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The authors are ready to fight.
Now their fate rests with you, the readers.
Read both stories carefully before casting your vote. Each author has responded to the above prompt, but their interpretations may differ wildly. Consider how they approach the challenge and which story leaves you with the stronger impression.
The poll will be active for one week. May the best author win.
‘His Eyes Look Down’
His eyes look down.
Blood drips. It’s dark.
An arm instinctively tries to rise,
to touch what feels like
either a gash or a burn in his chest.
Different pains melding together
hard to differentiate the type,
amongst thoughts that are
blurred, muddied….bloodied.
His eyes look down,
as he hears footsteps,
smells something akin to burnt meat,
realises it is coming from him,
that answers the question about the chest.
A voice is heard, though he hears more
on one side, than another.
What’s wrong with his left ear?
Where is his left ear?
The voice lists a number of perceived wrongs.
The fact there have been two wives prior,
is in itself a wrong, an affront.
Let alone having now mocked the institution
by marrying once again.
Words are spat, as a blow from
something hard, hot and metallic
glances his cheek.
The sound is like meat, when first added to hot griddle.
Drunkenness,
sex outside of marriage,
love outside of marriage
gluttony
not always sharing crisps at school.
The list goes on, erratic in the wrongs it names.
His eyes look down,
as his brain tries to process
what he hears.
Why is love wrong,
whether in or out of marriage?
The school crisps thing,
it must be someone who
knew him when he was about
nine or ten.
He’d stopped eating crisps in senior school.
His eyes look down,
there’s a sound of a lid being twisted
a smell of petroleum.
He gasps as liquid hits skin,
stinging those burnt and bleeding places
The list continues to be recited:
never attended church,
never came back to his hometown
after leaving with the first
of those wives.
got a job in the city,
wore a suit,
when all his friends
were labourers
or worked in the docks.
Thinks he’s better than where he came from.
His eyes look down,
as he receives another whack,
this time only from closed fist,
followed by a glob of phlegm
in his face for good measure.
Then, the sharp scratching sound
as a match is struck.
He knows what’s coming,
lets out a scream
as flame takes hold.
His eyes look down,
before they’re crushed
by the hands holding them.
The Man Who Knew Tomorrow
The old man outside Central Station. “Thomas?” The voice disappeared beneath buses grinding away from the curb and the endless shuffle of commuters. I ignored it. “Thomas Gallows.”
That made me freeze, and glance over my shoulder. The figure staring looked close to seventy. His gray coat hung from a body that had forgotten what a full meal felt like. Trembling—not from age alone, but exhaustion, kept to the sides of his body. He looked like someone who had spent a lifetime moving toward a terrifying nightmare.
“Sorry, you got the wrong man,” I said.
The old man just smiled back with heartbreaking relief. “No, I know it’s you.” There was no triumph in the words. I offered a polite nod and turned away. But in the next moment came uneven footsteps.
“You broke your wrist when you were twelve!”
I kept my pace, at first refusing to catch his words.
“Fell from the oak tree behind your grandmother’s house. You still feel the ache every winter.”
That hit me, and I frowned.
“You’ve never told your father what your mother whispered before she died.” Then my stomach tightened. “Because you can’t bear to see him cry.”
“Who are you?”
The old man’s shoulders sagged. “As soon as you asked...” he whispered. “...I knew I’d made it this far.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means this time isn’t like the others.”
I stared. The old man seemed to realize he’d said too much. He looked away, instinctively pressed two fingers against his chest.“When you’re frightened,” he said quietly, “you count your heartbeat.”
“So what are you? A psychic?”
“No.”
“A private investigator?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Then who are you?” The old man looked at me with a familiar expression I got no more answers from him.
Instead he stepped closer, gritting his teeth. “I know what happens if you go to that meeting you’ve been preparing for.”
I folded his arms.
“Oh?”
“On the fourth floor. The one with all the partners,” My expression faltered, pulse quickening. “Just, stay away for today, call in sick.”
Tom forced a smile, “Nice trick.”
“It’s not.” The old man’s eyes glistened. “I’ll be damned if you’re not the only thing I’m ever able to change.” That was it, I couldn’t listen to more of his bullshit. But the old man caught my sleeve, forcefully. Pleading. For a moment I almost believed him. Then embarrassment won and he pulled free.
The security guard outside the building noticed and asked, “Everything okay?”
“He keeps following me.”
The guard stepped between us.
“You need to move along, sir.”
The old man ignored him, focusing his whole being on me.
“Tom, if you remember this one thing...”
His voice almost broke.
“...don’t stand near the windows.”
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