The Shadow Anthology

Ulysses

It started with a crack. It was no meagre splinter, no pothole. It came under the shadow of the night, more silent than a whisper. None witnessed how it arrived. No meteorologists claimed a freak force of nature. The crack simply came into being. It was a scathing gash, dividing the neighbourhoods of the little island. The country was well known for its sparse and peculiar islands, but this was something else; the island had been cleaved in two.

Though it was far from sea-level in depth, the length of the crevice stretched across the entirety of the island in an almost perfect straight line while the width was significantly larger than any local car. Ladders could barely fit across it and even buses failed to leap it, resulting in many vehicles crumbling into the darkest depths of the wound. Traffic was piled up by the first morning and remained present until a partial solution was declared; the short ramps littering the crack could only allow for bicycles to cross, though many motorised vehicles attempted to cross in this way at first, resulting in their demise and the collapse of the ramp.

Marina's job was on the opposing side of the gash, which made her commute a devastating one. Her car was abandoned alongside her cousin’s behind so many other at the border, though all that remained of it was a naked frame. There were no bike shops anywhere on the island, nor were there any within the offshore vicinity, so any that already resided there were highly prized and often stolen.

Marina's dilapidated and rusting bike rattled like a copper coin in a thin, steel jar. The restless grinding on her journey to work attracted both buyers and thieves, all of whom she dealt with swiftly. The painted pink flowers had turned to mulch in her absence years ago after she left it outside of her old home, abandoning it and all else that she owned, believing she would never return. She now praised her cousin for salvaging it and bringing it with them, along with everything else she had left behind.

Despite the horrific shrieks, her bike was faster than both walking and running, yet was distinctly slower than her now obsolete car. Marina was a chef at the only adequate restaurant on the island but was reminded of her disposable position by her superiors every day she was late as she was the only chef in the kitchen who lived south of the border. The days she wasn’t late were the days she was too tired to work which often led to bloodied food. Her co-workers and employer were vaguely sympathetic at first but grew unforgiving over a short span of weeks. As a month of lateness and savage food passed by, no one cared for excuses and Marina was relieved of her job. The bike stood stagnant in the shed for a night.

The next morning, Ulysses implored his mother to let him use the bike to ride to school. The school was on their side of the divide, so Marina had been in greater need of it until now. The gleeful boy grew a grimace when his mother forced the faded pink helmet onto his head and shackled the straps. The nervous mother watched her son pedal to away, and sighed. She dragged her feet into the confinement of her house. Marina’s raven hair had held its obsidian lustre even after a decade of grief, though nowadays it cascaded down to her feet and combed the ground. Her house had always been quiet at this time of day, but she had never been there to feel the silence scrape her skin until now. Her loneliness progressed when she thought of her cousin, who had married four years ago and now had two children of his own to care for, though he visited often.

Ulysses had lied. The boy could care little for punctuality when the staff cared less than him.

The main reason for his distress and longing for a bike was his bully. Christos threw mud.

Christos called him names. Christos swore at him. Christos stoles his lunch. Christos hit him. Christos ripped out his hair. Christos threatened his mother. Christos got to school early just to abuse him. Christos was two years older than him. Christos was eleven.