“Turning with the current, watching the shadow fall away, drifting slowly down, you hold it in your fist. Tightly closed. A tiny pinprick of pain at the core of the terror. And part of you wants to open that hand, to cast it from you. To let it fall. Away from the green-fading surface. Away from the light. To follow the shadow on its dark downward slide. But the fist remains. And the tiny sting. And the memory, closed inside you like the pain inside the fist. Invisible. Unknowable. As the water ...whispers against your skin. As the air rises silver on the current. As the world above intrudes … * T.J.’s story It impinged gradually, drawing me out of the doze that was the best imitation of sleep I could manage. I suppose it was about three-thirty. I listened carefully, half-convinced it was the remains of some dream that had woken me before disappearing back into the cave of my unconscious. But there it was again. A soft, almost rhythmical thudding coming from the lounge-room, where Cain was sleeping.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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