the horde

the dark mass of dust on the horizon signifies the coming storm, the men riding across the desert with purpose. their scouts had already been spotted and the town prepared. those who could have already fled, taking their families and their valuables with them on the road to the south, hoping that the bandits they might meet will not take everything. as the sun rises through the mid-morning the slow, deep sound of the horses starts to be heard, barely audible, felt more through the soles of the feet than by the ears. instead of panic a grim determination overtakes those stood at the walls, their armour old and poorly fitting but still strong, their swords are sharpened and ready. as they look out they can see the figures through the dust. a thousand devils approach, wearing helmets wrapped in furs and strung with worn bones of enemies. the sounds of their heathen prayers layer the wind.

quick, run.

The display fractures, heads dividing and spinning away from each other while the heads continue to debate and explore differing points of view. He hates these debate bombs. He swats at the faces with his hand but it just agitates them and they start to swarm around him, his unconscious cognitive dissonance pulsating, consuming each other until finally he is whole again.

tea house

The smell of wine rots the air. on the balcony above the plucked noise of a lute smacks like rain falling on tin through the laughs and conversations. Ah Wei stands outside the door, scared to step through. his fear surprises him. he has been preparing and training for months, eating only a few grains of rice each day to keep himself pure as he meditated and practised the secret moves he stole. -Now, he tells himself but he doesn't move. From behind him someone knocks, drunken, into his side. -Apologies, brother, the drunk says before walking on through the door. finally Ah Wei places one foot in front of the other. He knows he is ready. The door opens easily. Inside the noise is even louder, causing him to pause. No-one looks up at his entry. He looks around but does not see the one he is looking for, or any of his men. They will be upstairs in their private room. He spies an empty chair at a table and moves to sit down. It's hot. He decides to have a drink, to give himself time to become familiar with the inside of the place. A waiter places a cup of tea and a plate of duck heads on the table next to him before turning to give him a look of disgust. Ah Wei realises, for the first time, that his appearance is that of a beggar and quickly reaches for his purse to show that he has money to pay before the waiter calls for a bouncer. He knows that the bouncer would not be too much trouble for him, he just wants to be sure that the bastard Black Nose Zhang is inside before he starts his fight.

silence

Rocks slide out of the water, banded greens in lush folds against the dark brown stone, pushing upwards in broken lines. The water is still, glassy, reflecting a darkening sky that rolls overhead threatening a distant rain. The hawks hover, slipping into each other's paths as they seek out anything that might catch their vision with the tight hook of instinct and hunger. One of them dips below the others and suddenly clips his wings inwards, falling faster, before embracing his prey in silence.

funghi

The room is full of a mixture of people already sat in various states, talking and admiring each other's foliage. I neck the pill and walk through, looking for someone I know. I see Edgar sitting in an alcove, unmoving, with a small crowd sitting and watching him while chatting. Mushrooms are sprouting from his face and there are even the buds of flowers starting to form around his neck. -It's like the Jane Experiment. I hear one of them say but I move on before I can hear the response. I feel the tingle on my face as the drug starts to take hold. I touch my cheek and look at the dusting of mould already starting to form from my cells as they change. I decide to sit down. Movement slows the transformation. A woman walks by with ferns pouring down her face where her hair had been, green moss highlighting her cheekbones, then I recognise her from the grey eyes. -Mary, I say. She looks over at me and smiles. -How are you? I ask. -Amazing. She replies. This is my best time ever. I notice the edges of the fern leaves are starting to curl and brown. She tugs at one, crumbling it in her fingers. -I guess it's coming to an end now.

The motion of the train feels strange to him, evoking the feeling of memories he cannot translate to more than a blur. Looking through the window at the rushing countryside, with its hedges and green hills, he feels that his mind should be like this view, the parallax motion of the past should be slow and solid while the present rushes by without an indication of what will yet be remembered. His perspective seems somehow reversed, with only the present offering a sense of reality while internally there is nothing. The past slips by without any chance to examine or hold on to it, like eating peas with a knife.

He reaches down to the floor, picking up the rough canvas bag he has been carrying and opens its buckles with narrow, pale fingers. Inside there is little. A bottle of water with the seal still intact and a sandwich wrapped in plastic. He draws the sandwich out, again. He cannot quite being himself to eat it. He examines it. There is something wrong with it, something not real that he feels is at the edge of his vision. He tilts his head away from it to see if a different view offers any light. It still appears to him as two slices of foamy, tasteless bread enclosing slowly hardening cheese and ham. A girl is sat watching him from the seats on the other side of the carriage. Her mother, who is travelling with her, has momentarily disappeared.

-Is this really a sandwich? He asks her, holding it up.

She looks at him with a mixture of suspicion and precociousness. -Sort of, she says and then she smiles and looks away.

The man continues to stare at it for a short time and then twists himself in his seat to look for a bin. There is one tucked behind his chair. He pushes the sandwich inside. He doesn't want to take the risk.

waiting

The sweat beads down his jaw, mixed with dust, pooling with an itch at his chin. He feels the sun hot with the dying afternoon. The air is thick with the smell of gunpowder and burning flesh. The woollen rag tied over his eyes is too tight. His arms ache with the pressure of the ropes holding them at his back. He is tired of waiting, listening to the sounds of other men being ordered around and adjusting their equipment, reloading their rifles. The knot in his stomach is filled with frustration and fear. He feels his legs shake and wants nothing more than to fall down and lie on the ground. If he dies like a dog he is still dead.