I won a magazine short fiction contest. The first writing contest I’ve entered since I was a child. I sent it off expecting nothing, and then on my birthday I got an email that I had been picked as their winner. Best birthday ever! Seeing something I’d written in print in a magazine read by thousands of people weekly. Impossible. Incredible. Terrifying. And so, so gratifying. I have loved to write stories since I learned how to put words on a page, and to think that after all this time perhaps I’m actually not bad at it is unspeakably rewarding.

It’s made me want to scour the internet for more prompts, more opportunities, and its turned the humble embers of a long-loved hobby into a burning passionate need to get the stories in my head out into the world.

You miss every shot you don’t take.

The ring sparkled so brightly upon my finger it was almost blinding. The diamond wasn't huge, but it sure did dazzle. I was speechless, my heart fluttering in my chest like the wings of a hummingbird; beating so hard and so fast I thought I might explode. He was looking at me with such love in his eyes; those eyes that I would melt into every time he laid them on me.

And then another flutter. My hand instinctively rested on my turgid belly as the life inside moved in rhythm with my heart.

"So," he asked "is it a yes?"

"Yes!" I cried as he drew up to his feet. "Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!!" I flung my arms around him and he encircled me with his in the warmest embrace.

"I love you." he whispered. "I'll love you forever."

A tear tumbled down my cheek. "I love you too."

I woke up sobbing. My bare hand clutched at my empty stomach. No ring. No baby. Just me, curled in my bed alone. My phone screen the only light in the darkness of my bedroom, still open on his last text message.

He was in the business of nepenthe. The Greeks wrote of a mythical elixir to make you forget all your sorrows, and people's desire for such a thing was no different today than it was all those centuries ago. Perhaps if anything people wanted it more; these modern times were tough on everyone, from the lowliest workhouse pauper to the Dukes and Lords of London. And they paid handsomely for anything that could help them forget, even if it was only temporary. His establishment had an excellent reputation; he took care of his customers, providing the most comfortable beds and the finest opium direct from the orient. He had handpicked his ladies himself, and they never picked pockets or gossiped about the gentlemen who sought their comfort. His customers were in safe hands in his parlour, and oh how they flocked to him, practically showering him in coins as they ran to the pipe. They craved forgetting, and he was only too glad to provide it.

No one really knew exactly what caused it. With such a traumatic series of events pinpointing the moment her body decided to drain itself of all colour was difficult. Was it the argument between her parents that she witnessed from the top of the stairs when the shouting woke her from sleep? Perhaps it was seeing her father smash the TV in anger, and then throw it into the wall, sending their happy-family photographs crashing to the floor. Maybe it was being pulled from her home, barefooted in her pajamas to her mother's car in a bid at escape, shrieking in terror as the car flew through the streets, her father's headlights blindingly close behind. It could have been the moment the car left the tarmac and hurtled head-over-heels down the verge, or the instant her small frame hit the roof as she was thrown about. She wouldn't have seen her mother's death, but the sight of her corpse hanging through the windscreen as she was carried to the ambulance may have done it. Or maybe it was being told by a police officer in the stark white of the hospital room that her father had also been killed as he drove his car into oncoming traffic, and that she was now a ward of the state to be placed with a family of strangers once she could leave the hospital. Maybe it was the humiliation of being given a handful of her belongings, collected without her consult, in a black rubbish sack; all that she had in the world. Whatever caused it, her hair had grown silver-white since then. She wore it short these days, and despite it's origins she had rather come to like it.

She is tired, a combination of too much sleep and too little in no particular pattern. The spring in her step is not quite as springy as it once was, like a slinky that gets stretched a little too far and never quite returns to normal. She has been stretched a million different ways over the years, bending over backwards and contorting herself to the whims of others, a master of self-manipulation, and it has left a weariness that ages her beyond her years. Most recently it has been her children that stretched her; her belly to carry them, her arms to hold them tight, her heart to love them. Her heart is the biggest and fullest it has ever been, and she wears it proudly upon her sleeve for all to see. It bears many scars, some which have faded to barely-there traces, others deep crevices across its chambers, but they are healing. One day they might not be there at all, she hopes.

She speaks with a lisp from too many years talking through a mouthful of braces, which make her wonder if the braces were worth it. But her voice is girlish and tuneful, ready to break into song at any moment. She loves to sing, and to dance, although her steps are never as precise as her notes, and she suffers from chronic clumsiness; her arms and legs usually sporting bruises from her lack of spatial awareness. She sometimes feels as if she is simply too big and ungainly, where in her mind she must be two inches smaller in every direction than she is in reality.

She can never hide her emotions. She laughs loudly, and cries when she's hurt. She struggles to lie, because her face will always betray the truth. She is fiercely loyal, and as protective of her loved ones as any beast. She daydreams and likes the world to be silent so she can listen to the songs and stories in her head. Her mind is a beautiful mess of song lyrics, scientific facts, untold tales, hidden memories, and self-hatred. She is by far her biggest critic, and craves the approval of others as she can never approve of herself.

She often wishes she could be anyone other than herself. But she is not. She is who she is, and that will probably never change.

Sarah hadn’t expected him to look so normal. Average height, average build, a typical haircut, appropriate clothes for the cool weather. Not what she had been picturing at all. When he came to sit on the bench beside her she was about to tell him that she was waiting for someone else and so he couldn’t sit there. But before she got a chance he started talking.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” His voice was low, and he spoke without turning to look at her so his words were almost whipped away on the coastal wind. It had been his suggestion to meet here, overlooking the dunes of a miserable British beach. She’d sent the kids off to play in the sand. She wondered if he had kids too.

“Yes.” She said, though her throat was dry and her words came out all strangled. She swallowed and tried again, louder “Yes. I’m sure.”

His head whipped round and he stared her dead in the eyes until she felt the heat of embarrassment creep up her neck, but she held his gaze. Her hazel-brown eyes locked onto his steel blues. She was serious, and he saw that.

Satisfied he turned his gaze back to the water. “Do you have the money with you?”

She leant down to the handbag at her feet and tugged open the zip. He glanced down at the wads of banknotes secured with orange bands then gave a sharp nod.

“Once you leave this bench, the deal is done.” He growled. “And then there’s no going back.”

“I know.” She affirmed. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Then I guess you better be on your way.” The man’s gaze was still fixed in the distance, watching the waves crash on top of each other. He seemed tired, resigned.

Sarah stood, straightening her sweater and tucking her hair behind one ear so the wind wouldn’t throw it into her face. “Don’t you want to know why?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

He looked up at her, took in her image. She had the same air his clients always had; that they knew better, that they were entitled to get what they wanted no matter what it might cost another person. They always wanted to tell him their stories, detailing how they’d been so desperately wronged and how he was supposed to set it right. They always had justifications.

“Would it make any difference?” he said wearily as another wave crashed on the shore.

She thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I guess not.”

And that was the end of their conversation. Sarah flounced off down the beach to collect her children, leaving the bag beneath the bench as planned. After she’d dusted sand off each one and they began their walk home she pulled her phone from her pocket and texted her husband, and then her lover. Both were blissfully unaware of the meeting that had just taken place. She felt good, as she always did when she got exactly what she wanted.

The man collected up the bag and walked with it back to his car. There was no-one around to see him. This sleepy seaside town was as empty as always outside of the tourist season. He threw the bag onto the passenger seat and double-checked the info he’d been given; he knew exactly where he needed to be to meet his target. He unlocked the glovebox, pulling out what he needed. He pulled the mask over his face, and loaded his gun.

The cola can was warm in my hands. I had been sat motionless for so long my legs had gone numb. Contemplating. Today would be my final day on this earth. A life so unaccomplished that no-one would mourn, even if anyone were left to mourn at all. The rain had taken everything and everyone. Of course there were many survivors, scattered wherever the rain couldn't reach, but trapped and separate with so little communication since the acid eroded through phone lines and signal towers I might as well be the only human on the planet. And as it turns out, I don't do so well with being alone.

There just didn't seem much left to live for. Humans are 80% water; we need water to live as does everything else on the planet, and when the very thing you need to survive becomes deadly what can you do? There's a finite supply of canned and bottled beverages to live off until the rain becomes neutral again, if it ever does. The damage we had done to our planet to cause it's wrath could be irreversible.

Yes, today would be the final day.

I took a swig of the warm cola and dragged myself to standing. I glanced around my front-room, cluttered with rubbish and little else. A TV sat in the corner that no longer served any purpose. Mostly my days were spent reading books, sleeping, and trying to avoid comfort-eating my rationed supplies. I dug through a pile and found a chocolate bar I had been saving. I might as well eat it now, it wouldn't do me any good soon.

As I let the sweet chocolate melt in my mouth I walked and stood at my door. I could hear the heavy droplets drumming the ground outside. The door itself had done well to stand up to the rain for this long; much better than other areas of the house where the bricks had eroded to dust. And currently this door was the only thing protecting me from being eroded to dust myself.

A thought crossed my mind. Hopeful. Stupid. Perhaps it had been long enough that the rain was rebalancing? Perhaps I could go outside and it would just be regular rain; cool and refreshing on my face. I could open my mouth and fill myself up with fresh, clean water. Gulp it down and laugh and splash in the harmless puddles like I did as a child. Hopeful. Stupid. I knew what awaited on the other side.

I opened the door, and stepped out into the rain.