The Wild Ones
by Jaime Gill
Winner of the 2026 Online Fiction Contest
Judged by Jemimah Wei
“A moving, funny, and most of all hopeful account of a young boy seeking personal salvation on the off chance that he might capture an award-winning photo of a beast. This story unfolds masterfully, sentence by sentence, effortlessly letting us into lives that feel already fully formed, owing in part to the writer's remarkable control over the way we're navigated through time and community. But the story's greatest strength lies in the rare specificity of how loneliness and hope might collide in the imagination of one bullied child, standing exactly at the cusp of personhood, and just beginning to recognize it as his own. What a gem.”
Time works differently on the moors, the sun dawdling over its descent through the cloud-ruffled sky. In its final moments it throws out great orange fingers, as if clinging to this raw land, scrabbling to avoid the fall from the horizon’s cliff-edge. Purple heather glows and grey rocks burst aflame, until, at last, it falls.
Mark—crouched in his usual shadowy hiding place behind a rocky outcrop—only half-watches the show. He has his Dad’s camera raised and at maximum zoom, but only lingers for short moments when the camera finds the sunset. He doesn’t take a photograph. Film’s expensive and he’s saving every frame for the Beast.
Mark’s eyes continue to roam the landscape and its clotting shadows through his viewfinder, seeking any flicker of movement. Not much today, only occasional glimpses of rabbits bobbing fearfully through heather or birds darting low for insects.
It’s been a year since a hundred sheep were found dead on the moors, their throats ripped out. An ambitious local reporter found a zoologist who agreed, under mild duress, that the kills could resemble big-cat behaviour. With that, the Beast of Exmoor leapt from its long-running status as local legend to a burst of national fame that lasted the whole summer of ’83. One lucky hiker got a thousand pounds from the Daily Express for his blurry and much-disputed photograph of the Beast. But then the sightings dried up and the world moved on. Most people in Britain have probably forgotten about the Beast by now. Some locals even.
But not Mark. Every weekday since, he’s come to the moors straight after school. The Beast’s not been seen in nine months, but the only thing Mark has much of is time, and he can’t think of any better ways to spend it. If a lousy shot of the Beast made one thousand quid, a good shot might earn two thousand. Unimaginable money—life-changing. He could get his own bike at last. Visit his Grandma on his own by train. Buy real fruit, not the canned stuff.
Mark’s Dad says dickhead farmers invented the so-called escaped panther as a hoax or tourist attraction, but, then, Dad thinks the only wonder in this world is Safeway’s discount cider. Mark knows the Beast is out there, knows it. He knows there is beauty in this world, and that beauty can be dangerous.
Still, when the first star pokes its head through the night sky, he admits today will not be the day. His crappy calculator watch—a birthday present from his Dad, so he doesn’t dare take if off—says it’s half seven, and his stomach tells him he’s hungry. He hopes his Mum left him some fish fingers and chips to eat cold, but she probably forgot and he’ll make do with toast again.
More stars emerge. Mark knows that when the moor is fully dark, the night sky must be spectacular, un-smudged by the lights of town. But he has never stayed long enough to find out. He can admit the truth to himself. He is still a little afraid of the dark, and the moors and, yes, the Beast.
He trudges home in dwindling light, past the fuzzy borderland where heather gives way to fields, past the sprawling farms and holiday bungalows, past the pretty part of Molton and into the Squier estate, where piss-yellow streetlights irradiate cramped council homes. He pauses at the top of the slope that leads into the estate, looking for other kids. There’s nobody to be seen, he’s safe.
At home, Mark lets himself in, walking into a wall of cigarette smoke and loud TV. He closes the door quietly, but Dad hears and calls his name loud enough to be heard over the chattering gossip of northern women on TV. He’s not slurring, not yet.
Mark steps into the living room doorway—one foot inside, one foot outside. Mum, sofa-bound, flashes a glancing half-smile and a quiet “hey, love,” before her eyes slide back to Coronation Street. Dad’s in his armchair throne, looking at Mark like he’s a cuckoo he’s been tricked into raising.
“Were you out on the moors again?”
Mark nods. What would he do if his parents said they didn’t want him going out so late anymore, not with the days getting shorter with autumn. Would he be glad they gave a shit? Or just heartbroken to give up his hunt?
“Are you taking care of my camera?”
Of course it’s the camera Dad’s worried about, though he’s only used it twice in the last year. Once for a fishing trip with some police friends, once for a drive to his Grandma in Cornwall which ended with bad-tempered fish and chips on the St. Ives pier.
“I promised, didn’t I? I’m not an idiot.”
Dad looks like he is about to say something to dispute that, something unpleasant, but loses interest and returns his attention to the TV. Mark slides back out of the door towards the kitchen. There’s nothing waiting in the microwave. Toast tonight.
#
Next evening, Mark's on the moors again, as always. He’s superstitiously sure that the day he misses will be the day the Beast returns.
It’s a cloudy day, no sunset to speak of, and the sky’s just getting murky when Mark spies something in the distance. His heart soars like a kite, only to plummet to earth when his camera zoom reveals a deer.
He’s about to lower the camera when the viewfinder explodes with movement. Fingers shaking, he zooms out enough to see a dark shape dragging the deer down, all sinews and savagery. A great cat, just like they said, pelt blacker than any night. He snaps a photo, frantically winds the film, then snaps another and another—a carousel of carnage—until the button jams.
When he lowers the camera to check what’s wrong, his heart bangs against his ribs like a small clenched fist. He’s out of film. He has another but is it getting too dark to be of use? When he looks back up, he can’t see Beast or deer. Maybe the thickening dusk has obscured them, or maybe they’re in some kind of hollow. For a moment, Mark imagines the Beast spotted his fumbling when he checked his camera. He imagines it creeping stealthily towards him and his breath shallows. He scans the moor, sees nothing, and slowly calms himself.
He considers walking further out, to try and get closer. He still doesn’t know if any of his pictures are good, perhaps the zoom distorted them. But then he remembers the deer’s scoured, red-ribboned flanks. He doesn’t dare. He has photos. They must be as good as the one the newspapers ran, surely.
He walks home at a quick but careful pace, glancing behind him with every other step. He thinks the Beast will be busy for hours, dismantling what was once a deer. But what if he’s wrong? What does he really know about big cats?
He only relaxes once he’s past the fences and his feet are on Molton concrete. Free of fear, his heart now fills with joy. He did it. He’s proved them wrong.
Excitement makes him careless.
He’s one block away from his house when he hears the screech of bike brakes. Paul Gustard and Neil Kendrick have rocketed out of a shadowy alley. Gustard throws his bike aside carelessly and jumps in front of Mark, blocking his path. They’re both eleven, but Gustard's a head taller. Neil Kendrick stays on his bike, that silent scowl of a boy.
“Where’ve you been, skidmark?” Gustard jeers. “Out looking for your pussycat again?”
“Just going home.” Mark doesn't look Gustard in the eye. Instead, he’s eyeing the estate for any adult who might step in. The streets are empty, everyone at the pub or at home, watching TV.
“Home, eh? That will cost a fiver.”
“How would I even get that much money?" Mark hates how his voice squeaks.
“Paper round? Licking teachers' arses? I don’t give a shit. Just get it.”
Mark rifles through options. Run? Pointless against bikes. Fight back, like his Dad wants? Last time he tried, he ended up with a bloodied nose and bruised ribs. But if he doesn’t give Gustard something, he might take Mark's bag and Dad’s camera with it. Mark would get more than bruised ribs then. But—much, much worse—he’d lose his pictures.
Mark digs change from his pockets, just over two quid. Gustard sneers but snatches the coins, some tumbling and spinning away into the shadows. Mark forces himself not to look for where they roll and walks home, leaving the two boys’ laughter behind. Gustard shouts after him: “You can pay the rest at school.”
He will not cry. Not out here in the street, he’s too old for that. Besides, he has his photos.
#
Mark's at the outcrop again. He’s stomach-gnawingly hungry—no money for lunch—but he wouldn’t let that stop him coming, nor his fear.
This morning, he took his film to the pharmacy to get developed, but a fierce reluctance gripped him as he queued. He realised The Beast’s return was his secret, the only truly special thing he’d ever had in his whole life. Once the photograph was developed, it wouldn’t be just his anymore. First the pharmacist would know, then the world. When he reached the counter, he stammered a vague apology to the mystified pharmacist and walked out, telling himself he’d get better photographs.
Now he watches and waits and thinks about life once he’s famous. The golden dream seems duller now he’s so close to it. What will really change? He’ll still be the awkward weirdo who committed social suicide by reading a book at a school disco. He can visit Grandma, but she won’t let him stay, he’ll be sent back to his Dad. He realises they're the best thing in his life, these trips to the moor—surrounded by raw beauty, far from hissed classroom insults and his hated household.
A low growl makes his heart spasm. He turns slowly, breath held.
The Beast is crouched ten yards away, every muscle tense—ready to pounce. Mark forces himself to stay as still as the Beast, refusing to look away. He tries to quell the banging of his heart and for a lingering moment, the two lock eyes.
They see each other.
You're all alone, the Beast’s amber eyes say. I'm alone too.
The Beast relaxes before Mark does, licking its lips and settling on its flanks. Mark realises he’s hardly been breathing, and lets himself now. He sucks in a deep lungful of air, cold and mossy.
The two of them stay where they are for a long time as the last of the day bleeds out.
The Beast rolls over, scratching its back on heather without taking its lamplight eyes off Mark. He knows it doesn’t want to be touched, that it’s not some oversized housecat. But how he yearns to sink his fingers into its fur.
It’s dark. Mark’s haunches ache so he sits. If the Beast springs at him now, he’s dead. But that was true from the moment it found him.
Far, far away, a pub door is opened and jukebox music drifts through the air. Mark doesn’t think he’d have heard that before. He’s never listened like this before, never been so silent or aware.
The wind shifts and autumn leaves from a nearby tree tumble through moonlit night. They both look towards the crinkly sound. The Beast turns lazily, its muscled neck exposed. When it looks back, it closes its eyes, perhaps even dozes.
Finally, Mark's legs begin to throb with cold. He reluctantly rises. If he thought this would be the last time he’d see the Beast, he wouldn’t be able to leave. But he won’t let it be the last time. He’s already thinking of the butcher’s, the stinking bags of guts they sell cheap. He thinks the Beast would like them.
He turns his back on the Beast with care, somehow knowing he mustn't speak, then begins the walk home. The Beast pads behind him until he reaches the moor’s edge. Mark’s still afraid, he’d be a fool not to be, but the distance the Beast keeps reassures him.
He opens the gate to the fenced territory of the farms and it shrieks on its hinges. He turns to see the Beast swallowed by darkness, black into black.
#
Mark wakes with aching bones to find it’s snowing outside. Just a smattering, not enough to settle for long before it turns into muddy mush.
He goes down for breakfast and finds Dad hunched over a bacon sandwich and the local newspaper. His mother may still be in bed, there are days she doesn’t leave. Dad looks up, wearing a stupid man’s scorn.
“More sightings of your precious cat.” Dad prods the paper. “It’s got a companion now, apparently. A fucking human.” His laughter mutates into a smoker’s hack. “Are you jealous?”
Lately, Mark hasn’t cared as much how Dad talks to him. “Nah, I don’t believe in that stuff anymore," he says. There’s no bacon left, so he pours himself cornflakes.
“Oh, are you finally growing up?”
Mark shrugs and sits carefully, legs stiff. Dad keeps talking at him but Mark doesn’t really listen. He’s barely even in the same room. In his heart it’s still the night before and he’s out on the moors, running wild with lungs full of frigid air—just him and the Beast, and the stars, all the stars.
About the Author
Jaime is a queer, British-born writer living in Cambodia. He reads, writes, boxes, travels, and occasionally socialises. His stories have appeared in Missouri Rever, The Forge and Pithead Chapel, among others, and won awards including a Bridport Prize and the Luminaire Prose Award. He’s currently working on a novel. More: www.jaimegill.com.
