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The Siamese And The Lion'So,' he said, 'It's a left turn here?'
No answer came from the pretty Siamese cat sitting next to him. She was looking straight ahead, her eyes weren't really fixed on anything, but she seemed to be concentrating. He shook his mane, and coughed lightly. 'Is this the right road?' She blinked, and with the same distant expression turned her head to look at him. The lion looked for a moment out of the corners of his eyes, into the flat blue of hers. Her voice was quiet, but a little rough, 'Sorry?'
The lion repeated himself, '..Is..Is this the right way?'
The girl looked confused, and looked back through the windscreen at the passing trees and fields, with the sun glinting off the buttercups. She nodded slowly.
As her head was turned away from him again, Tom couldn't help but notice the shaved patch just behind her ear, a pink strip bearing an ugly, pale white scar.
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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