Blue Jeans by Sara Travis

“We don’t need the money. We can make it all work,” she says.

“I know you think we don’t need it, but we do. I do,” he says.

She sighs. She shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest. She stands in the doorway, he sits on the sofa, one leg pulled up over the other. He doesn’t look at her. He can’t bring himself to. She’s glad. She knows that if he looks at her she’ll melt, and all the troubles won’t matter anymore because she loves him, and he loves her, and when you love someone you can forget all the bad stuff as long as you have each other. But this is really bad stuff, and she doesn’t think she can forget.

“There are other ways of making money. Safer ways. I don’t like this, you know I don’t like it. We don’t need it, we can manage.”

“Why should we have to manage? Why do we have to live our lives just ‘getting by’? We deserve more than that. You deserve more than that. And I can give it to you.”

She risks a glance in his direction in spite of herself. He’s picking at the frayed hem on his jeans, still avoiding her eyes. She lets her arms drop to her sides.

“I don’t want the money, I want you.”

“And I want to do this for you! It’s all for you, you know that. You’ve always known that.”

“Don’t put this on me,” she says, her voice breaking slightly, “I’ve never asked you for anything, I will never ask you for anything. I don’t need the stuff, we don’t need it. It’s just paper; you’re chasing paper. But I’m real, I’m here and I’m yours. We’re in this together. We can still walk away from this and we’ll be okay.”

He stands and walks to the doorway, stopping in front of her. He takes her hands in his and before she’s aware of it, she’s lost herself to his deep, hazel eyes.

“I can’t walk away. I won’t. I want to do this for you. For us. You’ll see, when we’ve got the money and we’re out of here, somewhere far away from here, you’ll see that it was worth it.”

He places his lips to her cheek and walks straight past her, out the door, without a backwards glance. And suddenly the room is colder, emptier than it was before, and she knows, somehow she knows in her gut, in her heart, that she’ll never see him again. He’s gone, and he’s taken a part of her with him.

Broken Doll by Sara Travis

When Elsie was five years old, her mother bought her a china doll. Blue eyes, painted lips, dark curls, Elsie loved her instantly.

When Violet came to stay, Elsie was instructed to share her newest playmate with her older cousin. And when she refused, Violet snatched the doll from Elsie’s hands, hurling the thing against the bedroom wall. Elsie did not cry. She did not scream. She did not tug at her cousin’s long hair, or scratch at her eyes with her fingernails, or throw herself down on the rug, thumping her fists and kicking her feet. Instead, Elsie watched with mild curiosity as chunks of her beloved doll’s head fell to the floor.

They stuck her little face back together with glue, but the cracks never disappeared, and she was never quite the same after that. Elsie didn’t like to look at her. Something had broken inside of the girl, too, and although the cracks were never visible, they were there nonetheless. When Elsie turned twelve, Violet came to stay for the weekend. Elsie crept into her cousin’s room in the middle of the night, and sliced her face with a kitchen knife. Even now, many years later, when she closes her eyes, Elsie can hear the screams, see the red seeping through the bed sheets, smell the fear in the stale air. And when that happens, she pictures the cracked, distorted face of her lovely china doll, broken on the carpet, and something inside her feels whole once more.

Speechless by Sara Travis

Afterwards, I lay in his arms for hours and traced the lines on his face with my fingers. He pulled the duvet up over us and squeezed me closer. I could feel his heartbeat against my cheek and tangled my legs in his. He lit a cigarette and took long, slow drags, and we watched the curls of smoke drift lazily up towards the open window. His jeans lay in a crumpled heap by the door, my sundress thrown over the back of his chair. The memory of his hands tugging at the zip, slipping the straps down over my shoulders, made my heart swell and burst. I kissed his chest and smiled to myself. He placed a gentle hand under my chin, and lifted my face to his.

There was no need for words; his eyes told me everything I needed to know. And I don’t think I’ll ever love again.

The Sound of Silence by Sara Travis

In restless dreams you walk alone. But open your eyes, let the daylight in, and there you will find me. A nameless face to you, but yours smiles from photographs lining the walls, the mantle. A gentleman in a suit and tie, clutching the hand of a smiling young woman in white. Leaning over the bow of a ship, flashing a smile back at the camera. Cradling an infant in strong arms, lips puckered, eyes watery. On horses, in cars with the top down, grinning in bowling alleys, cooking Sunday brunch, picnics and bike rides and parties and bedtime stories and anniversaries and Christmases.

I will preserve your memories, my love, for they are all that’s left you. Through the fog you battle on, and every day I will pretend your indifference to my presence doesn’t hurt. Because I am here and you are not alone. You are never alone.

Family Man by Sara Travis

I line their heads up on the table, one by one. Size order is important; the larger ones go on the left, the smaller ones on the right. I peel back the gloves to examine my work with my fingers, feel their dismembered limbs under my flesh. Hard. Cold.

Their empty eyes stare back into mine, and I feel a faint stirring in my chest. So beautiful. Such dainty faces, delicate, young. I sigh happily. My other family.

I think the kids will really love the new dolls for the playroom.

Hysteria by Sara Travis

They’re coming. You’ll see. They’re coming. And when they come, you’d better be prepared. Who knows what sort of technology they’ll have. Stun guns and laser beams and zappy weaponry that will make humans just evaporate. We’re so behind, they’ve got billions of years of experience on us. We think we’re so forward thinking, so technologically minded, so smart, it’ll never happen. That’s what you think, isn’t it? That it’ll never happen. Well, let me tell you something. It’ll happen. It’s already happening. Can’t you see it? It’s everywhere, all the time. They’re watching us. Always. We need to get preparing, we need to protect ourselves. I won’t let them take me. I won’t. They’ll creep into our houses in the middle of the night and take our children, our women, and torture them, experiment on them. I know, I’ve read about it. We need to start now, before it’s too late. Arm ourselves. I’ve built myself a bunker in the garden. There’s a secret doorway in the floor, underneath my – I shouldn’t have told you that. I shouldn’t have told you that. Pretend you didn’t hear that. If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you. I’ll sneak up on you and rip your heart out. I mean it, I’ll do it. Don’t think I won’t, because I will. Unless you’re one of them. My God, you’re one of them, aren’t you? You can read my thoughts, can’t you? You’re making me tell you about the door to my bunker under the rockery, aren’t you? Jesus, you’re good. Oh-ho-ho, you’re good. I could be good, too. I could help you. I’ve believed in you my whole life, even when people told me I was mad, even when the boys at school kicked my head in, even when Mum had me stay in that hospital for a month for evaluation. I knew. I’ve always known. I’ve got a sixth sense, I think. I could help you. We could be great, you know. I know things. I know loads of things. Take me with you!

Nerdy by Sara Travis

Today you sit
approximately 4 feet, 6 inches away from me.
That’s almost 9 and a half inches closer
than yesterday.
For you, my Peach, my Zelda, my Leia,
I’d simply walk into Mordor
And fight the Battle of Middle Earth
in your name.
Your smile, your eyes, your scent, your taste,
Cause my cardiac muscles
to palpitate.
My feelings for you grow
exponentially every day.
And if those tears start to fall,
I’ll be there with my poka-ball
ready to catch them all.
Because roses are red,
the Tardis is blue,
so press Start to join,
and be my player two.

Build God, Then We'll Talk by Sara Travis

“I mean, I think I’m a strong team player, a great motivator. I’m well respected by my current employers, and I think that really speaks volumes about the sort of worker I am. I think I’d really be an asset to the company, and I hope you do, too.”

“Right. Well, but have you ever built a god?”

“Excuse me?”

“Built a god. Have you ever done that?”

“Um, no. No, I don’t think so.”

“Mm. Well, thanks for your time.”

“Oh. I mean, I could learn how to do that. Probably.”

“I’m sure you could, but really, this position is better suited to someone with a little more experience, you know? But thanks for your time, and well, good luck. Bye, now."

Lullabye by Sara Travis

I sing her to sleep. I hold her close to my chest. I cradle her in my arms, and I sing her sleep. Not my baby in blood, but in heart, in feeling, in a mother’s intuition, I know she’s mine, risen again and come back to me. My baby. All mine. And there ain’t no one can take her away from me. Not this time. Never again. She’s mine. All mine. I sing her to sleep. I hold her close to my chest. I cradle her in my arms, and I sing her sleep.

Holland Road by Sara Travis

I didn’t know I was loving on borrowed time. How could I? They say, when you know, you know. But I’ve never been entirely sure of anything in my life, so why should he be different? He was, though. He was different.

Thursday nights were our nights. I’d meet him on the corner of Holland Road and we’d wander down to the park and sit on the swings, talking and hoping and dreaming and regretting. I shared more of myself with him than I’d ever shared with anyone, even me. I felt more around him, more certain of who I was, who I wanted to be.

One evening, it rained. I half expected him to stay in, but as I turned the corner, there he was, standing beside the road sign, his face tilted up towards the sky, the blur of the rain obscuring his features. I snuck up on him and gave him a fright, and he laughed and took my hands in his and twirled me round and round. We danced for what felt like hours, in the rain, under the yellow glow of the streetlamps. And I noticed for the first time that when he laughed, he bent over slightly, and crinkled his nose and it made me melt right into the puddles at our feet. And when he pressed his lips against mine, the knot in my chest lessened slightly, and I felt lighter than air.

I told him I loved him. He didn’t say it back. And the next Thursday I waited for him on the corner of Holland Road. And the Thursday after. And the one after that. And now every Thursday, I wait for him just the same. Rain or shine, I’m there. Waiting. Hoping. Dreaming. Regretting.

Accidentally in Love by Sara Travis

It happened very suddenly on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. I remember it was Tuesday because I was supposed to be working, but the basement at the store had flooded so we’d all been sent home early. He said, ‘Let’s chill,’ and I said, ‘Sure,’ so he came over and we dug out our pyjamas and ordered pizza and stuck on some old Friends re-runs. We ate strawberry ice cream from the tub and sat under a wooly blanket and turned the volume up to drown out the rain pounding at the windows. And he sat close to me. And my gut squirmed when his hand brushed mine. And I liked it. And I noticed that he smelled of sawdust and cologne and coffee and something slightly sweet and musky that I couldn’t put my finger on. And I’d never noticed that before. Because he was who he was, and that was my friend, and you don’t really notice stuff like that about your friends, do you? Or do you? I don’t know, but I never did. Until Tuesday.

And then out of nowhere he says, ‘Oh hey, I’m seeing Celia this weekend. Like, you know, a date. Can you loan me twenty quid?’ And all of a sudden I was very cold, and my mouth was dry, and my heart was pounding in the back of my throat and I thought I actually might die. Because he was going on a date with Celia, and that meant he liked her and she liked him back. And it didn’t matter that I’d had an epiphany, that I’d finally noticed what had been staring me in the face for fourteen years, that I’d realised – holy shit – he smelt bloody fantastic and there was a very good chance that he was the one. And that everyday I’d thought about the future, every time I’d fantasised about jobs and houses and new cars and road trips, he was standing right next to me in a suit and tie, or signing his name next to mine on the deeds, or sat in the passenger seat feeding me biscuits, or taking my picture next to the Taj Mahal. And now he was going on a date with Celia. And he was going to marry Celia, and have a baby with Celia and there’d be no room for me in his new life with a wife and baby. Even though we’ve been friends since we were eight years old, and he calls my parents ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’, and we’d holidayed together every other year since forever, and I’d seen him naked on two separate occasions that he may or may not know about.

And then I realised we were still sat on the sofa under the blanket, and the chill from the ice cream tub had made my thigh go numb. So I arranged my face to resemble a smile and said, ‘Sure,’ and I got my purse and I handed over the cash and I winked at him and said, ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ and he laughed and I laughed but really I was crying except on the inside.

Two Worlds by Sara Travis

All I am is what you’ve made me.
You come and go with the days
just like you do.
But there’s no other way to tell you
I love you more.
We’re driftwood for the sea -
from two different worlds,
carried away on the tide.
Our love is an island,
can’t you see it?
Surrounded by a deep, dark unknown.
This much I know -
All I am is what you’ve made me.

Eyes on Fire by Sara Travis

From the corner I watch her work the room.

She walks – no, no – she saunters between the cliques of people, lifting her glass in manicured fingers, laughing her tinkling laugh that wraps itself around my heart, squeezing and squeezing until I think I might die. She leans in closer to hear the punch line of some joke, throwing her head back and placing a playful hand on his chest. It’s torture but I can’t look away. Her auburn curls sit around her shoulders, and God, what I wouldn’t give to run my hands through them. She kicks her heels off to dance with him, and her feet are perfect, her toes are perfect, her legs are perfect. She is perfect and I want her to be mine, but she will never be mine because she doesn’t notice me. She never notices me. I stand in the darkened corner and I sip my beer and I avoid eye contact with anyone and I stare at my shoelaces and I ignore the pangs of hunger in my stomach because this is a party so there’s a buffet, and I can’t eat from the buffet because how much is too much? I think I read that it’s socially unacceptable to go back for seconds at a buffet, so then do I just pile as much food on as I can and ignore the looks from my co-workers, and the not-so-subtle glances at my beer belly, or do I just take a small plate and eat in the corner and hope I don’t have potato salad in my beard? No, better to have nothing and burn the calories from lunch simply by standing up. Don’t look at her, you’ll make it obvious. Stop it. Don’t look at her. She’s dancing to a slow song now, and his hands are on her waist and her head is against his shoulder and if I squint a bit it’s almost as if she’s dancing with me and what I’m seeing now is an out-of-body experience, but his hand is lower, grazing her lower back, and that’s not me, because that’s impolite, I’m a gentleman, and now I’m staring again, but it’s so much effort to look away when she’s so beautiful, so perfect, and so not mine. So I don’t look away, I stare and now I don’t care who knows it, I’m staring because she is heaven and if my eyes were lasers I could burn a hole straight through his head and swoop in to catch her before she falls, and she’ll know at last and she’ll love me back and we will be perfect.

But it doesn’t work like that. She never dances her dances with me. And every time I feel my gut coil with envy. Because she doesn’t notice me. She never notices me.

Search and Destroy by Sara Travis

Android SID: 94371101
Date: 07.08.2092
Broadcasting transmission – Ragnorak Intelligence Fields, Moscow

This is General Kingston speaking. The year is 2074, and this message is for all military personnel still active. The war continues. We have suffered great losses. But our hope remains intact. When you first enlisted to fight for our cause, I’m sure a great many of you imagined what it might be like here, at the frontline. I am sure the reality is somewhat different. But know this; your countries, your families, your makers – they are proud of you. 

Our enemies are strong. Resilient. Effective. They have struck our armies. Our homes. Our families. They are in the oceans, and the skies and in the very air we breathe. But we are stronger. We are more resilient, more effective. And we will not go down without a fight. 

To our able-bodied men, women, and androids, your orders are as follows. 

Re-group with your comrades north of the border. Seek out any signs of intelligence life, human or otherwise, and destroy it. Await further instructions.

I believe we are a better species for having fought this war. Someday, the rest of the world will see that, too.
This is General Kingston, signing off.

Nuclear Family by Sara Travis

“If they’re thinking they can threaten us with bombs, they got another thing comin’.” says Daddy from the top of the table. His pie sits untouched to the side of his plate, maps and papers covering the surface. 

I force the remnants of the rabbit pie from my teeth with a toothpick and lean over to get a better look.
“So, what are we gonna do, Daddy?” 

Daddy smiles so wide I can see the teeth at the back of his mouth, sparkling, pearly whites.
“We’re gonna act first, dammit. We’re gonna drop a nuke on their ass.”

Mama drops her cutlery to her plate with a clatter.
“Boys, for the last time – I don’t like you talking war at the dinner table. Joey, eat your greens.”

The Fear by Sara Travis

“Smell it. Feel it. Touch it. Taste it. 

You know what that is? It’s fear. It hangs from the cobwebs on the walls. It loiters in the shadows in the corners. It’s in the rusty stains on the carpet, the blood spatter up the curtains, the putrid stench in the stale air. 

We don’t know what happened here. Not for sure. Some say he killed her. Chopped her up into little pieces and hid her in the pipes in the walls. Others say she fell asleep in the rocking chair next to the fire and went unnoticed for months and months and months. That when they eventually found her, she’d rotted to dust. Some say she didn’t die here at all – she just disappeared. All I know is this; there’s a chill in the rooms at Lewisham House. It’s not natural. I’ve seen things. Books that vanish from one room only to turn up in another. The creak from the rocking chair echoing round the house. Mirrors that fall from the walls. Plates smashed to bits on the kitchen floor. And writing … writing all over the skirting boards. I won’t lie to you, the place needs some work. But with the right touch, I think you could turn this into a lovely family home. Would you like to see the garden? It’s got a veranda to die for, and a gorgeous cherry blossom right at the far end. Plenty of room for a swing set or two! Shall we?”

Wild One by Sara Travis

Don’t trust him, they said. He’ll hurt you. You’re too good for him. He’s a wild one, that one. You don’t know what you’ve let yourself in for. He’s dangerous.

The first time he hit me, I told myself it was one off. I’d goaded him into it, so it was my own fault, really. It stung like hell. He stared at his hand as though it had acted independently of him. And he apologised straight away, so I know he didn’t mean to. He just lost control.

The second time he hit me, I split my lip open. He apologised and apologised, and he held a cold towel to my face and he kissed my brow and he promised it wouldn’t happen again. And I believed him.

The third time he hit me, I’d burnt the dinner. And I mean, he’d worked a long shift, he was expecting a decent dinner, and I cocked it up. So that time it was definitely my fault. He didn’t say sorry, though. He just stormed out the flat, almost ripping the door from its hinges.

The fourth time he hit me, my head snapped back into the door frame, and I was knocked out cold. When I came to, the flat was trashed. The dinner table had been overturned. The stuffing ripped out of the sofa. Books torn from the shelves. Bryony from next door was hovering over me, so I told her I didn’t know what had happened. That maybe we’d been burgled.

The fifth time he hit me, he beat me to a pulp and I was in hospital for a week. He played the part of worried husband, didn’t stray from my side once. He told the police he’d found me like it at home, that we’d been burgled quite recently, maybe the two incidents were connected? I did as I was told and kept to the story, but I realised I was afraid of him now. And I didn’t want to be afraid anymore.

So the sixth time he hit me, I hit him back. I swiped at his face with my nails, I bit his arms as he held me down, I spat in his eye as his sweaty face loomed over me. And when it was over, when I’d straightened my dress and cleaned myself up, I drove a kitchen knife into his chest. And I don’t regret it one bit.

Within the Grove by Sara Travis

David Tompkins was the first boy I ever kissed. It happened at the end of our street, on the eve of my fourteenth birthday. A cluster of trees surrounding an old wishing well, a night sky lit by the glow of a full moon, and an ancient promise made by two childhood friends. He held his steely gaze as steady as the stars, unfaltering, unwavering. And when he planted his wet lips on mine, I thought my heart would explode straight out of my chest, into a million pieces or more, and every piece would fly as high as I felt, upwards and upwards, until they too illuminated the night sky in a ruby red glow. 

Afterwards, he curled up the corners of his mouth into a sly grin, turned on his heel, and left. And for days I was sure it had been a dream. 

David Tompkins was the first boy I ever kissed. And now, as I dab his fevered brow with a damp cloth, as I trace the lines around his eyes with a crinkled finger, as I place my warm mouth over his cold, purple lips, David Tompkins is the last boy I will ever kiss.

Smoke and Mirrors by Sara Travis

When I was twelve years old, my Uncle Tom took me to the circus. It was late, much later than I was usually permitted to stay out, after the dark had unfurled its wings, blanketing the tents in an inky blue. We walked through the high, velvety flaps of the tent, and past the place where dreams began. A large, circular stage dominated at the centre, its floor a swirl of red and black. Scattered around were cushions in various sizes, and spectators were dragging them as close to the stage as they could manage.

To the side of the stage stood a lady in a cage. Clusters of candles littered the ground by her feet, and the air was thick with a heavy, perfumed fog. She wore a leotard in the same, deep red as the walls of the tent, and she was dancing, though you couldn’t really call it dancing. She moved her body slowly to the soundless music, but it went further than that. As though the blood that ran through her veins was laced with the notes, her heart beating in time to the melody. Her face was covered in an elaborate mask, a deep, dusky red, covered in intricate swirls and encrusted with sparkling gems. And yet I felt the full, breathless pull of the beauty underneath, drawing me closer until I stood at her feet.

The mask shrouding her face slipped, and for a split second I caught a glimpse at what was beneath. Silky, porcelain skin. Full, ruby lips. Dark, rich eyes. She was beautiful; perhaps, too beautiful. In the wrong light I thought her features might look harsh, dangerous, frightening even. But in the soft glow of the candlelight she seemed to hang upon the cheek of the night, like a jewel. I found myself beguiled by the truth I saw in her face. We locked eyes, and it was as though all of my most secret dreams had somehow been set free.

I never saw true beauty until that night. I have not seen it since.

No More Sorrow by Sara Travis

I place a gentle rose on his coffin. When they start shoveling the dirt on top I hardly feel a thing. Hands are shaken. Soft words are spoken. And before I know it, we’re back at the house, eating ham sandwiches and sipping cold tea. The day is mostly a blur of flower arrangements and cling-film wrapped lasagnas and embraces that don’t last long enough to impart any sincerity. I know what’s hiding behind their eyes, the words that swell in the back of their mouths. I know what they’re thinking. So I flit from guest to guest, I dab my face with a moist tissue, I offer a brave smile and I politely decline any offers of a bed for tonight.

“Are you sure, Susan?” they say, “Are you sure you want to stay here, tonight of all nights?”

“You shouldn’t be alone, please, say you’ll stay just one night.”

“But it’s the house, Susan. You don’t want to stay in the house, do you?”

I stretch my face into a small smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

“I’m fine. It’s comforting to be here, in the house where he took his last breath. So many … happy memories.”

Their heads tilt to one side, they give a simpering smile, and nod as though they understand. But they don’t understand. They can’t.


Sometime after midnight I pour myself a glass of his scotch and retire to our bedroom. Under the duvet, I cradle the revolver to my chest. Her sickly, putrid perfume still clings to the sheets and it turns my stomach. But I can’t bring myself to change them. Not yet. When I close my eyes I see them together, writhing on our marital bed, a tangle of pale, fleshy limbs. A flash and then red, everything is red.

I slip the gold band off my finger and put it in the bedside drawer. There will be no more sorrow. For me, at least. With hindsight, I can see that death was an easy way out. But if he makes it to heaven, he’ll know that he’ll face me there one day, too. And then I’ll make sure he gets what he deserves.