Xan and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

You walk past them every day, but you've never taken the time before, to stop and look at a charter listings console. Today, clearly, is different. You stop outside the charter booths. Small, diamond shaped panes of colourful glass separate each small chamber, some more opaque than others. Just enough to afford some privacy while still letting anyone outside know that a booth is occupied.

Hesitantly, you step inside, into the multicoloured light. Immediately, a light in the ceiling illuminates, slowly increasing in brightness from ambient to bright enough to read by.

“いらっしゃいませ！”　An automated voice makes you jump as the screen illuminates with listings in a language you can't read. “どんな御用でしょうか？”

You try to calm your heart rate. You're not sure why you feel like you're being caught doing something wrong. You're just checking the travel listings. There's nothing wrong with that. Right?

“English, please,” you say. A small, spinning clock icon appears on the screen.

“Welcome,” the voice says, “How can I assist you?” Alabaster dialect. The standard form of English here on Luna.

“I'd like to see travel listings please,” you say, a little nervously.

“Which destination do you require?”

“Neptune.”

The spinning clock appears on the screen again for a moment. “I have found 27 ships departing soon, with Neptune on their itinerary. 3 ships travelling directly. 108 ships scheduled to depart within one week.”

“Can you show me the ones departing soon?”

The screen fills with text listings of ships. Couriers. Passenger transports. Trade vessels. A couple of salvagers. You look at the list of ship names. Ultraviolet Catastrophe. Ishtar's Tear. Whispering Nautilus. Zenobia. A few others, written in languages you can't read. Your eye settles on a name you like.

“Tell me about the Banshee's Wail,” you say.

“Banshee's Wail. Wyvern class light freight vessel. 10 crew members. 4 listed passengers. Space for up to 20 additional passengers. Captained by Rachida Okafor.”

“How do I reserve a space?”

“Reserving a space on vessel, Banshee's Wail.”

“Wait, no!” you splutter.

“One cabin space reserved on Banshee's Wail. Destination: Neptune. Departure scheduled for 17 hours from now. Space will be reserved until departure from Luna.”

“Wait,” you say, “I made a mistake. Cancel the reservation.”

“I'm sorry,” the voice says in calm an unnaturally cheerful tone, “cancellations must be made directly with ship personnel. The Banshee's Wail is docked to hangar D-27.” Well. Now you've done it.

You stumble out of the charter booth. Did you really just reserve a place on a ship going to Neptune? You look up, to see a sign in the corridor, amongst some Jacaranda trees. It points towards the hangars.

No, this is ridiculous. You can't go to Neptune. You have... You stop and think about it. You work remotely, doing freelance work. You could do that anywhere.

You've always wanted to visit Neptune. You've heard that the geyser plains on Triton are beautiful, and the Neptunian cloud cities in those swirling blue clouds are some of the most newly constructed in the entire System. The accommodation there is said to be extremely luxurious.

But what about your friends here on Luna? You think about it. Torin has barely spoken to you since he got a boyfriend. Yelena left last month to go to one of the Venusian cloud cities. Your other friends here on Luna live in different cities anyway, so you're already long distance friends. Your family have been telling you for years that you should travel more. And they all live on Ganymede anyway.

The more you think about it, the more you realise that there's nothing keeping you here. And it's possible for you to travel anywhere you want to. So why not?

You head home to your apartment to pack a suitcase. A large one.

#27days27stories • day 10

Of all the things one might expect to see in a bookshop in Istanbul, a rare treasure like this was not one of them. Isabelle leaned closer to the small terracotta pot, with its clutches of narrow, dark green leaves and delicate looking purple flowers. Viola cryana. The crying violet. Yes, she was almost certain of it. Most people wouldn't even look twice at a small pot of flowers in a bookshop, but most people hadn't spent so much time studying this particular plant. With a frown, Isabelle looked up. Was there a shopkeeper she could ask about this?

It was a small shop, tucked away down a narrow side street. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with wooden bookshelves, full to overflowing with books, haphazardly coloured, and in several different languages. Here and there, stacks of books sat on the floor, in corners. Some looked dusty enough that they must have been there for some time. While old bookshops like this could easily become dark and dusty little places, this one was brightly lit by large windows in old wooden frames, which had clearly been repainted several times. Lazy sunlight poured in, illuminating motes of dust, swirled by the handful of people browsing the shelves.

Isabelle had been casually looking out of one of these windows when she'd noticed the potted violet, sitting between a lemon tree and a couple of faded looking hardback books.

There! A woman with pitch black hair and olive skin, with a roman nose. She was wearing a dark green dress with gold trim, adorned with various pieces of shiny gold jewellery, and carrying a box full of books, carefully slotting them into shelves.

Isabelle walked over to her. “Excuse me,” she said, softly, trying not to disturb anyone, “could you tell me who owns this shop?”

The woman looked at her with chestnut brown eyes and a smile which felt like sunlight. “I certainly can. This is my shop.”

“Oh! It's nice to meet you!” Isabelle grinned. “I love old bookshops like this one.”

“My name's Ceren,” she said, holding out a hand. “And what may I call you?”

A moment's hesitation. “I'm Isabelle,” she said. She was unsure quite how to behave. Something about Ceren's gaze made her feel like an awkward student trying to ask a professor for help with an assignment. “I was just wondering, um,” she stumbled over her words, trying not to sound too eager, “that flower over there, by the window? Where did you get it?”

Ceren leaned over slightly, looking to the window, the sunlight catching one of her earrings. She looked back to Isabelle. “I've had that plant for almost as long as I've been here. And I've been here for a long time. It was a gift.”

“I hope you don't mind me asking,” Isabelle said, “but could I perhaps take a cutting from it?”

Ceren brushed a strand of hair over her ear, making the golden bracelets on her arm clink together. “And why would you want a cutting from that little thing?”

Isabelle met Ceren's eyes for a moment. Her gaze was strong, and felt humbling. She deserved the truth. “Well, you see,” a pause, “I think that flower is a crying violet. And, well, they've been extinct in the wild for over ninety years.”

Ceren's lips curved into a lopsided smile. “And how would you know that?” she asked.

“I er,” Isabelle fumbled her sentence again, “I'm a botanist. I studied violets for my PhD, and I'm almost certain that flower is Viola cryana. Though I've only ever seen pictures of it. It died out in the wild around 1930, and it's been thought extinct since the '50s.”

“Well, you've certainly impressed me.” Ceren's eyes twinkled. “However, I'm sorry. I can't let you take a cutting from that plant.”

“But,” Isabelle tried not to let her disappointment show, “but it's a miracle to find one still alive and growing like this. It could be regrown. Reintroduced into the wild. The entire species could be revived!”

Ceren took a step back and looked Isabelle over. She suddenly felt a little bit like one of the plant specimens she'd grown in the laboratory, being examined for viability.

“My dear,” Ceren said, idly playing with one of her necklaces, “when I said you'd impressed me, I meant it. But I've seen many like you.”

Isabelle frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, I've been here for a long time. People walk into my shop sometimes and notice things. Things like the Byzantine sword hanging over the door, or the old parchment copy of the Kitab al-Tabikh in the case behind the counter over there.”

“Kitab al...?”

“It's a medieval cookbook.” Ceren grinned. “The point is, I collect these things. Things out of place in time. Kept inside here, away from the outside world, they're safe.”

“But why just keep them here? Why not share them?”

The corner of Ceren's lips pinched into the half smile of someone who'd explained something often enough that they were trying to find a different wording to see if it helped. She looked over towards the window, and the plant pot. A long, slow moment passed. “I don't keep them here for myself,” she said eventually. “They're here because keeping them is my duty. Their time has passed. There's no place for them in the world anymore. They're just echoes now. Just like me.”

Isabelle's brow furrowed. “I don't understand,” she said.

“Everything passes. Time outruns us all eventually. When you've been here as long as I have, you come to learn these things.”

“Wait,” she said, “how long did you say you've been here?”

“To be candid, I forget when I first came to Constantinople.”

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “Constantinople?”

Ceren's warm brown eyes twinkled. For the briefest moment, Isabelle caught a glimpse of something in them. Something wise and ancient. But only a glimpse. “That's what this city was called when I first came here, yes.”

#27days27stories • day 9

“Seriously? 8 minutes? That’s all the time I’ve got?” Her stomach fizzed at the realisation. Not enough time. Not nearly enough.

“7 minutes and 57 seconds now.” The small speaker on her collar comm distorted Lin’s voice, making her sound small and metallic. “You need to move fast. Go.”

“But—”

“GO!”

Amber grabbed a handrail, clutching it as she spun herself around in the weightlessness. Straightening her body, she propelled herself sharply, feet first, through the empty space station corridor. Arms crossed over her chest, mummified in the moment. Golden light from illuminated access panels washed across her as she fell past blueish white cushioned corridor tiles.

“There’s no way to buy some time?” she asked, voice sharp. Catching another handrail, she swung herself around a corner into another corridor.

“I'm a salvager not a god.” Lin's level voice sounded calm but focussed. “I can't change orbital mechanics.”

Amber bent her knees to slow her speed, feeling the thump as as her feet came in contact with a closed door, metallic with thick glassy windows. She steadied herself with a nearby handrail. “I need you to open,” she looked around for a maintenance ID, “number 27.”

Green lights illuminated around the door and it slid open with a soft hiss. Without warning, a jolt ran through the corridor, followed by a juddering sound. Rattling noises resonated through the metal hull of the station.

“What’s going on?” Amber shouted.

“High altitude clouds. You’re hitting atmosphere,” Lin almost sounded perfectly calm and level. But a strained note was hiding in her voice. “Give it a second.”

As suddenly as they started, the vibrations died away, leaving a deafening silence behind. Amber kicked her feet against the doorframe, launching herself head first along the corridor. She needed to get to the docking bay.

“How long?” Amber asked.

“6 minutes.”

Amber tucked her arms and knees towards her torso and span around, stretching out her legs ahead of her again. “Can I really make it in time?” she asked. Reaching out, she caught a handrail to both steady herself and pull, giving herself a little more momentum.

“It’s gonna be tight. You're deeper in atmosphere than I thought.”

“Should I just take an escape capsule?” Amber eyed an emergency hatch as she drifted past it.

“No.” A firm, weighty reply. “You’re too deep. An esCap would just fall. You need the Lakana.”

“How much further?”

“Just through the next door. You've still—” She stopped abruptly. A rumble ran through the corridor. “Shit!”

“Lin? Talk to me, what’s going on?”

Green lights illuminated a nearby door, as Amber was passing by.

“Honey, listen, you need to go though that door right now, ok?” Lin was speaking fast now. She sounded worried. She never sounded worried.

Amber reached out for a handrail and caught it tight. She winced as her own weight wrenched her arm, before she pulled herself up, scrambling through the door.

“Are you through?”

“Lin, what’s—”

“Tell me! Are you through?”

“Yes.” Amber’s brow furrowed.

“Ok, stand clear and hang on.”

Amber grabbed a handrail as the door closed with alarming speed. A sharp crack as it sealed tight. Overriden safety protocols. Lin didn't normally do that. The station around her started to shake violently. A terrible groaning noise started to ring through the walls, loud enough for Amber to feel in her chest. A steady crescendo, turning into the sound of rending metal. Through the windows of the closed door, Amber watched as the corridor outside was torn away, piece by piece falling, tumbling into the dark. Warped pieces of metal glowed orange from friction, leaving trails of vapourised atoms like faint candle flames.

“Amber?” Lin’s voice sounded tight. “Are you good?”

“Yeah,” she replied. A sigh of relief. “What happened?”

“Another patch of cloud. A dense one, I think. You’re clear for now, but that thing is NOT going to last much longer.”

“Lin,” Amber’s shoulders sank as a leaden feeling rippled though her stomach. “The docking bay was at the end of that corridor. What am I going to do now?”

Silence.

“Lin?”

More silence. And what may have been a frustrated sigh.

“Lindiwe!” Amber could feel a flurry of panic rising in her chest. Her words were a trembling staccato. “Come on, there’s got to be a way — there's always a way!”

“You won't like it.”

“Like what?”

“Ok.” Back to the level tone. Lin had regained her composure. “The docking bay looks intact. The Lakana should still be there.”

“And if it’s not?”

A pause. “It has to be.”

Amber felt a lump form in the back of her throat.

“Right by you,” Lin continued, “there should be a locker. You’ll need to suit up.”

“You cannot be serious!” Adrenaline pinched the skin of Amber’s face.

“Amber, there’s no other way.”

A burst of sparkles in her vision as her face tingled. She drew a slow breath to try and slow her heart. “But I don’t know if—“

“Amber!” Lin’s voice was sharp as a blade. “You have just over 2 minutes! Suit up now!” Then, softer. “Please. I can’t lose you.”

Amber quickly found the locker and yanked its contents out into the corridor. Three space suits drifted out in the weightlessness. Clumsily, she scrambled into one, checking the safety seals as quickly as she could. How long had she been? 30 seconds? 40? A minute?

“Ok, ready.”

“Just follow my voice.” Lin was calm again. “Hold onto something.”

Amber grabbed a handrail. The door lit green and started to open. She heard the frenzied rushing noise of escaping air. The drifting suits were sucked out, bouncing against the door. Then pristine silence.

“Go now. It's maybe 10 metres away. Not far.”

Hauling herself out, Amber could see little more than a shaking mess of fragmenting space station. Hot vapour trailed all around her, streaking away into the dark. She closed her eyes for a moment. She could do this.

“1 minute 20 seconds.”

Hand over hand, Amber pulled herself along the rail. A chunk of formless debris sped past, perilously close to her head.

“I’ve greenlit all the doors you need. No pressure left anyway.”

Ahead, Amber could see the door, yawning wide.

“Amber, please. Hurry.”

She took a deep breath and released it slowly, making a calm little space inside her mind. A place to shut out all the chaos. Carefully, she tucked her knees, span around, and pointed her legs towards the open doorway. With a sharp pull, she propelled herself towards it and let go of the rails. Amid all the chaos outside, she could hear only silence. Surrounded by jolts and shakes, only stillness.

As she passed through the open doorway, a sharp jolt. Another chunk of the corridor was silently ripped away. A brief glimpse of the planet below. Greenish clouds, serene beneath the fragmenting carnage. She caught a handrail and took a moment to look around. The Lakana was there, docked where she’d left it, sheltered from the ouside for as long as this bay held together. The walls bounced and rattled. They wouldn't last much longer.

“Just get in and brace.” Lin’s words came in a rapid burst. “Engines are fired up. I can remote pilot it from here.”

Amber bent her knees, aimed herself carefully, and kicked hard, propelling herself towards the Lakana. A door was already open, just behind one of the wings. Amber caught hold of a ladder rung on the floor below. Adjusted her aim. She pushed again.

“30 seconds.”

Amber grabbed the edge of the small craft's open door. Heaved herself into an airlock. The muscles in her arm screamed in pain, but she ignored them. She hit a button and the door slid shut, hiding the turmoil outside. No time to repressurise. She found an emergency seat and clutched an armrail. No time for belts.

“Lin, I’m good,” she said. “Go.”

“You’re braced for accel—“

“GO!”

A humming vibration filled the airlock, rumbling through Amber's hands. A steady, controlled vibration this time. Continuous. Warm. The Lakana’s engines fired. With a jolt, the docking clamps decoupled. Then she was pressed against the wall, the vice-like crush of acceleration squeezing her lungs. 2 gees. 4 gees. The safety limits were off. Lightheaded, her eyelids fluttered as the ship screamed away. For a fleeting moment, her vision started to lose colour. Then peace. Relief as the engine vibrations died away and the weight was lifted from her chest.

Amber breathed a heavy sigh. She looked out of a window in the outer door, to see Ouranus’s swirling teal clouds below.

“Amber? You still with me?”

“Yeah.” A long, slow blink. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“8.2 gees. A lot, even for you.” Lin laughed. “You’re clear, honey. I’ll see you really soon!”

Amber breathed a heavy sigh. “That was close. Can we not do this again?”

“We won’t have to,” Lin said. “You got it, right?”

Amber patted her hip. Under the space suit, her pocket. Inside her pocket, a small data crystal.

“Yeah,” she said. “Our ticket to a whole new life.”

#27days27stories • day 8

As the haze of the evening’s festivities starts to clear from your head, you realise that deciding to walk home might have been a mistake. You probably should’ve caught the last train home with the others, but it had been Neesha’s birthday and you wanted to share one last drink with her before leaving. At the time, it had seemed worth a little inconvenience. But that was before you’d started walking. You shiver a little, as the wind tickles your face.

You look around, but you don’t recognise this street at all. A nearby vending machine buzzes, and a few garbage dumpsters stand haphazardly outside closed restaurants. You pull out your phone and check the map again, but the location marker refuses to zoom in. Either way, you’re sure it didn’t look this far when you were checking the map earlier. In the bar. With all the background noise. While trying to half-hold a conversation. You may have been wrong. It doesn’t matter now though, because you have no idea where you are or how to find your way out.

Ok, you need to think about this. You look groggily around the street. Something about it feels... off. Like there’s something about your perception which doesn’t quite feel right. You shake your head, wishing you were more sober. No, that’s not right, you must be more sober by now.

You wander down the street passing closed shops, their shutters rolled down and covered in graffiti. You walk past one in particular with strange looking writing sprayed onto it. You don’t recognise the script. Are those runes? No, you’ve seen runes before and you don’t recognise these. You wander on, reaching a junction. There don’t seem to be any street signs, unfortunately. Looking left and right, you still don’t see anything which looks familiar. Normally, you’d try and find one of the taller landmarks to help find your bearings. Maybe one of the towers from the city’s commercial districts. But the buildings around here are too tall.

There’s always a better street to walk down. That’s the advice you remember being given when you first moved here. And as far as you can tell, that’s always been true. There’s always been some place which looked nicer. Cleaner. Brighter. Some place with a nicer atmosphere.

That advice seems as good as anything right now, so you decide to follow it. The nicer places must surely lead to the busier places, and those are where you might find better phone signal. Signposts. Maybe even a taxi. You take a right turn and wander past a small roadside garden. A breeze blows dry leaves across your path.

This entire street seems nicer than the last one. There are flower pots on the doorsteps with lush green plants growing in them. There’s not a dumpster in sight. There’s still graffiti though. Among the graffiti, sprayed in side alleyways and on more metal shutters, you find more odd looking writing. Wait, is that the same writing as before? You can’t be sure, but it definitely looks similar. You continue to the end of the street and find another junction. You’d been hoping to find a main road you could follow, but these streets all look very similar to the one you just walked down. No matter. You look around and choose one street with brighter lights than the others and follow it.

This street is lined with trees, neatly planted by the roadside. You can’t see a single piece of litter on the pavement. Wisteria bushes trail up the walls, curving over shop windows and around restaurant doors, hanging little bundles of purple flowers downwards, their bright colours accentuated by the warm whitish street lighting. You look up, and you can even see stars in the sky. As you walk past a traffic sign, you notice some writing scrawled on the back of it, in marker pen. It looks very similar to the writing you saw before. In fact, this time you’re almost certain it’s the same, even though you can’t read it. You’re starting to recognise a couple of the characters.

Your head is much clearer now, though you’re starting to feel tired. You’d really hoped to be home by now. At the next junction, you pick the nicest looking street again. It feels safe here. Comfortable. Warm. The wind you felt before seems to be gone now. The street lights here look nicer, given the look of old style gas lamps. Between the shops and restaurants residential buildings have grander entrances. Larger doors, with older looking trees either side of them. On a paving tile, you see the same strange writing again, written in chalk.

Looking up, you realise the sky is no longer dark. Instead, it’s starting to fade into the deep blue of twilight. You groan inwardly as you realise it’ll soon be morning. But you’re somehow no closer to being home. You still don’t even know where you are. You resolve to just keep following the brighter, nicer looking streets. Don’t pay attention to anything else and just keep walking. You have to find someplace eventually. At this rate, maybe you’ll just find a train station. It won’t be much more than an hour before the trains start running again.

At the next junction, you take a road lined with orange trees, bursting with fragrant blossoms. At the next, you find one with pure white paving tiles and rose bushes. Then one with rounded cobble stones and blooming magnolia trees. Is it even the right time of year for magnolia blossoms? You’re too tired to care. You walk down another street, paved with glassy black stone, lit by low, golden lights. A street paved in marble and filled with ancient, gnarled-looking oak trees. The sky starts to fade to lighter blue. Then orange. As you reach another junction, you realise it’s almost dawn.

You lean on a wall, taking a moment to rest. You flex your aching feet. They’re slightly numb from all the walking. You glance back down the street you came from, but you can’t see the other end of it from here. Warm sunlight hits your face, making you look up. The sun is rising, shining straight down a street in front of you. You walk towards it. The road is paved in stone which looks like jade. A street sign by the road has the same strange lettering you’ve seen written on every other street you’ve walked down. But this isn’t graffiti. It’s finely crafted lettering. Shiny. Metallic. Is that gold? As you step onto the street, you realise you’re completely surrounded by trees. You can’t even see any buildings anymore. Bathed in sunlight, walk down the jade road, curious about what you might find at the end of it.

#27days27stories • day 7

The scent of musty damp in this wine cellar pervades your senses as the inky darkness weighs on your shoulders. You shine your phone light around at the shelves, lined with dusty bottles. Blindingly bright, slicing through the darkness, illuminating trailing cobwebs and grime. You try not to look too closely at the floor, in case you find evidence of the rodents which almost certainly dwell down here.

It felt a little strange that the owner of this old hotel allowed you to simply walk down here to pick out whichever bottle you wanted, but you certainly weren’t going to refuse the offer. These rural hotels are obviously more relaxed than the ones you’re more familiar with, and it’s not like you’ve even been to this country before. For all you know, it might have been rude of you to refuse the offer.

You round a corner and find a secluded shelf under a stone archway. Three bottles stand on it, their labels obscured by dust. It’s hard to say how long they’ve been here. They almost look like they could be even older than the hotel owner, with his white hair and thick spectacles. You wipe the label a little but can’t really get through the grime. Wiping a little of the dust from the glass, you could swear you catch a glimpse of a brief opalescent shimmer inside the bottle from the light you’re holding. Probably just a reflection, and your eyes playing tricks here in the darkness.

You stifle the urge to wipe your fingers against your jeans to rid them of the thick dust from the bottle. You fleetingly consider finding a cleaner bottle, but your father always said that the older a bottle of wine was, the better it must be. These must certainly be some of the oldest bottles here. Shrugging, you lift the bottle from the shelf. It’s heavier than you expect. Carefully, you make your way back over the damp stone tiles and up the steep, narrow steps. This old place was most certainly not built with safety in mind!

You make your way back to the lounge above. Wind whistles under a doorway, making a tortured groaning sound as you walk past it. Danica is sitting at the low coffee table by the fireplace right where you left her, looking at something on her phone. In front of her are two clean glasses. She looks up as she sees you approaching and flashes you a smile.

“You were gone a while,” she says, reclining into the cracked leather of her chair. “I was starting to think I should call mountain rescue or something.”

You laugh as you sit back down in a similarly decrepit chair with worn brocade upholstery. Behind you, a crumbling sound as a piece of firewood falls apart and the flames dip slightly lower. “Do they rescue people from caves too? Because they’d need specialist gear down there.”

“I don’t think there are many options for emergency services out in a place like this,” she shrugs. “So let’s see then! What treasures did you dig up?”

You place the old bottle on the table, still thick with dust.

“Holy crap, seriously?” Danica looks at you, incredulous. “You know I was just kidding about digging stuff up, right?”

“Hey, the guy said any bottle we wanted,” you shrug. “Where did he go anyway?”

“I guess maybe he went to bed? It’s pretty late.”

“We should probably clean this, I guess.”

Danica replies by giving you a scathing look which you take to mean ‘obviously, fool.’ You walk over to the nearby bar and return with a bowl of water and some paper towels and the two of you swab the bottle down, removing as much of the encrusted grime as you can. Underneath, the bottle has a strange sheen, with a slightly purplish hue. As you look at it, you catch a brief opalescent shimmer cross the glass. The label is yellowed and its derelict condition was not helped by the swabbing, but it still appears legible. Or at least, it would be legible if you could read it.

“Do you know what language this even is?” you ask.

“No clue,” Danica scratches her brow.

You look at the label closely. The writing is made of bold glyphs with strangely graceful curves and sharp angles. It’s like no script you’ve ever seen before. You could almost imagine it carved into a clay tablet you might see in a museum.

“Should we really open this?” you ask, looking at it with the kind of reverence a palaeontologist might reserve for a freshly excavated dinosaur skull.

Danica shrugs and stares at the two empty glasses. “I finished my last drink half an hour ago.”

“Ok ok.”

You break a wax seal off the top of the bottle, and work a corkscrew into an ancient cork, hoping it doesn’t break apart as you do so. At first it’s stuck fast, and takes a little coaxing to pull out. Carefully, you ease it up and out and with a loud pop, you finally free the cork. As you pull the cork from the bottle, your ears catch the sound of... whispering voices?

You frown. “Did you hear that?” you ask.

“Hear what?”

“I thought I heard something.”

“Wind in the chimney, maybe?” Danica glances over at the fire. Only a few flames remain on the dwindling firewood.

You nod. That must be it. Old buildings like this are full of strange sounds. You lift the bottle, which seems somehow even heavier now, and carefully pour some into the two glasses.

Danica lifts her glass and inspects it, raising an eyebrow. “Weird,” she says.

You look at yours. Is it just because of the dim firelight, or is it strangely dark? Lifting it, you catch the fragrance of raspberries and old oak barrels. You hold it up in front of the fireplace, but you can’t see a hint of light passing through it. It absorbs all the light, appearing almost blacker than black,

You look over to Danica. You meet her eyes and she grins. You raise your glass. “Cheers,” you say.

“Cheers,” she clinks her glass to yours. “Here’s to the strangest and most remote hotel I’ve ever stayed in!”

“And the creepy jagged mountains outside!” you laugh.

You take a sip from the glass. It certainly tastes like wine. A warm flavour, with flavours of roses, blackberries, and the feeling of being wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold winter evening after stepping inside out of the wind. Wait, how do you know what that tastes like? You look up at Danica.

She looks back at you, her mouth open in surprise. “This tastes like,” she fumbles for words, “like waking up refreshed on a Saturday morning and having no reason to get out of bed.”

You almost laugh, but the serious look on her face stops you from doing so. You look into your glass. You think you see a brief opalescent shimmer run across the surface of it. You tentatively take another sip and taste a relaxing walk through a rose garden, with a lover, on a warm summer evening. You blink, taken aback.

The two of you sit together quietly, sipping from your glasses, enjoying the flavours of warm, soothing feelings in the black wine. You barely exchange words with each other, but it almost feels like you don’t need to. Once or twice, you’re almost certain that the two of you must have tasted the same... experience? Memory? You’re not even sure.

As you finish your glass, you glance over your shoulder at the fireplace. The last flames have died away now, leaving only glowing red embers. “Do you think we should tend the fire?” you ask.

You look over to Danica. You meet her eyes and a brief opalescent shimmer crosses her irises. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll take care of that.” She casts her gaze at the fireplace and it immediately erupts into flames, casting a soothing glow throughout the room.

You look at the fire, and then slowly, bemusedly, you look back over at Danica.

She gives you a warm smile. “Shall we have another glass?” she asks.

#27days27stories • day 6

You’ve walked past the same row of shops almost every day for the three years you’ve been living in this part of town, so you know it very well. Which is why it comes as a surprise to notice a small shop you hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t that one of the other shops had closed down and changed hands to a new owner. You’d definitely remember that. No, this was different. A narrow looking little place squeezed in between the key cutter and the bakery, with a sign coloured in vibrant swirls of purple and pink.

You stop to look at the odd looking little place. The street is fairly busy, and several people hurry past without looking twice at it, despite its outlandish appearance. The shop sign doesn’t have any writing on it. Just a strange looking symbol, like an eye with five lines radiating from underneath it. You try to look in the window, but the inside is completely dark. Eerily dark, as if the window glass was just black obsidian. Unnerved, you decide to step away and carry on walking. Soon enough, the strange little place has faded from your memory.

The next day, you find yourself passing the same way. You notice the strange little shop again. A few people walk past it, but still no one seems to pay it any attention. Its window seems brighter now, and you realise you can see inside. Perhaps it simply hadn’t been open yesterday. Looking in, the shop’s interior looks rather spacious. A number of colourful jars and bottles line wooden shelves. Many of them have writing on them, in uneven black ink. You squint, but you can’t quite make out what any of it says.

But the most peculiar thing is the window display. Behind the glass are several large mushrooms, the largest being easily over a metre tall. Their caps are vibrantly coloured in purple and pink, just like the sign above the door. You smile at that. Whoever designed the display had a nice eye for detail. They’re quite carefully detailed too. In fact, whichever artist created these managed to make them look almost like real mushrooms. Your curiosity piqued, you try to walk into the shop to take a closer look. Turning the handle, you push. Nothing. It seems like the door is locked. Maybe this shop isn’t open yet after all. You make a note to come back some other time, to see what it is that this strange little shop is actually selling.

The following day, the government announces a lockdown to slow the spread of the coronavirus. No one knows how long it might last. You won’t be walking along your usual route today. Better to simply hurry to the supermarket so you can pick up a few essentials you need, before they’re all sold out. You remember what happened the last time, when panic buyers emptied the shelves, and you don’t want to run out of rice again. The store is busy, but you manage to pick up everything you need. As you walk home, you find yourself wondering about the strange little shop. They chose an unfortunate time to open. You hope they’ll manage ok while there are no customers.

For the next two weeks, you stay at home and try to keep yourself entertained with movies and internet video calls. It isn’t too bad really, provided you can keep finding yourself things to do. You find yourself troubled though, by strange dreams. Dreams with swirling purple and pink colours. They aren’t nightmares exactly, because you don’t find them scary. But they do leave you feeling slightly unsettled when you wake up. And they all seem to end the same way. A gigantic eye, floating in front of you. It opens, and light streams out, spiralling around you like tendrils. No, not tendrils. More like a web of fine, shimmering filaments. You have no idea what it could mean.

Eventually, your supplies start to dwindle. You should make another trip to the supermarket for groceries.

It’s a nice day outside as you step out. Clear air, clear skies, and the sound of birdsong. You decide to take the long way to the store, seeing as you’ve been staying at home for so long. So you walk down the street with the row of shops. Th shop with the purple and pink swirling sign is there. You frown as you look at it. You remember it being narrower than that. The window is now much wider, filled with many more of the mushrooms you’d seen before. Somehow though, the shops to either side of it don’t seem any narrower. The pavement tiles outside it are starting to crack and split apart. Small, bulbous looking things are protruding out from between them. Bulbous things with purple and pink swirling patterns. Mushrooms!

Hesitantly, you step closer to the shop. Those shelves you saw before don’t seem to be made from wood. They’re warped. Rounded. More organic looking. Like the bracket fungus you’ve seen growing from the side of trees. And those jars. Are they jars? You were mistaken before. That isn’t uneven writing on them, and it doesn’t look like black ink. Those look like... faces? You squint and step closer to the window to try and get a better view. Then one of the turns, looks at you, and smiles.

You step back with a start. You look up and down the street, but it’s completely deserted. There’s no one here but you. With a click, the shop door swings silently open, inviting you to step inside.

#27days27stories • day 5

‘It isn’t safe. You should leave, quickly.’ You feel a shimmer of worry run through your chest, clutching at your heart as you remove the message from the broken fortune cookie, putting the cookie pieces down on the plate in front of you. Carefully. You don’t want to show any emotion which might give you away. Casting your eyes from side to side, you glance at the others sitting around the table with you. Suspicion wells inside you. Carefully, hands trembling, you fold the fortune in two and place it inside your pocket. Sending messages this way was risky. Something must be wrong. You should never have left the sanctuary.

You quietly excuse yourself and head for the restrooms. You leave your jacket. Taking it would look suspicious. In the subdued lighting, you see people look up at you, as you walk past the other tables. A man with silver hair and frameless spectacles. A dark skinned woman wearing a blue dress. You try not to make eye contact. Any one of them could be a hunter. Stepping briskly through a door, you find yourself in a small corridor. There are two doors leading to restrooms, and another door labelled ‘Staff only’ with an emergency exit sign above it. You step through the third door.

Garish white fluorescent kitchen lights hit you in the face as you step into a large room full of smoke and steam with sweet and savoury fragrances, lined with shiny stainless steel surfaces. A chef stops you. He looks Korean, with unkempt hair. His sleeveless shirt shows a jellyfish tattoo on his arm. He insists that you go back through the door. You apologise, desperately trying not to draw too much attention. You just need to get out quietly, you explain. He eventually relents, and lets you step out of a back door.

Humid night air envelops you as you step outside. Thicker than in the kitchen. Heavier. Permeated with a thousand aromas of the city. It assaults your senses as you find your way out of a back alley. The street outside is busy, but you feel exposed. You fight an almost irresistible urge to just run. You can’t draw attention.

You need to find a portal. A quick escape somewhere safe. Normally, you’d create one of your own, but that would be unwise. Anyone paying attention would find you instantly. As you walk, a bus turns onto the street. You sprint for a bus stop, just a few metres away, holding out your arm to flag down the bus. You practically dive into the bus as it stops, and find a seat near the exit doors.

The few other passengers, tinted a sickly hue by greenish lighting, seem uninterested in you. You try to make sense of things, but can’t. Too many thoughts. Your mind whirls. You take a deep breath and look out of the bus window. The bus passes a large advertising board with the words, ‘Get off at the next stop.’

You blink. Another message? Such an obvious one? This feels very wrong. You reach out and hit the stop button. As the bus pulls up, you stand to slip quietly out of the exit doors. Before you do, you glance at the entrance to see another passenger getting on. A man with silver hair and frameless spectacles. He looks directly at you and his eyes widen. Quickly, you step off the bus, walk sharply down an alleyway, and break into a full sprint, not even looking back. Before stepping out into another street, you slow to a walking pace and try to control your breathing.

“There you are.” A voice from behind you. With a gasp, you turn to find yourself face to face with a dark skinned woman wearing a blue dress. Your heart leaps in your chest, as you start to back away. “It’s ok.” She holds up her hands quickly, speaking softly. “I can help you. I’m from a sanctuary. Come.”

You hesitate and look around the street. This could be a trick, but you don’t have many options. You follow her. She leads you along a side street and walks into a launderette, checking to make sure you’re following.

It’s empty apart from the two of you, and smells of soap and bleach. One of the dim fluorescent tubes in the ceiling flickers ominously. The woman leads you to a door in the corner of the room.

“You’ll find help on the other side of this portal,” she says. She gestures at the door.

You look at the door, and then back at the woman. She smiles, nervously, glancing at the launderette entrance. You take a deep breath, reach out, and turn the handle of the door, stepping through, and closing it behind you.

Suddenly, you’re surrounded by smoke and steam with sweet and savoury fragrances. Garish white fluorescent kitchen lights and shiny stainless steel surfaces. A feeling like a lead weight lands in the pit of your stomach. Sharply, you spin around and open the door again. You find yourself staring into a supply room. The portal is gone. You breathe heavily, and look around desperately, trying to find somewhere to escape. Anywhere.

“Don’t worry.” The Korean chef with the jellyfish tattoo. He holds up his hands, not stepping too close to you. “Over there. That portal leads to a sanctuary.” He points.

You look over to see a door on the other side of the kitchen. The same door you left the restaurant through earlier. You frown and look back at the chef.

“It’s ok,” he says, “go now. Quickly. And take this.” he holds up your jacket, neatly folded.

You take it, and give him a half smile in thanks.

Walking up to the door, you still hesitate. But you don’t have any other options. Opening the door, you step through the portal and find yourself surrounded by green leaves and golden sunlight.

#27days27stories • day 4

“Do you think anyone else is going to show up?” Lyssa looked around at the groups of people on the edge of the woods, putting up tents and lighting barbecues to make themselves some dinner. Golden evening sunlight poured from between dark clouds. The sky looked heavy. Foreboding. She found it unsettling.

“There’s still time before tomorrow. I’m sure some others will show up in the morning.” Maia gave her that reassuring smile she always gave. That smile could convince Lyssa of anything. Almost anything. The pitch of Maia’s voice betrayed that she was anything but sure. She was clinging to hope too. Just like everyone else.

Just metres away, the construction vehicles stood silently. Poised like a grotesque metal menagerie, their stillness a sharp contrast to the destruction they were planning to wreak the next day. This forest had stood here for thousands of years. At its heart, were ancient neolithic monuments. Some kind of temple, according to the archaeologists. But all people seemed to care about were the riches they hoped to find by digging up the ground.

“Hey,” Maia looked concerned, “how are you feeling?”

Lyssa considered her words. What was she supposed to say? That her stomach was in knots? That her skin was prickling, or that her jaw was sore from being clenched so much all day long? Finally, she settled on, “anxious.”

Maia held up a bottle of wine. “Maybe a little of this might help?”

Lyssa shrugged and took the bottle, fishing a bottle opener out of her backpack. “Can’t hurt.”

“Hey, do you think those are going to be a problem?” Maia said, eyeing the towering dark clouds in the skies overhead.

“Just a midsummer storm, I think.” Lyssa uncorked the wine bottle with a loud pop. “I don’t think it’ll rain. But if we’re lucky, we might get some lightning.”

“Oooo, a light show. Nice!” Maia giggled as Lyssa poured two glasses of wine for them.

“We tried our best,” Lyssa said, raising her glass.

“And we’ll keep doing so!” Maia smiled.

They clinked glasses and took a sip of the wine, enjoying its rich, warm flavour, as the last rays of orange sunlight fell onto the hill. Lyssa sat back heavily, knocking over the wine bottle.

“Shit!” she gasped.

Maia caught it quickly. “It’s ok. You didn’t spill much.”

A rumble of thunder rippled through the air, as the sun dipped below the horizon.

“Do you need aid?”

The voice startled both of them. The turned to see a pale man, dressed in a long coat with a hood.

Lyssa stood up sharply. “Are you here to join the protest?”

The man looked at her, bemused. He had sharp, narrow features. Androgynous. His sky blue eyes were strangely calming to look at. “Protest?” he asked. “What are you protesting?”

Lyssa pointed at the diggers lined up nearby. “We’re trying to stop them from destroying the forest.”

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Maia cut in, holding up the bottle.

The pale man looked at her and grinned. “It’s been some time since anyone offered me anything,” he said. “I’d be delighted, thank you.”

Lyssa flopped back down where she’d been sitting. With a flourish of his coat and a fluid motion, the pale man sat with them both. Something about him seemed strange to Lyssa, but she couldn’t quite place exactly what it was. Maia poured a paper cup of wine and handed it to the stranger.

“I hope you don’t mind the cheap cups,” she said, embarrassed.

“Not at all.”

The three of them clinked glasses and each sipped their wine, as the sun disappeared below the horizon.

“So why are these,” he gestured at a nearby bulldozer, “what do you call them?”

Lyssa frowned and looked at the vehicles. “Diggers?”

“Why are these diggers trying to destroy the forest?”

“They want to mine the ground for some metal or other,” Lyssa wrinked her nose.

“You must’ve read the flyers we’ve been sending out?” Maia asked.

The pale man shook his head.

“Well, we’ve lived our entire lives near here,” Maia furrowed her brow, “and we’re not going to let them take our forest without a fight.”

“I’ve been here for quite some time too,” the man nodded. “And these people here are your warriors?”

Lyssa laughed. “Warriors. I like that.”

“There aren’t enough people here though,” Maia sighed. “We’ve tried so hard to get people interested in our cause, but...”

“No one believes in it,” Lyssa finished.

The pale man looked wistfully at the horizon, where the sun had just set. In the twilight, he looked weary, his eyes clouded with thoughts. “I know just how that feels.”

Lyssa raised her eyebrows. “How do you mean?”

A pause. “It’s difficult,” he said, “to get people to believe in you. People move on. Find new concerns.”

“Like money,” Lyssa nodded.

“Exactly!” The man looked at her with his clear blue eyes. “They find these new things to worship. It consumes them.”

“And they no longer care about the past,” Maia glanced towards the darkening woodlands, “like those old monuments we’re trying to protect.”

He gave a smile, filled with as much warmth as the sun which had just set. “I was unsure at first,” he said, “but I think I would like very much to join in your protest.”

Lyssa looked to Maia, who gave her a big smile. She looked back to the pale man. “We’re glad to have you among us.”

“I just have one concern.”

“What is it?”

“It’s been a long time,” he said, his eyes clouding with thoughts again, “since I’ve done anything which really mattered.”

Maia put down her glass and sat up straight. “I believe in you.”

The man looked at her, his mouth open in surprise. “What did you say?”

“I said I believe in you,” Maia said, giving him her most reassuring smile. “And you know what?”

He smiled at her, cocking his head to one side.

“The most important thing is that we believe in ourselves,” Maia said with conviction, her voice slightly louder. “And me? I believe in myself.” She stood, as others started to look over at them. “Lyssa?”

Lyssa hesitated. She didn’t want to be the centre of attention. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and stood. “I believe in myself too,” she said, looking back at Maia. “And I believe in all of us.”

Lyssa looked around at the people nearby. Several of them raised their glasses and cups, voicing their agreement. She held a hand towards the pale man, who was still sitting. He took it and stood with them.

“Perhaps,” he said, nodding with realisation. “Perhaps that’s what we all really need.”

“It doesn’t matter if no one believes in you,” Maia placed a hand on his shoulder, “as long as you believe in yourself.”

“Hey,” Lyssa said, “did you bring a tent? You’ll need somewhere to get some rest. They’re going to start up those diggers in the morning, and we’ll need to be ready.

The pale man took a step forward and cracked his knuckles. “No they won’t,” he said in a voice like silk and thunder.

With a flourish of his coat, the pale man raised his hands upwards towards the sky. Sheet lightning rippled across the clouds, casting bright flashes of light on the trees. Thunder rumbled all around. Crack! A bulldozer was hit by a lightning strike. Crack! Another one struck a digger. Crack! Crack! Each vehicle was hit over and over, the force of it warping them, ruining the machinery.

He turned back to Lyssa and Maia. They both looked at him in shock.

“Thank you,” the old sky god said to them. “They shall not desecrate my temple.”

#27days27stories • day 3

She eyed the old station from her kitchen window. After living here for a couple of weeks, she hadn’t seen a single person go near it. She hadn't even seen any trains go past. This entire section of the tracks must be disused. Strangely though, there were no gates or fences to keep people out. Apparently, people found the place unsettling. That's what she'd been told. It's why this house was so cheap to rent, which was one of the reasons she'd chosen to move here. It’s not like she could afford much, and it was nice to have an entire house to herself.

Abandoned places always fascinated her. The kind of places which people told stories about. Children telling ghost stories at school. People posting urban myths on the internet. All she saw were fascinating old buildings which she wanted to go and explore. She’d picked up urbexing as a hobby a few years ago, back when she was a student. Before everything in her life had fallen apart and she’d ended up in this place. Before... No. She shook her head. These needed to stop thoughts like these.

There were still a couple of hours before dark. Pulling on some boots and a jacket, she stepped outside, crossing the road to the station. It was a cloudy day, and the ground was still wet from the rain that afternoon. Wind buffeted her, and she turned up her jacket collar. The place was dilapidated. Broken paving slabs, lined with moss and weeds. A ticket office window, shuttered and encrusted with grime. An old wooden door, still firmly closed. Pulling out her phone, she snapped a couple of photographs. Take only photographs, leave only footprints. That was the urban explorers’ motto.

She found her way around, onto the platform. The wind bit at her face, as she photographed the old tracks. Still in surprisingly good condition despite their disuse. The platform paving was uneven, messy with scattered splinters from decaying woodwork. There was an old bench, unused for years, its wooden frame rotten and discoloured. Above it, someone had sprayed graffiti on the wall. ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ it read. She smiled, taking took a moment to compose a good photograph. This was the kind of picture she loved to take. It seemed an odd message to write, but it had obviously made sense to whoever wrote it.

Halfway along the platform, she found steps leading down to a tunnel under the tracks, and to the other platform. Broken tiles and crumbling brickwork. It reminded her of the first time she’d explored one of these derelict places. Lining up a picture looking down the bannister, a nostalgic feeling swelled inside her chest.

She stepped carefully down, on the algae ridden steps. There was a slight musty smell here, and she could no longer hear the wind. More graffiti scrawled nearby, read ‘where do you want to go?’ She took another quick photo before looking hesitantly into the tunnel. Places like these weren’t always safe. This place gave her a strange feeling, she couldn't quite describe. But he’d been to spookier places. Like that one time, with her old friends. Before she’d lost contact with them. She closed her eyes for a moment. No. She needed to stop thinking about that. About her life before... him. Inwardly, she still wished he'd never come into her life to ruin it all.

She breathed a sigh, and slowly walked into the tunnel. Dim light came from the exit at the other side. The walls were lined with cracked and broken tiles. The tunnel seemed darker now, from the inside. She paused, and looked back. The entrance she'd come from appeared strangely distant. She turned back and continued walking for the exit.

The darkness started to feel claustrophobic, pushing in around her. Her pulse quickened, and she started to walk faster. The exit still seemed so far away. Taking a deep breath, she stuffed her hands into her pockets to steady them. All she could hear were the echoes of her footsteps and the pounding of her heart. The darkness started to feel heavy. Weighing down on her. She picked up her speed. By the time she finally reached the other side, she was almost running.

She took a deep breath as she emerged from the tunnel. Grinning, she shook her head. How silly to get scared like that. She started climbing the steps to the platform, before she noticed. They were clean. Tidy. No broken tiles. No moss. Reaching the platform, the sky was a deep twilight blue. Had it gotten dark that quickly?

Turning, she gasped. There was a train standing at the station. Its windows dark. Its doors closed, apart from a single one, with a light pouring out of it. Hesitantly, she found herself walking towards the open door. When had this train arrived? She hadn’t heard anything at all.

Cautiously, she looked inside the train carriage, through the open door. The inside appeared well lit. Just like any other train. She glanced again at the windows, but they all looked dark from the outside. This felt wrong. She took a step backwards.

“You don't need a ticket for this train, you know.”

The voice startled her. She turned sharply on her heel. An old woman, wearing a hooded shawl. Her eyes were hidden from view.

“I–” She stammered, “I don't–”

“If you know where you want to go,” the old woman said, “this train will take you there. Better hurry if you want to get on.”

She turned to look at the open train doors, her thoughts racing. “But how–” She turned back to find herself alone on the platform.

That nostalgic feeling crept into her mind again. Thoughts of the past, when she'd been happy and carefree, before everything had gone wrong. She did know where she wanted to go. She took a long, deep breath. Then she stepped onto the train.

#27days27stories – day 1