A synchronous release

Sebastián, as he waited in the wings, took in a long, deep, deliberate breath. It was his first public fight and he was determined to make his father proud. As he stepped forward into the arena alongside the others, he surveyed it carefully.

The day was alive – hulkingly, gruntingly alive - with a wavering heat that made everything appear to happen in a slow, indecisive motion. Like a magnet, the vast amphitheatre drew it in and condensed it down until it was suffocating. Light bounced upon light, bounced upon light and the humidity was thick, sticky as translucent syrup dropping sluggishly out of the sun.

The steps of the cavea were packed – packed - with people – thousands of them - pressed tightly side-by-side in their salty moistness, eager to witness what was to unfold. A mass of small voices created a murmuring, unsettling drone that hummed consistently like a rabble of bees idly conspiring, rebounding endlessly between the inner walls of the circle. Beneath the salty stench of the crowd, seeped through a faint tangy sweet scent of oranges, star anise, cumin. Somewhere in the distance, a sound rang out - the skilful twang of someone masterfully fingering the strings of a guitar for the amusement of the crowds as they queued.

Above the babbling bulk of the masses, in a perfect, grand circle; sepia arches – two rows of them stood proudly beneath a copper-tiled roof. The spectators who could afford these seats had shade, more space, a perfect outlook over the arena.

Sebastián knew that his father was sitting under one of these arches, though he was unable to identify which. Pragmatically, he also knew that this would come and it would go, and thus he took another step into the arena alongside the more experienced matadors. He waved and the crowds cheered wildly.

The bull – taking sharp, erratic breaths – was standing rigidly inside one of the enclosures at the edge of the arena. Muscular, imposing, majestic gloss black and grey – he did not look like a creature that should be at the mercy of anything. And yet, despite lacking the capacity to consciously understand why he was there, he appeared to have an awareness of the inevitable danger that lay before him. His head was lowered reticently and he let out successions of breathy, warning grunts. He could hear the irritating, droning murmur of the crowd.

A group of about seven matadors had taken their places in the arena when the black wooden doors of the enclosure were opened quite suddenly. The rumble of the crowd exploded into a kind of mania.

There was a brief second of still uncertainty until instinct erupted and the bull lumbered frantically out. What followed next, was fast, and long and chaotic; a dust-kicked whirl of hooves and jolty movements and flashes of red confusion.

By sheer chance, the bull’s path met with Sebastián’s.

There was a flicker of acknowledgement – a split second of eye contact – between young bull and young matador and then -

In exactly this moment, a girl – Grace - was walking alone in Tiddesley Wood; a small, secret haven that - it seemed often – belonged only to her. She walked from her childhood home to the woods almost every day. It was summer and in them she discovered a sense of endless time and space knowable only to a twelve-year-old at the beginning of a long holiday.

It had been hot for weeks. The kind of blinding, relentless heat from which one cannot escape. During the last few days, there had been various forecasts of thunderstorms that kept failing to arrive. But there was something different in the air that day – a more urgent, pounding pressure bearing down upon the girl, the trees – the whole world perhaps. Something – both threatening and playful – was bubbling underneath the heat. It bore the shade a madness that could not be suppressed.

The walk itself was unexceptional though Grace in her secret world never failed to appreciate the quiet solitude and beauty and magic in the familiar path along which she meandered daily. The wood was a kingdom that consisted of speckled light and moving shadows. It was cool and earthy; sweetness drifted through the air – a subtle, leafy taste of vitality. In amidst the illuminated life-green leaves ran deep, deep quiet. It was a place so alive with harmony that shifting rustles and twinkling trills of birdsong were a part of the deep quiet, rather than an interruption of it.

Grace liked summer. She liked paddling pools and ice-creams and the smell of sun cream and certainly her light-flecked solitary adventures through the woods. But something inside her that day – a small, quite ache – longed, longed for the tension to break; for the world to split open, for the tantalising pressure finally to subside.

She walked slowly. The light and shadows were shifting more than usual. It was cooler, whiter. The sun shone, then it went, then it shone. White, unthreatening clouds filled the sky, then dissipated, then filled it again. Raindrops fell between the leaves in a clumsy smatter, then retreated. The sun shone. A smatter of rain. White cloud. A brief but distinctive breeze. And the sun shone again.

Grace heard a growling rumble of what could only have been thunder somewhere far, far in the distance. A smatter of rain. The sun shone -

And, simultaneously, Juliette was in her bedroom folding laundry; lost in her thoughts. She glanced around at old photographs of babies in pewter frames and thought of her children, who today were at their father’s. She thought of her life, folding little pairs of red cotton shorts; of watching over bubbling pans of sauce and of vacuuming endless crumbs. She thought of the books on her shelves, of the art on her walls; she wondered where value in life truly lay. She wondered about the children.

It was nice, to have the space to wonder, and the quiet to fold. A slight breeze drifted past the net curtain that hung over the open bedroom window, gently disturbing the skirt of her dress. A thin blade of sunlight cut across the room in front of her, exposing flecks of sparkling, dancing dust.

Entirely present, Juliette looked down at the pile of folded laundry on the freshly-made navy-patterned bedspread and glanced at where she lay at night. Against the wall to her right leant a full-length mirror with a wooden frame and distantly, she observed her reflection. Her eyes looked darker and more tired than she supposed they should; a phenomenon that crept up quite suddenly – something she had noticed overnight rather than a natural process over months or years. Despite this, she was still pleased enough with the vitality of her skin; with the erratic textures of her chestnut hair; with her cheekbones and the way her body curved within and against the fabric of her dress.

Without thinking, Juliette picked up the pile of clothes and placed them on the floor. Despite the time, she pulled at the corner of the duvet and scrambled in, still wearing her yellow patterned sundress.

Peeling away the fabric of the dress from her chest, she lifted up the drapery of the skirt and her hands began to grasp and wander over her own body. Slowly, Juliette began to sigh, then to grunt, then to writhe and buck. In an act of absolute emancipation from the fetters of life, and becoming ever more immersed in the unconditional present, her band of pleasure stretched – from small wrenches, to growing pangs and steadily into a frantic need in which she lost herself entirely. Her desire bore no reference to anyone or anything and sprang from an insentient place – alone in that secret space she transformed into something less human, and more human together – squirming, rearing, twisting, touching, panting up and up and up -

And in an instant of cosmic alignment the bull charged.

The storm broke.

Juliette tensed into sharp quivers and convulsed in waves of pleasure.

Something snapped. And out of the universe poured a release of rage and of ecstasy; of sensation; anger, noise, light; of electricity, of grunts, and of blood; of sheets and sheets of rainfall, of tossed up, powdery sand and flailing horns and contracting waves; of torn flesh and salty, earthy juices and thunderous cacophonies of sounds – of moans and of cheers and of deep, growling rolls of thunder bouncing about the amphitheatre of the woods; of the chaos and order of the universe; of love and peace and rage and violence; of certainty and uncertainty; of instinct and will.

Moments breed moments breed moments and in that particular moment was born a woman who appreciated the importance of basking in her own liberty; a girl, alone, who had garnered a new understanding of the magnificent chaos of the world; and a young bull who died alone in fear, shame, victory, surrender and confusion.