They say the World is small but I have never found this to be the case, for when I was a child I climbed a tree to see it. It hung over our back yard, in the winter its branches cast shadows like capillaries along the surface of the Earth. Full bodied, green leaves and pink flowers would blossom every summer. Grooves etch its bark, like fingertips soaked in a long bath. Green moss crept from the trunk, like a slow marching army, threatening one day to conquer all. From the peak you could see as far my as childhood stretched; all the way to the other boundaries of my neighborhood. If you looked from here you could see in-between the other houses and make out the tip of our driveway. It was from there that I was able to watch the van as it drove along our street before stopping in our drive. Mum already had the car packed from the night before and had it parked on the curb. It was mostly furniture that was left to be moved and a few other pieces that Mum had said would be too big for the new place.  From the far left branch that stretched over the fence you could see into Tommy Morgan’s yard. My Mum never liked me hanging out with him because of rumors she had heard from other people in the neighborhood, but I never thought he was that bad, to me he was always just stupid Tommy Morgan, the kid who tried to jump dustbins on his bike and showed me pictures from his brother’s dirty magazines.

Dad told me once that the tree was haunted and because of this it had always fascinated me, part out of fear and part out of wonder. He said that a hundred years ago before our house was built a little boy had climbed it, but slipped and fell to his death. That now when other little boys climb it, he would push them off as easy as a gust of wind pushed dust. It’s strange at that age how we all just take what we are told to be truth, at the time it never once occurred to me that my father could be lying, that it is was just some sort of grownup joke or a way to keep me from playing in the tree in case I actually did fall and hurt myself. In a strange way this was probably the worst thing my dad could have told me, he had given the tree a sense of danger, given me the idea that there was something to prove by reaching its top. One Halloween when my cousins and Tommy came around we played a game where you turned off all the lights on the porch so the backyard was dark, you had to run up and touch the tree before the ghost got hold of you. In reality it was just a bunch of kids running back and forth from a tree but in our imagination the sense of peril was real, I remember being scared of the ghost but also scared that my cousins and Tommy would make fun of me if I didn’t do it. The game had become a rite of passage, a way to prove that you weren’t just a kid.

It was with Tommy that I first attempted to climb the tree; it was during the long summer months that you dream about all day while at school, but when they finally come you don’t have much to do, but sleep late and watch TV. Tommy came around to my house one of those mornings and told me that we were going to build a tree house. There was no doubt in his voice, just a steady confidence and the reassurance that he had it all worked out. He had even made a crude drawing that we were to use as a plan. He told me that he had a bunch of old wood left in his garage from when his parents got their new kitchen, and that his dad wouldn’t notice if we borrowed a few of his tools. The wood that Tommy was talking about was a cream coloured Formica, that was chipped around the edges and had holes where screws once were. We spent most of the morning throwing it over the fence from his garden to mine.  I was made to climb the tree first; Tommy said that because he was taller it would be easier for him to pass the wood up to me. That summer I wasn’t yet tall enough to reach the first branch, so Tommy had to give me a boost until I was able to wrap my arms around it. Tommy had let go of my feet and I could feel my arms slipping from around the branch, the weight of my body pulling me towards the ground. My legs instinctively kicked out searching for something to stand on, something that could hold my weight, but I was too far out from the trunk, my shoe could barely rub against it. During those moments I felt like I was drowning in a sea of air, desperately striking out for a ledge before the water pulled me under. It was then that I started shouting for Tommy to help me, for him to grab my legs again, instead he just started laughing. It was the shock of this that finally made me lose my grip, and sent me falling to the ground. I landed on my back and winded myself, it took me a couple of minutes to get my breath back and Tommy was still laughing by time that I had. He put his arm out to help me up, but instead of taking it I just pushed it away and walked towards my house. Tommy came after me and told me to stop being a little baby. Eyes fixed on the house I told myself that wasn’t the point, he was supposed to be my friend, but instead he just let me fall, I had hurt myself and all he could do was laugh. Like my father had lied about the ghost I was lying to myself, hindsight now tells me that it was my pride that was really hurt. Tommy’s laughing made me feel ashamed of my own short comings, like I was somehow a failure for not making it into the tree. Through a cocktail of laughter and words of you didn’t even fall that far, Tommy tried to get me to come back. Instead I shoved him out of the way causing him to trip over a bundle of the wood we had thrown over the fence that morning. One of the pieces was by my foot and I was able to pick it up before Tommy got back on his feet. I swung it, trying to hit him with it before he could hit me, but it broke over his arm as he blocked it. Thinking back I don’t know what I expected to happen, I am not even sure if I was thinking. This was the first fight I was ever in, if it even counts. The only real memory I have of what happened next, is being on the ground as Tommy ran away. I know I was crying and that my nose didn’t start bleeding until after I touched it. We never really spoke again after that, the last time I saw him was the day we moved out of the house. I was in the front seat with Mum while she let the removal van pull out of the drive. Tommy was watching from his bedroom window, staring at our car, when Mum started to drive off, he raised his hand to wave. I waved back, but to this day I don’t know if he saw it was me. I hope he did.

“You know none of this is real? It’s all just polystyrene.” These are the last words my father ever said to me. It’s the only clear memory I have of him that isn’t stolen from a photograph. It’s funny that isn’t it? How over the years memories lose their sharpness, their clarity. As though someone has pulled a veil over them, so that all you’re left with is a dull sense of a time and a place. The details blur but their meaning stays the same. Much of what I do remember during those weeks comes from my sister Katy, for years after she wouldn’t talk about it, every time I asked all she would ever say is that Dad was an asshole. It wasn’t until we were both in our twenties that she finally told me what had happened. I look back at those weeks with a different perspective now that I’m older; more of it makes sense to me. It was early December and there had already been a thick layer of snowfall. We were spending the holidays at my Grandparents cabin in New Hampshire, not far from Bean Pond. We usually only went up there for a couple of weeks each summer, but Mum had insisted on getting away for a while. I had always enjoyed the cabin during the summer, but in winter it had taken on an alien and hostile appearance. It was like the place I remembered from the summer had died. The trees that I had been so use to seeing full of life had disappeared; all that was left were damp and fragile branches that seemed almost black against the snow.

The cabin wasn’t big; it only had two bedrooms both of which opened from the main living area. Whenever we stayed there Katy and I had to share the smaller bedroom. At night it was hard to get to sleep, the wood burner kept the main room warm but at that time of year the bedrooms were still cold even under the covers. I found it hard to get proper sleep most nights. Outside stimuli would encroach upon my half conscious thoughts. My mind seemed perpetually stuck in the place before imagination ends and dreams begin. Rattling windows would occasionally bring me back to the room and to the familiar sound of Tracy Chapmen playing on Katy’s Walkman. Muffled voices from behind the wall would have discussions I couldn’t possibly understand at that age. Fragments stay with me even now, my mother asking, “Do you love her?” and my father saying “no.” In my half sleeping state the fear that hit me after hearing that resounding “no” was absolute. At that age it seemed natural to me that the only people you could love were the ones in your family. It would be several years before I realised he was talking about another women and not my sister. Even now I still feel a twang of guilt that my concern didn’t go to Katy, but to myself. That if he didn’t love my sister what then, did that mean for me? In the morning all that remained was the nagging sense that something wasn’t right. Whenever I was in the same room as our parents the silence would hang thick like warm breath on a bitter breeze, fogging whatever mood I was in. I know now that the silence was meant as a protection against their fighting but at the time it only created confusion for me. Making me doubt if what I had heard during the night was a cruel trick of slumber or a real conversation.

I spent most of the first week there in the clearing at the front of the cabin building snow forts and throwing snowballs into the forest during a make-believe war with the trees. It was one morning while I was doing this that Katy came running out of the cabin with the door slamming behind her, she headed straight along the lane towards the pond. Shortly after my parents came running out too. Mum was in the lead and carrying Katy’s coat. When dad started to follow she shouted at him, “For God sake I’ll go get her, you just stay with him.”

Dad spent the afternoon helping me to expand and reinforce the snow fort. I would start by making a snowball and rolling it along the ground until it got too heavy for me to push, then dad would take over until we both thought it was big enough to be lifted to the top of the fort. We would then pack snow around the latest ball to be added, pushing it into the gaps like cement surrounding a brick. Dad had had to lift me so I could reach the higher points in the wall. We made a good team, he would instinctively swoop me down like a plane coming into land whenever I needed more snow. More times than none we would miss the snow all together and would have to try the landing again, but this was part of the fun. It was starting to get dark by the time Katy and mum got back. Katy was in the lead and, like she did so much of the time back then, had her earphones on her head. Dad was in the middle of lifting a new snowball on to the fort when she waked past. Perhaps it was something that she was listening to, or just the sound of dad’s voice, but what happen next is one of the few times I have ever genuinely been afraid of my sister. Mid stride she turned, started screaming and ran towards my father. He was able to catch her and contain the violent swings of her arms as she tried to connect her fists with his chest. From what I remember he tried to calm her as best he could, but she struggled against every effort he made, kicking wildly in protest. It was the snow fort that took the physical burden of her out lash. With each kick a new hole or crack would appear in the wall, until eventually the whole side crumbled. I know now that it was my own anger and confusion that made me say what I said next. I didn’t understand why she was destroying something I had spent so much time building. I knew that I hadn’t done anything wrong. The fact that she could damage something I had built left me feeling hurt and betrayed. So with the intention of hurting her I said the one thing in my life I’ve never really been able to take back. “It’s not my fault he doesn’t love you.” I hated myself the moment I said it. It was only after the words had escaped my lips, and Dad was dragging her towards the cabin that I realised she was crying, and that it wasn’t so much her anger that had scared me, but her fear. Later that night in our bedroom I tried to talk to her, but I was drown out the sound of Fast Car. I don’t think anyone in the cabin got much sleep that night; most of it was spent with my Mum shouting at my Dad until the sun came up.

After a long period of silence I made my way out to the main living area. Dad was lying on the couch as I tried to sneak past. I was worried that he’s going to shout at me like I heard during the night. Instead he just looked up, smiled and told me not to wonder far, and that he’d come keep me company soon. It was several hours before he came out. It was lightly snowing and a slight breeze carried the flurry gently along the ground. He was wearing his yellow winter coat and had the cuffs of his navy ski gloves tucked inside the sleeves. His bomber hat was pulled tightly over his head with the earflaps unbuttoned; the fur lining clinging to the hairs of his beard like worn Velcro. I had spent most of the morning rebuilding my snow fort and remember thinking that he was coming to help, but instead he just knelt down beside me and ran the edge of his hand back and forth along the surface of the snow. Right then I could tell he was searching for the words to say, lost in his own thoughts trying to find a way to explain or even justify what it was he was about to do. In reality we were probably only sat there for about a minute, but in my memory it feels like an eternity. It wasn’t until the taxi reached the top of the drive that he finally raised his head to look at me. He had a slight smile on his face that was meant to be reassuring and half jokingly he said, “you know none of this is real? It’s all just polystyrene.” With a sigh he pushed his hands deep into the snow and rose. I wasn’t able to look at him as he walked to the taxi all I could do was stare at the beads of snow that swirled in the prints left by his hands.

The Universe makes a noise. Did you know that when two black holes collide they sound like a spinning coin at the point where it almost stops. The point where its edge begins to rattle on the surface which it spins. We can hear this because of the vibrations of space. I like to think that everything in the universe makes a noise. Everything from a burning star to the flight of a fallen leaf. I like to imagine the Universe as some sort of majestic orchestra playing a song and everything that exists is an instrument playing its part; sounding its note. In my mind this gives meaning to the chaos of the world. The thought that things happen because they have to, because it’s part of the song in which we all play. Freewill has been removed and instead we are left with pitch and tempo. The song has been playing from the dawn of time and will finish at its dusk. We can never hear the playing piece, our notes began after the beginning. We’re just one instrument deafened by our neighbours in this cosmic orchestra, unable to hear further than their notes or ours.

So maybe, just maybe, instead of the big bang being an explosion, what if it was simply just the first key struck or the first strum of a celestial guitar.          

Streams of warmth erupt happily from passersby. They talk amongst them selves, they don’t notice me, or at least pretend not to. Not me. I sit here cold, waiting for the jingle of metal to echo in my paper cup. It’s going to be a long night.

There’s a frost forming, the pavement has already started to glisten. It seems that everything reminds me of her lately; but I don’t want to think about that. I know my life isn’t perfect and neither am I. I’ve always tried to do the right thing; but I guess somewhere down the line I got it wrong. I love her, but I don’t want to think about that now. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, things I regret. I’ve stolen, but never much, only enough to get me through. It was fun in the beginning, exciting, there’s a buzz. You know it’s a bad idea, everyone does, but it’s not enough to stop you. It’s a drug, it pumps through your veins, rewires your inner workings changing them to something else. Like everything in life the excitement passes, it becomes routine, the buzz gets replaced. It happened much faster for her. That was my fault. She wasn’t always like what she became in the end, but I don’t want to think about that right now. I know I’ve made mistakes, but I like to think I can change. Sometimes I even believe it. I hear a jingle, but she passes before I can say thank you, I always say thank you. She didn’t need to help me. Perhaps she shouldn’t. I like to think I can change, all I need is a chance. The right set of circumstances. It’s this thought that ushers me to sleep each night, it’s gone in the morning, lost like my dreams.

The cold doesn’t bother me anymore, not like it use to when I was kid. Everything seemed so much simpler back then; I wanted to be a footballer, but what kid doesn’t. That thought still makes me smile. Sometimes I pretend that a version of me is out there, on a pitch, kicking a ball. No one else is there, I don’t need there to be, I can imagine the cheering and applause as the ball goes in the back of the net. I stop to look around, heat rising from my body. It’s a nice thought. I told her about it once, I don’t think she was listening but that wasn’t the point. I was never a bad kid, sure I got in trouble from time to time. It was always for silly things, I liked to talk in class, I told the other boys jokes. I was funny. I like making people laugh it’s how you get them to like you. How does the saying go; laughter cures all, maybe I just need a good joke. My favourite always was: two muffins are in an oven. The first one says “it sure is hot in here” and the other reply’s “holy crap a talkin’ muffin.” It’s simple and childish I know, but it makes me laugh every time. A friend told me that one, I wonder what happened to him. What would he think if he saw me now.

What always bothered me and still does I guess; is the way people look at you. Whenever I walk past someone in the street. It’s only for a second, but there’s a momentary stare, your eyes meet. They quickly look away, strait ahead or down at the ground anywhere to avoid eye contact, hands clutching a bag or firmly in pockets rapped around belongings. I know what there’re thinking, but I would never. I’m not that man. I don’t do those things. That’s for other people. Not me.

As much as I try, she’s always there nestled away at the back of my mind waiting for her chance to slip into my thoughts. Sometimes it’s a comfort, but not tonight. The wind is getting cooler. It’s less busy now, families have returned home. I remember when we first met. I had my own flat then. It wasn’t big, but it was comfy and warm. You could see the park from the window. That’s where I found her, if she’d only waited. Maybe I could have helped, done something. I don’t know maybe it would have been worse, being there watching it happen. I don’t like the thought of her being alone. I like to think of the first day we met. She was the sister of my best friend. We don’t speak anymore; I don’t blame him, not after what I did to her. I should have told her no, I don’t know why I didn’t, but we always shared everything. I don’t like to think about it. She was beautiful, so much energy. We would talk for hours. Never about anything important, just silly things. I liked to make her laugh. That’s how I imagine her, before all this happened. I miss that flat and the view of the park from the window. We would always meet there after we’d got enough to get us through, It’s easier on your own. People feel more sorry for you.

I like to imagine my pitch, she’s there now. She’s taken a seat in the stands. I can hear her cheer and applause, she smiles as the steam rises from my body. My paper cup jingles, that’s enough. Thank you.

No Time

The clock, it ticks on the wall. Ticks past the time. Constant and everlasting, ticking away until that day. The day that everything will change. The day the world will lose its self and the people will follow, in its wake. The day time will stop passing and in its place the people will tick away one by one, second by second. The day when we will stop losing time and all that will be left is life. Tick… Tick… Tick… that day has come.

It started unlike any other day. The sun didn’t rise. The birds didn’t sing. My alarm clock didn’t sound. But that was least of my worries. My day when time didn’t pass was going to be the longest of my life.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t know if anyone other than me is ever going to read it. I don’t know if anyone is going to survive. It’s been 23 hours, 51 minutes and 58 seconds since time stopped. So far, as close and my maths can make it 4,764,967,064 billion people are dead, and at any second I could join that figure.

No time, that’s what the news was calling it. The amount of time that has passed since time stopped. Before the news stopped broadcasting there was a scientist, who had a theory. He thought that the mass of people dying was because time had stopped. His theory was that 77,892 people were dying a second and if you multiplied that number by 86,400 the number of seconds in a single day, you would get the world’s population. I believe him but that doesn’t matter now. Nothing does. Nothing I do makes a difference. All that’s left for me is to wait. Wait for my second.

I’m not sad or upset in any way at the thought of my death. That’s only because I now understand that all I can do is wait. The people still living have no choice. I know this because four hours, 16 minutes and 33 seconds ago I tried to take my own life. The only choice I thought I had left. I was wrong.

In my bedroom, in a small wooden chest at the bottom of my wardrobe, is a gun. Don’t ask me why I have a gun; you’ll not have the chance. I can’t say for sure if everyone will be able to understand what it is like to hold a gun to your head and pull the trigger. I can. I’m unsure if everyone else will be able to imagine this. I can, I was in that situation.

Imagine how hard it is to lift that gun. Feel the weight of it in your left hand. The cold steel sending a slight shiver up your spine. You can feel the weight of the bullet in your other hand, notice how light it feels in comparison as you load it in to the gun. You take a moment or two, maybe even three as you come to terms with what it is you are about to do. As you raise the gun to your head, taking that last slow breath as you close your eyes and pull the trigger. Now imagine what it’s like when the gun doesn’t fire. When the gun can’t fire. The thought of having to lift that gun again is unimaginable. I was able to lift that gun again. I was able to hold it to my head; and I was able to pull the trigger. The gun still didn’t fire.

I don’t know if this is true, but like the scientist on TV I have a theory. I don’t think we’re allowed to die until it’s our second. I have never been a religious person. Never believed in a higher power. Today that has changed. It’s the only way that any of this can make sense in my head. There must be a higher power. A higher power that stopped time 23 hours, 54 minutes and 26 seconds ago. A higher power that has given each of us a second. I believe this because my gun works. Their is a hole in my wall that proves it.

We all take time for granted. We never think about how much time we have left. When we are going to die. I can’t help but find it ironic. Ironic that it takes time to stop before anyone notices how much we have left. Now it’s all anyone can think about. I haven’t made up my mind yet. Whether or not I’m one of the lucky few whose second was left near the end. I feel as if I’ve entered a state of enlightenment. I now realise the important things that matter. The things that if I had another day of time, I would do. I would tell my wife that I loved her more often. I would buy my daughter the Elmo toy she has wanted all week. I would finally tell my parents that when I was 20 I took a year out of university and bummed around. I would do the things that anyone of us would do if we had more time. Then I would do more again.

My name is Conrad Gray. I am 43 years old. I worked at K.J.H investments. I loved my family. At some point in the next four minutes and 44 seconds, my second will arrive. I can only hope that there will be someone alive to read this. Someone who wasn’t given a second. Someone that surv