By Saadat Abbas

“That sounds insane.”

Aminu studied the faces of his fellow slaves. Despite years in captivity, neither of their spirits had been broken. Their flesh may be shackled and beaten, their bodies claimed for the men of this empire, but their spirit will forever be their own.

“Raisha, let him finish,” Edgar said.

“If I can make it out,” Aminu continued, “I can free us all when I reach the water.”

“And there, a sea dragon will be waiting for you,” Raisha replied, the empire’s language heavy with her accent and sarcasm. “Do you see how I find it difficult to believe?”

Edgar scratched his head, shaved like the rest of them. “The guards did say he came from the ocean.”

“Fallen from a slave ship. Or somehow jumped overboard.”

“You know that is unlikely,” Edgar countered. “The slavers chained us below deck. To escape, he’d have to break his chain and slip past dozens of men.”

“So you believe he has a dragon waiting for him at sea. He has been here for what—”

“Two years,” Aminu answered for her.

“Two years, and not once has this dragon of his come to check up on him. I think he means to escape alone.”

Edgar scratched his scalp again, a sign of concentrated thinking. “Why go by the shore? Without a ship, he’d have nowhere to go and would be easily spotted. I think we should do it.”

Raisha groaned, rubbing her face and shaking her head. They sat in the corner of the yard, their legs crossed, knees almost touching, forming a small circle. Their enslavers were everywhere, from the yard amongst the dozens of slaves, to the battlements overlooking them and the sea outside the walls. Despite their suspicious gathering, none of the guards were worried. Escape was impossible. Why would they think otherwise? To the west lay the ocean, and to the east stretched endless fertile plains.

“Fine,” she relented. “How will we do this?”

***

Aminu’s hands and feet were chained, linking him to a line of others. The iron tether bound them to the wall, restricting their movement as they worked.

He was at the very least grateful for their length. The metal connecting the shackles between his arms and legs was long enough for him to walk and spread his arms a little past his body’s width. It made his work of crushing stone slightly easier.

The sledgehammer in his hand was worn, the wooden handle having experienced the touch of many others before him. The iron head was chipped, but adequate.

His hammer came down, shattering the block of stone before him. He brought it down a few more times before it was collected by another row of slaves, who dumped a new one in front of him.

That was how his days were spent—crushing stones hauled in from the mines. Gold and silver were the true targets, but stone was needed too, its purpose for roads or buildings.

Aminu looked down his aisle of chained men, a shockingly diverse crew working up a sweat. There were men of dark skin like his, olive-skinned men, and surprisingly pale men, whose bodies burned under the sun.

Aminu had heard of the Solran Empire and their mass enslavement, but he had not expected to see even people of their own kind to be forced participants. In the end, men were men, regardless of their appearance. If only those in power could see it that way.

Aminu crushed his stone, his body and mind working in rhythm. Out of all the people here, he was the only man not to have been enslaved elsewhere and brought here.

He came from a village on the southern continent, where, as a child, a group had come upon their shores. One of the wanderers had been a solemn man who had told him of his great adventures and had even taught him the language of his people. Aminu had crossed the sea in search of his own adventure.

He had come across the shore not far from here, expecting warm welcomes and stories to share. Instead, he had been questioned, beaten, shackled, and then put to work. Perhaps, he should hate them for it. But it was not much different from his life back home. There he had labored while others ruled, his life little better than the slaves his village chief had owned.

These men who whipped and taunted them were slaves in their own way. They obeyed orders from those above them who followed those above them, until the word of command traced to the man who towered above them all—the emperor.

He knew it was not an equal comparison. These men enjoyed themselves, dining on meat and wine whenever those ships came onto shore. It was either that or more slaves to be beaten into submission, if they had not already.

Raisha, by contrast, was full of hate. She hated every single person here, herself included. She hated the empire and its leader most of all. He could not fault her. The things they did to her were a recipe for it.

Aminu was what the guards called a good slave. He worked without complaint, met his daily quotas, and at times exceeded them. He was obedient like a dog, and they rewarded him for it with an extra portion of the excuse they called food. Some of the slaves hated him for that. He could not fault them either.

Edgar was another man of little hate. As the castle’s blacksmith, he commanded his own forge, working the collected ore into weapons, armor, or tools for them. He was needed and thus lived a life of decent food and little beatings. It was easy to expect what the others felt about him.

This place was a breeding ground for hate. It had to be torn down.

***

“All men should be free,” Arthur said. The wanderer had blond hair and green eyes, a first for many of Aminu’s village. “All men should dream.”

The man who had not aged in the decade since his arrival sat on the ground, his once fine tunic worn, unlike the weary look in his eyes that had failed to fade. He had seen things and perhaps done things.

Aminu was curious about it all, but was only confined to a portion of his stories. Still, they were better than nothing.

Between them sat an egg larger than any Aminu had ever seen. It was scaly and green, shimmering in the light. Arthur always carried it with him, often placing it in the water. Whenever Aminu could, he followed, while others avoided.

“I suppose a young man such as yourself has an abundance of dreams,” Arthur said.

Aminu smiled. “I wish to go on a grand adventure like you and meet great men.”

Arthur’s lips curved faintly, though his eyes stayed somber. “The world is not as accommodating as my stories make it out to be. It is unfortunate that it is these great men who have made it the case.”

“Then… I want to become a great man and make it a reality.”

***

Aminu thought of freedom as he watched a boy, whom he could hardly call a man, hanging by his arms for all to see. The youth was shirtless, the scars lining his body like paint on a canvas. He was guant, caught in a cycle of hunger. He was too weak to meet the daily requirements and thus robbed of his nutrients, forcing him to become ever weaker.

A man like this would not be missed. In a couple of weeks, when the next slave ship arrived, he would no longer be fed. Once his body consumed itself, he would be discarded.

What had he done to deserve such treatment, Aminu wondered. Was there any act that could make a man deserve such indignity? Should this person not be allowed to dream? Why did the dreams of these slavers matter more? They should not.

“We are ready whenever you are,” Edgar said to his right. The blacksmith clasped his hand, the small key warm between them. Aminu placed the solution to his chains under his tongue and focused forward.

Ropes hung from the battlements, fastened to the young man’s wrists, lifting him so he hovered almost three feet from the ground.

To his left, Raisha bumped him with her shoulder. “I’ll have your distraction. Do not disappoint.”

Their freedom was being denied, thus they must fight for it.

***

It was a cloudless night, moonlight pouring into the shared cell. Aminu neglected sleep, focusing entirely on the barred window and listening. For hours, nothing happened, and he began to fear for Raisha.

That was until the shouts came. They were isolated at first, meant to gather attention. It soon turned into a crowded yell, their frantic voices climbing through the bars of his window. He stood upon his hard mattress, having to pull himself up using the bars for support.

A fire had been set, and the wooden storage of food and wine was its fuel. Raisha had done it. He dropped down and dug under his bed, the small key patiently waiting.

Aminu moved to the cell door. Others were awake now, staring as he slid the key into the lock. The top of the door had a small barred outlook into the hall, lit by dying torches. Several men rushed past, more concerned with the flames than guarding the slaves.

Edgar, who had been a blacksmith here for nearly eleven years, had forged the chains, locks, and their keys. Getting one for Aminu was of little difficulty.

When the footsteps faded, Aminu turned the key, the lock opening with a click. He pushed the iron-studded door open and peered down both ends of the empty halls.

He could hear the men behind him, surprised at his access. He had little time to explain his plans. Aminu ran down the hall, his bare feet slapping against the stone. He ran opposite the fire, making his way to the battlements.

The fire had gathered almost all the attention of the castle and the guards, lax from years of obedience and submission, were not worried about the reason behind it. Aminu based his twists and turns on the routes he had memorized from Raisha, who had served as a washerwoman and cook.

He was breathing heavily by the time he came upon the battlements. Unfortunately, it was not empty. A single man leaned forward, his eyes on the orange glow in the distance, the pungent smell of smoke in the air.

There was no way but forward.

Aminu was noticed as he neared, the guard standing straight, showing surprise accompanied by little to no suspicion. “What are you doing here?”

Even now, as the once obedient dog bared its teeth, he failed to see the threat. Aminu pounced on the man, catching him off guard, driving his fist to his nose. The guard reeled but recovered quickly, and they struggled to overpower the other.

The plan had been to knock him out quietly, but the man tumbled backward over the edge. His scream was short, ending in a dull thud below.

Shouts erupted from the courtyard. Aminu grabbed the rope still hanging from the walls where the youth had been suspended that morning. He pulled it up quickly, knowing that men would soon be upon him.

He ran to the far side, threw the rope over, and began to descend. His hands burned against the fibers, his breath shallow. The rope ended a dozen feet above the rocks. He had to lower himself as far as he could. Then the shouts came again.

Three men appeared above, faces hard with contempt. One drew his sword and sliced the rope.

Aminu fell. He hit the ground awkwardly, his ankle twisting, pain flooding through him. He rolled down the rocks, scraping his arms and legs until his head struck stone.

Dazed, he forced himself upright. Blood streaked his forehead, though it was of little concern. The sea was ahead. He began his limp across the sandy shore towards the water.

He ignored the threats that were thrown from his rear. What he could not ignore was the arrow that slammed a few feet ahead of him. He painstakingly picked up his pace.

The sound of the wooden gates creaking open behind him echoed into the night, spurring him on. Another arrow missed him by an arm’s length.

The water splashed ahead of him, rushing forward before retreating as if taunting him. It came for him again, cold on his feet, washing the sand off his toes and stinging his cuts.

Then pain, sudden and immense, embraced him. He lurched forward, splashing into the waves. He spat out seawater, turning to see the arrow lodged through his shoulder, just above the armpit.

“Triton!” he cried into the ocean. He sputtered forward, the waves fighting against him, his blood disappearing in it. “Triton!”

He staggered deeper, fighting the pull of the tide. Another arrow grazed him, sending him sprawling again. This time, it was much more of a struggle to right himself. Soon, rough hands were upon him, dragging him back.

He was thrown to the sandy shore. The arrow had pushed against the ground, sending a wave of pain and dragging out a shout from him.

Aminu was the recipient of an onslaught of beatings, both physical and verbal. He could do nothing against the three men.

Eventually, they yanked him to his feet, dragging him back to the prison. They pulled him backward by the arms, his feet lining the sand as his eyes stayed on the ocean.

Aminu smiled through the pain. Freedom was close, the moonlight reflecting its approaching shimmering green scales.

By Ryan Rahman

Nobody remembers when the fields first went dry.

Or maybe they do. Maybe they’d rather avoid the subject altogether. The ones who lived long enough to witness it say the soil just gave up. The priest says this is a test of our strength. Of our faith.

But even the mice have left, and they used to eat anything they could find.

Last night, the stars were absent from the sky.

The moon remained concealed behind the clouds. Lightning shattered the horizon like glass, illuminating the black. A storm stirred beyond the hills. The ground trembled as the dogs barked. Then everything went quiet. Even the wind stopped blowing.

This morning, nothing moved.

The October air was still in a way that didn’t feel natural. No birds. The livestock kept stirring and shuffling, as if they knew something we didn’t. And across the fields, everyone was just standing there. Staring. Not saying anything to one another.

My wife squeezed my hand. My children stood behind me, silent.

And suddenly, he arrived.

He didn’t walk out of the woods or down the road—he was just there. Cloaked in black, threaded with starlight. Now I knew where the stars went from the night before. Where a face should’ve been, there was only darkness. A void. The blade of his scythe still gleamed under the sunless sky.

He wasn’t alone.

A baker, blacksmith, merchant, midwife, scribe, and seamstress all followed behind him. Their faces looked like wax left too close to an open flame. I wondered how they lived, how they thought their lives would end. If they even gave any thought to it at all.

I wanted to run, but my feet were one with the earth.

And then I said something.

I don’t know why.

“Wait,” I said. Quiet. Like I’d interrupted a conversation I hadn’t been part of.

“Please. Just listen.”

He stopped. The procession behind him stopped too. His hood turned, just a little.

Like he heard me.

No one else moved. No one else breathed.

I looked at my wife. My children.

I tried to remember the better times. When the yield was abundant.

“It’ll be better next season. We’ve prayed. Believe me, we’ve prayed. Things will change. I do believe that. I still have faith. We can turn it around. We just need a little more time. We—”

It sounded better in my head.

I had more to say, but none of it made sense anymore.

Even to me.

“One more season. That’s all we need.”

He didn’t say anything.

I wanted to cry but didn’t. I pushed it down. Not now.

Not in front of them.

He reached out to me. His hand touched my arm. Gentle but cold. Not the kind of cold that comes with autumn.

Something else entirely.

My knees gave out and when I looked down, my boots were half-swallowed already. The mud grabbed at them like it had fingers.

The priest crossed himself. The oxen stood like statues. The sheep no longer bleated.

Then the church bell rang.

Once. Then again. And again. Each toll sounded further than the last.

We left the field.

The line behind him grew even longer. I recognized some of the faces.

The wind picked up as we huddled together for warmth. The harvest failed long before he came. We were already gone. Just passing time until his arrival.

The bell fell silent. The fields behind us stayed empty, waiting for someone else to try again one day.

I keep my family close to me as we march onward. I hear the voice of my dead mother and father.

It could just be the wind.

But I don’t think it is.

By Jamie Forrest

I rebuild the scene from memory.

I’m nursing an almost empty polystyrene cup in my hand, swirling the last few sips of cold Earl Grey at the bottom.

Around, around, around.

Slowly pivoting at the wrist.

The room around me is vast, but no windows, no pictures on the wall. Every corner is illuminated by blinding lights above. It makes sense that my head is dipped. A flyer, presumably informing about something or other, is scattered in pieces on the table in front of me like shards of shattered glass, seemingly torn by hand. It is the act of a man who has been anxiously waiting, impatiently wondering. Charcoal tweed jacket folded, perched on the arm of the chair, crowned by that dark moss flat cap that seemed almost glued to my head back then. It’s only now focusing I can see the matching moth holes and cigarette burns that used to drive you crazy. I see them.

A memory is gone before it is absorbed.

A sterile smell

Erratic beeping

An animal shriek

A whimper

Gone.

That moment, this moment. All of this is fleeting.

The more detail the better.

I squeeze my brain to get the last detailed drops out of the room, but only the pulp remains.

A blur of man enters from a door to my left. Tall, dark skinned, built like a wrestler from the 90’s with the same shine and confidence that being that size can bring.

He ushers me in to the room behind him saying nothing, motioning to leave my coat and hat behind. As I stand, my mind draws a thick, dark moustache on his unfocused face, the rest still a blur. Yes, he had a moustache. The Devil’s in the details.

I am greeted by an empty area smaller than a car parking bay, cordoned by grey material partitions. Mr Moustache follows closely behind. He places a hand on my shoulder, signalling me to stop. Ushering my legs slightly apart then lifting my arms up parallel with the ground, he runs his hands up and down, before checking my torso and the rest of my body. The pat down gives the slightest murmur, yet it echoes around me. Its cadence is familiar, and I feel my body loosen. He straightens his body, and I notice my phone in his hand. Slowly, he begins to rotate concentrically around me, a visual inspection. He takes two steps back, interlocking his arms in front of his chest, maintaining eye contact. I divert mine to my phone, tiny in his hand, and extend an open palm to retrieve it. He does not shrink. He broadens his chest, turns his head towards the curtain directly in front of me.

I had a folder in my hand. I pull it across my chest with one hand and pull back the curtain to enter the room with the other.

The curtain is damp to touch. Thick and heavy, like a 15-tog duvet straight from the washing machine. As I pull it open, I remember. An intense heat hit me in the face like stepping fresh off a plane in the midday heat. Worse even, my mouth becomes instantly bone dry. I circle my tongue around my mouth and move the remaining saliva to my lips.

I walk briskly across the room towards another partitioned area in the opposite corner.

The room is brilliant white.

White walls, white tile flooring, lit by bright white lights.

The more detail the better. Detail eludes me here.

The light is too blinding to focus on anything other than the corner I am headed. I keep licking my lips and walk as quickly as possible. The strangling heat is still unbearable. I undo my top button on my shirt and take a deep, weighty breath.

As I approach, the curtain in front of me opens.

The curtain looks the same as the others. Heavy. Sodden.

I step inside.

Two cases of bottled water, one opened, one half used, in the corner to my right. Empty crushed bottles littered around. I am handed an unopened bottle by another blurred face and directed towards a chair. Shorter, slighter than the last. No moustache.

Another blurred face stands in the corner, looking solid and unwavering. He does not take his eyes off a third person sitting in the chair opposite to where I am being directed.

I open the bottle and take a large gulp of water. The water feels above room temperature, understandable with the heat. I finish the bottle in three gulps and place the empty bottle next to the toppled domino of the others.

I sit, place the folder on my knees and clear my throat twice and look up.

Another blurred face.

But different.

Fragments begin to form like a jigsaw floating before me. Piecing themselves together in front of my eyes.

His clothes are ripped and badly disintegrating. Some frayed edges still alive with colour.

His visible skin is potted with enormous blisters. Some appear to be bursting as I take him in. A yellowish syrupy fluid trickling down his chest and stomach.

His skin behind them looks badly burned too. Closer inspection, it seems to be like grape jam tone, flecked with scar tissue and char.

His arms are ziplocked behind his back to the chair.

Something underneath his skin, crawling and trickling its way between his shoulder and his neck.

His face is badly burned.

His eyes seem to match his bursting blisters, a saffron stare piercing through me. Those murderous crows have found the corners, showing age I cannot comprehend.

No emotion, contentment.

He is smiling at me.

A smile I have not seen before, but I will see again.

A smile akin to an open wound, burdened with decades of pain and agony and destruction.

A demon.

I open the folder on my lap and scan the sheet of prepared questions.

The devil’s in the detail.