Beyla by Liam Hogan

Adults rushing by don't give me a second glance but children clutch at mummy's hand, hide behind daddy's legs, their parents aren't having that “just a crazy old woman,” they say, “talking to herself, talking to a stray” but you're not a stray, are you? A tag around your neck but you are lost, hungry, and alone, and when I tilt the brass medallion I see why. No no no that name doesn't suit you at all... ...but it doesn't take any time so really there's no danger because I have it. “Beyla,” I announce and the mutt — barely more than a puppy — wags her tail and there’s warmth beneath my fingertips as the tag changes and I know you'll be okay, know you'll find your way to a new home where you'll be loved because you have the right name and names... matter. I give Beyla a bite of my sandwich then the rest, and she licks my fingers before she goes her way and I go mine. A few women my age cover their ears to ward away the devil's tongue, though I'm harmless of course I am, it’s my mother who was the weapon who was the soldier. When you can change the names of things, not just dogs but emotions, concepts, whole countries, you can reshape the world, but when you un-name things you make it so they never existed. My mother didn't want to do that, did you ma-ma? They used me to persuade you so many years ago that I've forgotten what you look like. Then the war was over the cause forgotten the armies — both armies — gone, and you came and got me and I was so young, but I knew there was something eating away at you because you — you were a soldier too weren't you ma-ma so of course you were unmade as well. But not before you hid my name and sent me into the wilderness. I'd be there still but the wilderness got swallowed by the town that changed its name and became a city; that's progress that's the future catching up. These people living their lives, busy, busy, leaving me alone or learning to, sometimes giving me a little peace offering, a sandwich to share with an abandoned pet. You always said I was more powerful than you, didn't you ma-ma? Our little secret. Except when the time came who remade the world? Was it you or was it me and if it was me... did I kill you, ma-ma? Did I? The shape of forbidden words clamour from the edges of my mind and it is so very tempting to give them voice. Tears stream down my face as I reach the park, this manicured remnant of the once wild, and I sit and sob and hold each word tight, talking to myself and trying not to think, not because I'm a crazy old woman but because if I was ever to STOP—

---

Liam Hogan is an award-winning speculative short story writer, with stories in Best of British Science Fiction and in Best of British Fantasy (NewCon Press). He volunteers at the creative writing charities Ministry of Stories, and Spark Young Writers. Sci-Fi collection: A Short History of the Future (Northodox Press). More details at http://happyendingnotguaranteed.blogspot.co.uk