* Author : Patrick Freyne * Narrator : Eleanor R. Wood * Host : Matt Dovey * Audio Producer : Peter Adrian Behravesh * Discuss on Forums Previously published by Winter Papers Volume 5 Content warning for drowning, malnourishment, and extreme peril Rated PG-13 The Artists’ Colony Patrick Freyne   Dear ­­­­­­­______, I think you would love it here. It’s so peaceful and you were always saying, back in the city, that we needed to get away. So let me describe what I can see from my writing desk. Outside my window I can see a silver lake which is very still. Behind the lake there is a hill that is partly covered with coniferous trees. Above the hill there is a mottled grey sky. The trees on the hill look like they’ve been painted against that sky with vertical dashes of paint and their reflections in the lake look like inverted impressionist renderings of the same scene. There is no sound. No engines. No construction. No destruction. No children. No birds. Before the lake there is a lawn with a forking path. The lawn is very green. At the fork in the path there is a bare leafless tree that makes me think of death. One of the forks leads off into the dark woods to the left. The other leads to a boathouse that was damaged by a recent storm. Okay, today, there’s some noise. Today, over by the boathouse, Mr Conway is trying to drown himself. He is striding into the water trying to get out of his depth before the People can grab him. The People, as always, have emerged holding long poles with hooks on them and they are right behind Mr Conway. While he struggles terribly against the weight of the lake, they move swiftly and gracefully and seem completely unhindered by the water. He is trying to submerge his head before they can reach him but the water is only up to his waist and it just looks funny to be honest with you. Poor Mr Conway. It’s hard not to laugh at him. The People are wonderful. Salt of the earth. They never speak. They clean our rooms and turn up with food and ensure that everything works like clockwork. It makes me think about life in books where aristocrats had servants. That’s what the People are like. They’re like our servants and it makes me feel very posh and grand to find that my bed has been made or a fire has been set in my room. I am very productive here. Today already I have written two poems and the People have already taken them away to be appreciated by the Host. It’s lovely. Oh, they have Mr Conway now and he’s struggling and shouting. He’ll be quiet soon. I’m going down to get a cup of coffee from the kitchen while things calm down. I’ll resume this letter tonight. At dinner Mr Conway was completely silent. The People had dressed him up and he looked quite fine in his dark suit with the yellow pocket square, if just a little diminished. His lips were pulsing as though he was trying to say something but he never quite managed to part them. For the whole dinner he sat with his eyes darting and his hands shaking and his pores sweating. And he didn’t eat a thing. More fool him! The food here is wonderful, compared to what we’re used to. I felt quite annoyed with him actually. If he didn’t feel up to it, he really should have stayed in bed. But it was okay. Ms Chissom, in particular, has enough talk for everyone. She’s a prolific if not very good writer. She is an undeniably good talker. Today,