Herb Goes Hermit Herb peered over the top of his cubicle, mesmerized by the agonizingly slow movement of the minute hand on the clock at the far side of the room. In his one lone, exhilarating act of defiance, he had tossed his watch into the waste basket in the company cafeteria years ago. Everything else in his life was constraining and suffocating. As illusory as it was, Herb could at least imagine he was freed from the bonds of time. Time. 34 years = 408 months = 1,768 weeks =12,410 days = 297,840 hours = 17,870,400 minutes. The last 20 minutes would be the most painful for Herb- anxiety soars as the moment approaches. In twenty minutes Herb would walk out that door for the last time, liberated from the mind-numbing, torturous tasks he had so long endured. Herb hated his job, but not quite as much as he hated his boss and his coworkers. Punching out at the end of another miserable day at work brought little relief as he also hated his neighbors, their noisy, bratty kids, and their incessantly barking dogs. He was particularly burdened by old man Johnson’s rooster which faithfully announced the arrival of every new day a half hour before sunrise. The feelings were mutual. Herb’s going away party would be held the week after he left. Kids forfeited their baseball whenever a foul ball sailed over his fence. Conspirator theorists might even have suggested the dogs and the rooster, even though situated on opposite sides of Herb’s property, were running a tag-team operation designed to drive poor Herb, in layman’s terms, “woo-woo”. There was no salvaging Herb’s relationship with the rest of the world. Twenty minutes. Each jump of the minute hand took forever as Herb’s mind bounced back and forth from the scourge of his painful past to the peaceful, soothing, serene thoughts of the wondrous future that loomed just over the horizon. He had it all planned out. Walt had Disneyland; Michael had Neverland; Dolly had Dollywood; Herb would have his Herbville. Having no friends, no interests, and no pleasures, Herb stashed away a small fortune during his working years. As such, he was well positioned to acquire his Shangri-La, his Camelot, his Promised Land- a one-room cabin on a remote 50-acre parcel in the Montana Rockies. The nearest sign of civilization was the aging town of Butte, affectionately referred to by the locals, and by some phonetically challenged visitors, as “Butt”. With the mindset of a junior accountant, Herb had meticulously prepared for his great escape- a small wood-burning stove, stockpiles of firewood, flintstones, oil lamps, oil, tin cutlery, hunting and fishing equipment, and a moderate supply of bomb shelter-style food rations in case his hunting and fishing efforts proved inadequate. He made one concession for the sake of a possible medical emergency- a cell phone and a solar-powered charger. Herb and his hideaway cabin in the wilderness would be a self-contained unit; he had no further need of anyone or anything. Good riddance, world. Herb hatched his plan five years ago, right after he got a new, even more intolerable boss at work, and his canine-loving neighbor brought home two rescue German Shepherds that added volume and consistency to the cacophonous nightly bark-a-thon. He found his little piece of paradise in an ad in Wilderness Living Magazine, and he spent all of his vacation time making the place ready for the move. Herb supplemented his very limited survival skills with books and Internet searches. With his remarkable lack of commitment to the task, the workday provided ample opportunity for Herb to research life in the wild. He even picked up a few helpful tidbits by streaming a little Rambo online. Herb was as prepared as any unprepared guy could be for wilderness living. At 5:00 PM Herb was out the door faster than a kid heading for summer vacation. He drove straight through, Minneapolis to Butte. His final stop was Big Bertha’s General Store on the outskirts of Butte- “Everything You Need Under One Roof, And More.” By this time in the process, Herb had befriended the young man behind the counter. “Today’s the big day, Seth. I just filled up with gas, you know, in case of some kind of medical emergency. And I’ll need a few more cases of beer. Could you throw them in the truck?” “Will do, Herb. Are you sure you’ve got everything you need?” “This will be as bare bones. I want to live like the early pioneers, free of all the crap society throws at us.” “And what about that pistol I suggested, you know, for those long walks in the woods you talked about? There’s Grizzlies up there, you know.” “No, I’m good.” “And Mountain Lions.” “I’ll be all right.” “And wolves.” “Well, not a Dirty Harry gun, maybe just a little one.” “Grizzlies, Herb.” “Ok, a medium size one.” Herb teared up when he saw the cabin. Sometimes the anticipation far exceeds the actual event, but not in this case. Totally relaxed, at peace, far from all the tribulations society had inflicted upon him for so many years. He was what he had dreamed about for so long, a happy Herb. Hopefully, we will all have that one great moment in time, a defining instant that can be called upon from our lockbox of memories to bring a smile even in the most difficult of times. Herb’s moment was rooted in the crass, the most primitive of actions to be found in the human experience, but nonetheless, it was as glorious an event as one could hope for. Immediately after unpacking the truck, Herb walked out his front door, gazed upon the vast valley below, took a few deep breaths of the crisp, cool air, and peed. Functional and symbolic, the exhilarating feeling of the freedom to do whatever he wanted, as well as an overt expression of his distaste for the world below. When the deed was done, Herb triumphantly raised his arms above his head, Rocky at the top of the steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Ali leaping atop the ropes after Liston failed to answer the bell, Jack declaring he was King of the World at the bow of the Titanic. Oops, maybe you don’t want to go to the Titanic thing, Herb. Quiet. Peace. Nothingness. Herb, the cabin, the mountains, crisp clean air, the moon peaking in and out of wispy white clouds. And no people, no rooster, and no barking dogs. Some pilgrims wander through the wilderness to find salvation; Herb found his in the wilderness. Unfortunately, the body operates on a separate track from the mind. Herb’s state of mental bliss was interrupted by nature’s call. < Warning: The following descriptions may be disturbing for some readers.> No, Herb had already gone pee-pee. Now it was time, as delicately as can be stated, to go... poo-poo. Herb read all about the early pioneers using leaves for...shall we say, cleanup. Herb realized his first miscalculation as he walked through the stand of tall pines toward the outhouse. Pine needles and leaves, similar in purpose when they are on a tree; not so much after they’ve fallen to the ground. Nothing in Herb’s research noted the dearth of leafy trees at higher altitude. Herb’s first visit to his new bathroom was...unpleasant. The splash of stars across the night sky was spectacular. Herb sat on a fallen log, taking it in all in, a heavenly panorama of sheer wonder unknown to those who dwell within the glow of bright city lights. Herb smiled as he snuggled under his quilt. He felt a great sense of relief over all he had left behind, but surprisingly, he had trouble sleeping. He was on edge the whole night as he kept waiting for the disturbing sounds of the barking dogs. And under the spell of some form of subconscious anticipation, Herb awoke the next morning a half hour before sunrise. A sheepish Herb entered Big Bertha’s the next morning. “Herb! What are you doing here?” “ I guess there is one more thing I could use.” “What’s that?” “Toilet paper.” “Ha...ha, ha...ha, ha, ha...” Herb, seeing no humor in the purchase, quickly grabbed voluminous amounts of toilet paper, and headed back to his little piece of paradise. Herb’s seller had boasted of the good fishing in the trout stream that bordered the property, but he (cleverly) neglected to disclose the competition. Even before he wet his line, Herb felt the menacing gaze of the grizzly bear just a hundred yards downstream. His first thought was he didn’t think a bear could be that big. His second thought was the gun sitting on the floor next to bed. Herb hurriedly gathered his gear and left today’s catch to the bear. Meals placed on your table at a restaurant may not look as good as they did in the picture on the menu. Meals pulled out of a box previewed only with written descriptions may appear even less appealing when held in your hand. After a lengthy review of his options, Herb went with the “Black Bean Burger.” Herb felt good about starting his cooking fire in the mode of Daniel Boone. Scritch, scratch, click...scritch, scratch, click...scritch, scratch click. God dammit. Scritch, scratch, click...scritch, scratch, click. You’ve got to be #@*! Kidding me. “Hey, Herb, what do you need?” “Just some matches.” “You came all the way down here just for matches?” “Matches, Seth, matches.” Herb managed to down the Black Bean Burger with the help of a few beers. He couldn’t help but note that tonight would have been pizza delivery night from Felipe’s back home. The prospect of fishing was akin to Herb’s temptation to misbehave in grade school. He had never seen a nun whacking a kid with a ruler, but the reputation for such acts was enough to keep him in line. Likewise, Herb had never seen a man ripped to shreds by a grizzly bear, but recalling such reports was sufficient deterrence to keep him from the stream. Plan B- hunting. As Herb had never done it before, it may have been imprudent for him to rely on taking down big game for his subsistence. Herb figured he should get a little practice in. The guy at the sporting goods store showed him how to load his hunting rifle, but Herb’s hands were shaking as he put the bullets into the killing machine. He stood just 20-30 yards from the target, raised the rifle, aimed, and fired. The shockingly loud bang and the jolt to his shoulder scared him to death. Maybe hunting wasn’t his thing. He could acquire a taste for the bomb shelter food. As nightfall drops in temperature in the mountains can be extreme, Herb tried to limit his outhouse visits to the daylight hours. Going pee-pee wasn’t an issue, as one of the benefits of his new life was he could now pee anywhere. Going...poo-poo...was the problem as Herb’s butt was not accustomed to making contact with freezing cold surfaces. The sound of howling wolves in distance only added to the discomfort of the experience. Boiled potatoes, powdered milk, Black Bean Burgers, crackers. Herb wasn’t a prayerful man, but he was thanking God for beer on a nightly basis. One night he put in a call to Big Bertha’s. “Hey, Seth, does Butte have any pizza joints that would deliver up here?” Short walks through the woods. Even though Herb packed a pistol whenever he strayed far from the cabin, he feared the odds of hitting a wild animal in full attack mode would be slim. He stayed close to home after sundown as the howling wolves in the pitch-black darkness unsettled his nerves. Quiet, then it got even more quiet. Herb had grown tired of debits, credits, reruns of Colombo and Gunsmoke, traffic jams, wait lines at the grocery store, barking dogs, and a crowing rooster. Could he now grow tired of nothing at all? The evergreen branches covered with snow brought extra beauty to the setting, but the cold temperatures created more challenges for Herb. He was making more frequent trips to the wood pile, brushing the snow away, and kicking logs to free them from the pile. Herb moved his bed closer to the old wood burner, and he and his blanket became one. Sometimes the scales are tipped with that proverbial last straw; sometimes it comes with a ton of bricks. Shivering in bed, Herb felt a little something else going on. It was just past midnight, the snow was falling, and a fierce wind was blowing. The last thing Herb wanted to do was make a trip to the outhouse. It is a known fact that the coldest experience in life is a bare butt placed on the ice-cold surface of a seat in an outhouse in winter. Herb will attest to that. As Herb opened the door, ready to race back to the cabin, he saw them approaching, first one, then two, and finally a third. His research was correct- wolves do hunt in packs. Herb slammed the door shut, breathed a sigh of relief, and snuck a peek out the half-moon cut in the door. The wolves were drawing closer. Oh my God, Herb! They know you’re in there. He looked, they were gone. He looked, they were back. They were circling the outhouse. Herb about couldn’t breath. He thought if he stayed perfectly still, they’d leave. And then scratching, clawing at the walls, at the door. It finally occurred to Herb to fasten the small, rusted hook on the door into the eyehook on the door. The hook immediately broke off. Herb grabbed onto the wood slat running across the door and held on for dear life. He couldn’t believe he was being hunted Jaws-style by three freaking animals. The door swung outward so he just had to keep the banging from creating a sliver of an opening for one of the beasts to stick its head through. He once again pictured his pistol resting comfortably on the floor next to his bed. Repeated failed attempts to gain entry seemed to only anger the attackers and intensify their efforts. Growling, snarling, frenzied clawing at the door and walls. Holy crap! One was digging at the base of a wall! The sight of a paw under the wall nearly gave Herb another poo-poo moment. Suddenly quiet. He prayed the wolves had left. But even if they had, would he have the nerve, the courage, the requisite speed and energy to make a run back to the cabin? Herb looked out the half-moon cut in the door. The wolves had not left. They were lying down just 10 feet from the door, their fur flecked with snow and flickering in the wind. All eyes were on the outhouse. Herb was under siege. He began to tire. He sat down on the floor, never releasing his grip on the wooden slat. Herb was so terrified he didn’t notice the drop in his body’s core temperature. He had only thrown on a pullover sweatshirt for what should have been a quick trip to the outhouse. He now wished he had researched just how long a body could survive sub-freezing temperatures. He recalled one interesting and hopefully helpful hint from his research. When confronted by a dangerous animal, a mountain lion, a bear, or perhaps a dog, make yourself look big...and scary. The tactic seemed risky to Herb, but he could feel his joints tightening up, and his fingers getting numb. He feared freezing to death, and the writer of the article had impressive credentials. He’d give it a shot. Herb stood up and took a look. The wolves were still there. As soon as he opened the door, three heads in unison turned toward Herb. He raised his hands high and let out a primordial scream. Unfortunately for Herb, the wolves had not read the same article, and snarling, growling, and flashing their teeth, they charged at Herb. They hit the door just after Herb managed to get it closed. Herb assumed his sitting position, holding onto that life-saving slat, and fought to stay awake, struggling to survive. Throughout the night, he drifted in and out of consciousness. Strange thoughts, dreams, nightmares, and hallucinations, visited poor Herb. He wished his outhouse were built of stone rather than wood, recoiled in horror as “Two-Socks” turned on Kevin Costner and went for his jugular, and saw himself as Little Red Riding Hood running through the woods. All the while his body temperature continued to drop. Irony. A rooster. Did a rooster somehow appear in the area? Or was it part of his mind flipping around haphazardly from the cold and lack of sleep? They say some people dream in color; maybe Herb dreamed in sound. Either way, it was the morning crowing of a rooster that awakened Herb that day and saved his life. The wolves weren’t in sight, and Herb understood that to stay was to die. Arms and legs grudgingly cooperating with the hazy signals being sent from his barely functioning brain, Herb rose, pushed the door open, and trudged through the snow to his cabin. He hurriedly threw on some warmer clothes, grabbed the keys to the truck, and after a long, wistful look at the cabin, he was headed down the mountain. Herb stumbled Frankenstein-like into Big Bertha’s, disheveled hair and eyebrows covered with frost, his jacket buttoned unevenly, a fur hat tilting sideways on his head. He had the look of a crazed man. “Jesus Christ, Herb, what happened to you?!” “Nothing. I just had a bad night.” “I guess. Are you ok?” “Yeah, I’m ok.” “What do you need?” “Nothing. I was just wondering if you knew anyone who wanted to buy a cabin in the mountains.”


A gray reef fans on the edge of the eastern horizon. Cobalt blue mixed with midnight. An hour until the first fingers of sunlight. An hour back I quit twisting in the bed sheets. Wouldn’t do any good to fall asleep at 4am. Four is a time to relieve yourself and duck back under the covers for another REM cycle before the world starts calling. That’s for the people who can sleep. For those that can’t, it’s a time to surrender and roll outta there. I don’t sleep much lately. You, only when the medication works. The tea kettle sings. Miniature choo-choo . White vapor condenses on the window above the sink. Violet veins of frost dissipate on the pane of glass where the wooden edges meet. I pour the piping liquid into a quench cup and inhale the aroma of liberated caffeine. I put it to my lips for a microsecond. For that wakeup singe. Your mother is still in bed but Lucy’s risen with me. Good, old girl. I put down slip-free runners in the kitchen and living room for her - hardwood floors are tough on twelve year-old hindlegs. She nudges the back of my knee with her wet nose; it’s breakfast time. I pour kibble in her dish with a spurt of hot water from the faucet. Life is short. I roll up a piece of bologna and toss that in too. Her head bobs happily in the bowl. I pull on a heavy flannel and make for the garage. We had you before we were married, but not too long before. We weren’t prepared, not in the least, but I wasn’t worried. Your mother and I were competent people. The world, for how much it says it loves children, is perpetually short on individuals that love them enough to teach them when they don’t know any better. Your mom, she loved kids even before you arrived. So that’s what she did - taught first-grade daisies up the road on Landry street while her belly swelled with you. Always said that’s why you’re such an avid reader and a talented writer. Because you were reading even before you were born. I kept the books at the supermarket in Ashton and studied for my credential. I passed the test but I liked the business and people more than I did burying my nose in the numbers. They gave me a shot managing and I excelled. Our little grocery acquired the minnows, mom-and-pops who were retiring but wanted it to go to good hands. But then the sharks came for us. The regional business I grew was swallowed by a national chain. Some sad stories here and there, but they mostly did right by us and by-and-large my checks got bigger. And it’s just groceries. Never could understand a man that called a business his child. Well, I guess it never was mine anyway. Freezing in the garage. Nothing subtle about November’s in New Hampshire. Everything still dark. I strike the light switch and the fluorescent tubes overhead sputter to life. I sip the cup of Earl Grey once more and begin to assemble. Bright hazard orange vests hanging above the work bench. Yellow stripes along the shoulders. I took you duck hunting when you were six years old with my buddy Ian. Just to ride in the truck and make the silly calls with us. My dad took me when I was about that age. I remember it fondly. Cold New England air. Dad letting me help pack the hunting kit, the gloves and the vests and the boots. The pop, pop, pop of the pellets exploding from the shotguns. Stalking through the growth to find the downed ducks. I burst into the house that night with four dressed birds tied up in a game bag. I couldn’t wait to show your grandma. I thought maybe it’d be the same for you. It wasn’t though, was it? Man. That flock took flight in the twilight and Ian and I sprayed and a few came plummeting down. We had Boyd back then before Lucy and when he lumbered back with one in his jaws and set it at our feet, boy did you have a meltdown. You couldn’t stand the sight of it, couldn’t look at the poor thing. You cried in my arms and peeked under my armpit and when you saw it still lying on the ground fresh wailing waves rolled out of you. You asked if we could save it. “We can’t save him buddy.” You pounded my chest with your two little fists, hot tears turned angry. “Then you shouldn’t have shot him.” I had Ian dress the thing away from you and we packed it in early. You wouldn’t say a word the whole ride home, didn’t even leap when I asked if you wanted to stop for a soft serve. Mom asked how it went when we got home. “Daddy killed a bird.” That was all you said. Christ it’s messy in here. Useless junk accumulated over the years. Bikes hanging from the ceiling, trembling from the draft sneaking under the poorly insulated door. Two ancient sleds on the wall, the metal runners far too sharp for children but that’s exactly who they were for. Tools in disarray. An armoire with a gash in the oak near its iron handle. Three enormous bins stacked on top of one another. Masking tape labels, undifferentiated, that say simply “outdoors”. I steady a stool and step onto its shaky surface. I unstack the boxes and my lower spine groans. It was a Sunday I took you duck hunting with me. Mom was in the kitchen fixing you a peanut butter sandwich the next morning, pregnant with your sister, Grace, belly protruding like a bowling ball. I packed it into a brown paper bag while she licked the knife and said I’d take you to school myself. Told her some white lie about getting time off her feet and she should take it easy and have a bath and I’d even pick you up from school at the end of the day. She was skeptical, certainly aware that something was amiss, but offers of solitary hours were far-between and the prospect of a warm bath too enticing to turn down. I called the school from the garage and let them know you’d be home sick for the day. I shuffled you into the truck and you were still pouting but I kept a straight face and only let myself grin when I pulled you out and we weren’t in the parking lot of the elementary but rather my favorite stream in Willow state park where the trout get fat in the Fall. “I’ve got something to show you.” Your eyes two moons. In my hands a fishing rod, a line, and a bright red spinner lure. The only thing brighter: your smile stretched ear-to-ear. The fluorescent tubes hum overhead. One flickers but stubbornly perseveres. Here we go. Rubber boots and waders. Tangled lines from past excursions. A tacklebox with all the bait and a landing net as well. I click the tacklebox open and organize things a bit. Vests and rain coats I put in the cab of the truck, boots and waders and rods go in the bed. I spread the cover over the back and rest on the stool. Lucy wanders in and rests her head on my lap. “We’ll try the first few together, okay? So here’s what we do: rock once, rock twice, and then we toss in a straight line, stop with the rod, we follow through, and then once it’s in the water we reel her in slow.” I demonstrated once on my own. Then I stood behind you, showed you how to grip. We rocked together, my hands on your forearms. “One rock, two, then....toss!” The lure flew twenty feet and landed with a tiny splash. “Alright, now bring it back with the reel. Slow, like you’re winding a toy.” You reeled. I patted you on the back, proud. “That was great Adam! Do you wanna try the next one on your - No opportunity to finish. In the stream there was a massive leap. A rainbow trout glinting in the sun, it attacked the bait. How the rod stayed in your hands I will never know because that fish gave a great big jerk on the line but still it wasn’t enough to tug away from you. I hung on with you and we reeled with all our might. It thrashed and twisted violently. “Grab the net Adam! Grab it!” You relinquished the rod and held the net giggling like a mad man. When there was no line left to reel, I dumped him sideways. You held him high like a prize. I can hear tinkering in the house now. Lucy plods out to discover who is up. Your elation becomes near-instant terror. “The hook is stuck in his mouth! He’s going to die! Dad, get it out! Get it out!” Your grand prize has morphed into a grenade. You drop it on the loose sediment of the shore and turn your back to it, hands in your eyes. “Easy, easy.” Your back still turned to me, palms stemming tears. “Look”. You turn to see. With small pliers I bend the lure that has twisted into a tangled snare. The metal hook complies, then it comes free. The trout writhes. I grab him and hold him steady with two hands. Your sobbing has stopped. “Come here, son. Touch him.” You take a few timid steps. Your eyes swollen and red looking into mine. Then, with three fingers, you touch him just below the fin. A smile on your face. I feel your nervous system exhale. “Now what?” You ask. A wood pecker hammers away high above. “Now, we put him back.” We place him in the water together and his dorsal roars to life. A large splunk as he motors away. I turn off the garage lights and return to the kitchen. First light is illuminating. My breaths are tiny clouds in its radiance. “Hey, son.” “Hey, dad.” Your mother and I were blindsided when you enlisted. It was never on our radar. I suppose neither were two jets barreling into the twin towers. Patriotic fever in those days. Our little community and those adjacent sent a lot of young boys to the middle east. Your mother, distraught, tortured with grief. Her special little guy. “Smart boys don’t go to war Adam. People with any type of future don’t go to the desert to shoot other scared, lost boys.” You calm and understanding. “I’m not going to shoot anyone mom. I’m going to take care of scared boys who have taken bullets themselves.” “Please”, she sobbed. “Please don’t do this.” But there was no convincing you, and no matter how frightened I was for you I was also immensely proud. Eighteen months later you were in Fallujah. Ten months on the ground. You tore shrapnel out of infantry muscles. Applied pressure to wounds you knew were fatal, carmine splotches seeping through sheet after sheet of heavy gauze. Made tourniquets for limbs blown to bits by roadside IED’s, jagged bone fragments poking through skin, tibia chiclets lost in the dirt. And then an IED came for you. “I was thinking about taking a drive this morning.” You’re pouring coffee. Rose quartz light invading the kitchen. “How about it? Wanna come with?” Your eyes are buried in the back of your skull. Dark bags beneath the sockets. “I don’t know dad. I haven’t slept at all.” I give you a sheepish smile. “Ditto.” You smile back. “Sure.” An emergency evacuation. A life-saving surgery that amputates above the right knee. Your eyes in Germany, groggy, in-and-out of consciousness. Your mother and I terrorized, gasping for news back home. A complicating infection and a resulting fever that wouldn’t quit. Two days of silence. Finally, a phone call. You were going to make it. Nine more surgeries to follow over the next two years. Physical therapy and insomnia. Night terrors. At four o’clock I was up this morning. At two you were screaming murder in your bed. Endless pharmacology. Pills for pain. Pills for PTSD. Pills for insomnia and night terrors and anxiety. You, fading away. Your personality an infrequent visitor I rarely glimpse. That’s something I could never say out loud. The leaves are all down. A galaxy of colors a month ago. Now it’s all rotting on the coniferous floor. Brilliance comes and goes. A psychiatric review and mandated six months at the V.A. clinic when a character in the novel you’re writing embarks on a mass shooting. They changed your dosage. I removed anything with a firing pin from the property to be safe. I believe you that it’s fiction. The tires rumble on the gravel road. Forty-one degrees on the dashboard. It’s warmed up. The trailhead is barely visible. Overgrown brush and branches swoop over its demarcation reclaiming the flagging efforts of an underfunded forest service. I park on the side of the road and get to unloading all of the gear. “It’s freezing dad.” I give him a playful bump on the shoulder. “C’mon, just a few casts.” We wade into the current and alternate lines. Silence is good conversation for now. Cathartic. Birdsongs chorus down upon us. Time slips away. “Hey dad.” “Hmm?” “You remember when I caught that trout when I was a little kid?” “I do.” A deer guides her fawn on the opposite shore. “Dad.” “Hmm?” You pause. “Will things ever be the same again?” The fawn and the mother are gone. “Ya know son, I don’t know if they ever will.” A splash on the end of your line. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t make ourselves new.”


[This story contains sex, violence, abuse and swearing] “The joke’s on you.” “The joke is on you all.” “I’m not fucking around. Things are going to be different around here. I’m different. It’s not like it was. It’s never going to be like it was.” “There’s a new clown in town and he’s here to stay!” “I’m The Clown!” HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! OhgodhelpmewhathaveIdone... Mummy? Where are you, Mummy? I miss you so much. Come back. I need you! Mummy? Mummy! * No one knows about his place. Everyone needs a place of their own. Doesn’t matter what they call it or how they choose to dress it up. It’s a lair. Pure and simple. That’s what it is. Not a boudoir or a crash pad or a crib and certainly not a home. Never a home. Home is where the heart is and he was born without a heart. This place was his lair and he wasn’t into sharing, but he had no choice when it came to a certain someone. That certain someone had come along one day and chosen to stay rent free. You could call him a squatter, just as long as you never called him that to his face. Never do that to his face. Or anything else for that matter. He’s a deceptively sensitive soul and he snaps all too easily. You won’t like it when he snaps. Not one bit will you like it. The anonymity and sanctity of this lair was safeguarded in a great many ways. Layer after layer of protection and defence. The lair and him both. * Boris had come into the world in the same way every other soul does. Painfully, red raw and screaming. The transition from the claustrophobic confines of the womb was a shock to the system, more so the cold air that he was forced to breathe in order to survive. There was no going back for Boris, but that never stopped him dreaming of a return to a place that was free from the violence and pain that was a constant throughout his life. Boris was a mistake. Mummy told him as much. That was another constant in his life, Mummy reminding Boris that he was a mistake who got in the way and cramped her style. Her style helped ensnare her clients. Boris loved her style. He always thought her beautiful. Her style paid the bills, but there was never enough money for Boris. Mummy needed that money and Boris owed her more still. It didn’t take long for her to co-opt her clients into helping her punish Boris for his unwanted presence in the single room she rented from one of her clients. At first, the punishment took the form of harsh words. Boris knew no different and the words didn’t hurt all that much really. The problem was that Boris had this bad habit of growing and that enraged Mummy all the more and she shared this rage with some of her regulars. Mummy and client egged each other on and discovered new ways to make their point, punishing Boris in more innovative, but most importantly increasingly painful ways. Cigarette burns were particularly painful, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was when Boris saw a change in Mummy and after that change there was a change in her clients too. Boris became a part of what was on offer. He was a toy that Mummy used to keep her clients entertained. Once she talked to Boris about that change, “I get money for you now, you little shit.” Boris had smiled hopefully. This was a positive development. Mummy needed money and he was keen to help her. He wanted Mummy to be happy. If Mummy was happy then he was happy. “It’s still not enough,” she added, “you ruined me and you ruined my life. It will. Never. Be. Enough. You will never be enough.” Something had imploded within Boris then. You wouldn’t have seen it, even if you had been there to witness and had a program explaining what was going on inside the boy. That made it all the more terrible. The Boris that was, was no more. An important part of that little boy had buckled, bent and then snapped. Nothing would ever be the same again. Only it was. No one noticed any change in Boris at all. They didn’t even notice the ceaseless unending sameness of a boy who was no longer little. Not that they cared. Not his Mummy nor her clients. They neither cared for Boris or themselves. That was the world that Boris grew up in. Unfortunately for those clients, a lack of care also meant a lack of attention. This dulled them and blunted their survival instinct. That would prove costly for them all in the end. Boris may have been bent out of shape and broken, but that suited him fine. From the wreckage he resided within, he understood the world a little more and found ways to cope with it. Mostly he acted. He acted like he was fine and he watched and he waited. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he waited all the same. He knew it was important to wait because something was coming, and so he waited until it came along and then everything fell into place. One of Mummy’s clients found violence to be an aphrodisiac, or maybe it was a sort of foreplay. Possibly both. Whatever it was, it worked for him and it paid well for Mummy. One night he was in a particularly savage mood and he beat Boris half to death before straightening up, licking the blood off his bruised knuckles and turning his attention to Mummy. Mummy had watched the show and smiled a genuine and encouraging smile. She had to be into it or it wasn’t going to work for Jimmy. Jimmy worked for the mob and was well connected. Mummy had designs of getting out of this shithole and going some place exotic with Jimmy. Jimmy had other ideas, but he didn’t share those plans with her. He got a bigger and bigger discount while she mooned over him and he liked having that edge, looking forward to the day he would dump her and leave her in a complete mess. He got off on that too. He was a purveyor of pain and he got a buzz out of its effects. As Jimmy was about to start in on the main event he paused and turned around, “stop looking at me kid,” he growled at Boris, “what is it with this kid and the staring?” He shook his head and then seemed to remember something. He reached into the inside pocket of his sharp, pinstripe jacket and pulled out a comic, “here, hide that ugly mug of yours behind this while the grown-ups play.” “Ank oo,” Boris said as he fetched up the comic that had been thrown in his face, it was painful for him to try to speak, but he knew he had to remember his manners, even with a broken jaw. That moment was to change everything. In that moment Boris met The Clown and The Clown met Boris. It wasn’t a match made in heaven, some matches are made elsewhere. * Boris entered his lair at night. Always at night. That was when The Clown came out to play. The Clown danced and played and spread his own brand of cheer in the world. Boris loved The Clown. Except for his Mummy, The Clown was the only other person Boris would ever love. The nature and manner of that love differed markedly and this was not helped by the animosity between the two objects of his love. This was an enduring animosity that had existed from the very get go. Boris always cast his mind back to those early days with The Clown as he took his seat and prepared for the rituals. He talked to The Clown and reminisced and as he went through each and every step and stage of his transformation they would relive their partnership, The Clown chuckling regularly at their exploits. He’d killed Jimmy first. But then, Jimmy had it coming. Jimmy had hurt Mummy, and he’d done it more than once. He’d split her lip, then he’d blacked her eye. It was only going to get worse unless someone stopped it. Boris had talked it over with The Clown. They would wait until Mummy fell unconscious after one glass of gin too many, then they would plot and plan until Boris knew exactly what it was that he needed to do. Only, it wasn’t Boris who killed Jimmy, it was The Clown. Boris was fine with this. The Clown knew what he was doing. The Clown was good at this. It helped that he enjoyed it. “It’s going to be fun! Fun! Fun!” said The Clown gleefully and Boris had smiled. He hoped The Clown was right. He didn’t hold out too much hope though. His life had been a series of disappointments and he found he wasn’t all that bothered with fun anymore. Wasn’t even sure fun existed. Fun sounded like a lie that grown-ups whispered in your ear just before they started hurting you all over again. On the night of Jimmy’s untimely demise, Boris used the make-up he had stolen from Mummy to bring The Clown into the world. There was really only one room in the place where Mummy and Boris lived, but that wasn’t a problem because Mummy had learnt to ignore Boris so completely that she no longer saw him unless she wanted to say something mean or hurt him, and as that was a lucrative deal, she saved that for when there was someone paying for it. Mummy wasn’t in the habit of giving out freebies. Jimmy noticed though. He was half way through taking his snazzy jacket off when he saw the warpaint on Boris’s face, “what’s this?” he said, “it ain’t Halloween for another four months you little freak!” Boris never said a word, but then Boris wasn’t Boris, not anymore. He had been. He’d heard Jimmy well enough, but it was The Clown who responded. It was The Clown who unfurled and showed himself to the world in all his glory for the very first time. The Clown was not little. Freaky maybe, but not little. He stood at his full height and Jimmy’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened in the first expression of fear that Boris had ever witnessed, and Boris was still there, only he was no longer at the controls. He was riding shotgun with The Clown and felt both enraptured and fascinated at what was unfolding before his very eyes. “What the hell...” Jimmy managed to say this as he saw Boris become something he had never seen before. There was something terrible and very wrong about the boy’s face, and Jimmy had seen that face mashed into a grotesquery by his very own hands. The boy had applied make-up in smears and swatches that at first looked like it had rained and he’d dragged his face along a raindrop coated window, but as Jimmy stared at that odd face he saw it pulse and move and something came forth. Something very wrong. Something evil. Something that just did not belong. Not here. Not anywhere. Bravely or stupidly, Jimmy remembered himself and took a step forward to confront the boy and end whatever was happening here. It was an instinct that had served him well and got him noticed and inducted into the mob. Never back down, always get your retaliation in first and do it decisively. Hit the problem hard and keep hitting until it ain’t a problem no more. Jimmy didn’t even get around to raising his hand to Boris. Only it wasn’t Boris. Not anymore. The Clown was the one that wielded the knife that plunged into Jimmy’s guts. Jimmy looked both dumb and stupid in that moment. There was a comical vacancy in his expression as he looked down at the knife handle jutting out of his stomach and then back up into the grinning and gleeful face of The Clown. The Clown barked an odd and clipped piece of laughter, then with his free hand, he encircled Jimmy’s waist, pulled him closer and danced a perfect waltz. Throwing Jimmy around like a weightless ragdoll. DAH! DA! DAH! DA! DAAAH! The Clown sang a wordless tune as he danced with Jimmy, a tune that was completely out of step with their dance, and at the end of Jimmy’s final waltz, The Clown took a half step back and with a theatrical flourish he brought the knife up through the middle of Jimmy with inhuman strength, gutting him like the proverbial fish, and just like that fish, Jimmy made sad little gulping movements with his mouth, blood dribbling down his chin in pathetic little pulses. The Clown leant in to Jimmy’s mouth as though Jimmy was imparting the most important of secrets. “What’s that?” “I can’t hear you, Jimmy!” “Speak up, man! We’re all friends here!” But Jimmy collapsed to the floor to a chorus of The Clown’s laughter. He’d never solve a problem with his fists again. “What did you do? What did you do? What did you do? What did you do? What...” Mummy was stressed. Boris didn’t like seeing her like this. Thankfully The Clown covered her mouth with his bloody hand and stopped her repeating the same nonsensical question over and over. It was so very obvious what The Clown had done. Anyone could see that The Clown had bestowed upon Jimmy his just desserts. The Clown had reaped what Jimmy had sown. Simple. Boris could never remember much of the next bit. The Clown comforted Mummy in the only way they both knew how. Neither of them knew much of anything else. The Clown did this each and every time he took care of a client. Mummy never stopped him and Mummy never said no, but then she’d never stopped anyone or said no to them for as long as Boris could remember, except perhaps him. Boris was the exception. Boris was different. But now he wasn’t. Now he was special. * It was always going to happen. Boris knew this. There was an inevitability to how this was going to go from the moment he saw that comic and had come face to face with The Clown. “You gotta crack eggs to make an omelette!” The Clown had told him just before it happened. Boris was a passenger at that point and could do nothing to stop him. Nothing at all. He didn’t even utter a word of protest and neither did he cry when it was done. * Every time he took his seat and readied himself for The Clown’s appearance he always did this one thing. Before he opened the make-up box and said the words that were an incantation to summon The Clown forth, he would always lean forward and kiss his Mummy on the cheek. Her cold skin felt strange against his lips, but then he’d never kissed her before The Clown came along, so he didn’t really have anything to compare it with. The lifeless uncaring eyes were a constant and reminded Boris of his childhood with this woman, how that had shaped him and brought him to this. He tried not to think about that night, and he was thankfully spared most of it, but he could not erase the moment that The Clown had handed him Mummy’s head. She’s yours forever now, buddy! And so am I! Then there was the laughter. The unceasing laughter. Always the laughter. The Clown had not been joking. Boris had The Clown with him always and forever now, and he had that infernal, endless laughter. As he painted his face and stared into the mirror he let go once again. It was quieter when he did this. It was better this way. The Clown was better at all of this. It was best for Boris to retreat and watch from his safe place. And let The Clown have his fun.


It was pretty alright, fucking a dealer. She liked talking about her work, and I think it made her happy. She'd call herself a "white collar" dealer because she only ever sold to upper management and trust-fund kids (oh, and because she sold most of them coke, she's punny like that). But yeah, low risk, high payout, got to hang out in big houses and nice flats in the middle of the city. She was sensible and didn't take any class A's. Nothing stronger than hash, actually, and she didn't even get that from a distributor, she bought it from her fucking *dad*. It was like some bizarre fairy tale written by Guy Ritchie. So Monday rolled around, and I had to go back to the shop. Not usually much business on a monday morning, but I had to do some, paperwork, check the rat trap, you know #justsmallbusinessownerthings. So yeah, we walked out together and... I hadn't really thoughut about, like, what to *do* when we said goodbye. Hug, kiss, handshake? And because I'm a fucking moron, I thought the best thing to do was just stop outside the front of my building, ask if she wanted to get together again, when, where, and everything... then... just wait. But that didn't happen. I turned to face her and... just... I couldn't speak. I stared at her for just long enough that it looked like I wanted her to leave, but she knew. She can see in your eyes when you want something from her. She tilted her head down a little, kept eye contact, did that kind of half-smile and brushed her hair behind her ear again. "I think you're supposed to kiss me now." Which was about the worst thing she could have said, because my chill went *straight* out of the window. I reached up to her cheek with my left hand and lunged forward. It was supposed to be this lovely passionate embrace. I was going to sweep her off her feet like some prince charming with shit hair, but that didn't fucking happen. I headbutted her. No two ways about it. I hit her in the head with my head, and immediately went "Ow, what the fuck?" Like it was somehow her fault. Then I started laughing because it made me think of "Are you fucking sorry?" This is where I fell absolutely, helplessly in love with her. We both recovered, looked up at each other, and without missing a beat, she laughed back and said "Okay, so you could use some practice." I tried again, a little more cautious this time, and I mean nobody got hurt, so that's good. I was going to ask if she wanted to do something again another day, but as soon as I opened my mouth, she kind of blurted out "When do you get home? I could come round again." I must have looked pretty startled, because her eyes immediately opened wide and she fumbled a bit and said "Or, I mean, if you don't... uh... we... we could-" I kissed her again and said "7 o'clock". She giggled a little and we wandered off our separate ways.


Fruit picking. One of my favorite things to do. Picking blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, anything. I don’t know why I like it so much, it’s just interesting. ~~~~~~~~~~ “So are you coming or not?” Michael asked me. “I already said no. There’s no way my mom will let me go with you. She’ll think we’re dating or something,” I said. “There has to be some way I can change your mind.” “There is none. I can’t come. Go invite someone else.” He sighed. “Fine Sara. Your mom always has to be such a party pooper,” he mumbled. At that moment the bell rang. It was time to go home. Everyone ran to the busses. It was Friday and they were all ready for the party that was happening on Saturday. Michael kept inviting me, but I couldn’t go. He was right, my mom really was a party pooper sometimes. “Don’t leave! The bell doesn’t dismiss you, I do!” the teacher yelled to the class. Of course, no one listened. I headed to the bus and boarded it. Michael didn’t ride my bus, but my friend Jayla did. “So, you going to the party tomorrow night?” Jayla asked as soon as I sat down. Ugh. Why was everyone so interested in that party? “I can’t go,” I said. Seeing I was frustrated, Jayla left me alone. For the rest of the bus ride, no one else talked to me, and I was happy about it. When I got home, my mom was waiting for me in the kitchen. “How was school today?” “It was good,” I lied. I had a horrible day. Everyone was pestering me about that stupid party, even my best friends. “Did you meet anyone today?” she asked me. I knew what she meant. She was very protective of me. My mom wanted to know if I met any boys. No matter how many times I assured her that I wasn’t dating anyone and wasn’t ready to date, she was always suspicious. Why would I date anyone in the first place? After all, I was only in eighth grade. Everyone else my age was in a relationship but honestly, my mom and I both agreed that eighth-graders are too young to date. “No Mom, I didn’t meet anyone,” I said. I hurried upstairs to my room before she could say anything else. I stayed up there and watched TV until it was time for dinner. “Dinner time!” my mom called. I washed my hands and went downstairs. My dad, who had just gotten home from work, was already there. “Hey Dad,” I said. “Hi, Sara.” For dinner, we ate meatloaf with macaroni and cheese. We made small talk as we ate. The whole time we pretty much just talked about the things that happened that day. I avoided telling my mom about the party. Even though I wasn’t going, if I told her, she probably wouldn’t let me out of her sight for the whole weekend. After dinner, I went straight to bed because I had nothing better to do. When I woke up the next morning, breakfast was already ready. After I dressed, brushed my teeth, and washed my face, I went downstairs to eat. No one else was there. My mom, who had already eaten breakfast, was up in her room and my dad already left for work. There was a stack of pancakes at my spot and I dug in. I spent the day staring at my wall and sulking. It wasn’t fair. I really wanted to go to the party. At seven-thirty, thirty minutes before the party started, I heard something hit my window. I looked through it and saw Jayla waving her hands. I opened my window and let her in. “What are you doing here?” I asked her. “You’re going to the party. I’m going to help you sneak out,” she said. I would usually reject that offer, but I really wanted to go to this party. Everyone else was going. This was my chance to become popular. Jayla helped me pick out what to wear. She gave me a makeover and we stuffed some pillows under my blanket. We climbed out of the window and walked to the house of the party, since it wasn’t far. When we walked in, everyone was surprised to see me. “Isn’t that the lame girl?” “Isn’t that the one who never shows up to anything?” I could hear them whispering about me but I didn’t care. I would prove them wrong. I was anything but lame. I looked around and saw Michael. He saw me too and started to come my way. “Hey, Sara. I thought you weren’t coming,” he said. “Jayla helped me sneak out,” I said. “Well then let’s make this the best party ever! We wouldn’t want to make your only middle school party lame,” he said. We danced, ate, drunk (but only soda), and talked. We were having such a good time and no one was talking about me anymore. I bet they all thought I was cool. That is, until one thing happened. My parents crashed the party. They knocked on the door and someone opened it, probably thinking they were a late guest. “Sara!” my mom yelled. My dad was right behind her and I could tell that they were not happy. Trying not to make a scene, I just went with them. They yelled at me the whole way out and back home. “Why would you do that to us? We were so worried about you! We came in to check on you and noticed the pillows. Then we saw all the lights and heard the noise coming from the party. DO you know what could’ve happened to you? You could’ve gotten kidnapped, or maybe even worse,” yelled my mom. My dad just walked behind her the whole time, saying nothing. I could tell by his silence that he was mad at me. That’s what my dad did. When I was in trouble, he didn’t say a word. He let my mom do the talking while he silently stared at me with an emotionless expression. When we got home, I was sent to bed. That night I tossed and turned, unable to get to sleep. I felt bad about what I had done. I should’ve just listened. I wondered what my punishment would be, or if I would be punished at all. The next morning, I went downstairs for breakfast, as usual. My mom was sitting at the table, waiting for me. “Good morning Sara. You’re father and I have decided on your punishment.” This was just like my mom. She always got straight to the point. I wasn’t too worried about my punishment because I thought it would just be extra chores or no TV for a week. Instead, it was far worse than I expected. “That boy Michael you like to hang out with, you can’t talk to him anymore,” said my mom. “What?” I yelled. “You can’t stop me from talking to my friends! It wasn’t Michael’s fault! He didn’t do anything!” “If I find out from anyone that you’re talking to him, you’ll be punished even further,” she said firmly. “That’s not fair! At least let me hang out with him one more time!” “Fine, you get to hang out with him one more time. Go ahead and call him after you eat,” she said. I ate my food quickly and then called Michael. When he picked up, I started talking to him. “Hey, Michael. You wanna hang out today?” I asked, not wanting to tell him about my punishment yet. “Sure,” he said. “How about we go apple picking?” “Okay. I’ll meet you at the apple orchard in an hour.” I started to get ready. I dressed, putting on a tee shirt and jeans. Forty-five minutes later, I began to head to the apple orchard, which was within walking distance. When I made it there, I was early so I had to wait for about ten minutes for Michael to get there. Eventually, he did. “Hey, Michael. You ready?” I asked. “Yeah, let’s go.” We walked into the orchard. We paid at the counter and began to pick apples. At first, we picked them in silence. After a while of silence, I tried to make conversation. “So, you got anything planned for next weekend?” I asked Michael. “No. Do you?” “I don’t either.” We went back to silence. As we picked, I debated telling Michael about how this was the last time I would talk to him. I decided to tell him because he deserved to know. “Michael, I’m so sorry for not telling you about this earlier. This is the last time I’ll be able to talk to you. When my parents found out that I snuck out, they banned me from talking to you.” Michael looked shocked. This was a lot for him to take in. “Why me? I didn’t sneak you out!” he said with vexation in his voice. “You should run away with me.” I was shocked. Why was he so serious about hanging out with me? I mean sure it was sad that we couldn’t talk anymore, but it wasn’t something to run away about. “Why would we run away? It isn’t that serious,” I asked him. “If you stay, your parents won’t let you do anything. They’ll run your life, and when you disobey them, they’ll punish you more, until you can’t talk to any of your friends,” he said. I thought about this. What he said was probably true. “I’ll go,” I said. “I just need to go back to my house and grab a few things.” I left Michael standing there. I ran out of the orchard and to my house. When I made it there, I peeked through the door. My parents were nowhere in sight so I climbed up the stairs to my room. I quickly grabbed my backpack, emptied it out, and shoved a few of my belongings in there, including my phone, some clothes, some pictures, and etc. I ran out of the house and back to the apple orchard. Michael was waiting for me. “You ready?” he asked me. “Yeah. Where are we going?” “I don’t know yet, but we have to get as far away from here as possible. We walked down the street and eventually, night came. Michael and I walked in darkness. When we got tired, we went to sleep on a bench, as if we were homeless. Actually, we kind of were. In the morning, we went back to walking. We were starving, but I had forgotten to bring food. “How are we going to get food?” I asked. “We could beg.” “I’ve got a better idea,” said Michael. We walked to the nearest store. When we got there, Michael told me about the plan. “We're going to steal. Grab as much stuff as you can and stuff it in your bookbag,” he told me. Usually, I would never be on board with stealing, but there were a lot of bad things that I did lately. I was starving, or at least it felt like it, I would do just about anything for food. We went into the store. I walked to the canned food and snack aisle and stuffed as much stuff as I could into my backpack. Michael walked around the store, pretending he was interested in buying toilet paper. When my bookbag was full, I exited the store, trying not to look suspicious. Michael came out soon behind me. When we were far away enough, I sat on the bench we slept on and emptied out my bag. Michael looked through everything I got with me. I got some Debbie Cakes, canned beans, canned ravioli, and other canned goods. Michael and I opened a pack of chocolate brownies and dug in. Cars passed by us with their drivers staring at us. One man walking by even gave us some loose change, thinking we were homeless. After eating, we continued walking and as we did, I thought. I wanted to go back home. I regretted running away. Back home there was food, water, shelter, and my loving, protective parents. No matter how bad their punishments were, they loved me. We walked all day. When night fell, we had a conversation. “Tomorrow, we’ll be far enough to find somewhere to stay,” he told me. “Where will we go though?” I asked him. “I told you I don’t know,” he said to me, clearly frustrated. We talked some more, but we couldn’t think of any place to stay. We decided to just sleep on it. That night, I waited for Michael to fall asleep. When he did, I took most of the food out of my backpack and left it on the bench for him. Then I took the bookbag and left. I was going home. I walked for a few days, until I was nearing my home. I was almost there when I passed the apple orchard. The police were there and they saw me. “Are you Sara Akodoa?” they asked me. “Yes, why?” I asked. As soon as those words left my mouth, I felt stupid. My parents probably called the police when I didn’t come back. Now they would question me and I would have to tell them about Michael. “Sara Akodoa, you are under arrest for theft.”


Charlotte wondered if she should ask him to stop. She saw her little sister Megan struggling, failing to get his hands off her mouth with her tiny hands. It was Megan’s third birthday today. They had just finished unwrapping all the presents and settled a fight over a tall Elsa doll their dad had gifted them. Girls had agreed to keep the doll between their twin beds in the shared bedroom. Charlotte looked at the doll and decided to get Olaf for her birthday. 'Megan would love that too', she thought, her eyes back on her sister. Megan had stopped struggling. ‘Daddy, is Megan okay?’, she asked her dad. ‘Yes honey. She is. She is sleeping’, he said as he waked over to Charlotte’s bed. ‘But her eyes are open and...’, she paused, something was different about her dad, his face looked like the ‘scary man’ from the park who stared at them while they played on the slide. ‘Her eyes are open, and she is staring at the ceiling’, she said pointing at Megan. Megan lied motionlessly on the bed; her hazel eyes wide open, pointed straight at the ceiling. ‘Yes Cherry, she is okay. She is with Mommy.’, he said looking around for something. Charlotte sensed that something was wrong, ‘Daddy, are you okay? Are you going to do the same thing to me like Megan?’. Startled by her question, he looked at her and moved closer. Kissing her on forehead he slid her in the bed. Her fragile presence was dominating. 'Stay here sweetheart, Daddy has to finish some work downstairs. I will be back in few minutes', he said as he got up from her bed. His wife’s severed head rested on their coffee table right next to the couch. Her body was lying on floor, headless. The expensive rug was soaked in a pool of blood spouted from her neck where her head was once attached. He didn’t remember cutting her head off. He didn’t even remember getting a knife. He looked at her head, her golden hairs flowing on the coffee table. She deserved what she got, he thought. Bending down, he picked up the sharp knife covered in blood from the soused rug. He had the whole plan ready to dispose of the bodies and then file a missing persons report. He no longer has to worry about taking care of the unworthy. The images of the guy from the park standing at his door with a letter in his hand flashed in front of his eyes. The letter lied there, next to his wife's head on their coffee table. The letter. He remembered, blacking out with rage and never reading it. Hurriedly, he opened the letter. As he read, his rage turned to despair. He had done a mistake, a grave one. ‘Daddy, is everything okay? Where’s Mommy?’ Charlotte called walking down the stairs. ‘Yes. I did a mistake but I am always going to be with you’, he said with an eerie smile. Charlotte was standing looking in the living room, her face full of fear and terror. Looking into her dark eyes for a moment, he slid the knife across his throat. Charlotte screamed as blood splurged out her dad’s neck. His body fell on the ground with a thud right next to his wife’s headless torso. The letter, still in his hand soaked in their blood from the carpet. ‘A five-year-old was found hiding in her bedroom closet, alone and scared, in a home with three dead bodies. The bodies were discovered by the girl’s biological father, a cop, who was at their house this morning to speak with the parents. The biological father said in his interview to us that he will continue to fight for custody of the surviving child. Police also mention that 'a letter' was recovered form the crime scene.


'May l please have today's special'. said undercover solo food critic, Treasure McBright after handing back the menu. Treasure McBright. She is the world renowned food critic whose reviews make or break a restaurant’s global image and she's a solo traveller whose image is not known by most people. It was her first time in that restaurant, she was open to exploring the country's cuisine and had seen that restaurant through a TripAdvisor blog. The menu of the day suggested that she would be tasting the best spaghetti Bolognese in town. She was taken back to the spaghetti Bolognese she tasted in Italy, it was the best ever! She started salivating when thinking of the delicious aroma of the mixture of ingredients in that Bolognese she tasted years back. Her throat muscles were condensing and expanding even before the food came, one would say it was the body’s preparedness mechanism when one is anticipating a great sensation of some kind of taste. Thirty minutes passed not even water was brought to the table, she started looking around and waving her hand to try draw the waiters or waitresses towards her table but none came, she could not understand her predicament as her imagination of tasting the Italian dish was being distorted by the conduct of the restaurant staff. At first she didn’t really put much to it as it seemed to be a busy lunch hour rush. A man minding his own business across the table to Treasure's asked the waiter serving him to assist the lady waiving, but he ignored her and went back to the kitchen. Treasure started to feel infuriated by the treatment she was getting as a black person in a commonly white restaurant, she noted that almost everyone wo entered after her was being served while she was waiting for her turn. She grabbed the next available waiter passing by and demanded to see the manager. It took the manager almost thirty more minutes to attend to the matter claiming he was busy, worse he didn't see why Treasure was making it a big deal but the man opposite Treasure’s table interjected by first introducing himself as Bob. He told them to give her all she wants or she will be sending his recording of this mistreatment. He mentioned that for a while he has been seeing how the lady was being ignored by the staff, or was it they got an instruction from higher to act in that manner towards her as it was strange how they were all following same pattern of pretending they didn’t see her waving and calling out. The manager seemed to be apologetic in front of the Bob, who was well dressed in a black bore tie suit. The manager then ordered staff to attend to Treasure. Treasure told the waiter that she needed lemon iced water to calm her down...Imagine of thinking of the iced water’s calming effect then you get tap warm water, she asked the waiter serving her, what was that he brought. “Ma’am it’s the water you requested’ said the waiter. Bob told the waiter that if they continued he would post the recording of their misconduct. In as much as Treasure wanted to grab her bag and leave, now she had something to write about in her reviews but at the same time she had some glimpse of hope that the spaghetti Bolognese would erase all the mishap of that day. It was almost two full hours of misconduct, finally the dish she had been waiting for arrived. What struck her the most was the presentation, seemed a little uncanny to the eye but she gave them the benefit of the doubt that they just might wow her taste buds regardless of the appearance, of course it was nothing to write home about but the glimpse of hope made her to dive in. Treasure choked and asked what acidic substance was added in that dish, she is normally a healthy person without any known allergies. Bob across her table was disturbed by this and asked Treasure’s consent to post the recording but Treasure thanked Bob and told him, she will deal with it her own way but would need his number in case a witness is needed to support. Bob shared his number with her. Treasure called for the manager again who for some reason came promptly unlike the first time when he was discriminating her in full view of other customers. Treasure told the manager this was the worst she has been treated and the worst meal she has ever tasted, it was even more toxic and deadly, thank God she didn’t swallow any of it though her mouth was a bit inflamed from the strong acid in the dish. The manager told her that was their special dish of the day and didn’t know why it made her choke. Treasure asked him to taste it himself but the manager refused, so there were a lot of assumptions racing through Treasure’s brain cells at that juncture, “could it be they deliberately tried to poison her and get her type not to enter that restaurant again, was it that the chef was under pressure and accidentally added too much acid to the Bolognese, was it that they didn’t like her casual dress code in the almost formal restaurant, what is it really that made them mistreat her the second she sat and ordered, if they didn’t want her type so bad, they could have blocked her from coming in the restaurant than to humiliate her in public, were this people who showed no remorse to their misconduct worth forgiving?, if so how will others learn as every human has the right to choose where to eat and needs to be treated equally despite one’s skin colour or race as long as you have money to pay. What was also racing through her mind was Bob’s attitude towards her ordeal, it gave her hope that no matter where you are in the world, someone or maybe you can say there is always a guardian angel in human form who will stand up for you and look out for you when others shy away without confronting a misconduct. So in short Treasure deduced that if one supports a misconduct being done on another it means that person supports the wrong doing by turning a blind eye to wrong doing. Treasure’s predicament was more of a lesson as she had spent time travelling and being treated with decency than this time around where her emotions were challenged in all aspects; Physical, mental and spiritual. Treasure’s review was simple. “If you are black, make sure you don’t go past Pete’s Italian cuisine restaurant commonly shown in the TripAdvisor’s blog, from manager down to waiters and waitresses, they will bend you and break you emotionally such that you might even leave through a stretcher from the allergic reactions you will get from the food they will serve you, and yet you joyfully entered the restaurant walking to explore the country’s cuisine. Go at your own risk black brothers and sisters, I got the worst meal l ever tasted.” Unapologetically signing off. Treasure McBright your undercover solo food critic.


It started a few weeks ago, and honestly, I thought I was going crazy. Maybe I am, this whole thing is just so twisted and insane, and there It is just staring at me. I hear It at night, moving around in the dark corners of my house, I’m just glad It hasn’t figured out how to get up the stairs yet or things could be a lot worse. The paint is starting to peel and blister off Its surface, and I’m scared to look away in case It moves, or turns on, or if It just disappears entirely. My Henry Hoover is trying to kill me. Look, I know it sounds stupid and kind of like an insignificant issue- but think of the implications... Promise me you’ll think of the implications. I’ve locked myself in the bathroom, I can still hear It knocking against the kitchen door. A whole corridor and two locked doors between us and yet why do I feel so terrified, like if open this one it’ll just be waiting for me, nozzle at the ready. Two hours ago, I heard this agonising crash coming from the lounge, followed by a series of even louder crashes and then the infernal vrummmmmm of It powering up. I had no idea what to do, but I hadn’t seen my cat Merlin in about half a day and I feared the worst. I put on this really thick ski jacket that I remembered was still sitting in my wardrobe, and the goggles of course, the plan wasn’t to go in looking pretty- I was preparing for war. After a few deep breaths I ran down the stairs as fast as I could and didn’t look back, a true hero- except I forgot about the Lego. My corridor has- or should I say had- two shelves on either side, and on each one is- or were- a series of Lego monuments. Hogwarts, The Death Star, an Igloo from Club Penguin, all gone. I’m not sure how It managed to pull it off, but I came downstairs and there was just absolute carnage, Lego everywhere, so many hours of work just gone, and It was sat in the middle of it all grinning at me. I barely had enough time to take it all in- still standing halfway down the stairs- before It let rip, It reverse-vacuumed me. Little Lego bullets ripped into my coat, one hit the back of my hand and grazed my knuckle, I started retreating and realised I only had my socks on then immediately stood on part of the Igloo, pain so much pain. It took a hold of me and before I managed to reach out for the banister, I felt myself fall backwards down the stairs, one hand on my injured foot and the other still flailing in the air for something to hold onto. I was lucky, the coat stand managed to break my fall but I had just enough sense to stay down and pretend that It had taken me out. I watched It with one eye, goggles half steamed up and after watching me for a while It turned away from me to start reloading, I took my chance and quickly mapped out a route that would have me landing in all of the empty spaces- no more Lego piercing into my poor feet. I can’t even remember getting up, or making my way across the room, but I do remember jumping up behind It, hugging It close so the nozzle couldn’t reach out and grab me, then dumping it in the kitchen before turning back and locking the door behind me. All of this couldn’t have taken more than 15 seconds, but in my mind, it played out like one of those epic slow-motion montages you see in war films. I am the modern-day Joan of Arc. That is why I am currently holed up in the bathroom, massaging my left foot and waiting for my best friend Tilly to show up.


“Jesus Christ, man. It’s like they forgot how to throw the fucking ball!” “Hmm? Oh yea, this fucking country, man.” I was staring at the same TV the bartender was looking at, but to be honest, I couldn’t see shit. Before I got a glance at the game a commercial had started-- “Biff and Smiffer Forget-me-pills” with some Beatles song in the background. “The corporations can’t even let the Beatles die in peace... been years since any of them have been alive but those sons of bitches still using them to make a profit. Like either of those billionaires really need any more advertising. Already got the whole world doped up...” The bartender said. “Uh-huh.” I dug my fist into the biffer in front of me and licked the powder off the side of my knuckle. I think I’m about four, maybe five deep? Shit, isn’t it the bartender’s job to keep track of all the people in the bar? “I’m telling you James, the whole world has gone to shit. The fact that those pills haven’t put every bar in this city out of business by now is a goddamn miracle.” The bartender said. “Uh-huh,” I said back. I reached in my pocket to pull out my next biffer but came up empty. “Say, friend, do you happen to have any...” I said while making a rubbing motion between my thumb and index finger. “Hmm? Oh, yeah, sure,” He said. Without looking away from the screen he reached under the bar and pulled out a glass. He poured two shots of bourbon into the glass and pushed it across the bar to me. “Oh no, I meant... ah, never mind.” I said while grabbing the drink and shoving it down my throat. Tasted as plain as water to me. “And you should see fuckign upperside at this point! Me and the wife went to dinner the other week, and you can just tell the entire city has been robbed of its soul. You can see it in their goddamn eyes, they’re empty.” “Uh-huh.” “You know what I like about you, James? You know how to hold a conversation. The rest of these sad saps in this bar are so far biffed that they might as well be dead. You at the very least give me the respect of an honest talk,” The bartender went on. “Uh-huh,” I said. I looked around the bar to see if there was anyone halfway conscious who could spare me an extra pill. Four or five deep I think. It should be fine to take at least two or three more. Hell, even four should be fine. I stood up from my chair and held myself upright on the bar as I peered out over the booths behind me. “Hey, friend. Got any spare...” I called out to the guy in a suit sitting at the booth behind me while making that same rubbing motion. He looked back at me with a stern look. “Do I look like some sort of junkie to you, asshole? Turn the fuck around.” I snickered at him. “Alright, buddy, you have a nice night.” I turned back around and shook my head to myself. I heard the guy stand up and stumble over to me. “Listen, asshole, I’m no junkie. So you shut the fuck up and keep that shit to yourself,” he said while digging his finger into my back. I sighed while turning my spinning barstool around. “How about you keep your hands to yourself, alright? You’re not fooling anyone.” He blinked repeatedly. “What the fuck did you just say? I’ll touch whoever the fuck I want to touch, I work in the fucking upperside!” I sighed to myself again before putting my arms on the table to push myself up. Halfway through the bartender called out to the suited nutcase. “Listen here. I don’t care where you work, if you don’t want me calling federal on your ass you’ll get the fuck out of my bar.” The suited man straightened his back while blinking quickly. “Al-alright. My bad, friend. You have a blessed night.” He said. The man turned towards the back door, maintaining his posture as he walked out the door and down the cold, rainy street. “Sorry about that, James. Those upperside fellas are great for business but you’re shit out of luck if you’re looking for human decency. Can I get you another drink?” The bartender said. I stood up from the bar with my empty glass in my hand. I tipped it towards him before putting it back on the bar. “No thanks, friend. I think I’m headed home for the night.” I noticed out of the corner of my eye a handful of biffers on the floor near where the suited man was sitting. I stumbled over and looked under his table. Three, four, five. I think four is fine, I’ll save the other one for tomorrow. I raised my fist holding the biffers up to the bartender and gave him a smile and a nod before sticking my hands in my coat pockets and heading out the front door. The streets were dead with rain. I turned and started walking to the right of the bar. I didn’t bother looking to my left --hurts my eyes this late at night to see all that bright light coming from the main road. I could feel the peaking of a migraine just from the silent hum of the big glowing billboards plastered on the sides of the main road. I cracked my neck back and forth and gave a shiver while I slowly walked down the hollow sidewalk away from the bar. I took my hands out of my pocket to look at my biffers. I popped four of them in my mouth while I was walking. Probably should have taken a beer to go to wash it down but I’ll be fine. I’ll forget all about it soon enough. The streets were pretty soaked. Honest to god, I’ve been going to this bar for twenty years now but I don’t know how much longer I’ll be going if it keeps raining like this. I could feel my migraine swelling as a loud siren echoed “Biffers forget-me-pills, keeping America strong for twenty years!” echoing from the main road. The bright lights and sounds don’t make the walk any more fun, and I’m getting old at this point, a mile long city walk isn’t what it was when I was twenty. It’s not like I can’t just take my biffers at home... I kept walking down the soaked city street running horizontally to the bar until I came up to a left turn around an apartment building. Stained to the side of the building was a giant television screen with a flashing advertisement for Doughcarrots. I tried them once, weren’t really my thing. Never really got the point of taking it in any form other than the raw pills. It’s the quickest way to get the biffers into your bloodstream-- don’t really see much use for the candy-covered versions. Guess it’s to appeal to the next generation. I heard a buzz in my pocket-- a text from my son Connor. *Dad, come home,* it read. I went to type a response but decided against it. Better to just leave it. I’ll forget it all soon enough. I walked past the building and headed straight down the path. Should just be a straight walk now. I felt a buzz in my pocket so I stopped and took out my phone. I had a big grin plastered on my face as I scrolled through my text messages without a clue as to who was trying to contact me. My eyes dripped a little bit from the bright screen but it felt good. Jesus Christ that suited guy takes some serious shit, he must have a whole lot he’s trying to forget. Maybe this guy has contact with some black market distributor. I’ve been a loyal customer to the big CVS on my block for as long as I can remember, which isn’t very long mind you, but maybe I oughta change it up if they’ve been giving me low-class shit. I know I’m not no “upperside” man but I’m not one to skip out when it comes to biffers. As I was standing there looking at my phone it began to ring. C-O-N-N-O-R. Connor? Do I know a Connor? My son... I think he’s my son. Is he my son? Ah, I can’t remember. I put my phone back in my pocket and kept walking. There was something I was supposed to do. I put my hand in my pocket again and pulled out... another biffers! Where did I get this? I guess I lucked out! I popped that thing in my mouth and kept walking. Four... Four? Five? I kept walking down that street when I heard a series of screams and punchescoming from the alleyway in between two apartment buildings on my right. I stopped walking and listened. “Sick fucks... get the fuck off of me!” I heard the man get pushed up against the far wall and punched again. He was grabbed again and thrown on the ground. “You sick little shits--taking it out on me that you live in this shit hole. Hit me all you like-- won’t change...” The man was kicked in the mouth. Another voice started talking. “If you really were so much better than us you wouldn’t be walking down some shit-road in downerside. Now, are you gonna give me your good shit or not?” Behind the man, another voice started to speak. “Buddy, you got about two more kicks in before we start cutting, and when we start cutting, you’re about out of chances for forgiveness from us. So how’s about it?” I turned around from the corner I was behind and looked over at the men. The one on the ground looked familiar, but I couldn’t... suit. He was wearing a suit. Do I work with him? Must be something like that. The other two... maybe I knew them? Their faces were just lips and noses and eyes to me. The man with pieces of glass in front of his eyes looked at me and started talking.“James, what are you doing here? Head home man, you don’t want to see this shit.” I think he was talking to me... Hell, no one else was here. I don’t think that’s my name though... the only name I can remember is... “J-Jude,” I said in a shaky tone. The two men standing up looked at me awkwardly. The one with the glass looked at the other and put a hand on his shoulder before walking around the man in the suit towards me. “Yea, I know James, Jude. Have you had any tonight? I thought for a second. Four? Five? Is this why I had to remember that number? No... I don’t think so. “James, let me call someone to bring you home. You shouldn’t be by yourself.” I scratched my face while the man kept talking. A lot of what he said phased in and out. He was looking at me like he wanted me to say something. “James? Did you hear me? Can I call Connor to come to get you?” I blinked at the man. Connor? Was that Connor on the floor with the blood in his mouth? I took a step back and pointed to the man. “Is... is that Connor? The man in the back let out a chuckle. “Hah, I’ve seen you bad James, but not like this...” The man in front turned around and looked at the other man. “Genzo, shut the fuck up. If I hear another word out of your fucking mouth me and this upperside sack of shit will beat you up instead.” The man with the glass eyes walked up to me and put his arm around me while leading me around the corner of the alley. “Listen, James, we’re in the middle of something here... you got to leave us be. We’ll get you home, don’t worry, we always take care of our own. But you gotta let us finish up this business.” He seemed nice. Maybe we were friends. I looked at him and smiled. He gave me a pat on the shoulder. “Good. Why don’t you sit right here and we’ll come to get you when we’re done.” That sounded like a good idea. I sat down right where we were standing and looked at the ground. It was so wet. Wet, wet... wet. The man with the glass turned away from me back towards his friend and the man in the suit. He cracked his knuckles. “Now... are you ready to tell us where the fuck your biffers are?” The man in the suit looked up at the man with the glass and spits at his feet. “You fucking trash... you’re all fucking trash! I don’t have any biffers, I would have told you before you beat the shit out of me if I--!” The man with the glass punched the man in the suit in the jaw. “I think it’s time for cutting, I’m sick of this. Genzo, get my knife.” Genzo pulled the bag off his back and pulled out a short blade. The handle was thick and black like the grip of a gun but the blade was thin-- so thin that the drops of rain leaking from the sky were too thick to land on it. “Genzo, do me a favor and call up Connor Young. Tell him we’ve got James with us and he has to come to get him. I’ll deal with this.” “Alright, I’ll leave you to it. After I hear the shot fired I’ll know you’re done.” Genzo throws the knife at the man with the glass who catches it. He turned around from the suited man and walked down the other side of the alley before making a right turn. The man on the ground spits another wad of blood at the man with the glass. “You think I’m scared of you, you little shit? You could kill me a thousand times over and you would still be immeasurably beneath me, and there is nothing you can do about that.” The man with the glass let out a chuckle. “Even moments away from death, people like you won’t give it up. I wonder if a couple of cuts is what it’ll take to finally crack you...” Jude. Is that what they are called? No... no, Jude means something to me. I can’t remember what but that word is strong, I know it. My ears felt like they were ringing as I watched the glass man tear into the suited man. Maybe I’m Jude. I looked down on the wet floor at my feet. The pavement was soaked and looked back up at me. I heald my finger up to the small puddle in front of my lap and looked at the glassy black reflection of my finger in the puddle. No...no, I don’t think I’m Jude. But I think it is a name. I can’t remember but I can feel it. Something warm that makes me smile, that’s Jude. Jude’s funny too... maybe a funny movie... no, no I don’t think it’s a movie. But I remember watching a movie. And Jude. Jude and the movie. I looked up again at the two men. There were gashes all over the suited man’s face. I looked at his eyes... he was crying. Marble fell down his eyes and added to the pools of liquid on the damp concrete he laid on. He was crying so much... it was so sad. Jude... Jude cried a lot too. I remember Jude crying. She lay there, looking up at me while holding my hand. She mouthed words to me but I can’t remember them. But they made me happy, Jude made me happy. Was that man Jude? Yes, it must be. Jude was here, with me, and she was still crying. The smile was gone and the goodness was gone and all that was left was the tears and the wetness. Why, why would they do this to Jude? The man with the glass threw the knife behind him and picked the man with the suit up by the neck; pushing him against the wall. No. They can’t do this to Jude. She doesn’t deserve this. Jude... I stood up and watched the man with the glass choke out Jude. I walked over, picked up the knife with my right hand, and shoved it into the glass man’s side. He looked at me with shock as he fell to the ground screaming. I took the knife and stabbed him again, and again, and again. “Jude... it’s okay. I’ll never let you down.” The man with the glass looked at me with shock. He reached his arms out to me while choking on the taste of his own blood, but he had no words left. I looked at him and smiled. “Jude... Jude, you take a--” A shot rang through my back. The sound was loud, all I could hear was it dripping down my backside. I coughed and turned over to my side. I looked up at Jude, covered in blood and coughing. I reached out my hand and I was met in return with blood. Jude spit at me and kicked me. I cried, why would she do this to me? Why would Jude hurt me like this? Jude stopped kicking and looked at me. “Downerside trash. Should have stayed in the fucking bar.” Jude left me. I could see it in the sky-- she was gone. I could see something-- the spirit of the devil coming for me. I wish Jude could protect me, I wish something would protect me. I choked while searching in my jacket pockets for some comfort, but I found nothing but empty space. A minute later another shot rang out, but all I could hear was the one spilling down my back. Oh, Hey, Jude. Such a lovely song.


I am not what you might call, *heroic*. i was completely content living my life, ignoring other's problems, i had a few friends but no one close. that is, until one day i leave for a run, i walk out the door and feel the quake, 'huh, has doom eternal released?' i wondered. i turn and notice a silver dragon of about twenty feet in length from head to tail, ten feet at the shoulder, and crimson red eyes staring right into my soul. i open my door once more and slowly back away inside, then, "ALEX! Where have you been?" i hear in my head. 'what?' i wonder to myself. "I've been looking everywhere for you. why are you even hiding in this dimension?" She, judging by the voice in my head anyway, looks around. "it's so beyond bland" i frown, 'why has she been looking for me?', "dimension?" i ask aloud, then shake my head. "sorry, but i've never met you before, you've got the wrong guy," i explain. i then slam the door shut and run to my basement. i grab my shotgun, and wait, "Alex, for the love of god, stop with the games." i hear in my head, "Crystal is worried sick and rocky is about to die of boredom!" she angrily exclaims, "i haven't a clue what you're talking about." i shout in my head. "not so loud you're gonna give me an aneurysm." she chided "you have the wrong guy, i've lived here my whole life, just stop will you?" i plead, not wanting the dragon to destroy my house but not wanting to leave for fear of my life. "oh please," the dragon said again, "as if i'd ever hurt you." great, she can read my mind, "because you gave me permission to do so" she said annoyed, that gave me an idea, so i poured out all my memories, relived my life and showed her everything i knew. "oh," was all she said, "deep cover?" i frown, "what?" i ask, "nothing. you're right, i have the wrong person," i smirk, "finally," then frown some more, "what did you mean by 'deep cover'" but i didn't hear anything else, i slowly walked up the stairs, not believing for a second that she's gone, i look outside to see the world has gone back to normal. i look at my hands to find them empty, no shotgun. how is that possible? i looked at the clock, "damn, need to get to work," i rush up to my room, get ready, wondering what the hell just happened. i get into my car and sit there for a second, something was bothering me, i grab my car registry and take out my license, 'Richard Margret'. i rub my temples, the dragon had called me Alex, and it felt completely normal. i shuddered, remembering the dragons question "deep cover". i shove the registration into the glove box and my license into my wallet and drive to work, something's wrong, and i need to figure it out before i can return to my precious status quo. "this is gonna be annoying, isn't it?" i ask no one in particular, and drive to work. "well, it could be worst," i mumbled, typing away on my computer. my job was simple, find ways for my clients to save money. of course, my clients were a few small business owners who wanted to make their hobby their job and haven't a clue, so i more or less have to explain that the best thing they can do is to do as i say or close up. i deal with the occasional ass, but all in all a good and well paying job. i find myself only an hour into my shift when i'm forced to engage a 'Mr. Positive'. "sir, your numbers look quite promising, if you keep up with the plan you'll be well on your-" "that's bullshit and you know it!" he shouts, i mute myself and give a sigh as he berates me. i look at the cubicle across the way and see an old friend smirking at me. "what?" i ask, he just smiles and looks over my shoulder. i turn to see my boss's secretary stealing glances at me. so i wait until she looks once again, giving a wave, i make her blush and look away. i turn on the microphone and interrupt the screaming man and decide to call his bluff, "sir, if i find you are attempting a bankruptcy scam i will call my supervisor and-" he apologized, thanks me and hangs up. i shake my head, been there done that. i get up and register my 1 hour lunch break. "oof, pleasant customer?" my friend asks, "shove it Michelangelo" i reply. i sit down and begin eating my salad, until that secretary from before sat down next to me, "hey," i smile, "hey," i sit there, waiting. i always find silence is the best answer for women, "look, i hear good things about you from mike and-" i groan, "dammit Mike" her eyes widen, "what's wrong?" she asked. i look at her, she looks back at me with a concerned, well-meaning gaze, and she's pretty cute. no harm in trying, "he keeps trying to get me hooked up," i smile, "though i suppose a date with a beautiful woman isn't the worst way to spend my evening," her eyes widen, her blush deepens. "what do you say? meet me at Rodear's?" i ask, she beams, lighting up like a spotlight. "see you there." she nods, gets up, and walks away. i smirk, catching Mike's eye, he winks and i flip him off. tonight's gonna be a good night. i left the club with the secretary, Alice apparently. As we both stumble in the night, she pulled me into an alley and straightened up, this put me on edge. she lost her stupor and i frown. "you look way to sober," i mumble. she grinned then opened her mouth, a pair of fangs revealing themselves, "what?". i awaken in bed, i get up and go through the motions, until i'm at the table. i grip my neck and rub the area she would have bitten, "what was that? a dream?" i groan as i look at my bare chest, i was covered in bruises. "ouch" i hiss, then i realized something, i don't have a hangover. "what the hell?" this was getting ridiculous. i go to work, and notice mike at work early. i go up to him "hey mike" i say, smiling. he starts, "Rich?" he asked in genuine shock, then recovers. "Alice called earlier, said you guys hit it off. wanna share details?" i laughed a bit, his shock was enough proof for me. "so, why did she try to kill me?" i asked, going dead serious. he looked guilty, Mike sighed, "and here i was hoping you really didn't remember".


(Note: inspired by the WH40k story of Ollanius Pius, who is without doubt the bravest bastard in that entire universe. Look up his lore if interested. Also, cross posted from r/HFY. I’m proud of this story and wanted to share it here.) He wasn’t even supposed to be there. He should have been on one of the hundreds of evacuation ships that left weeks before. He should have left with the remnants of his company. He should have at least been standing a bit to the left when the final desperate assault force was teleported thousands of miles into the air and onto a ship that should not have even been there itself. Fights like this one were supposed to be off in the distance, where awestruck souls could watch the air strain on the horizon as swords that could cleave mountains and guns that could destroy cities clashed. These fights were only supposed to be between legends made flesh. Heroes who stood head and shoulders taller than any normal person and who wore shining armour emblazoned with medals, heraldry, and battle honours, not some foot slogger in a flak vest whose only title was his name and whose only gifted marking was his serial number. Battles like the one outside this ship were supposed to be fought in the space between stars and only seen through long range sensors, in battle reports, or told as hyperbolic war stories by old veterans, not felt through the hull or witnessed through the porthole. Battles like this decided the fate of entire star systems, where fleets of grand cruisers, imposing destroyers, and personal flagships slugged it out in devastating broadsides. This one was far to close, far too real. A confusion of thousands of battleships, cruisers, and frigates clashed in blinding light above the surface of Terra itself. Entire ships were torn in half by volley upon volley, only for the detonation of its reactor to claim vengeance from the grave. Even the ship he stood in was wrong. Twisting corridors that led to nowhere, doors and rooms in every position but upright, and flickering lights that revealed the silhouettes of those that never were. Daemons were supposed to be the villains of ghost stories, told by parents to frighten their children into behaving. They should not have even been real, but the walls of this ship dripped blood and the sounds through the bulkheads echoed with maniacal laughter and agonized screams. Control panels that should have displayed air pressure and door switches now blinked with bloodshot eyes and chittered with fang filled mouths. But of all places, he should have been anywhere else in the vastness of the galaxy but right here. Before him stood hatred incarnate. A warrior in armour that put tanks to shame, wielding a mace larger than that tanks turret. The warriors hand was encased in a clawed gauntlet of pure malice that dark gods had chosen to be the instrument of their will. Draped across his Herculean shoulders was the hide of an alien monster that would have taken several tank companies to bring down, but personally claimed by this warrior as an earned trophy. His entire body glowed with the fires of hell and he stared into him with an intent so absolute it could melt the steel floor he stood on. All he had was his flak vest, rifle, and bayonet. His knees almost buckled from fear. But there he stood, in the worst place he could have possibly been anywhere in the universe. He stood because behind him lay someone he saw as a god. The last time he saw him, he stood proud and tall, clad in brightly polished and untarnished golden plate. A hero who, despite being at the frontline of countless battles, always emerged unscathed and triumphant. A man who could walk past the field hospitals and bring every soldier back into fighting shape. He was supposed to be the hero of the story, riding in at the last moment to save the day. He should have been the same charismatic and fearless leader he always was, but now lay bloodied and broken behind him and on the verge of death. He should have been disillusioned, abandoned his beliefs that this man was invincible, given in to the whispers and promises that spoke in the back of his mind. He should have thrown down his weapon and run for his life. But there he was, standing ill equipped between the avatar of untold horrors beyond reality and the broken and dying hopes of all humanity. It was a pointless stand, but one no one else was there to make. He held his rifle with tightened fists, regained control of his legs and planted his feet, and took a deep breath before banishing the insidious voices from his mind. When he opened his eyes again, that unholy warrior looked down at the puny mortal that had the gall to stand in his way. What he saw was not the terrified visage of someone scared of death, but instead the stern face and disciplined military stance of someone who would not move without a fight. Just as he saw his leader struggle to get an arm under him to push himself up even just a small bit, he heard a new voice in his mind. He heard his leader, his emperor, his _god,_ beg him to stay, and gave him one last order. ‘Hold the line.’ And there, in the one place he should not be, he held the line. If he died, ten will take his place, and a thousand more of them. If anyone was willing to take up arms against the horrors of the galaxy, the bastion would never falter. If there was even the faintest ghost of hope left in the universe, planets themselves would break before those that stood guard. With the strength he never knew he had, he stood his ground against hell to his final moments.