The Triple Whammy, aka Making Up For Lost Time

You know, I didn't realise I'd been gone a whole two months. That really is a break.

For what it's worth, I've just been very busy. In terms of actual lecture time and subsequent work, there hasn't been much to do, but university has sucked up so much of my attention that I've found it impossible to focus on anything else. Including posting here. Which sucks. But anyway, my six-week Christmas holiday is now upon me, and one 2000-word essay aside, I've got nothing pressing on my time.

But before I go into that, there's something else I need to say. Though I haven't responded to them directly, I have been reading everyone's comments, and I'm very grateful for them. It's always nice to know people are reading your work, and it's even nicer to know that they think you've actually created things of value. So, basically, thanks for reading, and for being so positive. I don't deserve it, but hey, I'm not about to pass up free love.

But anyway, back to the other thing. As I said, I've now got muchos time to write and post and stuff. So, provided nothing unexpected and horrible happens, you'll be seeing quite a few random bits and pieces cropping up here. To whit, as the title indicates, I've now got three works to show you.

These are all poems from the "Writing Poetry" module I was attending last semester, and to my mind, the best things I created whilst I was there. This time around, I'm not going to give any explanations of what they're about or where they come from, simply because it would take too damn long, and I really can't be bothered. So, instead, I'll just say one thing: these poems are designed to be taken entirely at face value, so please don't go looking for a higher point.

Oh yes, and enjoy...

Sonnet Ω

“I cut my eyes with the shards of my broken dreams.”
Is this it?
Is this all we’ve achieved? Five thousand years
of poetry, and this is all we can say?
Say I love you.
Say my life sucks.
Say overturn everything.
Say everything is pointless.
The same old shit, day after day after day after day after day after day after day…
I think that says it all, but I have
three more lines to
fill. [smiles] Or not.

But the final couplet? Devastating.
“Poor little Johnny Culper. Always so tired.
Stays up ‘till sunrise, talking to God.”

Vessel

The Rosetta Stone

Something New

I'm back, at long last. If you want to know why I've been gone so long, then it's because I simply didn't have anything I liked enough to post. But now I've got something, so here I am.

The following poem is an all-new work, the first time I've posted something that I haven't scrounged from my archives. [throws party] It's the second assignment from my Writing Poetry class, with the brief simply being to write something in Blank Verse: for those of you unfamiliar with the term, it's unrhymed iamic pentameter (each line has five pairs of syllables, with the first syllable unstressed and the second stressed), and the standard form of poetry for the last five hundred years. I wouldn't say this poem rivals the likes of Shakespeare and Milton (the two most famous users of Blank Verse), but I'm still rather proud of it. At the very least, I like it enough to show it to you guys.

So, enjoy...

The Time Capsule

Adam: photo of his friends, aged 16.
He doesn’t recognize them anymore.

Juanita: her dead mother’s grey necklace.
She couldn’t give away and won’t take back.

Charlotte: a worn first edition of Greer.
What use would baby Sam have for that book?

Locke: letter from his father, absent then.
His father’s not so nice when he’s released.

Tyler: his movie, with his friends as stars.
But only Asda ever came for him.

Arthur: his old copy of Hitchhiker’s.
A masterpiece he’s still yet to surpass.

Cassandra: her best poem, burnt next year.
“I cut my eyes with the shards of my broken dreams.”

Pratchett: his comb, mirror and aftershave.
He now as over fifty of all three.

Joan: her appendix in formaldehyde.
The rest of her body has followed suit.

River: her shiny modelling contract.
Guess what became of that hopeful future?

Matthew: “my life is more than one mere thing.”

Back In The Day

Again, sorry for not being around just lately. I've just started my second year at uni, so I've been a bit distracted lately: though I'm not in halls this time, there's still been a fair bit to sort out. But irritating and pointless paperwork is all part of the process, so you just have to grit your teeth and get on with it.

Besides, if truth be told, I'm starting to run out of things to post. I've been working on a few new pieces, but they're nowhere near finished yet: until then, I'm left with the old stuff, and most of the decent pieces are already on here. Which sucks, but again, you just have to deal with it.

Of course, because I'm writing this at all, I've indeed managed to find something worth posting. It's my very first assignment for Life Writing, nearly a year ago now (and Christ, what a quick year it's been). Fittingly for something so "back in the day", the brief was to write about an incident from our childhood. A few things immediately sprang to mind, but with me decidedly not a member of the "writing = therapy" school, there was only one I was prepared to use. However, this left me with a problem: how do you write about something when you can't remember what actually happened?

This quasi-story is, for lack of a better phrase, my solution...

What A Wonderful World

Memory. A funny thing, memory is. The usual cliché thing is to compare it to an ever-filling cup: the more water/wine/other drink of choice you pour in, the more water/wine/other drink of choice gets forced out. There’s only so many memories you can store, and the new ones invariably force out the old ones. So I’d say that a hose is actually a better analogy, if you see what I mean. If you don’t, then tough shit. I’m here to tell a story, not to be a gentleman. And let’s face it, not knowing the words doesn’t stop you from liking the song.

Either way, I reckon that a hose is still a shit analogy. I’d rather compare it to, say…a filing cabinet. One where all the information is written in pencil. Because you’ve written them down in this way, your records won’t be hanging around forever. The record card itself will always be there, but the pencil markings will fade in time. Usually not much time. As the record gets older, it becomes harder and harder to read, and eventually it’ll be as if nothing was ever written down at all.

And this means what for your memories, exactly? Simple: the older a memory becomes, the harder it becomes to recall. Details will become transformed, obscured, even lost altogether. But even when no details are left remaining at all, the shape of the memory will still be there. You’ll know what happened, but that’s it. The “what” will be there, but with no “who”, “where”, “when”, “how” or even “why” to keep it company. Though as long as you remember the shape, maybe the rest doesn’t matter.

It might seem like I’ve been talking bollocks for the last 250-odd words. And, in a way, you’d be right…but you’d also be wrong. What I was indeed spouting was indeed bollocks, but it was relevant bollocks. It might not be an integral part of the story – or even a part of the story at all – but it’s not going to make much sense without it.

You see, my memory of what really happened is a little fuzzy. I remember the basic incident, but I couldn’t quote any specific lines or events with any degree of accuracy at all. After all, it’s been nearly eleven years since it happened, so you can’t really expect much in the way of recollections. But the basics of the incident have always stayed with me, so I might as well recount those if nothing else. And in terms of the basics, there’s not much to tell, which is perhaps why I’m putting in all this bollocks first. To keep the wordcount up or something.

This is more of a funny story than a tragic one, though the message behind it is still fairly serious. Of course, whether you find it funny or not is down to you, but there’s no great reason for me to care either way. As I said before, all I’m doing is telling a story.

“What A Wonderful World”. You know, the Louis Armstrong track. The really famous one of his that everyone remembers, and perhaps the only reason why we remember the great Satchmo at all (or at least, the “we” in the world of white Britain, which is a very different “we” from those who would remember Armstrong differently). Anyway, that’s beside the point. What is the point is what Wonderful World is about: looking at what’s positive in the world around us.

This, funnily enough, was a point that my primary school teacher seemed to miss. In one particular lesson, I don’t remember which, she used Wonderful World as an example of what life could be like. Then, in the way that teachers of all types and schools are wont, she used this example as what’s best called a “springboard”: to describe our own vision of a wonderful world, using the song as a foundation.

Though she didn’t say that last part. We were supposed to figure the catch out on our own.

Of course, we all did…but only in a subconscious way. In the end, our class delivered pretty much a blanket spread of world peace, eternal happiness, free love for all: the kinda shit voiced by hippy parents and Disney movies. You know what I’m trying to get at.

I, naturally, broke the mould. What I handed in was, shall we say, a more…personal vision. In my own little wonderful world, I had a big house, flash car, gadgets up to the fucking eyeballs: that kinda shit. A more selfish and materialistic vision, sure, but it was what I wanted. And it’s a list of wants that I ascribe to even now, maybe with a few other things thrown in that I would much rather not discuss.

Three times I handed this work in, and three times I got it handed straight back.

Let’s just pause for a second. Think about it: you get told to describe your perfect world, and you then get told that you’ve done it wrong. And then imagine that this happens when you’re only nine years old. Your more impressionable period.

It would be tempting to say that I put up a stand, nobly defending all that is selfish and materialistic, defeating the teachers in a state of wrongeous fury that got me immersed in primary school legend forever. It would be tempting, but it would also be a downright, bare-faced, inexcusable lie. I didn’t make a stand: after the third rejection, I just shut up and gave the teachers the hackneyed, Disneyfied bullshit that they seemed to want. Cased closed, problem solved, no harm done to any party.

It was a good six-seven years before I lent any more thought to the incident. Of course, that was when I figured out what inevitably strikes us all as the obvious – and, I daresay, slightly dull – truth. At best, it was simply a thinly-veiled way to get us all spouting the values of peace and goodwill, the ones that people seem to think it’s necessary for kids to have (though having this take place during the reign of Major, aka Thatcher 0.5, does strike me as something of an irony…). It was just a cheap propaganda exercise, a way to make learning “correct moral values” fun.

But I’ve got no great hang-ups about this. It’s what schools are designed for, in a way. And my bloody-minded, self-obsessed little shell seemed to survive it intact – though whether this is a good or bad thing is entirely up to you – so there’s no harm done either way. Besides, if it took me so long to get the point, maybe the point doesn’t really matter.

Which, I suppose, is where memory comes back into play. Though my 500-odd word recollection might not seem like it, my memories of the whole thing are decidedly vague. That’s the point I wanted you to understand at the start: I’m not sure if I’ve remembered it accurately, completely or even honestly. What really happened might have been something utterly different, but I’m just telling you what little I’ve managed to drag out from the dark corners of my own head.

It’s just a little anecdote I thought you might find amusing. There’s no great point I’m trying to make here, the ironies of teachers misinterpreting Louis Armstrong notwithstanding. If she’d figured that Armstrong was saying that our world was Wonderful, maybe she wouldn’t have given us such a dumb exercise. Now, I don’t ascribe to the view that we’ve already got world-wide peace, love and happiness, but it seems to me that considering such virtues to be non-existent is excessively negative. The existence of violence, disease and poverty doesn’t necessarily make us bad people…maybe not good people, sure, but not being one doesn’t automatically make you the other.

That might seem like a big point, but it really isn’t. For all I know, it could be utter bollocks. And that, funnily enough, is the point: if you don’t know for sure, don’t claim that something is true. I’ll leave you to figure out the full consequences of that one on your own.

Yes, I know I’ve taken so long to say something so simple. But that’s what stories are for, if you think about it. Which I suppose means that I’m making a point about making a point. Or maybe I’m just talking bullshit. Neither would surprise me.

Sorry for wasting your time.

Roses Are Red

After a fairly lengthy enforced break, I'm now back with some more writery stuff. Basically, there was an assessment that I hadn't handed in for my degree, and the uni said that if I didn't give it to them in a month, I was royally screwed. The upshot of this was that I had to research and write three news articles in four weeks: this is trickier than it sounds, especially when you don't have a clue what you're doing. Still, after much blood, sweat, tears and cursing, I managed to get it all done and handed in on Tuesday (and getting to London on the same day as a train drivers' strike was an adventure in itself...), and that nightmare is now out of my hair. Remember, kids: do your work when you're told to do it, not two months after the deadline.

So, to celebrate my new freedom from work, I'm going to give you some poetry. This was something I did for Life Writing back in March, and at the time, under extreme duress. I despise poetry even at the best of times - reverse snobbery, I suppose you could say - but on reflection, this piece isn't so bad. From what I remember, the brief was to write a poem with three verses, four lines per verse and six words per line: we could choose whatever subject we liked, whether true-life or no, and with me having my twisted brain, I can up with this. And in case you're wondering, "Roses Are Red" was my original title, that legendary poetry cliche seeming like a fitting moniker for a poem on the mechanics of poetry: however, because only two other people got the joke, I decided to change it to the more self-explanatory title it now has. To my mind, the original title is still better, but never mind.

Anyway, here's the poem. Enjoy...

On Poetry And The Writing Of It

The pen observes the page, ready
to strike. The words hidden within
wish only to be written. But
this combined assault will never happen.

Bombs in Baghdad streets. Eleusinian mysteries
of love. Even how leaves grow
on spring trees. Pen nor words
will ever form shapes like these.

They wish to form shapes. They
wish it more than we’ll ever
know. But no shape is ever
tough enough for their iron will.

And Now For Something Completely Different

Well, kinda. I've been involved with a lot of fan-fiction over the last few years, sometimes on a more on-off basis, and I thought I'd change tack a little by offering up one of those pieces. For the most part, a lot of fan-fiction out there really is either rubbish or borderline porno, but there's also a great deal of quality to be found: at the risk of hubris, this is one of those quality pieces. I'd say it's one of the best things I've done, fan-fiction or otherwise.

This short story is loosely based on the Warner Brothers/Detective Comics/Cartoon Network animated series Teen Titans. For the uninitiated (and where have you been?! :-P ), this show is about five teenage superheroes who protect the fictional Jump City from its more cruel and unusual threats (aliens, mutants, criminal masterminds, etc). The major arc of season two concerned a new member of the group, Terra, who eventually turned out to be a spy for the arch-criminal Slade: after lots of unpleasantness, Terra eventually redeemed herself through a series of actions that resulted in her being turned into a statue (but of course...). In the very final episode of the series, the Teen Titan known as Beast Boy (who, fittingly, could turn into all kinds of animals) believed he'd seen a newly restored Terra: in the end, we never found out how she returned or even if this was Terra at all, but because the episode was about dealing with past troubles (just to make things extra complicated, Beast Boy and Terra were on the verge of a romance when things went bad in season two), that was kinda the point.

Anyway, this short story picks up the issue a few months later, when all is once again not so well...

Life Story

Outside, the snow is falling. Not a gentle, Christmas-card fall, but a raging, hell-on-earth fall. The kind of fall where you can’t even see your hands in front of your face, where the snow seems to be coming at you from every direction bar straight down. Where the kids would rather lock themselves indoors than march out with sleds and snowballs.

This fall, this storm of snow, it would kill you in the blink of an eye. And at nighttime, like it is now, it might not even need that.

Strange to think, this is California. In these tumultuous times, times of El Nino, global warming, climate chaos, maybe such unpredictable weather is to be expected.

This is a cemetery. That’s all there is to say about it. This is a cemetery, and it looks like a cemetery should. Headstones lined up on short-mown grass, the way Stone Age tribes built sacred monuments for their gods and ancestors. Gravel paths breaking up some of these lines, themselves bordered by tall streetlamps. The orange light from the bulbs seems to spread around them like a globe, as if the falling snow is being set on fire. A few trees are scattered about, some in the middle but most not, their leaves all gone at this bitter cold time of year. The whole place, at least a square mile, a high redbrick wall runs around the edge, topped with curls of barbed wire.

Outside the cemetery, city buildings rise high all around, or at least they would if you could see them through all the snow. But even on a clear day, a gentle summers’ day, the surrounding metropolis doesn’t seem to intrude here, in this serene place. Even if full-scale Armageddon was breaking out beyond the redbrick walls, you wouldn’t notice.

The cemetery protected from the city outside. Like the bodies protected from the dirt and the worms and the rats.

Even on a clear day, you wouldn’t see any more than two or three people pass through the main gates. But tonight, with the snow falling thick as fog and the wind roaring like a monster on some Jurassic plain, not even a bird would be dumb enough to wander through a place as open as this.

Though something clearly is dumb enough. It’s not a bird, but a fox, running across the snow-covered grass. There’s so much snow, it’s almost having to swim through it. Foxxie paddle, if you will.

The snow-darkened night makes everything seem in black-and-white, but you can still tell that this fox has green fur.

The fox makes its way through all the headstones, all the ancestral monuments, somehow looking like it knows exactly where it’s going. Which is because it does. Only a minute or so after it squeezed through the giant cast-iron gate, it reaches its destination.

A headstone. Nothing spectacular, nothing fancy. Just a headstone, one in the middle of many others. Most of the headstones in this cemetery are new, but this one looks especially so. Truth be told, it’s only been here for about three months.

You can barely read it amongst all the snowfall, but the inscription is

TARA MARKOV
APRIL 16^TH 1989 – OCTOBER 5^TH 2006
“THE GOOD ONES, ALWAYS TAKEN SO YOUNG.”

Nothing spectacular, nothing fancy. Just enough to show you care.

The fox stares up at the headstone for a while. It tries to shake off the snow that’s collected on its back and chest, as if that would make any difference.

Suddenly, there’s a blur, and the fox is gone. Instead, a teenage boy is standing on the snow. This green-skinned, black- and purple-coated boy, the people of this city would know him anywhere. And they wouldn’t expect to see him here, especially not tonight.

Beast Boy, one of the five Teen Titans who protect this city, Jump City, he wraps his thick winter coat tighter around himself. He pulls his hood further down over his head and tightens up his goggles. Even then, he still shivers as if he’s having a seizure. His teeth still rattle so hard they hurt.

Doing what he intends to do tonight, it could very well kill him. Frostbite, hypothermia, pneumonia, any one of a thousand ways you can die sat out in the cold. But he knows that if puts this off, this sacred task, even one more night, death will be a certainty rather than a distinct possibility. It would be mental death rather than physical death, but it would still be death.

Which is worse?

Beast Boy sits down in front of the headstone, legs crossed like he’s in a school assembly. The snow’s piled up so high that his eyes are exactly level with the name of

TARA MARKOV.

Beast Boy and

TARA MARKOV,

looking at each other from across the mortality divide. In these international times, times of mass media, multi-culturalism, globalization, maybe this is the only true divide left.

Beast Boy clears his throat, wraps his arms round his chest. Clears his throat again. He pauses for a second or two.

“Terra.” His voice is a whispery croak, the kind of voice you’d use through a veil of tears. He’s too cold to cry, but his body’s going through the motions anyway.

In this bellowing wind, he has to strain just to hear his own voice. But that doesn’t matter. The girl he’s here to talk to, she’ll either be able to hear him even if he whispers, or she won’t be able to hear him even if he screams.

Which is worse?

“Terra. I never meant to kill you, Terra.”

This much is true. No one ever truly means to kill. Defending themselves. Making money. Getting revenge. Sending a message. Having fun. Whatever the motive, it won’t be killing just for the sake of killing. Even with the most unreasonable of people, there’s always a reason. It might shock and appall us, but that’s not the point.

“I’m sorry, Terra. I’m sorry I’ve hurt you so much. I never meant to, but I did. If you’re still out there, Terra, then I can understand if you don’t want to listen. But you’re the only one who can understand me. You always have been, and you always will be. I guess some things don’t change.”

Only a foot away from him,

TARA MARKOV

just stares silently back. As silent and as accusing as a grave. All she has to say is

“THE GOOD ONES, ALWAYS TAKEN SO YOUNG.”

As if she would be saying anything else.

“I’ve got no right to talk to you, Terra, I know. But I have to talk to someone, and no one else understands me as well as you do. I have to tell my story, Terra. I have to explain. This mess sitting in my head, I have to explain it. It’ll destroy me if I don’t. You’re the only one I can talk to, Terra, even if you don’t want to listen.”

This is a widely known phenomenon, but only if you’re a policeman. It’s one of their better-kept trade secrets.

Everyone needs to tell their story, to explain their presence in the universe. A killer, the only person they can tell their story to is their victim. The only one who won’t judge them, who will understand what they went through.

Even though you didn’t truly mean to do it, killing is still tough. Even an animal, something you can just step on, it’s still the toughest thing you can do. It still leaves a mark on you, forever.

A story like that, it needs telling more than others.

What the police do is, wherever the body was buried or dumped or dismembered, they’ll stick a hidden microphone or two. They’ll sit and wait until the killer comes back, to tell their story, then they’ll pounce. They’ll wait for years if they have to, because it always works.

Because the thing about us humans, the thing that makes us special, is that we need to tell stories. To explain things. In these individual times, times of alienation, mass apathy, social death, maybe this is the only part of human nature that hasn’t changed since Prehistoric times.

Which is worse?

“Move on, and start a new life. Everyone said it. Even you said it, Terra. You of all people. But why should I?”

Again, this much is true. At first, he’d been willing to accept that the newly-restored Terra would never be the same as the Terra of old. The cheerful, smiling, effortlessly cool earth-mover.

Crucially, the Terra who was madly in love with him.

At first, he’d been willing to let go. To move on, to start a new life. To leave the new Terra to her own new life, a life of high school, friends and family. A life of peace that a petrified statue or even a Teen Titan could never have.

After all, she deserved it.

“Why should I move on? Why should things change? Why shouldn’t we try to keep hold of things? Accepting change is just rolling over, Terra, letting things sweep by you. It’s accepting defeat.”

A Teen Titan never accepts defeat.

“Terra, you of all people should know that.”

The “at first” stage, the begrudging acceptance stage, it only lasted a few months. Maybe not even that.

“I couldn’t forget about you, Terra. I tried, I really tried, but I just couldn’t do it. Even the times when I managed to keep you out of my thoughts, I still couldn’t keep you out of my dreams. Awake or asleep, you were still on my mind. But I loved you, Terra. How could it be otherwise?”

Sat on the freezing snow, more snow settling on his head, Beast Boy knows he’s doing the right thing. Out there, somewhere, Terra is listening. Not

TARA MARKOV,

but Terra. The real Terra. She might not want to listen, but she is. She knows she has to listen, same as Beast Boy knows he has to talk.

He’s sure of this. After all, how could it be otherwise?

“I just wanted to see, Terra. To see if you were still okay.”

He watched her. When she was at school. When she was at home. When she was with friends. When she was with family. The fly on the wall, always sat there, always watching, always listening. When he wasn’t fighting, when he wasn’t being a Teen Titan, he was by her side. Just being there, where he felt he needed to be.

For his own peace of mind, you understand.

Terra, she didn’t mind. Truth be told, she didn’t even know. Sat in the classroom, working on the Math test they hadn’t revised for, who would suspect that the fly dozing on the windowsill was taking notes?

If she was happy. If she was sad. If she was angry. If she was lonely. If she was scared.

For his own peace of mind, you understand.

“I loved you, Terra. I still love you. You think we should just forget about those we love?”

Which is worse?

“You were never meant to know. It would’ve only hurt you, Terra.”

At the time, he didn’t really think about this. All he thought was, if Terra found out he was watching her, he was a dead man.

Stalker. Killer. Lunatic.

As it turned out, all three were true.

In these “me first” times, times of greed, self-obsession, self-importance, maybe Beast Boy’s actions aren’t so surprising.

As it turned out, she cottoned on anyway.

It was early July. In a few weeks, school would be over for another term. The long summer holidays would begin. Six weeks of fun and frolics in the warm sun.

It was about this time that Terra got a new boyfriend. No, not Terra, but

TARA MARKOV,

technically speaking. But Beast Boy wasn’t about to stand on technicalities.

Terra, she had a good life. A loving, caring, wide-embracing family. A big house in the rich Salisbury suburb. Half-a-dozen close friends, who would be right by her side for what little remained of her life.

All this, Beast Boy could accept. Be happy about, even. Terra was happy, content, so Beast Boy was happy, content.

A boyfriend, though, Beast Boy couldn’t deal with that. It meant that she was moving on, that she was living a new life. That she wasn’t Terra anymore, she was

TARA MARKOV.

It meant that she’d forgotten him.

Beast Boy, he couldn’t be having with that.

“I’m sorry, Terra. I didn’t mean to hurt you like that. But you shouldn’t just leave things to one side. Things shouldn’t have to change if you don’t want them to. I just wanted you to see that.”

What the new boyfriend’s name was, what he looked like, where he lived, Beast Boy couldn’t remember. Even after he’d followed the guy to his house and beaten the living shit out of him, he still couldn’t remember.

In these violent times, times of guns, wars, hatred of all things, maybe this is something you’d do. Your own do-it-yourself jealous-ex hobby kit.

On reflection, this was where it all started to go wrong.

Sat on the freezing snow, more snow settling on his head, Beast Boy shivers. He’s cold. That one time, not so long ago, when he went to Siberia to fight some monsters, he’s even colder now than he was then.

This cold, it’ll kill him if he stays out here any longer. But he has to finish. He has to say his piece, because he can’t hold it forever.

Which is worse?

“Your boyfriend, Terra, I’m sure he was a nice guy. He probably didn’t deserve what I did to him. But it wasn’t fair on me, you know?”

The boyfriend, he didn’t report his beating. When a guy with green skin turns into a bear and puts you in hospital for three weeks, it’s not so hard to work out the who and why of things. But he didn’t tell anyone, not even the police.

The police, they have a tendency to protect their own.

He didn’t even tell his girlfriend. Then again, Terra was never exactly slow on the uptake.

Beast Boy didn’t have police swarming outside his door. He wasn’t done for GBH or anything like that. Instead, Terra just took him to one side and had a quiet word in his ear.

His dedication to her, it was all very flattering, but it had to stop. She wasn’t the woman he was in love with. She might never have been. He would just have to accept that. Move on, like she had.

And if didn’t leave her alone, she would be calling the police.

Nothing spectacular, nothing fancy. Just enough to say her piece.

Of course, Beast Boy took no notice.

“You can’t just tell someone to not love you anymore. That’s not how it works, Terra.”

So he continued to watch.

At first, he made sure he was more careful. He didn’t do anything, he didn’t say anything. He just flew around after her, small and ignorable as a little insect. Flies were best, though having the odd newspaper swiped his way was a problem.

Terra, she has less of a clue than last time. She was bright, very bright indeed, but there was no way for her to know.

“If you’re thinking that I blame you for all this, Terra, then you’re wrong. I don’t blame you for anything. It’s my fault, Terra. It’s just me, my own head.”

In these confused times, times of no directions, multiple identities, mass migrations, maybe his own head is more important than he thinks.

Like the first time, it didn’t last. He lost discretion, replaced it with stupidity. Like last time.

Which is worse?

This time, at least he didn’t beat anyone up.

This time, he sent letters, pictures, videos. All the remnants of Terra’s old life, he sealed them in envelopes or parcels, sent them to her door. Anything that reminded him of his lost love, it might just remind her too.

“That’s when I got to thinking. What you had, Terra, it was just amnesia. Plain old amnesia. Something you can reverse, you know? If you could just see, hear, watch the right thing, all your memories would come back. There’d be bad things, sure, things no one should have to remember. But, Terra, you’d remember how much you used to love me. You’d remember the way things should be.”

It didn’t work the first time, but that was no reason to lose hope. In these pessimistic times, times of depression, futility, passive acceptance, maybe hope is the one thing we need the most.

At least, that’s the point Beast Boy was trying to prove.

After the first few times, Terra didn’t even bother opening the parcels. When the police searched the house after her death, they found twenty-seven of them in the trash. She hadn’t even lifted up the corners of the tape.

She didn’t report any of this. She didn’t even have another quiet word. She just ignored it.

The worst thing she could have done.

“I wanted you back, Terra. I wanted you back so much it hurt.”

If Terra still loves him, he’ll never know. From now until the end of time, all she can tell him is

“THE GOOD ONES, ALWAYS TAKEN SO YOUNG.”

Maybe this is true. Maybe it isn’t.

Which is worse?

Even with all these unopened parcels, Terra didn’t know that Beast Boy was still following her. She suspected it, because how could she not? But she didn’t know.

Though, eventually, she got her proof. Beast Boy got stupid, took to following her in person rather than in fly.

A guy with green skin ain’t exactly hard to spot.

This time, she didn’t have a quiet word. She finally made good on her threat, called the police.

As her boyfriend predicted, the police swept it under the carpet. But Robin still had his own word with his colleague. Needless to say, Robin wasn’t impressed.

“That’s when I finally realized. You know, Terra, I never meant it to come to that. But you gave me no choice.”

No one ever truly means to kill.

It only took a few days of planning, then another few days of following.

Terra went to the cinema with her friends one night. Sure that Beast Boy had been taken care of, she walked home alone. A cry for help lured her into an alleyway, and a gunshot made sure that she only left it two weeks later, in a zipped-up bodybag.

When an ambulance drives without sirens, that’s probably because there’s a dead body in it. Just one of those things.

Nothing spectacular, nothing fancy. Just enough to see her dead.

A crime like that, the police never thought to pin Beast Boy’s name to it. With her phone and wallet gone, they just filed it away as one of Jump City’s many muggings. A tragic incident, but still a common one.

Thinking about it, perhaps

“THE GOOD ONES, ALWAYS TAKEN SO YOUNG”

says it best.

“Terra, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you. But at least you can’t change anymore. Now, you’ll always be the same as you were on that night.”

OCTOBER 5^TH 2006.

At least, that's what the pathologist reckons.

“With the new Terra dead, I can love the old Terra. We’re both at peace now.”

Death, the ultimate way of defying change. When you’re dead, you don’t have to roll over and accept anything.

The body rots away, but the spirit stays eternal.

Which is worse?

Whilst Terra was still officially Missing, in the two weeks before a passing tramp found her rat-eaten body, the police asked for Beast Boy. Considering the charges she’d filed against him, they couldn’t not. But he’d been expecting this.

Yes, he was as concerned for her safety as much as anyone. Yes, he wanted to see her found as much as anyone. Yes, he hated the bastard who’d taken her as much as anyone. No, he wasn’t more likely to hurt her than anyone.

After all, why would we hurt those we love?

Of course, then Terra’s body was found. Then she was just a victim of mugging. Suddenly, Beast Boy wasn’t an issue anymore.

Like everyone else, he could mourn her in peace.

“But this isn’t mourning. This, Terra, this is the opposite of mourning. This is celebration.”

Two lives saved. Beast Boy and

TARA MARKOV,

they’re both saved. Not destroyed, but rescued. Rescued from misery.

“I just thought you should know all this, Terra. I just thought you should know why. You’ve probably figured it all out already, you’re certainly smart enough, Terra, but I still thought I should tell you myself.”

A story like this, it needs telling more than others.

“I tried to keep it to myself. I tried, Terra, I really tried. Same as I tried to forget about you, all those months ago. But the same as I couldn’t forget, I couldn’t withhold. I had to explain it, and you’re the one who has the right to know.”

A story like this, it needs telling more than others.

Sat on the freezing snow, more snow settling on his head, Beast Boy yawns. How long he’s been sat here talking, he hasn’t got a clue.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. Could be days.

Which is worse?

Knowing that his tale, his explanation, it’s finally coming to an end, Beast Boy finally takes his eyes away from

TARA MARKOV.

That’s when he sees it. At the base of the headstone, there’s a black speck. A black speck less than a centimeter across, poking out of the snow like a hedgehog on first day of spring.

He’s never seen one of these in person, but he knows what it is.

A microphone. A tiny microphone.

One of the police’s better-kept trade secrets.

Slowly, Beast Boy looks up. The other side of the gate, through the raging snow falling thick as fog, the blue and red flash of police cars can be seen. Their wailing sirens, usually deafening, they can barely be heard over the roaring wind.

Beyond the snow and wind, police officers are piling out of their cars. They’re breaking the bolt on the gate. They’re yelling at Beast Boy to stay where he is, to put his hands in the air.

As the police officers run down the gravel path, crunching only snow beneath their feet, Beast Boy puts his hands up over his head.

He’s not going anywhere. He’s go nowhere he needs to go.

Still hearing the order to stay still, he feels someone roughly pull him to his feet. Both his arms are pulled down behind him, meeting the small of his back. A pair of handcuffs snap on his wrists under his coat, locked tight with a snap. How cold he is now, the cold steel almost feels warm on his body.

For the police, protecting your own only goes so far.

As the police officers start to march him away, Beast Boy looks down at the headstone, at

TARA MARKOV
APRIL 16^TH 1989 – OCTOBER 5^TH 2006
“THE GOOD ONES, ALWAYS TAKEN SO YOUNG.”

What will happen to Beast Boy now? In these knowledge-hungry times, times of chart rundowns, tight schedules, cash-in franchises, maybe you can be forgiven for wanting to know.

But, in reality, who cares? He’s explained himself, he’s told his story, he’s said his peace. Nothing else matters.

Which is worse?