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SMASHWORDS EDITION

Published 2018 by Beaten Track Publishing

Copyright 2018 Al Stewart and Claire Davis at Smashwords

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/alstewartauthor

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/CDavis96

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

ISBN: 978 1 78645 302 0

Cover Artist: Noah Homes

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Beaten Track Publishing,

Burscough. Lancashire.

www.beatentrackpublishing.com

After a failed attempt at college, Luke lives a quiet existence with his dad. He recovers from bitter disappointment and gradually life returns to a regular rhythm. Safe and predictable. Every day he gains confidence, but with health comes boredom. From the window ledge, he watches people outside and wishes he could be like them.

Theres another side to Luke. Underneath his bed are five hidden pairs of jeans with matching Dr Martens: yellow, purple, striped, green and tartan. Some days he feels the itch to get them out. Nope. Those days are gone.

One day, an amazing thing happens. Dynamic blog artist Formaldehyde Bob comes to town with an exhibition of light and dark! Luke has crushed on him since being fifteen, idolising the man and his unusual creations. Something about the art calls to Luke like nothing else, makes him believe there might after all be someone out there who thinks in the same way. A soul mate. A bird with a similar song.

No. Luke isnt going to go and see Formaldehyde Bob. He isnt. Because hes happy with his monotonous lot and doesnt want to see hope sliding down a mountain of sand.

Will Luke take a chance and visit Formaldehyde Bob?

Can the jeans ever be worn again?

Does grumpy Barbara ever smile?

And the most important question: is there any magic left in the world?

Find out in this snowy tale of young love in the most unexpected places.

Content warning: references to self-harm, mental illness.

One day I crawled inside

on weary hands and knees,

sick from human cruelty,

harsh laughter as they tease.

I shut my ears from noise,

cant follow anyway,

words with multi-meanings

impossible as clay.

But I can see the light

of colours in my enclosure,

and the morning sun,

dancing its exposure.

Say not this is a prison,

for I can almost feel

your hand pressed upon the glass

seeking mine to steal.

The barrier is thick between us,

both jailor and best friend.

It will keep me safe from love

and hurt that cannot mend.

Remove your dearest hand

and think no more of me,

until the glass shall shatter

for all eternity.

F or a long time, I didnt know what I was building; only that I was a mere vehicle of a powerful driving force. Oh, it was me who did all the work. I collected sands from far, far, and wide, with seagulls screaming above and wind playing rogue with my hair. Somehow that wind got right inside my chest and heart, blowing, blowing, pushing aside the organs, and now the voices will never be still. Or quiet.

More sand.

Youre doing great.

More sand.

It took years to gather enough. So much! The journey brought worry and obsession. I tried to get it right. Days dragged into weeks, and still I kept piling up endless particles until mounds turned into golden mountains.

Some people say deserts are beautiful curves of the Earths body, fluid as movement, deadly as any human can be. Maybe thats true. As I loaded up the furnace, I only saw tears glistening in the heat and heard voices crying out. There were too many, too many. I couldnt catch the words, and so I covered my ears. Who wants to hear suffering?

I wanted to stop. I dont know why I didnt, except that a greater force made me continue; shovelling sandy tears onto the fire like a crazed fanatic.

Dont stop.

Keep going.

I gave the force a name. Seemed rude not to acknowledge it somehow, so I called it Shadow. Insubstantial and impossible to leave. Nebulous wanderer of dark and light. Lifelong companion.

Glass is fairly simple to produce. Textbook instructions are clear on the method. I should know; I read them a million times. Sand, soda ash, limestone and heat, thats all it takes, even if the end result is neither solid nor liquid but a defying mixture of the two. Complex. I like that. Being not one thing or another, but both. Or neither. Divergent.

The books are wrong, though. To make glass is to laugh in the face of rules and protocols and to have determination as gritty as any desert. Its not simple. Moving sand from one place to another is difficult enough. You can look at a desert before sleep and map out a drawing of its shape, then awake to find the buttocks have moved and the shoulders have slipped into a flat stomach. Crafty.

And then theres all the rest. I didnt know if building the glass was the right thing to do, if it was OK. I still dont. Hello, anxiety, my old friend. Being unsure, it doesnt do anything for me. Anxiety eats me up, chewing like a cow with four stomachs. Round and round with nowhere to go except more worry.

So, no. It wasnt easy. As the glass began to form, I was sweating and moaningdidnt matter nobody heard. I resented having to toil when I could have been out partying. Theoretically, I could! I shouted horrible, bitter words and considered walking away.

Fucker! This is madness. It wont make any difference, I told Shadow. The only answer I got was a tightening of the wind and flutter-galloping hands. I went downhill then, slipping on all that sand, looking for a firm foothold.

Down-down, further than the deepest pit.

I just want to make it clear, the glass wasnt made without cost. It wasnt the easy option.

Yet I persevered. As I started up the furnace, I didnt fully understand. The only things I had left were the drive to finish, tumultuous wind inside my organs, and words that seemed to come from nowhere.

Idiot.

Youre rubbish.

It took a week to make the whole thing, though obviously the gathering took nineteen years, give or take the first couple. I cant claim I started looking for sand as a baby. No.

When the glass structure bubbled into a shape, at first, it looked like a storm. Maybe thats because of forces fighting and bending, or perhaps it was all those tears turning into a great big sob. I tried to guess what it was going to be. I remember hoping for a gigantic whirly slide that led into water, or a glass ocean to conduct the Northern Lights.

Shadow, youre a sly old dog. You kept the final idea, the finished piece, hidden until the very end. From the ground, I watched the shape form and the walls closing. It was easy to see the narrow end of the bottle, where a cork should fit, and know that the bottom was far wider than the top. My deserts and beaches turned into a tall glass bottle that shimmered in the sun. Made from sweat, tears, and more tears.