Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

The Shack on the Battlefield

A short story about war and the man who stands in its way. Originally posted on reddit (u/radclyffewrites)

The lines of battle are drawn. On one side, an army of hundreds, stretching back until the people merge with tents and the tents with buildings. On the other, a wooden shack.

I stand at the front with my arms crossed. My lieutenant is trying to persuade me to turn back.

“Please, sir. Violence isn’t the answer.”

I sigh. And this the boy who begged me to take him to the war, got on his knees and pleaded to see the Empire expanding before his very eyes. One wooden shack later and he is a pacifist.

“Stay here,” I say.

Sometimes violence is the answer, but inside that shack is an old and frail man and something inside me rebels at the idea of just having the troops mow him down. One last chance. He has sent back four of my envoys with new beliefs, now he will meet their master and realise the error of his ways.

The door opens before I reach it. The stranger is even older than I thought, skin a jarring combination of being both stretched too tight from hunger and wearing loose from age.

I clear my throat. “Sir, I have come to -”

“Manners, lad. Come in and close the door, you’re letting all the warmth out.”

I blink. I am the greatest general in the Empire. Entire civilisations have knelt before me. I’m about to tell him as much when I realise I’m already in the room, door shut behind me.

The stranger has sat down in a simple wooden chair. Other than a second chair and a fire, the shack is empty. But the second chair is cushioned and velvet, a chair of kings and nobles. When I sit in it, I feel myself sinking into the comfort.

“Here.” The stranger holds out a cup and saucer that I swear wasn’t there when I walked in a second ago.

“Tea?” I hear myself say.

The stranger makes a snorting noise low in his throat. “Coffee.” I stare at the cup, confused by the strange word. “Try it, lad. It’ll change your life.”

I take a sip. The liquid is warm and bitter, but not unpleasant. I take another, and sink further into the chair.

“You’re here for a reason then?” I frown at the question. A reason. Yes. “You must move, or we will move you?”

It comes out as a question and I have no idea why.

The stranger smiles. I realise he has no teeth. “So you can march onwards and claim this land for your empire?”

I’m back on solid ground. “Yes.”

“Why?”

The ground is ripped away. “Why? Well… because the Empire must grow.”

“Why? Do you not have enough mouths to feed, enough land to fill?”

“The Empire must grow,” I repeat firmly.

The stranger shakes his head. There’s a touch of frustration in his tone when he asks once again: “Why?”

I frown into my drink. “Because it’s what empires do.”

“Ah, I see.” The stranger leans back in his chair, apparently satisfied. I catch a glimpse of his eyes: they’re bright and lively and somehow far too alive. “And so the soldier will fight, and the war will wage, and the innocent will die, all so that the empire can grow. The same story every century, the only reliable truth in an unreliable world.”

I stare at him, trying to make sense of his words. “There are many truths in this world,” I say at last.

He looks at me, and smiles, and I’m certain he didn’t have teeth a minute ago. “And what might those be, lad?”

“Justice. Beauty. Honour. Truth itself.” I pause. There is a coldness to the air, and even though the man beside me is a stranger his presence seems familiar. I take a breath. “And death,” I say.

“You’ve got me there. Death is certainly a reliable truth. Especially if you go seeking him.”

We sit in silence. The fire is dying out now, and the stranger stares into the embers, lost in thought.

I clear my throat. “Are you… a god?”

He laughs. “No, lad. Simply a reliable truth, trying to make sense of an unreliable world.”

He stands. The spell breaks. The shack is a shack, the chair I’m sitting on a simple wooden chair like any other. The stranger opens the door. He thanks me for coming. He bids me visit him again, and adds, “But not before your time.”

I return to my troops. I feel like I have been gone a lifetime, but minutes have passed.

“So?” My lieutenant asks. “What will we do?”

I don’t look back at the shack. I’m not sure if I can. “We return home. I have faced death enough times; the next time I do, it will be the last. I have no desire for that to be today.”

My lieutenant sighs. He seems relieved. As we rally the men and prepare to journey back through the tents and to the buildings beyond, he asks, “What will you tell the Emperor?”

I think for a moment. “I will tell him if he wishes for more land he must speak to the stranger himself.”

“He was no stranger.”

I nod, looking back at where a shack had stood. Now there is just dust. A defenceless land, easily conquered. Until we meet the natives. Until the fight begins. Until more blood is shed.

“Perhaps he was no stranger to us,” I say, thinking of all the times I have ducked with a split second to spare, or been knocked down at just the right time, or seen a soldier one step to my side trampled in the battle. “The Emperor would not recognise him.”

“Men of his stature rarely know him as we do, sir.”

“True.” I smile. “But perhaps if he plans on sending more men to battle, it is about time they met.”

Apologies for any formatting issues or general lack of sense – done on my mobile before going to sleep!

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

The Demon

A short story in which a demon is bothered by new worshippers. This was inspired by a reddit writing prompt and was published there first (u/radclyffewrites)

“It’s a bloody mess, that’s what it is. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get blood out of flagstones? Damn near impossible. And the chanting – I haven’t had a good nights sleep in months.”

“I thought demons liked the chanting,” my companion says.

“You thought demons couldn’t enter churches too, and yet here I am.”

The priest is sitting calmly on the pew in front of me, staring straight ahead instead of turning to look at the midnight intruder. I don’t know why. I am an average looking man, or at least I am currently residing in an average looking body. There is nothing fearsome or demonic in my appearance. But there’s something oddly comforting about not being able to see his face, a sort of lack of judgement that falls over my shoulders like an old blanket.

I take a deep breath. “The thing is, I did all that. In the old days. I fought wars, started a fair few of them myself. I did the whole sacrifices and chanting and goats – who wants a goat scarified to them for Satan’s sake? What bloody use is that?” The priest makes a non-committal “mmm” sound. It is enough to encourage me to continue. “And some of the stuff they come out with. It’s just not right. Even at the height of my power I wouldn’t have dreamed of some of the stuff these guys are asking me to do.”

The priest nods sagely. “Truly, the real demons lie in the minds of man.”

“You’ve got that right.” I sigh, leaning back against the uncomfortable wooden pew. “I miss my statue. It was cold and quiet. A good retirement for a demon who did his part. It’s not fair. You work for thousands of years to make this world a worse place, and when you finally get to retire some bastards start cutting up goats on your altar and asking you to smite their enemies.”

“You sound lost, my child.”

“Yeah. That’s one word for it.”

“Would you like to…?”

The priest trails off. I run my hands back through my hair and for a second feel the horns hiding underneath. It’s now or never. I take a deep breath, hoping the priest knows he’s in for a long couple of weeks.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been twelve thousand two hundred and nine years since my last confession.”

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

A Conversation in a Cafe: Epilogue

A random follow-up to my short story series, A Conversation in a Cafe. The hero of the series meets with one of her uncles, who is struggling to adjust to the new world order.

“I am not the person I used to be.”

I throw my hands up in exasperation. What a lame excuse. A lame excuse for a lame man sitting opposite me with his hands folded in his lap, not even bothering to make eye contact as he fobs me off. The cafe is silent around us, but for the building crescendo of an eighties ballad and some off-key singing from the bloke in the corner. It’s not the location I would have picked for this conversation, but he had spoken to my father and apparently this is where gods go to meet now. Cafes. Innocuous and so very human.

This cafe is a little different than the one that continues to be favoured by my father. It’s quieter, an independent with a pleasant warmth to it. My companion has a dog sat between his feet, a tiny thing that doesn’t fit with the stature of the man it’s accompanying. But then the man is stooped, trying to be small. He is not the man I was expecting to meet.

As he said, he is not the person he used to be.

Bullshit.

“Look,” I say, leaning forward, “My father tasked me with helping you transition to the new world. I’m trying to do that. Let me help you.”

The man shakes his head. As he shakes, his appearance changes – one moment an old man, the next barely out of his teens. “I am lost.”

”You aren’t lost, you’re sulking,” I snap. The man looks at me. His eyes gleam gold, just for a second. “Don’t give me that, I’ve faced off worse than you and I’ve still got the sword if I need it.” 

“You would kill me?”

“I’d teach you a bloody good lesson.” The singer has stopped his off-key notes and is looking at us with curiosity. I lower my voice. Not that it matters: the world almost ended, gods and goddesses are a fact rather than a myth. But it doesn’t do to advertise my companion’s identity, nor mine for that matter. I saved the world, but can’t tell anyone. “You told me you were happy to retire, to be a human. Said something about going into politics. What happened to that?”

He sighs. “Politicians aren’t tricksters, they’re just evil.”

“And a trickster isn’t?”

He levels me with a golden stare. “I am both cruelty and joy, humiliation and togetherness. I am more than your human mind can understand. I am -”

“Unemployed, and a real pain in my arse.” The dog jumps up my leg, looking for attention. I pat it on the head absentmindedly as my companion sinks into his chair. He looks tired. He’s no longer shifting his appearance but just sitting there, somewhere in his mid-thirties, truly lost. “Look,” I say, softening my tone, “The twins have gone off into the rainforest, Death has locked itself off in its own domain. Maybe rather than trying to be human you should do the same.”

”I have no domain. Earth is my domain.”

”Then you need to learn to be like us.”

“Like you?” He meets my eyes and smiles. “The girl who saved the world by killing the gods?”

There’s cruelty in his tone, deliberate and sharp. I don’t even blink. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that weakness isn’t acceptable when dealing with these creatures. “You will either fit in, or you will fade out,” I say, keeping my voice level and calm. “One way or another, the world moves on. You have to decide if you’re going to be a part of it when it does.” I smile and add, “Apollo,” stressing the name.

An inside joke. He told me to call him Apollo, once. Before that he was an old man with a distinctive tattoo who sold me a fake map of the Underworld. He has been a pain in my arse throughout my journey, and somehow I don’t want to see him suffer.

He sighs, reaching down. The dog comes to him, tail wagging. 

“I will adjust,” he says softly. “I will have to. It’s just … hard.” His honesty shocks me into a moment of silence. I’m not sure what to say to an honest god, especially a trickster. He’s looking past me now, looking at the cafe around us. “Perhaps I will work somewhere like this. With people. Become a human. Your father says it is hard, but worth it.”

I reach across the table, and clasp his free hand. He looks up at me. His eyes are blue, not gold, as human as they get, and I smile. “It is worth it,” I say. “And if I taught my father, I can teach you.”

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

The Waiting Room

A man meets a child in a hospital waiting room, and is given a choice. 

There is nothing quite so terrifying as the realisation that there is nothing left to fear. The idea has a certain hopelessness to it, a sort of defeatism that corrodes the skin and seeps into the veins. Nothing left to fear is synonymous with nothing left to lose.  What is there to fear when the worst has already happened? 

These are the thoughts running through David’s mind as he sits in the hospital waiting room with his head in his hands. The worst has happened. There is nothing left to fear. But still he sits there with his head in his hands in the hospital waiting room, waiting for nothing.

People come and go. They don’t disturb him. They don’t even look at him. Grief and despair can have that effect, especially when you yourself are clinging to hope. No one wants to see the man who has lost everything, so no one sees him and he is left to sit there, his fingers pushed into his cheeks so his wedding ring leaves an indent.

There is nothing left to fear. 

“Would you like a lollipop?”

David lowers his hands. A small child is sitting next to him. They could be a boy or a girl; in his current state he can’t make sense of anything. But the child is smiling, and holding out a lollipop, the sort of hard candy one David used to buy for ten pence at the corner shop.

He shakes his head. “Thank you, but no.” He looks past the child. No one is looking at them; people continue to ignore him, and the child. “Where are your parents?”

“Gone.” The child shrugs. “It happens sometimes. Are you married?”

The child is watching his hands. David looks down and realises he’d been playing with his wedding ring, an old nervous tic. “I am,” he says. “I was.”

“Where is she?”

He smiles sadly. “Gone.”

He can see her though. She is walking past just as beautiful as the day he married her, and he can see her as clearly as he can see the other people walking by. He knows she isn’t there. Not really.

“What happened?”

”There was an accident,” he says. He glances at the child. “It happens sometimes.”

”Did it hurt?”

David shakes his head. She is crying, he realises, and he wants to go and comfort her but knows he can’t. “No,” he says softly. “Not as much as this.”

”Would you like to go?”

He turns his attention to the child, even though every inch of him wants to watch his wife, to steal these last few moments with her. The child is staring straight ahead. They don’t seem interested in the world around them, not as interested as they are in the lollipop and David. He had thought perhaps they were waiting for their parents to join them, but he’s beginning to realise this child has no parents, no family to watch over. 

“I have to stay,” he says. “To make sure she’s okay.”

”She will be.” The child smiles. “The worst has happened, but then that’s the amazing thing about people. The worst can happen but people will find a way to live.”

“You’re not a child, are you?”

“I am, in many ways.” The child holds the lollipop out to him. “You should really take it. Things will be easier.”

”Easier doesn’t mean better.”

His wife is sobbing. People are ignoring her, but not in the same way they ignore David. They look right through David; they look around her, averting their gazes.

“But it will be kinder,” the child says. 

“What is there? If I go?”

“I don’t know.” The child smiles. “Perhaps, when you get there, you can tell me.”

David sighs, and reaches for the lollipop. The child passes it into his hands. The world shimmers around him but he takes a moment longer, just a moment, to stand and walk to his wife and kiss her lightly on the cheek. Then he is gone, and his wife is left standing with fingers to her face and wide eyes.

The child stretches, and yawns. An old woman is sitting two seats down staring into nothing. There is much work to be done in this limbo. They can hear the conversations and buzz of a thousand different hospitals around them, but the child’s concern is for the people sitting still in the seats, waiting for the child to come to them and offer them the choice.

The child moves to the next seat, and smiles. 

“Would you like a lollipop?”

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

A Conversation in a Cafe, Part Five

The conclusion to my short story series about a father and daughter discussing the end of the world and her journey to save it. To start at the beginning, see A Conversation in a Cafe.

“And so it is done.”

As greeting’s go, it’s not the best. I slump down into the seat opposite my father, looking at him through narrowed eyes. So it is done. My usual cookie waits for me with a Diet Coke; he is holding a mug of tea but not drinking. Just smiling at me.

“Yep,” I say, reaching into my bag. I pull the sword out. A full blade, which should never have fit into my tiny handbag but of course it did, because, well, magic. Magic has been a constant in the last few weeks. The only certainty as the light filled the sky and the earth itself shattered. “Saved the world.” I plonk the sword down on the table. It clatters, and a couple of people look at us before quickly looking away.

“The world will never be the same,” my father says.

I laugh. “Look around. It’s been two days since the earth stopped shaking, and already people are back in the city centre having a latte and a croissant before they go to work. Life goes on. It’s only human.” He’s still smiling at me. His eyes sparkle a gentle gold. I sigh. “What?”

“You may have surpassed me in wisdom, daughter.”

“You know damn well that’s impossible.” I reach out and take a bite of the cookie. God, it’s good. I can enjoy it now. Maybe. I’m pretty sure it’s over. 

“But five of us still remain.”

I drop the cookie back onto the tray.

“The end of the world has stopped. I’ve killed eight. Eight bloody gods, and let me tell you they didn’t go easily.” 

They bled gold. I’m not sure whether that made it better or worse. When I close my eyes I still hear the scrape of blade against bone, still see the gold-splattered walls of my most recent battle. The sword gleams silver. Every time it struck a god and the god bled, it would absorb the blood, and grow more powerful. The fights got easier. The last one barely lasted a minute; it felt more like an execution.

Is that what I am now? An executioner?

“It’s over,” I say, aware my father is trying to catch my eye and deliberately avoiding him. “The end times are done.”

”But five of us live.”

”Death never really wanted the world to end; it doesn’t really have a purpose once that happens. The twins only really care about the trees, I lost them somewhere in the rainforest, but I’m pretty certain from some of the cursing I got from the trees that they’d rather the earth remained whole. And as for Loki – or Apollo, as he told me to call him, which is insane because Apollo wasn’t even a bloody trickster -”

”I believe that’s the trick.”

”He doesn’t want to lose his favourite playground. Not in the era of fake news.” I hesitate. My father hasn’t blinked. He’s still watching me. “That leaves you.”

”Yes.”

The cafe buzzes around us. Nice acoustic music is playing. Nice conversations are happening. Nice weather shines through the window. You would never guess the world almost ended, that millions died in the floods, that the hospitals were overrun with people who refused to die and the earth itself split. Life goes on. 

My father reaches out. Going for a bite of my cookie. 

No. He rests his hand on mine. His touch is warm, and soothing. It feels like safety. 

“Daughter, look at me.” I can’t help it; at the entreaty I look up, and I’m immediately trapped in those golden eyes. He’s still smiling. “I am so proud of you.”

I flush. I can feel the warmth in my cheeks. He squeezes my fingers, and then lets them go.

He grabs a bit of the cookie before leaning back in his seat. Because old habits die hard.

“I have a confession to make,” he says. 

My heart sinks. Please don’t say you’re pro-end. Please don’t say I have to kill you.

He sighs. The sound is heavy, like the weight of the world has pushed it out. “I ordered the cookies for you because it seemed ungodly to order them for myself.”

I laugh. I can’t help myself. And once I start laughing, I can’t stop. A couple whispering and holding hands at the next table glare at us; I just keep laughing. The sword gleams on the table between us. My father’s eyes, human eyes, watch me with an expression that is both amused and exasperated.

I laugh until I feel my ribs are going to crack, until the sound of my laughter is echoing louder than the music and the upstairs of this cafe is full of my amusement. Then I sink back into my chair, resting my head back to look at the ceiling, and whisper, “I need to sleep for, like, a century.”

“I’ll give you a couple of days.”

I glare at him. “A couple of days until what?”

“Until you show me how to retire and be human.” He takes another bite of the cookie and leans back in his chair with a content sigh. “Maybe I’m crazy, but I think I’m going to like it.”

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

A Conversation in a Cafe, Part Four

The penultimate part of my short story series which started as an exercise in writers block. A father and daughter meet to discuss her progress in stopping the end of the world. For the beginning, take a look at A Conversation in a Cafe.

“Death returns, and humanity thrives. You have done well.”

I snort into my Diet Coke. Done well. I’m not sure whether he’s being sincere or not; I kind of hope not. The undying plague is over. Death has returned. People have returned too, leaving their houses and their hiding and finding some semblance of normality in this crazy descent into the end times. The cafe around us has a quiet, pleasant buzz. The music is louder than any conversation, giving the semblance of privacy. Death has returned; life goes on.

I ache.

“Daughter?”

I jolt out of my thoughts. I’d been staring into my Diet Coke, clasping it so tight my knuckles are white. My father’s voice is gentle. He is giving me that smile, the one that suggests I am a child who needs rest.

He’s not wrong.

“Not well enough,” I say. “The world’s still ending.”

“But you have given people hope. Sometimes, hope is enough.”

I hold his gaze. Stare deep into those bloody golden eyes. “That’s crap. Hope isn’t enough, not when you’re fighting the end of the world.”

“Perhaps.” He takes a sip of his tea. “The underworld has hurt you.”

”A couple of scratches and bruises. Turns out Death really doesn’t like being disturbed.”

”I did not mean physically.”

I shrug his concern away. “I’m fine.”

I’m not fine.

The underworld was a writhing darkness, a hell-scape twisted horrifically into the form of a tower block. Every level brought new demons and new nightmares. Every step was torturous. And Death, Death was at the very bottom, waiting for me with a smile on her lips. His lips. I’m still not entirely sure what gender it was, only that it was, and it was surprisingly seductive.

It would have been so easy to close my eyes, and let it take me.

The music in the cafe is bouncy and happy. A couple and their kids are chatting away at the next table. It’s as if the plague of undying never happened, the blood red rain is a distant memory. But then, they don’t know what’s coming.

“The beast,” I say. “What can you tell me about it?”

”The beast is a fairytale,” my father says dismissively. “He will ride in on a wave of bones – it is a myth to express what humanity cannot understand.”

”So how will it happen?” He stares at me. I hold his stare. I’m not going to be intimidated by those golden eyes; I’ve stared down far worse these last few months. “I’ve fought the portends of the end of the world. That means the end must be coming, right? So how do I stop it?”

He reaches his hand across the table and, predictably, breaks off the corner of my cookie. I sigh. He takes his time, enjoying the bite, taking a sip of his tea. He’s stalling. I can’t believe it. This mythical, all-knowing being is stalling.

“Father.”

He sighs. Puts his tea down. “The end will come in a flash of light and burning rain,” he says softly. “There will be screaming, and endless torment. The underworld will break into the overworld; the heavens will fall and collide with the earth. The gods will leave. We have that luxury. But the people will die.”

My heart sinks. “So there’s no beast? Nothing for me to fight?” He says nothing. I feel sick. “You said that I could be the great warrior who rises to fight the beast. If there’s no beast, how on earth am I meant to fight it?”

The couple and their kids are leaving. One of the children shoots us a curious glance. Maybe I’m talking too loudly. I don’t care. If they aren’t aware what’s going on in the world, it’s time they were educated. The news is full of blood red rain and floods and undying and religious leaders warning people to make their amends and scientific leaders explaining theories that I don’t understand.

They’re all wrong. There are no amends; there is no science. There are only unknowable gods, who do not care, and never have.

There are tears in my eyes. I go to wipe them away; my father stops me and hands me a napkin.

“I care,” he says softly.

I glare at him. “You’re in my mind. Don’t do that.”

”I can’t do it very often these days,” he says, drawing back as I dab at my eyes. “You have grown strong, daughter.”

”Because you told me I had to. Now you tell me it was all for nothing.”

”I never said that.”

A young man and woman have started arguing at the next table. Their hushed, strained tones are a background to my father’s serious, unblinking expression. 

“There is a beast, of sorts. And the beast is known.”

I frown. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I am the beast.”

I can’t be dealing with this right now. “Drop the cryptic crap, please. I’m tired and I’m -”

“I’m not being cryptic. I am the beast. My brothers and sisters are the beast. Without us, there is no end. There is only the earth, ungoverned and free.”

Ungoverned and free.

I shake my head. “You’re saying I have to fight the gods?”

”You have fought one before. And won. That is how I know you are ready.”

I laugh. “I slapped a bit of sense into Death. I got it to do its duty. That’s hardly winning, that’s just being persistent.”

“And that is why I know you are going to win.” He smiles at me. “Because you are persistent. You are determined. You will never not try.” The smile grows a tad wistful. “You are your mother’s daughter.”

This is insane. “I can’t fight the gods,” I say hopelessly. “There are too many, and even if I managed to – if I found them all in time, if I managed to get close enough – I’d die first. Because I can die.”

”So can we. If you use the right blade.” He reaches for another bit of my cookie but then, to my surprise, pushes it into my hands. “Eat, daughter. You’re going to need your strength.”

I sigh. “Any chance I can take a break, and someone else can take over?”

“Do you know of any other demi gods?”

“No. Do you?”

”Yes. But they are all dead, powerless or moronic.” He closes my hand over the piece of cookie. “Gather your strength. The journey to the blade is not an easy one.”

I can’t help another sigh at that. “Of course not.”

I take a bite of the cookie. It’s good. Too good. Too much chocolate for anyone’s good. The cafe has a pleasant atmosphere today. People seem happy. There’s the argument at the table next to us and a crying child is being reprimanded in the corner, but the happiness is like a shroud. The world is getting better, as far as they know. Things are improving. If only. 

But maybe I can help.

Maybe, just maybe, I can do this.

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

A Conversation in a Cafe, Part Three

Another day, another morning writing session. The short story continues into its third part as a father and daughter meet to discuss her efforts to save the world. If you haven’t read the other parts, please start with A Conversation in a Cafe.

“The underworld is no place for a lady.”

This is my father’s response to my plan. Sitting here, crammed into the corner of our usual cafe as though we can somehow hide from the bright lights and cheery atmosphere, I don’t feel much like a lady. I don’t remember the last time I washed my hair; I’m pretty sure, from the looks I got as I walked through and headed upstairs, that I smell. Not that I care anymore. Greasy hair and a bad smell are the least of my problems.

“Well, no one else is going to go,” I say, crumbling a piece of cookie up between my fingers, letting the chocolate melt onto my skin. “And someone has to.”

”Why?”

I can’t help a small laugh at that. My father is an all-knowing being but I’m starting to realise all-knowing is not the same as intelligent. There is only one other table occupied up here at the moment; the cafe – the town as a whole – is quiet. The occupied table has a bunch of kids at it, pre teens or young teens or somewhere on that spectrum of adolescence. They’re laughing at a video on one of their phones. I can guess what they’re watching. They’re watching someone dying.

“You know, when the books warned about the undying I was expecting zombies,” I say. “This isn’t undying. This is the opposite of undying.”

He tilts his head to the side. “How so?”

“People are dying, they’re just not quite making it to dead. Which is why someone has to go down to the underworld and see what the hell is happening.”

He smiles. “What do you expect to find, child? A blockade? It is the end times; there is nothing to be found in the underworld but more pain and suffering. Best to focus your attentions up here.”

Talking of blockades.

“There’s nothing I can do up here,” I say. I reach out to take a bite of the cookie, but end up crumbling it between my fingers again. I’m not hungry. I don’t even know why I agreed to come. “I tried. God I tried.”

”I know.”

“You know,” I say dully. “So why don’t you do something? Because you can do more than try; you can stop this!”

I’ve raised my voice. The kids are glancing over at us, but they go back to YouTube and videos of people stuck in eternal torment. I’m never going to understand what some people find entertaining. 

My father is watching me gravely. I hold his stare, even though his eyes are gold and inhuman and he isn’t blinking. I hold his stare, and know that I am not blinking either, and that my eyes have flecks of that same gold in them.

He sighs, and drops his gaze. “I cannot,” he says gently. “I can encourage you. I can support you, as my daughter. But I cannot actively be involved in this. You know that. We decreed it centuries ago -”

”And centuries ago you were wrong.”

The flood came between the blood rain and the undying. It wasn’t actually as bad as I had imagined. For one thing, it was water, not blood, and that was an improvement as far as I’m concerned. Outside, there’s a certain wetness to the air but no more blood-slicked streets. Yet the place is empty. The schools are shut, the economy has ground to a halt. Things like that happen when people forget how to die. 

“Daughter?” I glance up at him. Lost in thought for a minute. He’s smiling at me again. “You will prevail,” he says. “Of this I have no doubt.”

He reaches his hand across, and tears off a corner of my cookie. Of course. I sigh. “Why don’t you just order your own damn cookie rather than always eating mine?”

He shrugs. “There is a certain … humanity in sharing yours.” I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know what to say to half of what he says. This is our third meeting in eight months – in the twenty-eight years prior I had met him only twice. Our relationship is developing. Into what? I think, Father and daughter, mentor and mentee, unhelpful god and helpless demi-god?

“You said you have a map of the underworld,” he says, drawing me back to the situation at hand.

”Yes.” I reach into my bag and take it out. He raises an eyebrow; I raise mine back, daring him to comment on the fact that I’ve taken a priceless map and folded it in half so it fits into my satchel. He doesn’t, and I am allowed to spread it out over the table in piece.

I reach for a bit of cookie; he reaches over and smacks my hand away.

“Hey!”

He looks up and smiles. “The folding can be forgiven. If you get chocolate on it, I may have to smite you.”

”You just did,” I say, waving my hand in an exaggerated manner. 

He ignores me. He’s looking at the map.  I wonder whether he’s having the same moment of awe I had when I first saw it: the intricate detail, the parchment itself woven to withstand centuries of time, the black markings of the ink in strokes so small you need a magnifying glass to read them. Unless you have golden eyes and a prior knowledge. He is reading it intently, eyes darting from the tunnel that leads to the underworld to the river to the caverns through to the pictures of writhing, desperate souls.

Then he laughs. I stare. He keeps laughing. He laughs so loudly that the kids are quiet for a moment, that the sound echoes off the walls and comes back louder than the music.

“Umm, father?”

“Oh, daughter, you did not tell me you’d seen my brother.”

I frown. “I told you, I went up the mountain and he kicked me off – but this wasn’t from him, this was from an old man in an antique shop in Lebanon, it took me ages to track down.”

”This old man, what did he call himself?”

“He didn’t call himself anything; he sold me a map, that’s all.”

I’m getting frustrated. I wish he’d just come out and say whatever it is he has to say.

“Did he have a tattoo?”

“I didn’t really look.”

“This would have been obvious. A lizard, the head would be on his neck. It would have had a blue tongue.”

My brow furrows. I feel it; can’t stop it. Because the man did have a strange tattoo. And the fact my father recognises it only means one thing. “He’s one of yours.”

“One of ours,” my father corrects. “Your uncle. Known by many different names: you would probably recognise Loki, the trickster?”

I stare at the map. “Oh God.”

”Exactly. Would you like me to correct it for you?” I nod dumbly, still in shock that such a beautiful thing could be a trick. My father lays his hand on the map. “Firstly, the entrance to the underworld isn’t one place, it’s many. And the underworld itself is similar to an office block, except each level will take you further down.” The map rearranges itself as he speaks. The kids at the other table are openly watching us now. “Upper management, so to speak, is on the deepest level. You will find who you are looking for there.”

He looks up. The map is finished. There is none of the beauty, none of the craftsmanship, but it certainly is easier to follow. 

“Daughter.”

I force myself to look at him. “Yes?”

”I would suggest you do not go looking for him.” He takes a sip of his tea. The saxophone music playing in the background jars against his words. He reaches out to take another piece of my cookie, and waves it at me as he says, “Madness lies in seeking Death.”

“I know. But if I can stop this…” I wave my hands around, trying to somehow encompass the whole world in the gesture.

He nods. “I understand.” He smiles. “So. Shall we share a cookie when you get back?”

I’m about to go on a quest to the underworld. Chances are I’m not coming back. But his question makes me smile and I find myself nodding. “Of course. For your humanity, if nothing else.”

And mine, I add silently, but from the sad look in my father’s eyes I think he hears me anyway.

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

A Conversation in a Cafe, Part Two

The second short story about a father and a daughter. The conversation in the cafe continues three months later. I’m not entirely sure where this is going, but I’m enjoying the ride. If you haven’t read the first one: A Conversation in a Cafe

“The ability of humanity to adjust and continue as before is astounding.”

My father’s voice is calm, but there’s a hint of admiration there. I don’t see anything to admire myself. The cafe is busy. Six or seven tables full up here, and downstairs packed. Today, pleasant acoustic music is playing in the background, and there’s a gentle buzz of conversation. No one seems concerned by the blood-red rain streaking down the windows, but then it’s been over a month since it started and, as he says, people adjust. 

A man at the table opposite us is typing away at something vitally appointment. There’s a couple of students holding heavy books that seem to weigh them down far more than the events in the world over the last few months. A group of women, all in matching uniforms, are gossiping about someone or other at work. It’s a normal day, in this new normality.

I lean back in my chair. I’m so tired.

My companion smiles at me. “So, it’s not going well?”

I gesture to the window. “What do you think?”

I don’t recognise my own voice. Have the events of the last eighty days changed me so much? Where did that hardness come from?

But he continues to smile. “It will. I have complete faith in you.”

”That makes one of us.”

”Daughter.” He reaches across the table. He takes a bit of my cookie, then leans back. Once again, I thought he was going to take my hand. A sign of fatherly affection and reassurance. But no, it’s always the cookie he’s after. “This world should be dead.”

”Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say.

He laughs. It’s a weird, jarring sound coming out of his mouth. “I meant that you have slowed its demise. You feel that you are doing nothing; you are the only one doing something.”

I glance out the window. I can just about see the high street. And would you believe it, people are walking by with their umbrellas up. It’s funny how the horrible becomes the normal so quickly when there’s work to do and shopping to enjoy. But the rain is only the start of it. I know that now, with all the time I’ve spent with my nose buried in books so old they are tomes now, sneezing at the dusty pages and flinching at the graphic images.

He’s drinking his tea today. Perhaps enjoying it before he loses the opportunity.

“I have been watching,” he says calmly. “You are braver than you think.”

”Bravery means nothing when you’re up against all-powerful beings with a grudge.” I run a hand back through my hair. I’m surprised I still have hair left; I always do this when I’m stressed and there’s been nothing but stress since our last meeting. “I travelled to the mountains, like you said. I went and met my uncle. He told me to let this world burn. I told him no. The next thing I know I’m blasted back down that bloody mountain – do you know how long it takes for a human to get up that damn thing?”

“But you are not human.”

I look up and meet his eyes. Gold eyes. “No,” I admit. “But I’m not a god either.”

The steady click-clack of the keyboard at the next table slows just for a second, before beginning again with renewed vigour. The universal language for, Listening, me? Of course not. 

“What have the books taught you?”

“The books have taught me your scribe has too much time on his hands, and that library was never meant for mortal eyes, half-mortal or otherwise.” He stares at me. I sigh. “The books have taught me that after the rain will come the flood, and after the flood will come the undying, and after the undying the beast itself will appear on a wave of – and my translation was a little shaky here – but I think it said bodies.”

”Bones,” he corrects gently. “But don’t worry, we’re all a little rusty when it comes to Ancient Greek.”

“I was reading the Sumerian account.”

”Even worse.” He takes a sip of his tea. A plucky song about two people having each other has started playing. The women at the other table are laughing. The click-clack of the keyboard has resumed it’s normal steady pace. “What else did the books say?”

”They say a great warrior will rise to fight the beast.” He smiles at me, and I groan.

“I hate to disappoint, dad, but I’m not a great warrior. I’m not even a warrior.”

“When the time comes, you will be.”

He reaches across and takes another chunk of my untouched cookie. “How?” I sigh. “How on earth am I going to magically become a great warrior?”

“Because the world will need you to be.” He looks at me and for a second the cafe seems to disappear around us, melt away so that there is only the two of us, golden eyes clashing against golden eyes. “And you haven’t let it down yet.”

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

A Conversation in a Cafe

A rather random short story written in a cafe. It has the potential to be a longer piece, but for now fits quite nicely into the mythology theme I seem to have going. The fate of the world is decided over tea and a cookie.

“This is not the place for this conversation.”

I can’t believe him. He keeps his voice so calm and level, like we’re talking about the weather or some similarly mundane smalltalk. The tea in front of him is untouched. He has a weary smile on his face and instead of drinking he is playing with the mug, pushing it from side to side, one hand to the other.

He’s infuriating. I want to punch him. I want to throw that tea in his face.

“So where is the place?” I struggle to keep my voice as calm and level as his. Don’t let him see you’re rattled. That message was drilled into me time and time again as a child. Never let him see you’re rattled, because he will use it against you.

He shrugs. “Not here. This is a happy place.”

I laugh. I can’t help myself. There are only four other occupied tables in the upstairs of this airy, bright cafe. Two of them have a lone patron with a laptop and the universal harassed expression of the overly busy. One has a couple who are holding hands and smiling about something. The last has a similar couple, but leaning away from each other, and sitting in stony silence.

“This is a place,” I say. “Whether it’s happy or not depends on the people in it.”

“True.” He glances at the windows, and his smile grows a little more wistful. “But it is bright, and the music is pleasant. If you wished to have this conversation, perhaps you should have suggested meeting somewhere dark and dank and empty.”

I sigh. The urge to grab that tea and throw it in his face is getting stronger. “You suggested we meet here,” I say.

“Because I knew you would wish to have this conversation, and I knew I did not want to have it.”

He looks me straight in the eyes then. Two thoughts go through my mind. The first: I could kill him. The second: His eyes have flecks of gold in them.

The couple who are holding hands get up and leave. I watch them go. Better to watch them then watch him.

He leans back in his chair. The spell is broken; there’s no gold in his eyes now. “Eat your cookie.”

The dismissive tone is enough to test the strongest of wills. My hands have curled into fists. I want to throw this table over. I want to make a scene.

Instead, I reach out and take a bite of my cookie.

It’s good. Damn it.

I wanted to hate it, like I want to hate anything and everything he has given me. From cookies and clothes, to his attention and his powers. I don’t want those golden eyes. I don’t want to be able to feel what’s coming in my bones, so deep it’s like a crack in my skeleton. I don’t want to know what no mortal should know.

Your father is not a man, Mother used to say. Never forget that.

“When will it happen?”

“I said this is not the place for this conversation.”

“I know what you said,” I snap, and one of the lone patrons glares at me. I ignore him. “But we’re having it, just the same.”

He smiles. There’s a hint of sadness there. “Your mother always told you not to let me see when you’re rattled.”

”She did. But there’s some things I can’t hide.” I take a deep breath. I’ve let my guard down and he could have taken advantage. He could have broken straight into my mind, told me to go home and forget all about this. But he didn’t. Which means that this conversation is going to happen, and now I’m not sure whether I want it to. “When will it happen?”

“Soon.” He takes a sip of his tea. Finally. When he puts the mug back down he’s smiling. “This is good. We should have done this more often, whilst we had the chance.”

My stomach sinks. “So there’s no way to stop it?”

”I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. If that’s what you came to see me about, you will be disappointed, daughter.”

There’s nothing I can do.

I stare at him. His eyes are full gold now. “But something can be done?”

“It was decreed, millennia ago, that when the end times came we would do nothing. Every life has its course. The world is no exception to that law; we are no exception to that law.”

”So there’s no hope?” I can’t help the question. The words keep ringing in my head. There’s nothing I can do.

“Oh, I didn’t say that.” He takes another sip of his tea, and closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, they’re entirely human. “I do like this world,” he says. “I like what you’ve done with the place, so to speak. Who would have thought that by boiling leaves you could create something so pleasant? We never would have, but then we always were rather narrow minded.” I keep staring. I don’t want to speak. Speaking now could ruin everything. He meets my eyes, and smiles, and it’s the smile of a father, proud and gentle. “We gods all agreed to do nothing.”

“To just let the end times come.”

“Yes. It is the natural order of things.” He reaches out a hand. I think he’s about to take mine, but instead he breaks a part of my cookie off. “But you, daughter,” he waves the cookie at me, “you are not a god.”

My heart skips. One of the lone patrons is openly watching us now. He’s right. This isn’t the place for this conversation.

“What are you saying?”

“I am saying that if you wish this world to live, you must do something about it.” He eats the corner of the cookie, and leans back in his chair. “I hope you succeed,” he says, closing his eyes. “There is so much in this world to enjoy.”

He disappears.

I’m left alone at the table with a pot of tea I don’t drink and a half-eaten cookie. The lone patron is blinking, confused. Then he returns to staring at his screen. He won’t remember my father was here. No one will.

You must do something about it.

I rest my head back against the chair, and sigh. “Well, that’s just great.”

Posted on by Emma Radclyffe

Forgotten Extract

The opening extract from my work-in-progress, tentatively named Forgotten. I struggle with openings, almost as much as I struggle with naming stories, but since I am currently 60,000 words into the work I thought it was time I gave it a go. Let me know what you think!

It was raining the day that Cayleen Jones disappeared from Connor’s life, and it is raining the day she returns. He sees her out of the corner of his eye, a flash of brilliant ginger and bright green eyes smiling at him. At first he ignores it. He has seen her a million times and more over the last seven years, always out of the corner of his eye, always just out of reach. But then it happens again. He is in the middle of folding a pile of shirts – arms back, cuffs in, fold up – when there is another fleeting glimpse of those eyes.

She’s here.

The thought pounds through his head even though he knows it’s insane, even as he turns and looks and sees not Cayleen but a window shopper, gazing in with the universal glazed interested-but-not-too-interested expression of window shoppers.

The window shopper moves on to scout other store fronts. Behind her is a stranger. For a second Connor meets his eyes and he sees Cayleen’s looking back at him, bright green and sparkling with curiosity. The vision fades. The stranger’s eyes are an electric blue, but there is a similarity. That curiosity. That spark of interest.

Connor forces himself to look away. This man is not a window shopper. He’s looking straight at Connor, like he’s never seen a sales assistant before and is dissecting him in his mind. Connor shivers. He doesn’t like where his mind’s going. It’s going to the forbidden places, the places he’s spent years training himself to avoid.

She always looked like the world was a curiosity to her. It’s part of what made her so beautiful to him.

“Con?”

He jolts; his manager is standing on the other side of the till, mouth pulled down into a frown that lies, with difficulty, somewhere between stern and gentle.

“You okay mate?”

Ben’s a good enough manager, and a decent enough man as far as Connor can tell. He has a habit of picking at his teeth when he thinks no one’s looking and he’s going through a divorce he hasn’t told any of his staff about. Connor’s noticed the lack of wedding ring, the increase in time spent in his back office, the fraught, whispered conversations to people he’s not supposed to be calling during work hours.

“Con?” Ben’s voice is amused now. “You’re drifting again.”

Connor forces himself back to the situation. Work. Folding the shirts. This is a solid reality, a reality he can work with. “Sorry.” He starts folding again, movements quick and practiced.

Ben doesn’t leave. He’s watching Connor’s hands. Connor watches them too, and realises they’re trembling.

“You okay?”

Connor forces a smile. “I’m good, just a headache.”

Ben nods. He looks relieved. He can work with a headache. “Let me know if you wanna go out back and grab some paracetamol.”

Connor risks a look at the window. The stranger has gone. He feels the relief like a physical weight slipping off his shoulders. “Actually, if you don’t mind…”

Ben raises his hands in dismissal. “Go, grab a drink and a five minute break. I’ll man the till. If there’s a sudden rush I’ll call you back.”

Connor laughs out of habit. It’s an ongoing joke. The shop gets by, in the kind of way that most chain clothes shops get by. Much of their business is online. Especially the men’s, and they are a men’s branch. He’s been offered a job as manager at another shop, a busy shop with high footfall in the centre of Birmingham. He turned it down. He has his little corner of the world, and he is content with that.

The back of the store is a mix of narrow corridors, a large stock room with very little stock to fill it, and a sorry-looking staff room that Ben’s been talking about patching up for as long as Connor’s worked here. He grabs a glass of water but doesn’t bother with the paracetamol: it’s not going to help what’s wrong with him. Instead, he goes to the cramped toilet and braces himself by the sink, splashing cool water on his face.

When he looks up, he sees her eyes in the mirror.

He swerves. There’s no one there. Of course there’s no one there. But his heart is pounding like crazy and he staggers back to the break room to sit down before he falls down.

This is bad. It hasn’t been this bad in a long time. Usually, he sees her once a day. He shakes the sight away. He knows it’s impossible for her to be here.

Three times in one day is unusual. It’s what his sister Bethan would refer to as a ‘bad day’. He hasn’t had many bad days in the last few years. They were very common immediately after she disappeared, but he has worked hard to make them less so.

He rests his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. His thoughts are a broken record, scratching the same name out over and over.

Cayleen. Cayleen. Cayleen.

“She isn’t here,” he whispers. “I didn’t see her.”

Her green eyes. That ginger hair. Ginger, never auburn, never red. She was proud of it. He saw it so clearly. He saw her so clearly.

Cayleen. Cayleen.

“She’s not here.” He presses his hands over his eyes, encasing himself in a darkness where he can be the voice of reason to his own thoughts. The voice of reason always sounds a bit like Bethan to him. He likes that. It grounds him to reality, to the here and now.

Cayleen.

“She can’t be here.”

Why not?

“Because she doesn’t exist. She never existed.” Acceptance was one of the final stages of his therapy. It’s a stage he returns to time and time again on the bad days. “Cayleen Jones wasn’t real.”

But the name keeps repeating in his head, and in the darkness behind his hands he sees the stranger with the blue eyes watching him.