1.

As I stepped off the platform of the train station, a sleek, silver cab was pulling up to the curb. Assuming that it was taken, I dialled the number of the taxi company and waited for the line to connect. During this time, I watched the rest of the passengers descend the exit ramp. There were hugs and kisses from reunited relatives, and dapper men and women in uniform, loading suitcases into awaiting cars. Strangely, no one paid any attention to the silver taxi, even though the door was open and the driver was leaning against the door.

“May I be of assistance, sir?”

I looked up and noticed that the taxi driver was looking right at me and smiling. I smiled back. With her silver flecked hair and oversized glasses, she reminded me of my grandmother. 

“Could I trouble you for a lift to Broadbeach?” I called back. It was already so late. The sooner that I could get to the hotel, the sooner I could turn in and get some rest.

“Of course”, she agreed. Relieved to be on my way, I pocketed my phone and made my way down the ramp.

The first thing that I noticed was how smoothly the taxi was running. I could not get over how quiet the engine was. 

“Are all of the taxis like this on the Gold Coast?”

The cabbie grinned proudly.

“Electric cars are the way of the future, you know? Supposedly they are better for the environment, so they have my approval”.

“Incredible”, I marvelled, having never heard of anything like it before.

As the journey continued, we attempted some small talk to pass the time. She introduced herself as Johanna Stern, so I told her that my name was Matt.

“So is this your first time to the Goldie, Matt?”, Johanna asked.

I nodded, forgetting that my face probably wasn't visible in the darkness. It was then that I heard the roar of the ocean. I pressed my nose up to the window in an attempt to make out the view. Then, just around the next bend, I saw it. I could just make out the barrel of waves as they crashed upon the sand.

“Wow”.

The cabbie laughed at my enthusiasm. A little embarrassed by my reaction, I explained that I had grown up on a farm. For the people who had grown up on the Gold Coast, the seaside was so normal that it was likely taken for granted. For me, I may as well have been on another planet. Seeing the ocean, was nothing short of incredible.

“I understand completely”, she replied. “I can also assure you that your assumption is incorrect. I grew up here and yet every time that I come to the beach it still takes my breath away”.

So Johanna lives here.

I grin, unable to believe my luck. During my tour of the States, I had started my visual diary. My intention was to create a new drawing of every new place that I ever visited; something that captured its unique spirit. I was very fortunate to have this chance to tap into some local perspective.

“If you could choose just one spot for me to visit this weekend, where would you recommend?”, I asked eagerly.

Johanna smiled with local pride.

"It is impossible to pick just one ".

"Please won't you try", I begged. I explained about wanting to add a new sketch to my diary.

“Somewhere picturesque would be ideal”.

Her eyes lit up. Recognising what I was after, she rewarded me with a list of beaches. She also named a place called the Starlight Tower which she deemed to be the best viewing platform in all of the Gold Coast.

“Have you always been interested in drawing, Matt?”

I laughed and told her that I was more than interested. Drawing was my life, and it was also what I did for a living.

“Can you make a living as an artist?”, she gasped.

I laughed, for it was the typical reaction from strangers after learning about my profession.

"I am very lucky, aren't I? I would have become an artist no matter what, so it is a good thing people are kind enough to throw some money my way every now and again".

I told Johanna that I had drawn every day for as far back as I could remember. I had continued to do so because I had no other choice. For me, the need to draw was equal to the need to eat, breathe and survive. Despite ridicule and the doubts of other people, I continued to follow my passion. I was well aware I was one of the fortunate few to be noticed and actually receive payment for what I do.

“I suppose you are headed to that convention this weekend, then?”

“I am”.

My writing partner and I had been lucky enough to be invited to showcase our latest comic: Deep Blue Sea.

“Hero-Con has been going on, ever since I was a little girl”, the driver reminisced. “My father only likes it for the taxi business it generates. He took me along once, but he wasn't impressed. According to him, it was a gigantic waste of time for everybody involved”.

I could not comprehend such a sentiment. There had nothing like it around when I was a kid, so my memories of attending conventions were all very recent. I had just flown back from my very first Comic-Con in Los Angeles. Just being there, let alone being invited to take part had been electrifying.

“And what did you make of Hero-Con?”

I hoped that Johanna had been more open minded to the experience. Johanna thought about it and frowned.

“I remember coming around to Dad’s point of view. Surely there are more productive ways to spend your time than dressing up, looking at drawings and playing pretend. That being said, I do remember that it wasn’t all bad. My mother made me a Star Wars costume to wear, which I was quite pleased with at the time. In particular, I was impressed with the wall of art and comics. It is hard to believe, but I used to be a lot like you. There was a time when I would carry a sketchbook everywhere. As you can imagine, the hobby wasn't tolerated for long in our house. There are times that I miss it. If only these weary hands weren’t so shaky, I might just consider trying my hand at drawing again”.

“You really should", I insisted. For me, drawing was freedom. If Johanna could even get a fraction of the peace and pleasure she used to from her art, then it would all be worthwhile.

Suddenly, Johanna turned shy. I could just make out the blush upon her cheeks.

“I could never”, she sighed. “I wasn’t like I was any good at it. Anybody who ever saw my pictures said that I was wasting my time”.

“Who cares?”, I exclaimed.

“Did you enjoy what you were doing? If you miss it, then it must have made you happy once. Growing up lots of people wrote my drawings off as scribbles, and I never cared. Your drawing are a part of you. That makes them important, even if you are the only one who will ever get to see them”.

“My drawing are important, hey?”, the Johanna sighed. “I suppose I should be glad that somebody thinks so”. A part of me inside died. Horrible memories of art school came flooding back to me. Pretentious Ms Sharp had been set in her belief that there was only one way to produce a quality piece of art. Heaven help your grades and self-confidence if yours was the wrong way. During the last thirty-two years, I had seen too many potential artists give in because of what others thought of them. To see this sweet woman fall victim to the disapproval of others was devastating.

“What did young Johanna Stern like to draw?” I asked her, hoping to re-spark the fondness for drawing that had been beaten out of her over the years.

“Flying monsters” she answered without hesitation. Dragons, harpies, gargoyles: Johanna had obsessed over drawing flying, fantastical creatures.

I wished that I had been around to know young Johanna. Her creations would have been an excellent pairing with my endless assortment of sea monsters.

“Then I think that is what you should draw now as well. Please give drawing another try. All that it takes is for you to believe in yourself”.

“Mmm hmm”, Johanna muttered. At that moment I knew that she was still a prisoner of her father's scorn. It was impossible for her to free herself of her doubt. I could ride in this cab with her all day and still never have any hope in convincing her to take a risk and try.

We rode in silence until she announced our arrival. I glanced at my watch. How could that be right? We had only been on the road for fifteen minutes. I did not expect to arrive at the hotel so soon. Shrugging this off, I paid Johanna her fare and waved her off into the night.

I should have been exhausted. I had only been back in Australia for a couple of days, and I was still trying to catch up on sleep. My eyelids were heavy, but I was unable to relax. Inspiration had struck, and my idea wasn't going to let me rest until it had been set free. I unpacked my one of my unused sketchbooks and my inks and started to draw. Panel after panel flowed out of me until unexpectedly I had a new story. At the end of it, I added a dedication.

For Johanna. Never be afraid to spread your wings and soar.

2.

Day one of Hero-Con was amazing and exhausting. My voice was hoarse, my hand was cramped from signing and sketching, and I was all too eager to do it again tomorrow. For now what I craved was some time to myself to relax and recharge. With the rain spoiling any plans of visiting the beach, I thought back to Johanna’s sketching recommendations.

“Hey Maria, you haven’t come across the Starlight Tower in your travels yet, have you? I was thinking about going up there tonight and having a quiet sketch”.

My writing partner shook her head. To help me out, she flagged down our convention director and local guru Phoebe James.

When I asked Phoebe, she frowned.

“Sorry, Matt, I have never heard of it”.

Strange. Johanna had made the Starlight Tower sound like it was a big deal. One by one, each person I asked within Artist Alley denied having heard it. Horace even tried finding out where it was on his laptop and he had no luck locating it either.

“It’s fine”, I declared after a while, tiring of the search. Figuring the best solution was to go directly to the source, I retrieved my phone.

Having chased up the number of the company, Seashell Cabs, I made the call.

“Hello, I am after a taxi, please”.

The receptionist on the other end was very polite.

“Certainly sir. Can you please give me your details?”

I did so, then informed the operator that I would like to request a particular driver.

“Her name is Johanna Stern. She was very helpful the other night and it would mean a lot to me if I could request her services again”.

“I will see what I can do”, the receptionist replied. I could hear the rustling of papers through the phone line.

“Stern.. Stern…. Are you sure that you have the right name? I don’t see any Johanna Stern here on our payroll”.

I told her that I was quite sure.

“Maybe there is a mistake in your paperwork. Her name was definitely Johanna Stern. She is an older lady, quite short and she wears large tortoiseshell glasses. She drives one of the silver, electric cabs”.

There was a prolonged silence on the other end.

“And you are sure that she was working for Seashell Cabs?”

“Of course I am sure”, I snapped. Surely I had not imagined the bold lettering painted onto the side of the car. There had even been a seashell next to the logo, for goodness sake.

“Sir, I am sorry but there seems to have been a mistake. Johanna Stern does not work here, nor do any of our drivers have cabs that fit that description. All of our cars are gold. I have never heard of a silver electric taxi anywhere, especially here in the Gold Coast”.

Clearly uncomfortable, the operator hung up before I could pose any argument.

“Matthew, come with me right now”.

Maria was suddenly by my side. Supporting my weight, she guided me to a nearby chair.

“What happened to you just now? You look like you have just seen a ghost”.

Poor Maria. I knew that I was trembling and causing her to worry. Not having any other explanation, I settled for the truth.

“Maria, I think that I am losing my mind”.

Maria and Phoebe’s suggestion was an early night’s rest. They put the whole incident down as brain fog: the result of bouncing from convention to convention and not getting enough rest. Too tired to argue, I let them call me a cab. The car that came to collect me was yellow and depressingly ordinary. This driver had no desire for small talk which was a relief. I closed my eyes and tried my best to push Johanna Stern out of my head completely.

3.

While I wasn’t required to be at the Convention Centre until 10 am, I couldn’t bear to miss the costume parade. Blending in with the crowd, I stood back and watched the assortment of heroes, villains and monsters, march, wave and dance down the streets of Broadbeach. After it was over, I made it back into the centre just in time to hear the end of the costume competition.

“And now”, announced Phoebe, “Here at the 5th annual Gold Coast Hero-Con, here are our costume winners”.

My blood ran cold. Had she just said it was the 5th convention? Not the 25th or the 50th? I could distinctly remember Johanna saying she had attended this convention as a little girl but clearly that wasn’t possible. I grabbed at an abandoned programme left at my station and saw the number clearly in front of me: 5th. I slid into my chair and made a mental note to have a sit down with Phoebe that evening. Maybe I was suffering convention fatigue as she had suspected. We had five more appearances booked across the country across the next few months. As much as it would hurt me to do so, if I was losing my mind, then it was probably for the best that I pull out.

Thankfully, my fans forgive me for being distracted and unwell. Having discovered early in the day that I was too disturbed to draw any commissions, I limited myself to signings and answering questions. As a replacement novelty, Maria tracked down some drawing paper and pencils and set up an art station for budding illustrators. ‘Have Maria Goldstein name your creature’ was her pitch. I did not mind that most of our visitors that day were kids. At least I could get some pleasure watching them express their creativity. The lapse in attention turned out to be a blessing. If I had been distracted by a fan, then there was a good chance that I would have missed her. The little girl, especially in this crowd was in danger of being swallowed up by it completely. An older man, presumably her father, was dragging her along at an alarming rate.

“I have no idea how you roped me into this, Johanna. I can barely breathe in here. Choose one last thing to see then I am getting us out of here”.

Did he just say?

I focused on the girl, examining her jet black hair and oversized pink glasses. She was dressed up as a Star Wars character but it was not Princess Leia. 

I stood up.

“I like your costume, Johanna”, I called. I could feel Maria staring at me. It was the most spirited that I had been all day.

“You’re Rey from The Force Awakens, right? You have good taste. I love that movie".

Johanna and her father stopped and turned to me. Even though Johanna didn't have a clue who I was, she smiled right at me.

“I’m going over there, Daddy”, Johanna announced. The father rolled his eyes and walked up to the counter with her.

“How exactly do you know my daughter?” he asked. I ignore him.

“Do you like my sea monsters, Johanna?”

Johanna took a moment to scan my display wall. When she looked back at me, her brown eyes were sparkling.

“Uh huh. Did you really draw them?”

I nodded.

“Do you want to have a turn?”, I offered. “Why don’t you ask my friend Maria for a piece of paper? I would love to see your best monster”.

Dad groaned.

“Not another monster”, he remarked under her breath.

“Please, Johanna”, I begged, not being able to bear her being discouraged. Johanna looked from me to her father, and then to Maria.

“Can I have some paper please?”.

I watched as this six-year-old created her masterpiece. While it was far from perfect, it was easy to see what it was supposed to be. The majestic, forest green dragon was covered in leathery scales and its wingspan was fully extended. I could see its spiky tail and the fireball coming out of its mouth. Maria, God love her, whistled when it was done and dubbed it Flaminator. Johanna giggled.

“Do you mind?”, I asked, grabbing my pen and her creation. I drew my first picture of the day, firstly adding an ocean underneath Johanna’s dragon. Then I added one of my favourite creatures, the aerobatic Seaclaw Dragon. I drew it leaping out of the water, splashing the Flaminator with its spray. I finished with my signature and a message of encouragement.

For Johanna, from your number one fan, Matt Chastain. 

Rummaging underneath my table, I found my sketchbook from last night and presented it, and the drawing to Johanna. 

“Read this when you get home, okay? I hope that you enjoy it”.

Johanna took the sketchpad. She opened it. When she saw the griffins on the first page, she gasped.

“I love it”.

“Are we done now? Fantastic”. With his patience exhausted, Johanna's father dragged the poor girl away. As Johanna turned her head to catch one last glimpse of my art wall, I prayed that my comic would be enough to keep the girl inspired.

4.

My mother used to tell me not to examine life too closely. It was much better by far just sit back and enjoy the ride. I have done my best to follow this advice over the years and not dwell upon my mysterious encounter. The best explanation I could come up with was that I was visited by a ghost that night. Was is a ghost of what could have been? An echo from another time, from a future Johanna filled with regret? There was no way to know for sure. The one thing that I do know for certain lies in front of me here and now. I am standing in line waiting for the most remarkable young woman. As she looks up and smiles at me, I beam with pride. I wish that I had been that professional and composed at twenty-one. Of course, I don’t expect for her to recognise me. Even fifteen years can seem like a lifetime ago. I wait patiently for my signature and then thank her before I leave.

I feel a touch upon my hand.

“Matt, wait”.

Johanna rummages behind her station. She pulls out a clear packet and hands it to me.

“It only seems fair that you get to keep a copy. I still have mine. I cannot begin to tell you how much it means to me”.

I pull the comic out of the packet and flick through the pages. Each panel was the same as the ones I had drawn for Johanna, except she had redrawn them in her own style. She told the story of the griffins, not just once, but many times. Flipping through I could see her progression as an artist over the years. On the back page, she had drawn two dragons entwined. The large one was blue, jagged and dripping with water. The second one, though smaller and covered with fine purple and green feathers, has an impressive wingspan and a fierce look in her eyes. Underneath, I read her inscription.

For Matt Chastain. Thank you, Dragonfather. It is because of you that I was able to find my wings and soar. From your number one fan, Johanna Stern.

I take another look at our dragon portrait, and then quickly turn away, in fear of causing the ink to run.

“You astound me, Johanna” I manage to say at last. I reach for my Dragonchild and give her a hug. I could see her wings, on and off of the page, and they were magnificent.

Before I reach the end of all my days

That fade the last of what I have to give

The measure of how well my life was lived -

To know my gifts, and give them all away

To know in truth the promise of my youth

Decisions past must not lead me astray

To turn false starts to stones that pave the way

Towards the orchard where I bear my fruit

And so I pray to find the open road

Which leads me to a place where I can breathe

To burst the sky and root the earth beneath

Smiling, in the flowering of my leave.

It all started when I awoke from my slumber to hear this refrain playing over and over in my mind, “The worms come in, the worms go out.”

Stretching my arms, I touched the edges of the container which seemed to surround me. Realization dawned as I screamed, “Let me out, let me out!” in abject horror. My fingertips were raw and bleeding from clawing at the edges of my coffin prison. As I banged on the walls of entrapment, I disturbed one of its seams, dislodging a trickle of dirt which cascaded on my face. I was terrorized by a nightmare without end for I was claustrophobic and even afraid of walking into a dark closet.

“Why, oh why, has this happened to me? Why can’t I remember?

Who placed me in this sarcophagus of abomination?”

Racking my brains, I suffered a flashback of unendurable dimensions. I saw in my mind’s eye, my jilted lover kidnapping and throwing me in this box. I heard the thuds of shovel hitting earth as he furthered his retaliation.

Now I was alone and soon the oxygen would be depleted. I heard little rats scurrying around in my dark quarters. I cringed as I tried to avoid their sharp gnawing teeth. I didn’t have much longer to lament sorrowfully that I messed around with his best friend.

But, oh, he brought me to peaks I’d never known. The remembrance of our sensual passion would stay with me until my dying day!

(Responding to the prompt 'Steampunk Sleeping Beauty' by Eva Deverall).

“Well, Sebastien. I think that we have finally found it”.

Vivienne burst into the laboratory. Dashing over to the nearest workbench her eyes were drawn to the stationary. This was Professor Winter’s lab alright. The young inventor eagerly looked around. She rummaged through the professor’s abandoned notes and books and marvelled at the machinery. There were gadgets everywhere, some that were covered in dust and others that were still functioning. Vivienne bent down and picked up one of the sweeper droids. Wondering if he was similar to her creation, she pressed against the tiny servant’s heart and was rewarded. The metal door swung open, revealing a chest full of spinning gears.

“Look Sebastien” Vivienne exclaimed with a beaming grin. “He’s your cousin”.

Sebastien walked over to inspect the little man. He frowned.

“My cousin, Mistress Vivienne? I believe that you are mistaken. It isn’t possible for me to have any relations”.

He tilted his head and looked at the girl with concern.

“Has the excitement gone to your head, mistress? Did you forget who you are talking to? I am simply a clockwork servant, remember?”

Vivienne laughed. Even if she were capable of changing her mechanoid to become less of an innocent, she wouldn’t consider it for a second. As much as Sebastien would argue the point, he did have a personality of his own. Altering him was out of the question. 

She placed a hand upon his shoulder.

“I’m fine. You are the one who needs to work on your memory. You have never been ‘simply’ anything. You are Sebastien, and that is a wonderful thing to be”.

Sebastien nodded, though he still didn’t understand why she had called him wonderful. Sebastien was simply Sebastien.

Then Vivienne saw it. She was drawn to the picture that had been in her book. Every since she had found Professor Winter’s memoir within the servant’s secret library, she had been obsessing over the chair. Supposedly it had the power to bring machines to life with an energy so powerful that it could sustain them indefinitely. Instead of having to turn Sebastien’s key every couple of hours, this could give him and all of mech-kind a chance to enter the world and live a somewhat normal life independent from their masters.

“Shall we try it out, Seb?”

Sebastien obediently nodded and walked towards the chair. He was just about to sit down when he remembered something.

“Should we be doing this today, mistress? It is your birthday, after all”.

Vivienne stared back at him, perplexed. Then it dawned on her what he was referring to.

“You’re talking about that christening scandal, aren’t you? I would have thought a mech would have better sense than to believe such nonsense. I still can’t believe my parents thought that inviting a fortune teller was a good idea. That witch ruined the whole day and frayed my parents’ nerves. If I ever meet Madame Morena, I plan to give her a piece of my mind”.

Sebastien looked back at his mistress thoughtfully. 

“If Madame Morena’s profession is foreseeing the future, then shouldn’t we trust her? She predicted that you would become more interested in machines than your tiara and that came true. She said that you would make a discovery on your 16th birthday that would prove disastrous for you and the entire kingdom. Your parents went to such lengths to stop you from ever holding a book because of it. Must we do this today, Mistress Vivienne? It doesn’t seem very wise”.

Vivienne examined Sebastien. His expression was vacant, but she could swear that there was anxiety hidden behind his artificial blue eyes.

“Anybody would think that you are worried about me. There is no need to be scared”. 

Sebastien looked at her blankly.

“Scared? Me? I’m not scared. I couldn’t begin to imagine what fear feels like”.

Vivienne raised her eyebrows.

“I bet that you could. What if something horrible were to happen to me? What if I was forced to go away for a very long time. Would you be scared then? At the very least I’d expect that you would miss me”.

The Princess watched as his eyes widened. For somebody with no feelings, Sebastien was looking very concerned. While she felt guilty for prompting him into an internal struggle, Vivienne had her reasons for challenging him. Her teasing led to questioning and evolution. Sebastian was growing into himself every day, and Vivienne would do anything to encourage him.

“Are you going somewhere, mistress? Please take me with you”.

Vivienne smiled and swept away a lock of chestnut hair away from Sebastien’s eyes. She did not know whether to laugh at the misunderstanding or weep at how sad her mech looked because she would choose to go somewhere without him. 

“We’re in this life together, Sebastien”, she reassured him.

“ As soon as you and I can figure out how to build one of these chairs we are moving out of the palace. We are going to liberate so many mechanoids that my father will have to start giving you all the basic rights that you deserve. We cannot do that until we start testing, so please won’t you sit down”.

“Will that make you happy, mistress Vivienne?”

If you really wanted to make me happy, you would call me simply Vivienne.

The Princess had tried to get Sebastien to drop the formalities several times, but even the suggestion of it had made him uneasy. All Vivienne could do was wait for the day he relaxed enough around her to consider himself to be her equal. Vivienne turned her sigh into a smile and a nod. Sebastien mirrored her smile and sat down.

“Are you ready, Sebastien?”

Sebastien nodded.

Vivienne placed the conductivity pads upon his heart and lowered the wire covered helmet. She double checked the research notes, walked towards the switch and flipped it. As if the room had been struck by lightning, the lab lit up with crackling electricity. Sebastien’s body started to jerk as the electrical current found him. The force of it was so powerful that even the switch received the charge. It was so powerful that the poor princess was zapped by the lethal bolt of electricity and thrown clear.

Sebastien blinked as the sparks lit up the room. 

“Mistress?”

He calmly freed himself from the helmet and padding and knelt by Vivienne’s side. He shook her gently. Vivienne did not stir.

“ Don’t fight me on this, Mistress Vivienne. You never want to wake up in the morning, but I always get through to you in the end. I’m not going to leave you alone so you might as well wake up now”.

Sebastien continued to gently shake Vivienne, at a loss at why it wasn’t working.

The perplexed mech only noticed that he was in the way when the sweeper droids bumped into his leg. He turned around and apologised.

“Please won’t you clean somebody else? I need to wake my mistress”. 

The droids beeped with annoyance. Two of them grabbed at Vivienne’s limp wrist. The other climbed onto her chest.

“Broken”, came his tiny assessment. He looked to his friends for confirmation.

“Definitely broken”, another one confirmed. 

“Undeniably broken”, nodded the third.

“Broken?”, Sebastien repeated. How was that possible.

“Mistress Vivienne is not a mech. She cannot be broken”. 

The three droids exchanged a glance. Then they decided it was better to retreat and clean somewhere else.

“She won’t be waking up again, the last one remarked as he zipped past. Sebastien was still confused. Just as he would always wake up with the turn of a key, humans always woke up from their sleep, didn’t they? He shook Vivienne some more, determined to prove the droids wrong but once again she did not stir.

“What if I was forced to go away for a very long time. Would you be scared then? At the very least I’d expect that you would miss me”.

When Sebastien slept, he felt like he disappeared somewhere very far away. Did Vivienne also disappear when she slept? Maybe there was a distance between them now, even though they remained at each other’s side? If the droid were right, if Vivienne never woke up again, that distance would always be there, separating them. Sebastien would never be teased by her or see her smile. She would never run her fingers through his curly hair or give him a hug before leaving the room. Sebastien had never cared about any of these things before. It was dawning upon Sebastien that he actually cared about Vivienne an awful lot.

“I would miss you, Mistress Vivienne”.

That admission was the beginning of a change within Sebastien. Without any prior consideration, he let out a wounded scream. Though he had no tears within him to shed, that didn’t stop him from sobbing and shaking.

‘I cannot fail her like this’, Sebastien thought as he rocked Vivienne in his arms. ‘ Mistress Vivienne called me her friend, and yet I am doing nothing to help her. Think, Sebastien. What can I do?’

“What happens next in the story, mistress?”

Suddenly Sebastien was transported back to the secret library. With an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, it was Vivienne’s favourite place within the palace. It was also somewhere that she could bring Sebastien without the risk of running into her mech-phobic father. 

“I still don’t understand why you enjoy these fairy tales so much. They are always so over the top and sweet. I always got my nursemaids to tell me ghost stories as a child”.

“They are sweet”, Sebastien agreed, failing to see the criticism within her critique.

“Please tell me what happens next”.

Vivienne continued to read.

“At last the Prince had reached the top of the tower. He looked down upon the sleeping princess, knelt down and then gave her true love’s kiss. The princess opened her eyes and smiled. She and the Prince then lived happily ever after”.

“Vivienne is a Princess and she is sleeping. Maybe I can give her a happily ever after”.

Sebastien bolstered himself up first.

“I am a handsome prince. I am a handsome prince”, he affirmed, just in case that identity would give him some kind of power. As soon as he felt princely enough, he gazed down upon Vivienne and knelt down before her.

As Sebastien’s lips pressed against Vivienne’s the mechanoid was changed again. His thoughts became consumed by Vivienne, her kindness, her brilliance and her beautiful smile. Sebastien struggled to understand why he had found it so hard to give her anything in return except for a false smile. He would have given anything to smile for her now.

’My breath is yours. That has to be right because you brought me to life. Breathe me in and let it bring you back to me. You always insisted that I had a heart. If that is true then hear it beating and come back to me. My heart is yours as well”.

As Sebastien placed a hand above Vivienne’s heart, it started to spark. The electricity that flowed through him now, thanks to Professor’s Winter’s chair zapped the Princess. Underneath his fingers, Sebastien had felt her heart beat, just for a moment 

“Vivienne”, he called, suddenly optimistic. “Come back to me. You promised that we are in this life together”.

Sebastien placed his hand upon her heart again. Once again there was an electric discharge. At last, Vivienne gasped and opened her eyes.

Sebastien grinned. He pulled Vivienne towards him and hugged her tightly. 

“I thought that I had lost you, my love”.

Vivienne hugged him back. She was overcome with gratitude to her rescuer and for the fact that he had finally said the words that she had been longing for. When she met Sebastien’s eyes at last, she was giving him one of her beaming smiles. 

“It took you long enough to work out that you are my handsome Prince”.

As strange as it was, Vivienne had loved Sebastien in secret for many years now. This was the reason why she had always been challenging his emotions. She had been praying for the day that he might love her back in return.

Sebastien’s jaw dropped.

“Am I really a handsome Prince? I thought that I was just pretending” he exclaimed. Vivienne laughed, pleased that Sebastien hadn’t changed too much in her absence.

“You’re my handsome prince, even if nobody else in the kingdom will accept it”.

Sebastien smiled back at her. It was a wide, genuine smile which lit up his

entire face. He felt the rush of euphoria and laughed as well. If this was what happiness felt like, then he wanted it to be a part of his life, always. Then his eyes shone with excitement.

“Does that mean that I can be your happily ever after, Vivienne? Please say that I can”.

Vivienne nodded. Sebastien had already given her so much happiness from his clockwork heart. Now that it was beating for her, she could not wish for a better happily ever after.

When Tinkerbell

Drained the poisoned cup

Ten thousand children clapped

to bring her back.

She knew what she did.

So - I wonder

Was it a failed suicide?

Or just misguided

Martyrdom -

Made her take the dose

Meant for the Boy

Who Refuses

To Grow Up?

Tinker couldn't stay.

She blazed her trail

Burnt out too soon -

Fairies have such

short life spans, He said -

Smiling -

even as she faded from his view.

Today the Boy is

Blown up YUGE

Blown up a Bigly Troll -

Puffed with pride, he'll preen and crow

"Look at me,

How clever I am!"

(but still

refuse

to grow.)

It's a hard time now for fairies.

They’ve run out of stores

of pixie dust

(which, sprinkled with

happy thoughts

could help us soar) -

Lost children now are

Terror turned -

and no one

wants to

Believe

in anything

anymore -

(except, it seems,

to tear things down -

and start

Another

War.)

Tinker was a fixer.

She’d know how to make this right.

Now the fairies

that remain

all hide their light -

and flog the last of pixie dust

on the Black

Magic

Market.

We've dug ourselves

too deep into this Dark -

Fairy dust alone

won't sort this mess.

The shelves are lined with

Pills in

Blue and

Red -

and we're frozen in

the choosing

knowing our days are

ticking down -

If we close our eyes

and say

We

Believe

Again -

Would a baby’s laugh

Or one child’s clap

Bring poor Tinker back?

The old man stands silent before the canvas, staring down the void. Every day, for seventy years - at least those he remembers, and he swears he remembers sitting on the floor as a three year old, paints and crayons scattered around, intent on bringing forth the colours he saw in his head - every day he created anew, and yet - and yet. Was it really all over? He thought he would die, hands stained in oils and turpentine blasting his lungs - but here he is, a blank; worse than failure.

He looks to his old companion - the collected Yeats, spine split open on “The Circus Animals’ Desertion”. Maybe it happened to others - but he’d once seen himself as a god, as Vulcan - molten, virile, endlessly generative. William B made it to seventy-three, his words pushed through with urgency, recreating the language of his youth into A Vision of age and ill-health defeated. And the painters he adored continued on - Picasso poured pure instinct, expressive to the end - lust reborn in ancient forms, consuming life in death.

But here, bordered by the remnants of his life’s work, he is alone. Windows that once poured light are now dulled with grime and nicotine tar. In the corner, the old grey tabby yowls - not quite alone, after all - but in her deaf-blind misery, a ragged ball of need. Food, water, toileting, occasional scratch behind the ear - but not too much, or she’d scratch back. A living being to keep him going when deserted by the creatures of his heart. But such a sad recompense, from so long and fruitful union! He strains at the glassy pane, yanks it open just a chink - then collapses into his grandfather chair, depleted by the feat. A low whistle through the crack; a zephyr lifts the wispy curtain, brings the scent of oranges and tea, a hint to Leonard Cohen - again, productive to the end. “Suzanne” on the record player, but no strength to make that walk across the room to replace the needle. Instead he leans down, picks up the book of poetry left just in reach, squints his eyes to draw out the words.

A rattle in his chest! more than a tickle; more like the frenzied stabs of a baby griffin shattering its prison shell. The shock of sensation rocks him, throws the book across the room, as he grips his heart to feel the knocking and rumbling within. Through skin paper thin protrudes the jabs of a creature desperate to escape. ’What is this?” he gasps through pain, unable to control the unruliness within - as talons tear, fierce and wild, a primitive anima clamouring for release. “For too long you used me - see me now!” it howls, as he rips open his chest and pours the dark clawed angel to the floor, savage and heaving, beating the black feathers of its blood-encrusted wings.

We were a healthily unhappy family, each with an equal share of responsibility for everyone’s unhappiness. But we were not willing to admit it, so each of us took turns being single-handedly blamed for the collective misfortune. It was Lindsay’s turn this time.

Mum and dad were sleeping in separate beds again. Although Lindsay swore she didn’t know the reason, they both looked at her as if she was somehow responsible for the crisis in their marriage. Even I was feeling angry at Lindsay lately. I didn’t know why. But when you’re a high school junior, your senior sister doesn’t have to do much to piss you off — just exist. She annoyed me with her good mood, her easy laughter, with the way her permanent mental peace contrasted with our constant dissatisfaction. And, of course, with her cake. I hated that stupid cake.

Mum and dad agreed. It looked out of place in the dull whiteness of our fridge, in between mum’s cottage cheese and my 1% milk. An exuberant chocolate cake. It didn’t fit — just like Lindsay’s smile didn’t belong in the breakfast table with our traditional Saturday morning frown.

—What? Are you a morning person now?— dad asked. Lindsay just kept smiling.

—Of course not, honey. If she was a morning person, she wouldn’t be late for breakfast again— mum remarked. Lindsay ignored her, too, and calmly poured my 1% milk in her cereal.

Two shots, two misses. It was my turn to try and take that stupid smile off her face, and I was not in the mood for small talk.

—You know what? This is bullshit.

—Language!— said mum, out of reflex. Dad also seemed displeased but allowed me to continue. I knew it was okay to break the rules of politeness if the intention was to take a shot at Lindsay. And, unlike mum and dad, I had managed to catch her attention.

—It’s bullshit. It really is. You taking all that space in the fridge with this stupid cake for your friend’s party. It’s not even your party.

Lindsay sighed. We couldn’t see that annoying little smile anymore. I had scored. Smelling blood, mum pounced with her biggest weapon, which we all knew and feared.

—I have done so much for this family, Lindsay. Do you remember how many cakes I have baked for you? Do you see how I cook and clean for you every day? And now you bake this stupid chocolate cake with your friends, leave it in our fridge, and you don’t even share it with your family. No! All you care about is that party of yours!

There were tears in mum’s eyes when she was finished. We had seen that scene enough times to know that she could cry on cue, but that didn’t make her performance any less effective. Lindsay was sulking now, staring at the bottom of her half-empty cereal bowl. She had lost her appetite — very unusual for her. Dad took advantage of her weakness to deal the final blow.

—Party? I don’t remember giving you permission to go to any party. Not a chance. You have upset your mother and your brother. You and your cake are staying home tonight.

That was the kind of moment when we felt most united as a family: a victory against a common opponent — which always happened to be one of us. Breakfast had been just an appetiser: Lindsay’s tears would be our main course. Knowing her, though, she wouldn’t give us that pleasure. Lindsay was great at disguising her anger as indifference. If tears were mum’s superpower, that was hers.

—Whatever. You can have the fucking cake. I’m not hungry anymore.

She went to her room before they could ground her. Dad and I exchanged annoyed looks. One step ahead of us, mum opened the fridge. Yes, we didn’t get the sweet, intoxicating taste of Lindsay’s tears, but why would we skip dessert? With her cake now on the kitchen table, we each took our share of the victory spoils.

Half an hour later, dad and mum went to their room before they could finish reading the paper. Weird. I thought they were separated. Maybe our triumph against Lindsay had rekindled their relationship. I wasn’t in the mood to celebrate it, though. I soon started feeling lightheaded, a little sick. I knew better than to disturb my parents when their door was locked, so I texted Lindsay.

—Do you know where they keep the paracetamol?

—You’ll be fine. Come up to my room. Bring some cake.

It took me an enormous effort to climb the stairs. I expected Lindsay to be angry at me, but there it was: the same silly smile on her face again. She laid some cushions on the floor for me, told me to relax and started showing me some of her favourite music. I didn’t know she was into Pink Floyd. We began with The Piper at the Gates of Dawn and chronologically made our way up to The Dark Side of the Moon, which we played in sync with The Wizard of Oz on her laptop. It was crazy fun. Having an older sister wasn’t that bad, after all.

I confess I lost track of time, but it was getting dark when dad knocked on Lindsay’s door and told us to go to the kitchen. He and mum had ordered pizza — lunch and dinner. Lindsay didn’t seem upset with them at all. If anything, she was amused. Dad kept telling jokes. I don’t remember any of them. They must have been pretty good, though, because everybody was laughing. When there was no pizza left, mum took some leftover cake out of the fridge. I followed Lindsay’s advice and skipped dessert. Mum and dad had two slices each and went back to their room.

Lindsay only told me the truth about her cake a week later, when she came to me for help. Mum wanted her to bake another cake for all of us, but her allowance was not enough to buy the secret ingredient. Not for two weekends in a row; not for four people. I was happy to help. We weren’t even halfway through the Pink Floyd discography yet.

Our parents only found out several months later, after mum insisted on getting the recipe and preparing Lindsay’s chocolate cake for her friends from church. Lindsay ended up having to confess. I said I knew it, too. It was unfair for her to take the blame alone.

For someone as uptight as he used to be, dad was surprisingly cool with it.

—If it’s legal in this state, it’s legal in this house.

Mum had second thoughts and went to the reverend before she agreed to our new arrangement. With his blessing — “in moderation, and never before coming to mass” — the cake became our Saturday tradition. Lindsay and I loved to hear the news. We were a healthily happy family now, sure, but each should pay their share for the collective happiness. It was about time mum and dad started to chip in.

"Did you catch anything today?"

"The usual stuff. My companion thought of quitting his day job to open a bar with some friends. I told him it was a stupid idea."

"The bar, again? He’s almost 40 already, isn’t he?"

"Yup. It comes and goes. I don’t mind, really. He has talked himself out of it so many times. I barely need to make an effort for him to give up now."

"True. Hey, let me tell you about mine. Seven-year-old girl, remember? Today, she said her dream was to become president. Can you believe it? I’m trying to convince her it’s a man’s job. She’s a tough one, but I think I might be making progress."

The two dreamtrollers’ chatter was interrupted by the arrival of a third one. It emerged from beneath the clouds looking with the physical complexion of a starving man, looking drained after another long journey. On the end of his fishing rod, no dreams could be seen. The others acknowledged its presence but remained in silence. There was no need to ask any questions. They all knew he had come from another unsuccessful visit to its companion, a middle-aged man named Allan.

Every single person on Earth had a dreamtroller assigned to them at birth. It had been that way since well before the invention of written language.

Even the first Homo sapiens, with their limited intellect and scarce knowledge of the world, were equipped with the ability to desire. On the day the very first man had the very first dream, his dreamtroller was there, hovering over his head, trolling the waters of his thoughts to catch it. The man heard a sobering voice, seemingly coming from inside his own head, calmly convincing him that pursuing his dream would be futile. Then the dreamtroller rose again to the sky, taking with it the first of billions of human dreams which would never be fulfilled.

All humans heard stories about dreamtrollers in their childhood, but they were still considered to be legends. It would be pointless to attempt to prove otherwise. They lacked anything that could be perceived as a body by human senses, and no instrument could detect their presence.

The only way a dreamtroller would manifest itself was through a very subtle form of speech. Whenever a dreamtroller spoke, its companion received the message in his mind, bearing the sound of his own voice.

Their disguise was also an irresistible persuasion strategy. How can you argue against someone if their thoughts are indistinguishable from your own?

As a result, all humans had developed the habit of dreaming about the future, then giving up on most of their dreams. Everyone, except for Allan.

He was a child when he first heard of dreamtrollers. Like vampires and werewolves, they were the kind of creature that would flash into children’s memories at night and make them lose sleep for a couple of hours, but their terrifying nature didn’t stop them from being forgotten. No one actually believed in them after a certain age.

Unlike all his friends, however, Allan never outgrew his fear of dreamtrollers. He was terrified of the idea of something invading his mind to steal his dreams. He also knew that trying to ignore the dreamtroller’s words would also be fruitless. From a very early age, therefore, Allan decided to live a life without dreams.

While others fantasised about all they wanted to achieve in life, making themselves an open target to the dreamtrollers, Allan conditioned himself to suppress even his deepest desires before his mind could manifest them. And every night, when his dreamtroller came to collect its toll, it would always find Allan’s mind empty.

Allan never dreamt of becoming a firefighter, a football player or an astronaut when he grew up. In fact, he didn’t even dream of growing up at all: becoming a teenager, an adult and then an old man was just a natural development to which he attached no particular desire.

Everything that happened in his life was either due to chance or to the dreams of others. He went to church every Sunday on his mother’s suggestion. His father, who was an accountant, mentioned that Allan should follow his footsteps after noticing his talent for numbers. Having no other ideas in mind, Allan accepted the suggestion and spent forty years on a cubicle job at the first company who made him a job offer. Despite never asking for a raise or a promotion, he slowly advanced to a comfortable position in which he served the company’s interests well without interfering in no one else’s ambitions. At home, he would watch whatever was on television, order food from takeaway restaurants that left menus on his front door and go to bed at 10 PM, at the suggestion of a doctor. He never got married, of course, but his solitude didn't bother him. He knew the dream of finding love was the most dangerous of all desires.

Before Allan, it was assumed that dreaming was an essential part of life — and, therefore, no dreamtroller would ever starve. Every one of them would thrive for as long as its companion lived, then blissfully vanish into the clouds with a smile, having lived a fulfilling life. Allan’s dreamtroller was the first to experience frustration and despair: two feelings which were previously only known to humans.

As time passed and others in its generation began to vanish, Adam’s dreamtroller became acquainted with another deeply human emotion: fear. It dreaded the possibility of going through its entire existence without ever getting to know the rich, delicate taste of an unfulfilled dream. It was with bitter resignation that the dreamtroller kept visiting Allan every night, always returning to the skies as empty as when it left.

The dreamtroller had long lost all its hopes when, on a night which could be their last, the hesitating vibration of a human dream began to shake at the end of its fishing rod.

Allan was lying in a hospital bed, alone, his withering figure bearing an odd resemblance to that of his starving dreamtroller. He didn’t think of the family he never had, the women he never loved, the difference he could have made. A life of suppressed dreams had erased every trace of those feelings off his mind. Yet there remained one last nagging wish, which had been hatching in the depths of mind for many years and only now manifested itself in words. Unable to contain the thought any longer, Allan mentally uttered his first desire.

"I just want to die."

Just as Allan finished his sentence, he felt a dark, ancient presence in the room. A smile began to form on his face, but the rest of his body shrieked when a reply echoed in his mind, carrying the terrifying familiarity of his own voice.

"Not yet."