It’s July. You don’t know that it’s July; “when” is still something that’s taking some adjusting to. But it is.

It’s done. The paperwork is all signed. You’re no longer employed by the US Armed Forces. Or at least you will be soon, once all the bureaucracy and resignation periods have passed.

It’s August. It still takes a few moments to focus in but you know that it’s August.

You meet with Valentina. It’s in a small cafe in Nashville. Traffic crawls past the window at a tedious pace, stopping and starting and stopping again. You talk to her about what happened, about being the last one to work on the vehicle. About welding the wires. About the probabilities involved with a lone mechanic working on safety critical components without anyone double checking their work. She talks to you about what happened. About wondering about exactly what kind of fault could have been responsible, and if she could have prevented it. She talks to you about spending 3 years in isolation, suddenly unemployable, and about seeing in the papers the news about ANCOM. She talks to you about death and fatality counts. It’s all too late now, and you know it, both of you do. But you still felt better for having talked to her about it. Is that selfish?

It’s September.

The table is covered in paper, torn and torn again into scattered pieces covering the surface and spilling out onto the floor. Each piece has scrawled writing on it, the start of some sort of story, beginning each time with clarity and direction before meandering, growing disjointed and aimless before any events of interest occur. Eventually each scrap trails off to nothingness, before what’s been done so far is struck through and started anew, over and over.

It hurts to look at it. It feels like you’re about to throw up as you stuff the scraps into a bag without looking at them, crumpling each piece as swiftly as you can so you don’t see a single word. Everything feels nicer once they’re discarded out of sight into the bin.

It’s October.

Tarmac rolls by under-wheel as you tap the steering wheel to the rhythm of the music playing through the speakers. It was nice to visit your parents, after what felt like an age of not seeing them. The suburbs and small towns trickle past in their typical unremarkable pace, so unremarkable in fact that it takes almost 20 minutes for you to notice that the road markings aren’t for any road on the route you had carefully planned. You pull into a side road and stop, next to an unremarkable cemetery that lacks the many years of age normally bestowing gravitas to such places.

You reach into the back seat to grab the map to course correct, and for a moment you are absolutely certain that there’s something you forgot to bring, that should be next to the jar of your dad’s honey nestled in the back seat, that something is so wrong with the world that space itself ought to give way and rip you in two across the seam where it tears. But the moment passes quickly. Within 5 minutes you’re back on the road, and you don’t think about it again.

It’s November.

You saw Swansea be mentioned on the TV the other day, and for some reason it reminded you of the smell of blood, and the feel of it too, pooling about your hands, its viscous warmth seeping into them. No, not remind you. Why would that be a reminder? It just made you think about it briefly. Just one of those strange little things. In your dreams that night, you’re on an icy desert surrounded by the broken bodies of the dead as the cold encroaches ever inwards. It fades away, like all dreams do.

It’s January.

The snow is falling on the television when you turn on the weather channel. You’ve been feeling strange lately, like there’s something you should do but you can’t, you can’t even quite think about it. It might be a location problem maybe? The last while has mostly been the same sort of scenery. A change of locale could do you some good. Somewhere a bit quieter maybe? A lot of places need mechanics after all.

It’s January.

On the other hand, maybe it’s not such a good idea. It seems a shame to move again so soon after the previous time. Besides, the idea of living somewhere isolated like that feels weird too, in some unidentifiable way. You’ll have to think about it. On the TV, the snow keeps on falling.

Written by Alfred H.

A child squeals as she winds her way between chairs, chasing her brother in a game only comprehensible to them. Their hastily ‘finished’ meals grow cold at the head of the table, carrots skilfully avoided, and sprouts cunningly concealed under mashed potato. An unprepared aunt has to screech to a halt to prevent tripping, as the brother uses her legs as a temporary sanctuary before darting further up the table. Their cousin sits next to Sage’s grandmother as she shares a story containing, as she keeps insisting, a very important moral lesson. Sage is in the eye of the storm, only protected from the chaos by their much less energetic father and mother seated on either side of them. Their own cousin sits opposite them, speaking excitedly about their first semester at college. They’ve grown a lot.

The wind shrieks as hooded figures ferry to and from idling vehicles in the snow. The fast movement is broken when three shapes strain to carry a fourth between them. The sagging body brushes against the snow drifts. A twisted, growing, spiralling station stands indifferent in the eye of the storm.

Hundreds of pictures and their frames hide the walls from view, each selected by Sage’s mum. Some picture long-dead relatives, others show paintings and photos of breathtaking landscapes, or mundane items in a new perspective. Still more, show the people in this room; as they grow up, as they grow old. The walls are a messy archive telling the story of each life in the wrong order, documenting each moment that led to this, apart from one. Three photos sit ignored on the mantlepiece, collecting dust, their frames forgotten and never added in these four years. No one notices how Sage is missing in many of the photos.

Silhouettes sit in a carriage. Silhouettes sat in a carriage. Their faces were missing, or were never there to begin with. Ten of them in all. One of them died before the journey, and another one died on it.

Sage’s aunt pretends to act disinterested, but soon she is showering Sage’s dad’s, Peter’s, cooking with praise. The target of this year is the red cabbage, the recipe, a secret held for five years, the only way Peter can ensure the whole family turns up to these dinners, or so he insists. It takes two more drinks before he is spotted speaking to his sister in conspiratorial tones; the word ‘port’ is overheard several times. Sage returns their attention to the steak, carefully cutting through.

There was… something, blood?

Their uncle grabs Sage’s shoulder and sits down next to them, asking what’s on their mind. Was there something on their mind? It’s gone now, if it was ever there. Soon, their uncle launches into a long story about an old associate and Valentina. Apparently, they knew each other… or know. He’s a bit hazy on the details, but sharp on the comedic timing. The anecdote is laden with quips and asides. Soon, the whole table is listening, with the exception of those who had to retire early for the night. He never gets to the end, interrupted right at the climax as an even more climactic cake is paraded through the room by a beaming Peter. There is plenty of honey to go with it.

Sage doesn’t mention the ANCOM flier in their pocket. They don’t mention that they met Valentina earlier, who said they’d go far, further than her, and how she handed the flier over. They don’t mention the acceptance letter. They can share the good news later; Antarctica isn’t going anywhere.