Alasdair Watson

“The guitars pick up, the drums kick in, and I’m away. I can’t help grinning like a madman as the dancefloor goes wild – the good feeling is catching, and it spreads fast. She grabs me by the hand, dragging me toward the floor. I protest that I don’t dance, shaking my head and smiling, but we both know my heart’s not in it. She wins. She always wins.

We throw ourselves around in the heart of it for a while, loose track of time. When we stumble away, we’re both soaked with sweat, but her eyes are still bright.

Then I wake up, and I remember that she didn’t always win. That there are some things that can’t be overcome with enthusiasm and an infectious grin. Things like bullets and knives and explosions. And I remember that she might never have found that out if it weren’t for me. And for a moment, for just a moment, I think about calling her and telling her that I’m sorry all over again.

But what would be the point?”

“The heat is oppressive, lying over everything like a blanket. The air crawls up your skin, a strange crackle in it, a muted energy. You can see it reflected in the faces of people are they hurry by – anticipation, concern, maybe even a little fear. The skies darken. Your jacket snaps against you and your hair ruffles in the breeze as the wind rises.

The first patter on the leaves of a tree as you pass under it. You quicken your pace. Then you hear it. That first rumble before it all starts, and you know you’re not going to reach shelter in time.

Stormbreak. The second before the knife slips in.”