(Inspired by 'Quicksand', Matthew de Paoli,

featured in Neon Magazine 2014)

When she was nine Tiffany believed quicksand would be a real problem in her adult life. Videos shown in school warning of the dangers of soft ground, nuclear war and electricity pylons were all the rage in the eighties. To the government putting the fear of death into primary school kids, giving them recurring nightmares about figures vaporising or sinking to their death in agonising slow motion, didn't seem barbaric at all.

Would parents even allow that nowadays? Considering the outrage reported when they'd tried to introduce fully inclusive gender studies in schools. If they objected to their kids being taught something relevant and worthwhile, what would they say about propaganda threatening death and destruction? Agree it was a smart idea, no doubt.

During her twenties and thirties, Tiffany realised none of these things had proven perilous. She'd become complacent, convinced the earth rid herself of all those pools of ravenous sand ready to absorb you alive. She discovered the real horror turned out to be much more human and often took the form of some over-privileged male unable to understand boundaries, or the word 'no'. Why didn't they show warning videos about that in school?

Tiffany appreciated the irony that two of the aforementioned dangers now factored in her present predicament ― stuck in quicksand because some guy couldn't curb his desire to dominate women. The universe appeared to be giving her the middle finger whilst booting her in the gut.

She'd been walking home from work thinking about the final episode of Carnival Row she'd kept to watch that evening, when she realised the creep who'd been eyeing her up on the bus now trailed behind her in the least covert way imaginable. Glancing down she regretted her decision to wear heels that day. Still, she wasn't about to reveal where she lived so, removing her shoes, she began to jog and, thanks to spin classes four times a week, she took him on rather an elaborate tour of the estate.

Cutting through unlit pathways that connected rows of identical homes she ran until the path ended. She'd reached the patch of wasteland on the edge of the new development behind her house. She waited, hands on knees, while her breath returned to normal. A smug smile played on her lips; she'd outsmarted, and outrun, her Neanderthal stalker. Deciding to take a shortcut across the field, Tiffany started towards her house. She turned on the torchlight on her phone, its tiny beam danced ahead but failed to illuminate the danger in front. Tiffany's stride halted as the ground rooted her to the spot. Think Artax in the Swamp of Sadness, we all know how that turned out.

Tiffany forgot all her high school training and panicked. She tensed every muscle in her legs and tried to pull her feet out, but only sunk in further. Screaming for help seemed the best course of action, but the last thing she wanted was to attract Mr Creep 101. And anyway, there had been no reports of quicksand for over thirty years, she assumed it was mud gripping her ankles and refusing to let go.

She slumped into downward dog, her hands slipping on the soggy grass, then forced her weight forward, engaging her core. As she pulled, pain screamed from her ankles in protest. Nothing. She tried again, fingers clawing the grass and dirt, embedding mud under her manicured nails, but it was no use. Rubbing her fingers together she discerned the gritty substance underneath her was sand. When she thrust back upright, she disappeared up to her knees. The abrasive substance felt quite nice against her skin, but she appreciated it was time to scream.

"Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelp!" she yelled, "Someone, please, help! I'm stuck!" she waited, hoping to hear a door or footsteps running to her aid. The only sound was her rasping breath.

"HEEEEEEEEEEEELP! I'M STUCK! IT'S SANDRA FROM NUMBER TWENTY-SIX! CAN SOMEONE PLEASE COME AND HELP ME!" she hoped that would work. There were no issues with her neighbours, although that could be because she'd never spoken to any of them, but who had time for that these days?

The lack of response lit a pilot light of anxiety in her chest. It flickered on the brink of full-blown panic. What if no-one came and this was how she perished? All those years ago in Mr Trainor's class, while he'd relished the horror on their cherub faces, she recalled thinking she'd never be foolish enough to end up in quicksand. Yet, here she was. Tiffany braced herself for the onset of hysteria ― keeping calm in stressful situations wasn't her forte ― but it never came.

The unexpected serenity made her contemplate that maybe this wasn't such a disaster. Her life wasn't exactly going as planned; she had a job she hated and spent most of her time alone. The only attention anyone showed her was unwanted, like the delinquent tonight. What was the point in fighting her way out? There were worse ways to die: getting hit by a bus, falling downstairs or being violated by some narcissistic twat. Death by quicksand could be just what she needed. She would be the first reported case around here in over thirty years. She could be famous! Her death would at least warrant front page on a few big newspapers, what with the shite they printed. It was offensive to think it wouldn't.

While she was distracted imagining her legacy, the sand consumed her up to her waist. She pictured the headline: Local woman dies in shocking quicksand disaster. Did she learn nothing in school? At least her mother would be pleased. Susan would take fame any day over her difficult, underachieving daughter. "When are you going to get married Tiffany? People are talking, you know. They think you're one of those new women who self-partner and get pregnant by squirting frozen fertilised eggs into their vagina from a turkey baster." Tiffany's mother was someone who believed what other people thought of you, was the most important thing in life. It didn't matter whether you were a good person, as long as you conformed with people's expectations of you.

She smirked, visualising her mother's dramatic portrayal of the caring parent. At last, it would be Susan's moment to shine all thanks to her disappointing daughter. Looking down, it surprised Tiffany that only the tops of her shoulders remained poking out of the ground. The sensation felt more like an embrace than the death-grip it was. Everything looked so different at ground level. The viewpoint magnified the blades of grass and she envisaged entire species of insects existing in a world separate from above. How frightening it must be constantly under threat of being squished to death. Humans were the worst thing on the planet, she scorned. We take so much but give so little back. She strained her neck to have one last glimpse of home, but it was just out of sight.

The realisation that shortly she wouldn't be able to breathe infiltrated her thoughts. Suffocation had always terrified her. When she was young, she'd try holding her breath, just to see if she could, but she never lasted long. Although, they said drowning was a peaceful way to go, with only silence in your final moments. She tried to console herself that suffocating in sand would just like that, but the unease snaking in her belly disagreed.

Lips pursed, she prepared to go under. Despite fearing suffocation, she wasn't afraid of dying and once her mouth joined the rest of her, she'd accepted her fate. Taking one last furtive glance around, she closed her eyes and held her breath. Sand in your eyes was horrific, and she surmised if she stopped her breathing before the sand took it, then she would be in control. She discovered, perhaps because she no longer had a choice, that she could hold her breath far longer than previously thought. This resolving of a lifelong worry pleased her.

Tiffany did not breathe or open her eyes again. The idea of finding out that she couldn't would dampen her spirits and spoil the experience. Soon, she'd lose consciousness and could slip away into the nothingness of death. She'd never believed in the afterlife, and the possibility of having to do it all again, offended her. She hadn't enjoyed it much first-time round.

While she waited for oblivion, her legs began to twitch. Unaware of orchestrating the movement, it confused her. Then, another spasm jolted through her, causing a swift shift down. She wasn't sure whether to be grateful, but before she could decide a final yank dragged her from the earth. Imagine that, death was simply a re-enactment of birth.

The motion concluded with a wet sucking sound, like when your foot gets stuck in mud and you step out of it ― squelch. Tiffany deducted she must have 'passed over'. How else could she explain what was happening? Yet, she realised she could breathe again. Her lungs, inhaling great gulps of air, swelled in her chest. The sensation as oxygen rushed through her body was euphoric, every inch of her tingled in response.

"Hello," interrupted a high-pitched voice, its pitch tinkling like crystal. Tiffany's eyes shot open. Standing before her was the most peculiar man she'd ever seen. He must have been under four-foot-tall, with white wispy hair covering his entire face. Peering out at her were two pale pink eyes and when he blinked, she saw even his eyelids were hairy.

"Hello," she replied, unsure of what else to say.

"It's been too long since we've had any of you lot down here," he smiled, "Does no-one stumble into quicksand anymore?"

***