An Unwelcome Fellow Traveller, by Peter Shilston

"I really hate the sea", he was saying. At least, that's what I thought he was saying, because to be perfetly honest I had long since stopped paying attention to him. When you're on a long, slow railway journey you often get chatting to complete strangers, but on occasion it proves to be a bad mistake. This was one of those occasions. He'd wittered on for ages, all about himself, and most of what he'd said was of so little interest that it had entirely washed over me, leaving no trace on my memory. 
   So I replied, "Oh really?" in my most neutral voice, trying to indicate complete lack of interest without being seriously rude. I shuffled with some papers and pretended to be reading them, hoping he'd take the hint and shut up. But that was too much to hope for.
   "The thing is", he continued, "I once had the most dreadful experience at the seaside, and it's haunted me ever since".
   (No, I thought, please don't tell me about it!)
   "In fact, it was so dreadful that I can't bear to speak about it even now".
   (Thank God for that! I told myself)
   "Have you ever felt like that?" he asked, in a tone that implied  he didn't expect me to launch into a similar experience of my own. "It can be a great relief to unburden your soul to a stranger, but somehow you can't bring yourself to do it".
   Really, this was getting intolerable. But I found myself asking, "The seaside, you say? Anywhere I would know? here or abroad?"
   "Oh, I can't travel abroad. It would mean crossing the sea in an aeroplane. I'd know I was crossing it, even though I couldn't see it. No, it was here in England".
   The train slowed down and stopped at a small station. My companion picked up his only bag and rose to his feet.
   "Well", he said, "I'm off to the sea now. I'll just have to try and conquer my fears. Look, I'm most grateful to you for all your help and advice. I've enjoyed meeting you. Goodbye!" I muttered, quite truthfully, that I hadn't done anything to help him at all. And then he was gone. I slumped backin my seat, relieved to be free of him at last.
   It was only later that I realised we were nowhere near the coast, and travelling in the wrong direction to reach it. 

Remorse, by John Garland

"Right, let’s get started. I’m Bill, you’re Arthur, and we’re having this meeting because you tried to shoot me".

“I didn’t”, said Arthur. “It was an accident. I explained that at the trial, but they didn’t believe me”.

"No surprise surely, was it, sunshine? Because let’s face it, you’ve got form; plenty of form. And I was in my car at the traffic lights, and you were up on the balcony on the block of flats, and you fired your gun at me. And since I’d never seen you in my life before, I’d like to know why”.

“It wasn’t my gun. I’ve never had a gun. Someone left it there, and I picked it up to have a look at it, and it went off”

“Oh yeah? And you’re surprised the jury didn’t believe you? If it wasn’t your gun, who d’you think might have left it there?”

Silence.

“Can’t say, or won’t say?”

More silence.

"Look, this isn’t going well, is it? This is supposed to be some kind of pilot scheme of crooks talking with their victims. Supposed to do some good. Sounds like a load of trendy rubbish to me, but we’d better give it a go now we’re here. So I’ll have my say, then you can have yours: okay?

   "So there I was, sitting in my car at the traffic lights, with the window down because it was hot, when suddenly this bullet comes whistling right past my nose and smashes into the dashboard. Didn’t touch me, as it happens, but not a nice experience, though I’m not the sort of guy who scares easily. It was a new car, very smart, cost me a packet, and there was a lot of damage. You might say, well, the insurance company paid up and it all got put right; but it’s not the same again, is it? And then the time I had to waste, signing statements for the police, and giving evidence at your trial, not to mention this talk now. I’ve got a pretty important job, and I was working on a really big deal at the time, but I had to hand it over to someone else, and now he’ll get all the credit for it. Now even if what you say’s true, and it was an accident, it still caused me all this hassle, which I could have done without.

   "And then, what if the bullet had gone a few inches to the left? I’d have been dead, and what then? I don’t think Becky, that’s my wife, would ever have got over it, because, I’d have to say, she idolises me, and so do the kids. And then there’s my firm; they place a lot of reliance on me. And it would be a waste, because I’m going to achieve big things before I’m much older. And all that would have gone, snuffed out; even if your shot was an accident, which personally I don’t believe it was. A tragedy.

   "So, I’ve had my say. Now you can have yours. Are you sorry for what you’ve done?"

“Yes”, said Arthur, “Now I’ve heard you, I am sorry. I’m very sorry that I missed you”.

Through the Glass Darkly, by Nerina

Bored with the truth,
let emotions overtake
vain desires and ambitious hopes.

Desperation
hidden behind a meaningful facade
of disillusioned intention
and wilful expression.

Doused with numbing liquor
Subtle with false control.

Gone.
The moments of truth
no longer exist here.

Replace one thing with another
no lesser evil and
replace dreams with a supposed
acceptance and unity

with reality.