As a youth, I was root beer, scummy brown,

In a sea of shandies, all watered down.

And she was pink lemonade.

Didn’t taste quite right, so I tried to blend in,

Drank with the rest, preferred percentages less thin,

I changed, but she remained the same.

Swapped my brown from tinned to bottled,

Felt mature, thick-skinned, and hair mottled.

And she was pink lemonade.

My sweet parts melted into dismay,

Quirks and uniqueness’ faded away,

I changed, but she remained the same.

I became a British shade of dandelion and burdock.

Spat with the lads, till mottled became dreadlock.

And she was pink lemonade.

I grew bitter, and thought her life peachy, and breezy,

Mistook her pink life to be simple and easy,

I changed, but she remained the same.

I flailed and slunk, and drunk as I drowned,

In the world, as they pushed us, she stood her ground.

I changed, but she remained the same.

And she was pink lemonade.

She said, Ali, if it doesn't work out with this guy

I don't know what I'm going to do,

and I had to attend her funeral

on a Wednesday afternoon

wondering where the guy was, if he knew.

I am tied to this body, this lonely vessel of gloom

the only thing separating me from her

is the ability to push through.

Only her dog survived her; I was

promised that he went to a good home.

I had seen her hold him just two weeks before.

I haven't told anyone this, but I got a dog myself

to save me from Wednesday nights,

when it's me versus her coffin, staring at me through

hooded eyes. When it's me versus what's inside.

And yes, I am always that dark, at my very core,

in my very own mind.

But surviving is a choice, a pink lemonade

born from rotten fruit.

And it's not bitterness that leads me to that truth,

it's the light that is promised on Thursday morning

after the storm clears,

a certain hope, and with any luck,

I'll believe it to be true -

for my dog's full name

is Ernest Hope Hemingway,

he saves me every single day, every single Wednesday

that remains.

I want to laugh at her. I want to be able to say something condescending and horrible and shrug this all off. But in that moment, sitting there almost nervous and embarrassed, telling me I was the first person to ever share the night with her and have the privilege of sharing her morning too, I could feel my heart clenching so violently I could almost mistake it for love.

She tells me this over coffee- stale and tasting of the burnt bottom of the kettle and soake up by store bought shortbread I scrounged out from the back of the cupboard. I wince at the charred flavour from one morning that she had sleepily brewed it twice. She scowls as she listens to the cupboard squeak shut from when I never oiled the hinges.

Yes, I could almost mistake it for love.

But that would mean it had ever left. That it hadn't left an indent around my bones and organs. The velvet carress of petals where the many vices of thorns had left me scarred over the years. Where my words were washed and pressed and folded until they lifted.

God if I couldn't feel it thundering in my chest and pounding in my head like it wanted so desperately to be released from my throat and whispered in that bitch's ear.

But that's just the dose of her poison, isn't it? I am soothed by the blanket of A4 paper and the familiar clack of well worn but long neglected keys. Weren't things that were loved meant to change? To be supported? To squeak from time, like old bones?

The vulnerability that my bastard ex-wife had been trying so desperately to feign was displayed in cracked paint held in the body of metal on my desk, and the feeling of purging my words without judgement let me know I wasn't alone in whatever we were connected by.

My ex told me she didn't like my laugh- how it squeaked and how the box springs on my side were too loud. My typewriter never says such things, kissing my fingertips and begging for more and more and-

Well, my mother in law believes there's another woman.

We are inextricably interlinked; despite how resolute I've been told to act like we aren't.

To post, or not to post, that is the question.

Should I stop playing computer Solitaire

And tweet, I mean post, a delicious dollop

of gossip under my username on X

In a sea of virtual anonymity?

Or should I first weigh the harm that my missive

Might bring to another, not to mention

Consequences to my handle’s rep, if false?

Is it better to post and watch my thread grow

With agreeable replies flooding in like

A jackpot of coins in an old slot-machine,

Not to mention all the prospective reposts?

But what if the replies are just so hateful

That I cannot live with myself anymore?

To post or not to post? I am so consumed

With this existential question that I

Cannot be bothered with world news of wars

And national reports of strife and injustice.

Sigh, I will put off my posting dilemma.

Right now, I will put the red six just below

The black seven, and move my King of Diamonds;

It is easier to ponder Solitaire.

‘Border folk are strange creatures, you know, Father. But perhaps you’ve already worked that out for yourself.’

Father Georgios Anagnosides smiled politely, but said nothing. He still wasn’t quite sure about his new curate, Father Benedict. Something, he sensed, was veiled behind the other’s genial, jocund exterior. He glanced around the sumptuously-decorated parlour, with its tasteful William Morris-style wallpaper, Pre-Raphaelite prints on the walls, plush armchairs and colourful rugs, Queen Anne drop leaf table with intricately-carved legs, and the gentle ticking of what - surely! - wasn’t a Thomas Tompion longcase clock.

‘Pardon me, but is that a Thomas– ?’

Benedict followed the gaze of the younger priest, and chucked. ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said. ‘I have a Tompion for a grandfather. It once belonged to Sarah Churchill, the Duchess of Marlborough. Well, allegedly. Insuring it is something of a nightmare, and it doesn’t even keep particularly good time: but it’s almost three hundred years old, so I suppose it can be forgiven. I’m impressed - you have a good eye for antiques.’

‘Not especially - but my father was a watchmaker.’ Georgios thought about the furnishing in his own, 1970s-build vicarage, that he had moved into ten days before, and grimaced. His priest-colleague was clearly someone of substantial private means. Perhaps that explained why he had resigned his inner-city living ten years previously, whilst still in his mid-forties, and retired to the countryside, keeping his hand in by covering parochial vacancies along the Anglo-Welsh border. Though he’d heard other rumours too, about Father Benedict Wishart: but he didn’t want to dwell on that…

‘So your partner - what was his name - Oliver? He’s not at home at the moment?’

‘No, he generally comes home every other weekend. It’s a busy life, working at the Bar. Another two, maybe three years, then he’ll retire. Sadly, he won’t be back for your induction service this coming Sunday. He knows the Chancellor of the Diocese quite well: they were in Chambers together, once upon a time. He’s an atheist, bless him. He always says I’m more than devout enough for the two of us. But you must come round for dinner next time he’s here.’ The elegant, smartly-dressed priest paused, then said:

‘Do you have any particular views on the supernatural, Father?’

There had been a distinct change in his tone of voice, and - Georgios noted - a slight tremble in his hand, as he lowered his teacup, and leaned forward, with the gravest of looks upon his suddenly-furrowed brow.

‘Please, call me Georgios. That’s a rather surprising question to ask of a fellow priest - but I assume you’re not looking for some conventional theological answer, Benedict. What exactly were you thinking of?’

Benedict drew a red silk handkerchief from the lapel pocket of his jacket, and wiped his forehead. In just a matter of seconds his visage had utterly changed, and his flushed face was glistening with sweat. The aura of comfortable condescending affability that had surrounded him since opening the door to his visitor half an hour before had vanished.

‘Well, if we are to be friends, as well as colleagues, then you must call me Benny. I hope we shall be friends - and that we can trust each other.’

‘Of course, Benny. What’s troubling you?’

‘As I said earlier, people who live on the border are the strangest of people. In the ten years we’ve been here, I’ve found them to be tight-lipped, and inclined to keep their own counsel. The warring may have ceased six hundred years ago now, but people in these parts are still disinclined to take sides. Neither Welsh, nor English. Perpetually suspicious of those who come “from off”. You understand what I’m saying?’

‘I think so.’

These are lands where much blood has been spilt; places of the hinterland, where there’s been so much violence and anger. It seeps into the very ground. The hills and the valleys have long memories of the treacheries and cruelties of the past. They don’t rest easily. As for the people: they cling to the old ways. There were other gods, other forces at work, here on the Marches, back in the days of old. Before the missionaries and the monks came, proclaiming the One God, here they worshipped the many. And - if the truth be told - there are plenty who still do.’

‘There’s nothing new or surprising about that. Folk religious beliefs have rubbed shoulders with the more dogmatic assertions of orthodoxy for a long time.’

Benedict shook his head vigorously. ‘No, Father - Georgios. I mean more than folk religion. This isn’t just a case of popular syncretism, or quaint traditions, handed down from yesteryear. I’m talking about something much older, and much darker. Something that is implacably hostile to the Faith. Something that is deeply diabolical - right to its very core. They worshipped many gods - but the chieftain of their pantheon was always the same. He goes by many names. Do you know the legend of Darkwoode?’

‘Darkwoode– ?’

‘The churches along the border - on both sides - have you not noticed the predominant dedication?’

‘Well, there seem to be quite a few dedicated to St Michael. Is that what you mean?’

‘Yes. And on the Welsh side - and even here and there on the English side - you’ll see that quite a few of the villages are named “Llanfihangel” - the llan (or place) of angels. As in St Michael and All Angels. Curious, don’t you think, all these churches dedicated to the dragon-slayer? Here on the Welsh border, of all places.’

Georgios grinned. ‘He’s not the only dragon-slayer. My own namesake, of course, was slaying reptilian leviathans long before the English adopted him as their patron saint, ousting poor old St Edward the Confessor for someone more suitably martial.’

‘Then perhaps you’re coming amongst us, here and now, is a sign. You’re young - thirty-one, yes? But perhaps you have the vigour and the courage that I lack. I’m tired, and I’ve witnessed too much. Believe me, Georgios, you will be tested if you stay here - and you will need all your wits about you. The servants of the Darkwoode are not to be trifled with.’

‘I’m sorry, Benny, you still haven’t explained. What is the Darkwoode?’

‘Oh, you won’t find it marked on an OS map. But it’s real enough. The ancient woodlands along the Marches have mostly gone now - just a few copses, a handful of spinneys, here and there, remain. You know those puzzles - what do they call them - dot-to-dot puzzles, yes?’ Georgios nodded. ‘Well, join up the churches dedicated to St Michael, just like a dot-to-dot…’

Benedict moved his forefinger through the air, forming a circle as he did so. ‘You’ll find that they enclose the forests of old. They’re markers for the boundaries - the borders of the Darkwoode. The place where the last dragon was driven, it’s said. Waiting for the End of Time. As long as the churches remain, the dragon remains trapped. They stand as shields - as wards - against Evil Incarnate. But if ’ere disaster befalls even one of the churches - the dragon will escape through the gap.’ The older priest sat back, and sighed.

‘That is the legend of the Darkwoode.’

Note: My apologies for those wanting more - but it’s just the beginning of a new story! The supernatural is largely off-stage as yet - only time will tell if (and how) it becomes more prominent…