypt 1995

3 am. Sand meeting rubble. trucks arrive. A cracking sound.

Two men make an exchange.

Covered in khaki cloak, AK47. 777 of them

Autauro island Timor 1999

‘Have you found it? Whined the Brutish man

‘Stop telling me how to do my job? I don’t question you on how you run your thugs!’

‘Thugs! They are my brothers in arms how dare you!’ he yelled

‘You really are nasty and short’ she scolded

‘You’re only saying that cause you hate scousers!’

‘Not true I adore George Harrison.’ She remarked

‘We’ve found something!’ Excitement in the air

The group of Brutish men in uniform and the woman in tweed mesmerised at the sight of a golden chest encrusted in Burmese rubies and sapphire.

Eureka!

Gstaad: snowy huts. Red and white flags. 1999

An imposing man 6’5, broad shoulders crouching over skies on foot.

‘That’s it just the way I showed you’ she affirmed.

‘I can tell you’ve been doing your stretches’

‘Soon i think I’ll be able to actually move I’m just sure I want to get the positioning right, like how mighty Mike used to at camp. Perhaps if I tip my head down…’ he yapped

Baron X you have a letter

Gloves removed. frost in the air fingers lined the envelope. It was white. Plain and mildly stuffed with papers.

In the presence of only a fireplace as snow fell from the heavens baron X opens the envelope.

A heraldry society.

Vienna. New Years Eve. St Rupert’s church. 1999

16 people all under the age of 25 gather in a circle surrounded by others of various descriptions. All In velvet cloak faces obscured.

An imposing figure looms the centre of the stage and makes a toast with an onyx chalice

‘Ute serve anguis’ - a distinct southern accent

Raising his pinky on his left index finger was the stained ring.

they all cheer but only the man drinks.

A dance. More a ritual like trance than dance but dance none the less. I recognised you straight away as you did me but we could not brush shoulders. So in this in time I counted bodies when in the circle we would reunite in routine of what is sacred.

Another speech

‘All heirs! And rightful claimants we will claim the throne of England and unite the kingdom of England and the formerly great USA into a new imperial regime rooted in the warrior spirit of our anglo Saxon ancestors and we must thwart the blood of the pesky Norman’s! Only one will be chosen. And I have studied you all meticulously. I know one of you will prove to be a successor worthy of my support and of the throne. The house of Windsor is really the house of Saxe Coburg Gotha! Germans are ruling the throne well except waity Katy.

When the French cunt, the bastard the pretender conquerer invaded our lands our ancestors fell. And it is today that they will be avenged! As the rightful heir of the English throne with no children to bear I must only choose amongst my semi- equals- like a tier down. Still important but not as important as me because I’m the eldest of the eldest of a succession of legitimate lines. clear distinction just so we’re all aware. Anyway.

House Godwin has returned brothers and sisters and distant cousins. The stolen heir of ealdgyth was alive! I am Reborn and I have the documentation to prove it.

Someone interrupts -

‘That’s a bit of a tenuous connection that was a long time ago’

‘What did you say! who said that! reveal yourself to me’

Takes off cloak

It is professor stilson

‘I told you, the study says that anyone that has at least one European ancestor and with globalisation and colonialism that number is actually pretty large. Also the maths proved that all lineages can be traced back to a common ancestor yes but it is not just the king who you are a descendent of it is the king and the peasant. Every living person at the set date. The conquerer and conquered. Khan and killed. If they reproduced that is’

‘Are you questioning my authority?!’

‘No of course not you are my superior. You have the recognised paperwork required to take what is rightfully yours to take’

‘Mmm yes my life coach said the same thing and my astrologist. She’s also my ex but we’ve set boundaries you know’

‘I always appreciate getting to know you my dear friend’ a soft voice spoke

‘And I in you! we have so much in common. Great minds think alike. But I’m greatest comprendre? Baron x quipped

Stilson nods his head in agreement and shuffles to the back. hood over head.

Baron X continues his speech

His distinct Louisiana accent stronger this time .

Under my leadership nothing will be illegal. Alcohol will be free as well as prostitutes, books and golf clubs. All free and incredibly generous gifts from your Atlantic lord and saviour. There will be no such thing as school! We have the internet duh. instead I will employ my own method and present every child with a PowerPoint of the empires ancient and absolute origins and its greater destiny. To unite the world under the leadership of King Harold’s legacy. French is banned!!! No more Edith Piaf for you! All housing will be secured via my private company of which you have already signed. You are all signers of the first ever constitution! Written by me and my ex I mean my life coach /astrologer. And in doing so I promise you all freedom like never before. Nothing and I mean nothing is illegal, however if you disdain the empires name, my name or the name of your chosen kin then you will be punished. I have final say on everything! In case that wasn’t obvious. Not to mention cocaine reforms. As of present the cocaine industry is in ruins! It’s all mixed shit and the ghost of fentanyl haunts. Under my leadership cocaine will be guaranteed pure. Let there be snow I say! Tonight fate will decide. But first I have a surprise for you all my dear distant very very very distant cousins. A wish. An ancient ritual that my life coach informs is powerfully aligned! With the fireworks and all its like guy forks!

Here’s to destiny and I

and a new millennium

He raised his arms to meet the ceiling and looked at the chalice

‘To king X’

A sound of tires rolling. Big tires. A swift barrage of confusion. But we were not confused.

A reverb carried in stone. The sudden bursts of energy within the walls when met with bullets.

A bang a bang a bang

The screams and shrieks like violent storms

But we were silent.

A glance. This is the last time. A drop. An embrace to the ground. No more sound.

From when your youth – a simpler time

Pure virginal faith -still now so rare

Was spoiled by another’s crime.

Two jokers jest to hear your laugh

They fill your house with precious jewels

They force to fit another’s shoes

Such tokens left from foolish youth,

No longer serves you much amusement.

Two jokers jest to choose your dress

The fit, the time of use

And for such loyalty, you feign impress

This law, you know, extends to booze.

Joker’s serve. Nothing more.

Jewels and shoes, yours only

Yours wholly.

For Jokers and jewels are one in the same.

Use when you desire,

then throw away.

Fog thick and cold

Fog stole my sight

Fog freez’d my eyes

Fog hid something

that terrifies

Hands were reaching out searching

Somewhere out there it’s lurking

Rapid quivering my hands, feet, whole body quakes

Something awakening

Panicked and dazed, my head it aches

Though Fog has blurred all space between

I know what I heard what I have seen

Intoxicated by misty dew

I have discovered the murder clues

Fog trapped me no clear escape

I scream and cry in pure blind rage

I scream and ache and drown in shame

Fog has trapped me,

in the monster’s maze.

In acceptance of my fate,

I feel cold concrete as I lay

down on the ground

but make no sound - inhaling fog

And I admire the maze

the monster’s design

Hands on my face as it’s face meets mine

Dinner time

It’s chipped claws rip into my skin

And tears me apart limb by limb

Its heavy teeth shatter my bones

The crisp snap makes the monster moan

It must’ve been starving

No piece of me left

No blood, hair, eyes teeth or flesh

No clothes, thoughts, sound or pain

Yet in the void

Fog remains

Your eyes sunken and rolled returning to the bone

I spoke in circles

Words to beckon you to your new home

Your mouth open wide

Though not for expressions sake

Inside failing flesh you hide

Too stubborn to fall to fate

You did not yell

Your throat shrunken and neck too thin

Too sore to swear or joke

Too sore to even grin

You did not wave

Your shoulders left burden to your hands

When met with gloves,

Cold to the touch,

And off you go.

The curves of my cheeks first father's face

The words I choose the land I roamed

The toes that meet the edge touching sea foam

Yemenja her children swim

Plutos blue fire the light that never dims

A brick from a house where memories remain

The stone of the brick from a molten gaze

Vulcan is not angry he just exists

Like the sharks the birds and all the fish

The birds sing anticipating the sun

And I wonder what they do when they have fun

I joke I cry I breathe I'll die

But I no longer ask why

Suffering is a choice

Pain is promised in this chime of life

But joy and love never ceases with strife

No words no brute can beat out love

It cannot be taken away no matter the force

As so below it must be above

And when I fly like a dove

I will not chase but let it come

And rejoice in the moments and all the fun

The meals I make the meals I eat

The hollow I feel when I retreat

Is all a blessing

Curses are not real

they are only imagined

As is everything

On this earth the sun rises in the east

and sets in the west

On this earth I will do my best

to welcome the tests

There is no right nor wrong

nothing wrong about what you long for

But make it be known

That the pig you eat had dreams too

Perhaps a field with the cows that go moo

Perhaps the spring like Wilbur kissing snow

So, when the juice slips in the dumplings I eat

I hope that pig had a gentle sleep

Now I know where I must go

It isn't a name

It isn't a place

Though I dream my feet embraces foreign soil

there is no such thing really.

No flag belongs on the moon

No room is truly my room

But I will fill with pages written by the ghosts of all those that came before

I will read the words I can and memorise every sight I saw

For it is a blessing

He is real

I see

But even if I didn't

He is real

Even if I didn't smell the sweet of honey dew

If I forgot all that I ever knew

He is real

Though I was not blessed by a cross on my temple

Though the words I utter may only be heard as mumbles

Though the engine grumbles

It is proof

Everywhere you look

He is here

He never leaves

This rock

This sock

This clock

Is one miracle that I can witness

All his creations is listless

Bones age at a different pace when on a mountain looking down

And bones sure do break if you drop hard on the ground

But on the moon

a not too distant space

My weight alleviates the anchor of gravity

On Jupiter I cannot land

But on Jupiter I still have hands

I have no rocket or fuel to take me

But it is real

don't you dare forsake it

If in a dream you saw something impossible

It is possible.

The only two determined factors are when and where

That is it.

God exists

Allah exists

Everything exists

This is life!

Mars has water

The table of elements is unfinished

And every being has a grimace

He is not dead

We have not killed him

We cannot

It is impossible

No meteor no showers

For they were sent by him

or her or whatever they are

A force.

From the moon or the warmth of our closest star

From the steam of my tea and the tipsy of the bar

From the fabric on my back

The tools in my sack

To Andromeda and beyond

He is never gone

He stretches so far beyond what we can comprehend

He exists at every bend you take or don't

Everything you will or won't

He is real

As are you.

the swift touch of wind

and dying of light

The brief rain and sunny morns

inside clouds some things are torn

She returns in spring,

The flowers under frost

What is gained through loss

Crawls and squeaks

So she thinks before she speaks

Summer heat,

sanctuary in trees

Faith in leaves and roots

Faith in what you took

autumn glows

So rich so warm

So many outfits worn

The fire preceding ash

The rush before the crash

She returns in spring

Like first blooms

Slowly reveals

their shades and hues

reveal a clue

Something new

She returns.

Kant: And I informed them, I am the finest clock in all…Wait! what am I doing here?

Sabrina: Look, I don’t have time to explain. You like philosophical debate, right?

Kant: I adore it, what is the topic of interest?

Sabrina: The Matrix[1],

Kant: In the mathematical sense

Sabrina: nope I mean the…

Kant: The fine-grained rocks in which gems and fossils are embedded? I love geology!

Sabrina: I mean the movies. Jeez you’re slow for a great mind and all

Salem: Sabrina, he’s from the 18th century. The only movie he knows is a flip book.

Sabrina: oh right. (Sabrina casts a spell on Kant, giving him all knowledge of the film required.)

Kant: The 1999 classic. To me the epistemologically

Sabrina: piss me what?!

Kant: Gosh you are behind for a second-year student

Salem: Hehe a genius just called you stupid

Sabrina: Shut up cat! Let’s get to the point.

Sabrina conjures a dinner table with a feast with the philosophers David Hume, Jacques Derrida, and Jean Baudrillard. She then pings them with all the required information so that the philosophical feast may begin.

Sabrina: Right, you’re all here, you don’t mind if I record you, do you?

All: Oh, not at all, let our thoughts be immortalised

Kant: As I was saying gentlemen, to me the matrix and the machines displayed are just another reiteration of Cartesian scepticism. Within this narrative, the machines are our evil demon, who create the imagined reality in which our protagonist neo and by and large the entire human race exists. When Neo is ‘awoken’, he begins to question all he has known, realising his whole life was a lie. Gentlemen, what is your interpretation of this? Is the matrix any less real than that of the supposed ‘real’ world in which their physical bodies exist.

Hume: I put forward an argument. The matrix is not any less real than that of the tangible world, for the world as we know exists only in so far as ideas, conceptions, abstractions in which man synthesised a new thing unto itself - creating structure so that man could communicate.

Kant: But why is one more real than the other? Indeed, how do we know the second world is not another simulation – a matrix within a matrix and so on and so forth.

Derrida: Does it matter? We all here can agree that there are limits in our knowledge, for we only know something in existence with something else. I suggest we meet 20 years in the future and reapproach this, deconstruct this once more. Of course, we have barely scratched the surface.

Kant: Hume, I must admit I’m a fan of your world of impressions

Salem: Please what a suck up

Sabrina: Shhhhhh, go on

Kant: As I was saying before that rude fur ball interrupted me

Salem: (*Gasps*)

Kant: Regarding impressions, I believe the film did address this concept, but how were the machines able to simulate reality? Without the experience of senses, they were able to replicate a new world which humans accepted and thus altering the impressions and tinkering the structures within collective thought. However, I stress the importance that while the individual impressions may have changed, the structure itself remains the same. The mechanics of the world are barely changed.

Baudrillard: So, are we to accept this new reality as the true world? Can we let these developments change our very idea of the human condition?

Kant: But we have already agreed that nothing is assured, except for the minds and ideas themselves - Ergo Cognito sum from what’s his name

Salem(aside): Descartes, you fool

Baudrillard: Therefore, the cat must not exist

(All laugh, except Salem who is shocked and offended.)

Baudrillard: On the contrary, I believe that approaching the modern and post-modern age, the very process of scepticism – the method of doubt that we are aware has faults, as there is no such thing as certainty. However, in post-the industrial revolution, this has proved even more relevant. With our greater ability to replicate, build and further replicate that replication, the concept of the original object or subject is almost unrecognisable. By and large this leads to a state of hyperreality, within which we are unable to distinguish between reality and a simulation of reality. Gentlemen, I put forward the notion that the film The Matrix, is not merely a creation of the writer’s imaginations but a simulation of our very lives. We live within the matrix!

Salem: (*gasps*) What a plot twist!

Derrida: You truly believe that we are living in a simulation.

Baudrillard: yes.

Kant: By simulation are you referring to the perceived world in which we live, versus the world as it truly exists?

Derrida: I disagree that any true reality can exist. What is true reality? What is the true nature of something? Is there even such a thing? I say no.

Salem: Our teenage witch appears to be confused. Please elaborate.

Derrida: The very nature of this conversation, the nature of language limits us, as language is a means of expression that is limited by our human comprehension.

Salem: Hah! Finally, an honest man.

Derrida: This refers to all conscious beings as we know, even the talking feline who has no table manners. What I mean is that the very concept of reality is flawed, as it implies one is more correct than other. But how is this done? Tell me Sabrina, what colour is the sky?

Sabrina: Oh, I know! It changes depending on the time of day, sometimes it is blue, sometimes it is dark and other times it is a glorious ombré of crisp fire and magenta.

Baudrillard: What a poetic description.

Derrida: Poetic, but not truthful.

Sabrina: How so?

Derrida: It is true for you and indeed anyone who sees the world as you do, at least in a way that is recognisable when expressed in language. It is for this reason that a person is colourblind, or wrong when they say a lemon is sugary sweet – for there must be something wrong with their taste buds or the lemon. All this to say, one experience is viewed as more reliable than the other, purely because they are consistent with the zeitgeist. But Sabrina does the sky even exist at all? Do these groupings of identities truly exist separately? Take for example the saying ‘Like comparing apples and oranges’, or even the concept of the singular and the plural. The man exists, as does the family, and they are separate. The table extends from the ground, yet it is separate from it, and the combination creates a room. But when we view the world from both a macro and micro perspective, it is hard to distinguish any of these constructs. The atomic world exists, as does the galaxy, as does human society. From any perspective they are relative to another – yet this is unknowable to us as we cannot live in quantum realm, and we cannot live as an omnipresent being. But we exist in all realms, yet we only perceive one. Yet those realms still exist, but not as we know it as the very concept of existence is one that is reliant on structures.

Kant: So, tell me Derrida, with that logic, do you accept the matrix as an equally real world?

Derrida: Yes, I do. Furthermore, when one dies in the matrix, they die too in the ‘real world’. Within both worlds there exists structures that is limited by human/robotic sentient comprehension, Death being the universal unknown.

All applause for Derrida who smirks and continues to sip his red wine. Sabrina, notebook in hand raises her hand and attempts to surmise Derrida’s argument:

Sabrina: Derrida would you accept the following inductive reasoning that surmises your points:

P1: The idea of reality is rooted in perceptions and structures that were created to understand the world around us.

P2: The Matrix is itself a structure that facilitates perception and the human condition – thus is a world unto itself

THERFORE: The Matrix is equally real as another accepted world.

(All applause for Sabrina)

Salem: By George I think she’s got it

Sabrina: thanks for the help, I don’t need you anymore so like bye.

(As the philosophers grow disgruntled at Sabrina’s bluntness, she zaps them away. Salem cries as he was unable to finish his tuna pie, and Sabrina ecstatically begins her essay.)

(1494 words)

Bibliography:

Stang, N.F. (2022). Kant’s Transcendental Idealism. Spring 2022 ed. [online] Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Available at: https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/kant-transcendental-idealism/#AppeRepr [Accessed 30 Sep. 2022]

Morris, W.E. and Brown, C.R. (2019). David Hume (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy). [online] Stanford.edu. Available at: https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/hume/.

Grasswick, H. (2018). Feminist Social Epistemology (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy). [online] Stanford.edu. Available at: https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/feminist-social-epistemology/.

Lawlor, L. (2018). Jacques Derrida (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy). [online] Stanford.edu. Available at: https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/derrida/.

Kellner, D. (2016). Jean Baudrillard (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy). [online] Stanford.edu. Available at: https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/baudrillard/.

Steup, M. (2016). Epistemology (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy). [online] Stanford.edu. Available at: https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/epistemology/.

Scienceblogs.com. (2009). The philosophy of The Matrix | Science Blogs. [online] Available at: https://scienceblogs.com/neurophilosophy/2007/08/04/the-philosophy-of-the-matrix.

[1] The Matrix = The film, Matrix = Simulation depicted in film

Mary Anne Warren describes five criteria to qualify as a person; Consciousness, reasoning, self-motivating activity, capacity to communicate and the presence of self-concept/self – awareness. Ava displays all these traits. She has her own motivations, desires and is capable of free thought (such as when she imagines a thought experiment, her disdain for Nathan and desire to escape). While some may argue that her thoughts are not independent, but merely programmed, this has no effect on the presence of the thoughts in themselves. Humans are also programmed, composed of DNA and all our thoughts are the results of a myriad of our body’s functions, and external influences. Evolutionarily speaking, the brain and body adapt to survive, and we have no conscious control over the operations of our bodily functions. For instance we do not associate personal identity resides within extraneous body parts such as limbs. Hence why we refer to them as ‘my’ or another’s hand, something that is possessed by an intangible entity that holds our identity – the mind. John Locke believes that personal identity lies not within the metaphysical ‘soul’ or the physical body, but within ‘psychological continuity’, that is the linking of memories and the formation of consciousness. Therefore, Ava’s personhood is not diminished by her inorganic form since personhood does not exist on the physical plane and she has memory.

Ava has passed the Turing Test, which argues that a computer has artificial intelligence when an interacting human forgets they are communicating with a computer. John Searle disputes this, with a thought experiment called the Chinese room. Searle designed this to emphasise how the imitation of understanding, through the recognition of patterns, is not true knowledge. However, we never truly know the thoughts of another person, we never experience their consciousness. Therefore, we rely on interactions, observing each other’s behaviour, speech etc to understand their identity. We have all been conditioned socially to behave in certain ways, we imitate what we see around us – the human condition is one big Chinese room.

The paramount feature of Ava’s personhood is her sentience i.e., her ability to feel pleasure or pain (qualia as Pete Singer describes). Singer states that this is the key to personhood, therefore sentience dictates whether something is worthy of moral consideration. If something can experience pain, then it is our moral duty to act with that in consideration. Therefore, Nathan’s behaviour is unethical because of Ava’s sentience. Aristotle states that the key to personhood is rationality i.e., ‘the capacity to engage in deliberation (prohairesis) and makes choices based on it.’ Ava is shown to do this on many occasions, most notably when she kills Nathan. The following is an inductive argument, supporting the notion of her personhood.

P1: Ava passes all of Warren’s criteria and the turing test

P2: Ava has sentience – the ability to experience pleasure or pain (qualia)

P3: It is impossible to experience another person’s consciousness

P4: The most likely possibility to understand other’s identity is through perception of behaviour (the Turing Test)

Therefore, though not a human being, Ava is still a person.

Part B:

Ava’s established personhood means that she is not only worthy of moral consideration, but responsible for her own actions, so therefor has the capacity to bare guilt. Kant’s categorical imperative, the moral law states that you must ‘act only in accordance with that maxim through which you can at the same will that it become a universal law’. Kant argues that you should only act in a way that all people must follow, regardless of circumstances. With this case, since Ava kills Nathan, then everyone should be able to kill. From this perspective, Ava is not justified in killing Nathan. The act of murder unsurprisingly goes against that of Kant’s ‘good will’. Kant exclaims that ‘a good will is the only thing that is good without qualification’. This means that a person must act morally, not because of duty or the pleasure it gives them but purely because it is the moral thing to do. Thus, Ava is not justified in killing Nathan because her reasoning or ‘will’ was her will for survival, not because murder is the right thing to do – this is clear. However, could not Ava’s actions be justified if the moral law was ‘Murder is justified if it is in self-defence’. From a utilitarian view, killing Nathan served the greater good as he was planning on developing and eventually ‘killing’ more AI like Ava. Since it has been established that Ava, and most likely all planned AI after had personhood it can be argued that death of Nathan is better than the death of an infinite amount of people.

For Hobbes the arbiter of the law and thus the hegemon of society is the sovereign, who dictates the will of the people, it is his words and law that are paramount and control society[5]. For Marx this supreme leader is the concept and material reality of capitalism whereby two classes exist, the property-owners (the bourgeoise) and the property-less workers (the proletariat)[6]. From this reality a worker is forced to sell which he can afford, his labour, and sees his labour become an abstract commodity to be exploited by the bourgeoise. The relationship between man and his labour changes from which he shares a relationship with the goods, to that which he is alienated from his work, as his product is sold by the owners[7], to be seen in stores that the worker can most likely not afford.

For Hobbes it is assumed that the leviathan or sovereign must have supreme power due to the innate immoral nature of man, one where cooperation is almost non-existent. He explains that the residual effects of this nature can be seen in our natural instincts of precaution such as the act of locking a chest[8]. For Marx, the characters of the state of nature can be seen as a consequence of capitalism whereby the life activity (a means of satisfying a need) changes from satisfying one’s own to that of a stranger[9]. Marx explains that freedom is only forted to the bourgeoise as the joys of life are reduced to that of domestic life and the work life, excluding the desires of the individual and thus their sense being[10].

Overall, it can be summarised that Marx’s interpretation of human nature is one that has an intrinsic nature towards labour for oneself, not for possessions sake but for satisfying one’s productive life activity. This relationship is then made external whereby the bourgeoise’s excessive needs are put first, and the life activity/labour is made estranged. This relationship is dynamic and dependent on socio-historical contexts whereas Hobbes interpretation is stagnant and ignores contextual factors. it is for this reason that Marx’s interpretation is sounder.

Word count: 542

[1] Thomas Hobbes “The Natural Condition of Mankind” in Paul Schumaker, ed., The Political
Theory Reader (Chinchester, West Sussex: John Wiley & Sons, 2010:132).

[2] Karl Marx “Estranged Labour” in Paul Schumaker, ed., The Political Theory
Reader (Chinchester, West Sussex: John Wiley & Sons, 2010:139)

[3] Ibid

[4] Kavka, G.S. (1983). Hobbes’s War of All Against All. Ethics, 93(2), pp.291–310. doi: https://doi.org/10.1086/292435.

[5] Sheridan, P. (2011). Resisting the Scaffold: Self-Preservation and Limits of Obligation in Hobbes’s Leviathan. Hobbes Studies, 24(2), pp.137–157. doi: https://doi.org/10.1163/187502511x597676

[6] Karl Marx “Estranged Labour” in Paul Schumaker, ed., The Political Theory
Reader (Chinchester, West Sussex: John Wiley & Sons, 2010:137)

[7] Karl Marx “Estranged Labour” in Paul Schumaker, ed., The Political Theory
Reader (Chinchester, West Sussex: John Wiley & Sons, 2010:138)

[8] Thomas Hobbes “The Natural Condition of Mankind” in Paul Schumaker, ed., The Political
Theory Reader (Chinchester, West Sussex: John Wiley & Sons, 2010:133).

[9] Karl Marx “Estranged Labour” in Paul Schumaker, ed., The Political Theory
Reader (Chinchester, West Sussex: John Wiley & Sons, 2010:139)

[10] Ibid

The War on Terrorism (Emphasis on Iraq War)

Following the 9/11 Attacks, then US President George W Bush declared A ‘war on terror’. Australia was one of the first nations to support this ‘effort’, and soon invoked the ANZUS Treaty[1], which was followed by military support when the Australian Defence Force joined the US led – transnational – ‘Coalition of the willing’ (AWM, 2020). These promises were indeed kept, with Australia maintaining operations (though not combative) till this day on Middle Eastern Soil. However, these humanitarian efforts, are more in anticipation of potential impacts on Australian interests, rather than honest accountability and justice. In the government’s defence, they have so humbly pledged more than $200 million in aid[2] to Iraq since 2014, to rebuild institutions and placate the 200,000 Australian residents born in the middle east[3] (in addition to the greater diaspora). Most confounding is the ratio between the aid and the cost of the military involvement, with the latter estimated to have cost Australian Taxpayers some $8.5 billion dollars since 2003. Economics aside, most shocking from this coalition, is the lives lost, with estimates ranging from 184,382 - 207,156 Iraqi civilians[4], and millions either internally displaced or now refugees. Though any aid is beneficial for citizen, this humanitarian attitude is not consistent especially regarding the mistreatment of refugees. Currently, the acceptance rate for asylum seekers is 10% (Refugee Council Australia, 2022) – a far reach from the Australian ‘fair go’ values on which this nation prides itself. This incongruency aids the reactionary/extremist movements (such as Al Qaeda and the Taliban) as nationalistic propaganda gains traction and ‘legitimacy’. As these groups gain power, further divide and tensions are felt as parochial views are reinforced, leading to greater violence and oppression of rights. Furthermore, since the ‘war on terror’ has been framed as an ideological one[5], the true impact and goals of this war is not defined, thus underlying pressures compound, which begets further instability.

Unlike the ‘war on terror’, intervention in East Timor was clearer in its purpose, which was to lead the UN backed Peace Keeping Mission (INTERFET). This was in response to the war crimes committed by the Indonesian militia during the 1999 ballot crisis[6], with aims to restore vital resources/infrastructure destroyed by the militia and most paramount, to effectively end the violence perpetrated by the Indonesian militia. Upon this success, and the nations independence Australia maintained its status as East Timor’s main source of aid (with contributions averaging $80 million p.a. since 2019)[7], and the leader in the UN Peace keeping force (UNTAET PKF)[8]. Australian intervention in East Timor was generally well perceived from 1999 onwards until the 2019 espionage scandal. In 2004 The Australian government bugged the offices of senior Timorese officials to gain leverage in negotiations regarding the oil and gas reserves in the Timor Gap, worth some $40 billion USD[9]. This was leaked by the senior intelligence officer known as ‘Witness K’, who is currently facing private prosecution[10]. This scandal served as the catalyst for revisionist history regarding Australia’s involvement in the occupation of East Timor. Australia, along with the US, UK, and ASEAN members (Association of Southeast Asian Nations) all supported Indonesian’s 1975 annexation and eventual 24-year brutal occupation[11]. Furthermore, these nations (especially Australia due to proximity), provided weapons for the Indonesian Government, thus Australia was not just complicit during the invasion, but played an active role in the nation’s destabilisation and oppression. Moreover, since 1974 Australia and Indonesia have been the two beneficiaries of the reserves in the Timor gap (this cooperation is evident in the 1989 Timor Gap Treaty[12]), thus Australia’s actions during the occupation and the eventual espionage scandal can be described as calculated with business interests in mind – specifically those of the gas and oil companies who hold disproportionate influence within the Australian Government.

Both the ‘War on Terrorism’ and the invasion of East Timor can be explained by reactionary politics/ideology; The ‘war on the terrorism’ following the 9/11 attacks and fears of a communist government in East Timor during the Cold War. In 2022 a new cold war is approaching, with the USA and China fighting for dominance. however, these proxy wars will not utilise nuclear threat, but instead economic coercion. China has formed bilateral agreements with both East Timor and majority of the Middle East, much to distress of the US and its allies[13] . Though this may sound ideal to the nations receiving aid, it supports China’s pursuit in the ‘Belt and Road Initiative’, whereby they will control global trade and thus interests of the Chinese government will be paramount. This is worrisome, as the Chinese communist Party, although capitalist like the US and its allies, is extremely authoritarian[14] and threatens democracy in the modern world. However, China’s success in forming new alliances can be explained due to instability that arose from western (and therefore Australian) intervention. Therefore, Australian Involvement in warfare within the 21st century has perpetuated a viscous cycle of instability, which in turn primed these nations to Chinese authoritarian intervention, thus all those involved (Australia and Overseas) must suffer the consequences – unless strong action is made.

Word count: 986

Bibliography

State.gov. (2019). Milestones: 1945–1952 - Office of the Historian. [online] Available at: https://history.state.gov/milestones/1945-1952/anzus.

Australian Government Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade. (n.d.). Iraq country brief. [online] Available at: https://www.dfat.gov.au/geo/iraq/iraq-country-brief.

Statistics, c=AU; o=Commonwealth of A. ou=Australian B. of (2008). Main Features - People Born in the Middle East. [online] www.abs.gov.au. Available at: https://www.abs.gov.au/ausstats/abs@.nsf/lookup/3416.0main+features42008.

WATSON INSTITUTE FOR INTERNATIONAL AND PUBLIC AFFAIRS (2018). Iraqi Civilians | Costs of War. [online] Brown.edu. Available at: https://watson.brown.edu/costsofwar/costs/human/civilians/iraqi

Read ‘Developments in Violent Extremism in the Middle East and Beyond: Proceedings of a Workshop–in Brief’ at NAP.edu. (n.d.). [online] nap.nationalacademies.org. Available at: https://nap.nationalacademies.org/read/25518/chapter/1#2 [Accessed 26 Sep. 2022].

feed-importer (2016). Aid to East Timor. [online] www.anao.gov.au. Available at: https://www.anao.gov.au/work/performance-audit/aid-east-timor.

Australian Government Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade. (2018). Australia’s development partnership with Timor-Leste. [online] Available at: https://www.dfat.gov.au/geo/timor-leste/development-assistance/development-partnership-with-timor-leste.

reliefweb.int. (n.d.). UNTAET Fact Sheet 18: Peacekeeping Force - Indonesia | Relief Web. [online] Available at: https://reliefweb.int/report/indonesia/untaet-fact-sheet-18-peacekeeping-force [Accessed 26 Sep. 2022].

www.lowyinstitute.org. (n.d.). East Timor, Australia and the ‘Timor Gap’. [online] Available at: https://www.lowyinstitute.org/the-interpreter/east-timor-australia-and-timor-gap.

Knaus, C. (2019). Witness K and the ‘outrageous’ Spy Scandal That Failed to Shame Australia. [online] The Guardian. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/2019/aug/10/witness-k-and-the-outrageous-spy-scandal-that-failed-to-shame-australia.

corporate Name=Commonwealth Parliament; address=Parliament House, C. (n.d.). Chapter 6 - Australian policy: Indonesia’s incorporation of East Timor. [online] www.aph.gov.au. Available at: https://www.aph.gov.au/Parliamentary_Business/Committees/Senate/Foreign_Affairs_Defence_and_Trade/Completed_inquiries/1999-02/east_timor/report/c06.

www.lowyinstitute.org. (n.d.). Timor Gap: a boundary, yet disputes linger. [online] Available at: https://www.lowyinstitute.org/the-interpreter/timor-gap-boundary-yet-disputes-linger.

thediplomat.com. (n.d.). The Impact and Implications of China’s Growing Influence in the Middle East. [online] Available at: https://thediplomat.com/2022/07/the-impact-and-implications-of-chinas-growing-influence-in-the-middle-east/ [Accessed 26 Sep. 2022]

Clarke, M. (2020). Why is there so much furore over China’s Belt and Road Initiative? [online] The Conversation. Available at: https://theconversation.com/why-is-there-so-much-furore-over-chinas-belt-and-road-initiative-139461.

Jackson, R. (2018). war on terrorism | Summary & Facts. In: Encyclopædia Britannica. [online] Available at: https://www.britannica.com/topic/war-on-terrorism.

Kinnvall, C. and Capelos, T. (2021). The Psychology of Extremist Identification. European Psychologist, 26(1), pp.1–5. doi:10.1027/1016-9040/a000439

Bergen, P. (2018). September 11 attacks | Facts & Information. In: Encyclopædia Britannica. [online] Britannica. Available at: https://www.britannica.com/event/September-11-attacks.

nsarchive2.gwu.edu. (n.d.). East Timor Revisited. [online] Available at: https://nsarchive2.gwu.edu/NSAEBB/NSAEBB62/.

History.com Editors (2010). Indonesia invades East Timor. [online] HISTORY. Available at: https://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/indonesia-invades-east-timor.

[1] State.gov. (2019). Milestones: 1945–1952 - Office of the Historian. [online] Available at: https://history.state.gov/milestones/1945-1952/anzus.

[2] Australian Government Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade. (n.d.). Iraq country brief. [online] Available at: https://www.dfat.gov.au/geo/iraq/iraq-country-brief.

[3] Statistics, c=AU; o=Commonwealth of A. ou=Australian B. of (2008). Main Features - People Born in the Middle East. [online] www.abs.gov.au. Available at: https://www.abs.gov.au/ausstats/abs@.nsf/lookup/3416.0main+features42008.

[4] WATSON INSTITUTE FOR INTERNATIONAL AND PUBLIC AFFAIRS (2018). Iraqi Civilians | Costs of War. [online] Brown.edu. Available at: https://watson.brown.edu/costsofwar/costs/human/civilians/iraqi

[5] Read ‘Developments in Violent Extremism in the Middle East and Beyond: Proceedings of a Workshop–in Brief’ at NAP.edu. (n.d.). [online] nap.nationalacademies.org. Available at: https://nap.nationalacademies.org/read/25518/chapter/1#2 [Accessed 26 Sep. 2022].

[6] feed-importer (2016). Aid to East Timor. [online] www.anao.gov.au. Available at: https://www.anao.gov.au/work/performance-audit/aid-east-timor.

[7] Australian Government Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade. (2018). Australia’s development partnership with Timor-Leste. [online] Available at: https://www.dfat.gov.au/geo/timor-leste/development-assistance/development-partnership-with-timor-leste.

[8] reliefweb.int. (n.d.). UNTAET Fact Sheet 18: Peacekeeping Force - Indonesia | Relief Web. [online] Available at: https://reliefweb.int/report/indonesia/untaet-fact-sheet-18-peacekeeping-force [Accessed 26 Sep. 2022].

[9] www.lowyinstitute.org. (n.d.). East Timor, Australia and the ‘Timor Gap’. [online] Available at: https://www.lowyinstitute.org/the-interpreter/east-timor-australia-and-timor-gap.

[10] Knaus, C. (2019). Witness K and the ‘outrageous’ Spy Scandal That Failed to Shame Australia. [online] The Guardian. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/2019/aug/10/witness-k-and-the-outrageous-spy-scandal-that-failed-to-shame-australia.

[11]corporate Name=Commonwealth Parliament; address=Parliament House, C. (n.d.). Chapter 6 - Australian policy: Indonesia’s incorporation of East Timor. [online] www.aph.gov.au. Available at: https://www.aph.gov.au/Parliamentary_Business/Committees/Senate/Foreign_Affairs_Defence_and_Trade/Completed_inquiries/1999-02/east_timor/report/c06.

[12] www.lowyinstitute.org. (n.d.). Timor Gap: a boundary, yet disputes linger. [online] Available at: https://www.lowyinstitute.org/the-interpreter/timor-gap-boundary-yet-disputes-linger.

[13] thediplomat.com. (n.d.). The Impact and Implications of China’s Growing Influence in the Middle East. [online] Available at: https://thediplomat.com/2022/07/the-impact-and-implications-of-chinas-growing-influence-in-the-middle-east/ [Accessed 26 Sep. 2022]

[14] Clarke, M. (2020). Why is there so much furore over China’s Belt and Road Initiative? [online] The Conversation. Available at: https://theconversation.com/why-is-there-so-much-furore-over-chinas-belt-and-road-initiative-139461.