Back at the house, Madeline found herself replaying the conversation with Billie over and over. Reclining on the sofa in the small, cluttered living room, she thought through every expression, every word, every hesitation, analysing them all. Though she was glad to have an ally, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d shared too much too soon. Perhaps her time with Liam had made her soft. The clattering of the letterbox startled her from her thoughts, sweat pricking at her skin. She was halfway to her feet on reflex before the conscious part of her brain reminded her that she was expecting this. With a deep breath, she tried to calm herself, forcing coiled muscles to release their stored tension and waiting for her heart to stop thumping against her ribs. Taking the time to move quietly and carefully, she made her way to the front door. A scrap of white paper waited for her there, staring up in stark contrast to the dark, drab doormat. She quickly scooped it up to read the scribbles that covered it: a grid reference and a time. After hurrying to consult her map, she found it led her to a church a few miles away. The time was shortly after dawn. Her only recently calmed heart started racing again at the thought of the meeting. There was still so much she was uncertain of -- so much to figure out about her new ally. Soon she would get her chance. Until then, she should make sure to eat and rest. She had to be on her top form. The evening passed slowly, and the night even more so. She spent the time playing out different scenarios for the morning meeting until she finally fell asleep. Then, the same scenes infiltrated her dreams. She watched herself ambushed, attacked, welcomed, embraced. Hundreds of possibilities flicked behind her closed eyelids as she slept fitfully. When dawn came, she was ready and waiting by the door. As soon as the first rays of the sun crept over the horizon, she set off. A brisk wind chased her through the streets, blowing away the sluggishness of a restless night. As she walked, the sun crept higher, bringing with it the pale pastels of a new day. By the time the sky had faded to blue, she was almost at her destination. After a quick circuit of the block, Madeline approached the church. The majority of the stained glass windows remained surprisingly intact. Perhaps, even in this world, people still somehow felt bad about vandalising a place of worship. The heavy wooden door at the front stood enticingly ajar. But she knew better than to use the obvious entrance -- especially for a meeting with a relative stranger. Keeping her head swivelling from side to side, she crept around the edge of the building. There were two smaller entrances -- one on either side -- but both were locked. That just left the rear of the building, where the graveyard was situated. There, overgrown grass blossomed with weeds and wildflowers alike. In some places it was so long it looked ready to engulf the headstones and markers that littered the ground. Turning back to the wall, Madeline found one final doorway. Though it was shut, all it took was a firm push for it to creak open. Wincing at the sound, Madeline stepped through. Inside, she found an array of gardening tools, clearly unused for a long while. Rusted shears lay next to trowels and watering cans in an organised mess, while a muddy shovel, rake, and stepladder stood, propped up against the wall. Amidst it all stood a pair of wellington boots, encrusted with dirt from their last outing, never to be worn again. Madeline carefully crept past, lifting each foot over the items to place on what little of the floor remained clear. Once she was past the assortment of equipment, she picked up the pace a little down the stone corridor, checking the rooms as she went. When she peeked out into the main section of the church, she saw Billie waiting in the pews. Their eyes locked onto her from where they sat, leant back with legs crossed and a lazy smile fixed on their face. “Don’t worry, I can wait,” they called over. “You finish scoping the place if it’ll make you feel better.” Suppressing a sigh, Madeline tried to ignore the heat rushing to her face. Regardless, she wasn’t going to let herself be embarrassed into making a mistake. She continued searching the rest of the building, though not making as much effort to be stealthy. When she was done, she returned to where Billie waited. “All done?” they asked. “Satisfied this isn’t a trap?” “Not entirely,” Madeline replied. She narrowed her eyes in exaggerated suspicion, making Billie guffaw with laughter. “You should be more trusting. I think we both know I’ve had ample opportunity to kill or rob you, and have I?” “I like to think I’d have been able to stop you,” she replied with a nervous chuckle, before turning more serious. “But trust doesn’t come easily to me these days. And nor should it.” “I suppose you’re right,” Billie sighed. “I just wish you weren’t.” The two of them remained silent for a moment, contemplating what their lives had become. It was Billie that broke the stillness, standing to stride across the aisle. Madeline couldn’t help but flinch at the sudden movement. They glanced back at her. “Come on, I’ve laid out some stuff in the vestry.” Taking a deep breath to soothe her nerves, she followed. In the other room, strange robes lined the walls, hanging from metal railings. But what really interested Madeline was what covered the floor. A map was laid out, similar to her own, with all manner of locations marked and further notes scribbled on sheets of paper. She glanced over at Billie. “When did you do all this?” “The planning? I’ve been doing it since I lost my... friends. Laying it all out like this...” They gestured to the covered floor. “I did that before you arrived.” “Did you sleep here? Or travel at night?” “Neither,” Billie laughed. “I just move fast is all. I was eager to be here.” Madeline *hmphed* to herself, wondering how her companion could have possibly beaten her here by that much. It wasn’t like she’d slept in -- or dawdled. Pushing the question from her thoughts, for now, she surveyed the maps and notes. Until something pulled at the back of her mind. “So, friends?” she asked. “What about them?” If Madeline had been a little less suspicious, perhaps they’d have gotten away with the forced nonchalance in their voice. But after over-analysing every inch of their conversation yesterday, she wasn’t going to let it slide. “I told you who I was looking for. It only seems fair that you do the same. Otherwise, how will I know if I find them?” Billie remained frozen, micro-expressions flicking across their face betraying an otherwise calm exterior. Madeline watched on silently. When she was satisfied that she’d made them squirm enough, she interrupted their internal struggle. “Look, you don’t have to tell me yet. Clearly, it makes you uncomfortable. Just remember, trust goes both ways.” Billie nodded. “Thanks. It’s just... not everything is mine to tell. Something I can say though, while I was with a group, I’m really only looking for one person.” “Oh? And who’s that?” “My brother.” A faraway look entered their eyes as they glanced down at the floor. “Older or younger?” “Older, but not by much. His name’s Joe, and he looks similar to me, only around twice the height.” A smile curled at their lips, perhaps at some remembered joke or taunt. “Just like you and your kid, we separated to escape the Poiloogs. We had a prearranged meeting location and time all worked out. But he wasn’t there.” Madeline reached out to squeeze their shoulder, before thinking better of it and letting her hand drop. “I’m sorry. Losing family that’s... I can only imagine.” Billie shot them a strange look. “What do you mean you can only imagine?” “Well, I suppose I lost family at the beginning of all this. Or I just never found them. But that was a long time ago and--” “No, I mean Liam. Strikes me that we’re pretty much in the same boat.” “Oh, I see,” Madeline said, her cheeks flushed. “Liam isn’t my son. Or brother. He’s just... I just found him.” “So you found a strange child, took him with you, and looked after and cared for him?” “Yeah,” Madeline replied lamely. Billie shrugged. “Sounds like family to me.” Before she could stop it, a giggle bubbled up from inside her. Then another. And another. Shaking her head at her own stupidity, she gasped for breath between the laughter. Of course, Liam was family. Her only family. What else could he be? But just as the happy realisation sank in, so too did the loss of him. As the laughter wracking her body turned to sobs, she felt two familiar arms wrap around her.


Sorry, new Title: Roads and the Ring. "Maybe. Maybe this was this way. Maybe it was the other way around. No one could fool the decision of the heart." At least one could see the direction of the heart. The decision of the one road, it was: If you follow this way, you will never come back. The decision of the one road, it was: If you follow that way, you will always come back. "One could follow the way that the past was dead, but remembered. One could follow the way that the past was alive, but distant as the present." Before the decision of the road, one took the decision of the Way. It was: For where you walk, you're in your way. If you strive or mistook one direction, maybe it was this way. Maybe it was the other way around. No one could fool the decision of the road. "The decision of the Wise man isn't to fool himself or the people he share his life with. The decision of the Wise man is simple. Follow the Way, even if there aren't roads and you have to go barefoot." Walk on in your way, breath your spirit. "It's the way of the earth, to make the sun set once a day. It's the way of the human, to be awake and bath in the Sun's light." It is the way of the sun, to have his rays blocked by the moons and planets. It is the way of the sun to bath the unliving. "Until life arises and could stand, and praise and breath and meditate. That was part of the way of the sun. A way of living is too, a way of the sun. Breathing is our necessity." It's the way of the moon, to receive the sun light for us. It's the way of the moon, to cast it's shadow upon us. It's the way of the moon, that lead to comfort us from the warm sun. It's the way of the moon, that lead to many deaths and cycles. "Their wedding made the winds and the sea. Therefore, as i breath the air, i remember. My tiny lungs, in this tiny universe, my tiny mind in my tiny body couldn't not follow the big decision that i was to took." The way that i never come back, as the rays of the sun. Or the way that i will always come back, as the shape of the moon. "The way that i will consume everything within my approach, warm it, burn it, and interact with it - the planets and comets. Or the way that i will always be there, within my own spot, touching and colliding with the things that are across me, and simple being there. Casting shadow that moves. I will act on the space within my range." The decision is now more clear. "Expansion will lead to smallness, And stagnation will bring movement, And the wedding between the sun and the moon, Settled as the sun and the moon were kissing the sea." "A ring is two roads together." I took the ring and held it. I would gaze at it and invest all my spirit in this ring. My spirit was getting stagnate as i held it. What a heavy ring. I feel down. I am setting, as the sun. I will marry the sea, not the moon. "One will marry daughter, not mother. This is not the way." "One will marry mother, not daughter. This is the way." I threw away the ring in the sea. The seas unfolded. In a rampant, they got me my silver ring back. This ring is yours, mortal, i could hear the sea say. Please hold it, he is not a burden, but a gift. The sea remembered me. The obstacle is the Way. "Like a wave, i go swin in the sea to kiss the moon." Stars were bright in the blue night.


Prologue It's difficult being the funny guy. The guy who is always down for a good time, ready to be the life of the party. "Hey Johnny! Sing us a song!" Or, "Hey Johnny! Moon those girls over there!” Or, my personal favorite, “Hey Johnny! You got the blow?” I smile. I laugh. I perform. Like a monkey trained to do tricks, or a circus freak. Don't get me wrong - being the life of the party is better than not being invited at all. In fact, more often than not I enjoy myself. But sometimes...sometimes I think it would be nice to just fade into the background. To be on the outside, tapping on the glass, waiting for the apes to do something cool. That's hard when you live a life like mine. I'm blessed, really. I have a career I love, a partner I adore. But there is still a void. An emptiness to fill. With religion. With drugs. With alcohol. With sex. With money. With adrenaline. With more emptiness. Thankfully, I’ve learned how to keep my mask in place. I hope it holds. One “Have you seen my purple tie? The Armani one?” David enters the room wearing nothing but a towel, lovingly places the tie around my neck, and kisses my cheek, then disappears back into the en suite of our master bedroom. I love David. I hate award season. It reminds me of my mom. Every year since I was eight she had been my date for awards ceremonies. Even at 15, hormonal and madly in love with my young ingenue, it was my mom on my arm for the red carpet. Now, at 35, this is the first time I will attend an award show without her on my arm. Not that she was June Cleaver or anything. Maybe if June Cleaver had trouble with day drinking and made a habit of bringing home strange men...but she was my best friend. The one who gave me my first drink, then paid to have me sent to rehab after my fifth DUI. The one who helped me key the car of the first boy who broke my heart - then found someone else to blame for it. The one who would walk through fire if what I needed was on the other side of it. David is great. He has never been jealous of my mother, but I know deep down he is excited for his red carpet debut. He has this kind of effortless charm and swagger that makes him somehow youthful and wise simultaneously. The cameras will love him and the fans will eat him up. Maybe his presence will overshadow my mom’s absence. If another reporter asks me what it’s like to go through award season without her I might take out my grandfather’s pocket knife and slice through their carotid artery. And as if all the stress of my mother’s passing wasn’t enough, I am tonight, for the first time, nominated for an Academy Award. I take the purple pocket square from my dresser and tuck it into my suit pocket. I had it made from the dress my mother was supposed to wear tonight- keeping a piece of her close to my heart - for luck. Boy do I need it. Two We arrive at the Dolby Theatre around 6:00. Our driver steps out to let us in, but before he does, I turn to David. My eyes fill with tears as I confess. “I can’t do this.” David places his hand over the pocket square on my chest, looks into my eyes and says, “Let’s go bitch.” He always knows how to lighten the mood. I give him a kiss, then steel myself for the shutter of cameras and the onlookers calling my name. I put on my mask - my boyishly handsome grin - and step out of the vehicle. My AppleWatch reminds me to breathe. I get it, now leave me alone The first reporter to greet us is from TMZ - my favorite... “How are you feeling tonight Henry? Your mother’s absence is heavy on all our hearts.” No Shit Sherlock So much for David being a good distraction. I reply. “Man, you know...I just can’t stop thinking of how proud she would be in this moment. I’m sure her ghost is standing right here in front of us posing for the camera. There’s no way she would let a pesky nuisance like death cause her to miss being here with me tonight. Here I’ll pose with her.” I strike a Charlie’s Angel pose - one that has become somewhat of a signature for my mom and I - and as I do, I almost convince myself that I feel her back against mine; smell her perfume in the air; hear her laugh echo down the carpet. But as quickly as the moment comes, it passes. It’s just me, alone, performing while the tourists tap on the glass. Every other interview goes about the same. I recycle the same three or four comments about my mom so that different reporters have different sound bites, but my heart isn’t in it. The truth is, my mom really carried the bulk of these interviews. I never realized how much of it until tonight. When we finally make it inside, I excuse myself to the restroom. I don’t worry about David. He will be happy to play social butterfly and brush elbows with some of the movie greats. As for me - I need to escape. Three I stare at my reflection. My tan skin. My perfect teeth. My hair cut just-so. My clean shaven face. My double chin. My crow’s feet, subtle, but noticeable. I look like my mother. Except for my empty, gray eyes. Her eyes were always full of life. Suddenly a bead of sweat drips down my back. I try to blink back tears, but they roll down my cheek. My chest tightens. I feel a rush of blood to my head. I’m going to pass out. I shouldn’t have come. I should have made an excuse to stay home and just accepted an award via Skype or whatever it is they use to make that happen. That’s if I even win. I reach for my pocket square. Wrapped inside of it, is my secret. I’ve been clean for almost two months now, but I held on to an insurance policy. Ten blue pills, marked 100 on one side and OC on the other. Hello old friends. I use a complimentary bottle of water to wash Three of them down. I splash water on my face, pat it dry, and leave my solace for the hustle and bustle of the lobby. Four I spot David standing outside the doors to the theatre, waiting patiently. The fire in his eyes is quickly doused when he notices me. He knows me all too well and quickly crosses over to where I stand, just outside the restroom. “You OK? I’m sorry I lost you for a bit.” “I’m good. Really. Just nervous.” As soon as the oxy kicks in I’ll be good as gold. We find our seats. For the first time, I am seated on the front row, a privilege reserved for the nominees of the “big” awards -Best Actor/Actress, Best Film, etc. As I sit, the effects of my little blue friends take hold of my senses. My muscles turn from rocks to molten lava. I am warm all over in the most wonderful way. My eyes become hooded, my breathing slow and relaxed. Thoughts of my mom, the awards, the anxiety, all are covered with a warm blanket as the world fades away. Five I snap back to reality with David’s elbow digging in between my ribs. I must have dozed off, although I don’t think my eyes were closed. “Hey babe - you’ve got to pull yourself together. Your category is coming up in 15 minutes.” I know that’s not accurate. I am certain that several of the winners before the Best Actor category will overstay their welcome on stage and require the assistance of the orchestra to make their exit. That means it will be closer to 30 minutes. Just enough time to go top off my high. I excuse myself to the restroom while a seat filler takes my place on the front row. As I walk down the aisle I can feel them. All of them. The producers, the actors, directors, screenwriters - all formerly friends - staring at me. They hate me. No matter how often people assure me that my mother’s death was not my fault, I know better. And I know they do too. If I hadn’t been at that party...if I hadn’t fallen off the wagon...if I hadn’t driven to her house...then she wouldn’t have died in a car wreck, driving me home. By some miracle, I make it to the restroom without becoming a puddle on the floor in front of my peers, but by the time I arrive, breathing has become almost impossible. I take a bottle of water and pour it over my head, drenching my bespoke suit. I reach for my pocket square, but my hands are shaking so badly that the pills go flying out of my pocket, scattering across the vanity and the bathroom floor. I gather what I can from the sink and swallow them dry. I am unsure how many I took. Was it two? Four? I fall to my knees, desperate to grasp onto all that is left of my salvation. How many are there? I took three...then, maybe four more...So only three more pills. I find one near the drain and rescue it from a fate of sewage and dissolution. The other two are inside the stall. I try to crawl toward them. I know I’m moving, but I don’t seem to get any closer. I find myself feeling an ungovernable rage. Get over here you fucking bastards! My stomach cramps, like having a knife plunged into it, then twisted. Without warning, I wretch onto the pristine marble floor, then fall into the remnants of my lunch, face first. I’m suddenly grateful for my depression and lack of appetite. I didn’t have many cookies to toss. I crawl through my self inflicted quagmire towards the toilet, but before I reach it my stomach is again seized with pain. I groan and attempt to will myself to move forward. I am frozen. In fact, I have somehow ended up on the floor, looking upward at the lights. I can’t breathe. I reach to loosen my collar, only to find that my tie is already missing. As is my pocket square. I drop my hands to the floor beside me, to find them both, soaked in my own putrid vomit. I’m sorry... This is my last thought before I lose consciousness. Six I can see myself on the floor. Covered in bodily fluids. I see David come through the door, grasping something behind his back, then run to my side, kneeling in the filth. He pats my face. He feels for my pulse. He goes to the door, calling for help, then returns to my side. He continues to feel for a pulse, then cradles my head in his arms, defeated. It’s at that moment, I realize what he was holding in his hand as he entered. My Oscar. He must have accepted for me when I didn’t make it back in time. And now, I’ll never make it back. I should be filled with a myriad of negative emotions - fear, regret, guilt. But I feel nothing. That is until I feel a hand in mine. My mother - in her favorite Valencia gown - is standing beside me. As David watches the medics work to revive me, I turn to her. “What should I do?” I ask. “Baby. You already did it. There’s no going back.” She goes to the door, propped open by a paramedic and holds her hand out for me to join her. “I guess I should have known I wasn’t long for this world,” I say as I take her hand. “You and me both baby,” she coos as we exit the restroom, and into the unknown of eternity.


Sometimes in Scotland, once dusk has settled, and the gloaming is illuminated by the backdrop of a thousand flickering lights. A low harr will roll in, it sweeps up off the ocean, silently hugging the coast and gently settling over the land. It was on a crisp night like this, that I stepped out to pick up. The distant crash of waves against the concrete seawall were only superseded by the constant hum of traffic in the distance, crossing that low, rickety bridge, which seemed tonight, even more than most, to hug the surface of the silvery moonlit river. The trees that lined either side of the road swayed above me, bending, and creaking, their leaves dancing in unison to private melodies. Stopping for a second in the middle of the road, I allowed myself to take a deep gulp of the cold evening air, before turning the corner, down and into the housing estate. Soon, the colossal tenement buildings had engulfed me on all sides, and before I knew it, I was darting through narrow passageways and past towering walls of smooth concrete, peering up in almost involuntary awe at their hulking silhouettes, backlit against the falling sky. As, far above me, sun-bleached Saltires hung like the rags of victorious battle flags, and the light from a cigarette perforated the darkness every few seconds, as the muffled voices in the sky began to argue. I craned my neck back looking upwards until I could look no further, as I passed down, underneath the towering twenty-story tower block, which had once been the shining centre of the scheme. A suddenly the manmade light faded away, and I was ejected out, and into the undisturbed peace of the dark, empty park. The edge of the park was lined by a sheer wall of trees that stretched out far in front of me, rippling back and forth as the North Sea continued its relentless assault on the city. The park had no lights and staring into the darkness was like looking out into deep space, the cold black night lapped at the warm yellow glow, coming from the lampposts that littered the estate. Pulling my hood down, I slipped my keys between my fingers and formed a tight fist with my right hand, as I quickened my pace, pushing open the rusted gate and making my way under the loving, low-hung embrace of the treeline. Thirty seconds later, and the night's conquest of the sky was complete, standing in pitch darkness, feeling the concrete underneath my tattered reeboks, I looked up at the sky. The stars were fighting a losing battle, against the all-consuming light pollution that spilled out from the city below. Instead of being awash with twinkling lights, the night’s sky was filled by the spinning layer of burnt yellow pollution that hung in the air, swirling menacingly over the city. Up ahead, I heard two men before I saw them, they slowly loomed out of the darkness, one was sat on a rotten wooden bench, while the other stood behind him with his back to me pissing. His frame swaying gently in the wind, as his piss absentmindedly dribbled down, the leg of his muddy bootcut jeans. I nodded my head in silent approval at his seated friend, as he raised a crushed Tennant’s can in an unspoken sacrament, our eyes locked together, peering at each other through the dark night air. We squinted, studying each other, then as his friend sloped unsteadily back to the bench, he turned away, his eyes lost again to some unseen conversation. A warm glow broke through the treeline, as the park began to recede, the plants and bushes which had thronged me moments earlier, slowly petered out as the foliage gave way to an abandoned car park. Filled now, only with the clamped rotting remains of what had been a Nissan. Abandoned to the elements, the sea air was waging a war of attrition against its bright blue body paint, which had begun to rust and flake away. I watched the streetlight bounce and reflect, dancing across the surface of the corroded bonnet, and, as I felt the smooth concrete underfoot, give way to uneven cobblestones, I exited the park and re-joined humanity. Just across the street, a brown, squat, ramshackle tenement building, sat unloved and isolated at the end of the block. Bounding over the road and up the stairs I waited at the door, looking through the small Perspex window which led to the close, I held my finger against the buzzer shouting ‘Malcolm!’ in faux exasperation through the intercom, and after waiting for a second, the mechanism clicked, and a flood of warm air rushed over me. Detailed ceramic tiles lined the walls and ceiling of the close, surrounding me in a kaleidoscope of tired grandeur. An imposing Victorian handrail ended in an extravagant flourish, as the thick granite stairs, trailed upwards toward the lavishly detailed stain glass window at the back of the building, through which, the weak yellow glow of streetlamps outside gently penetrated. Suddenly breaking the silence, the door to the first floor flat swung open, and Malcolm hung in the doorway, loose-fitting pyjama bottoms clung desperately to his waist, while an oversized visit Canada T-shirt, dwarfed his upper half. His pale sullen skin and huge green eyes reflected like a cat in the dim half-light. ‘Alright mate,’ he said, letting the words curl and drop softly from his mouth, he held out three boxes in his hand. Their familiar Eastern European font was a sight for sore eyes. ‘Come on now, only Slovakia’s best, for a most discerning customer like yourself.’ Malcolm said, his eyes dancing with a menacing glint upon seeing my barely contained desperation. ‘Sir you spoil me’ I shot back smiling, trying to recover some dignity as I pulled the crumpled notes from my pocket. ‘Always a pleasure' Malcolm purred while slipping the boxes to me, as he wrenched the fifty-pound note from my outstretched hand. ‘Alright Mr. Monopoly, fuck am I supposed to do with this.' He paused dramatically glaring at me. Before muttering 'well thanks I guess’ as he looked me up and down one last time, before smiling and slamming the door so hard, that the cheap wood board shook violently in its frame. The second the door was closed, I fell upon the packets like a starving animal, popping Three of the pills out of their packaging, at once. Desperately I tried to push them to the back of my throat, cursing myself for not bringing anything to help them down. Before coughing violently, as I nearly choked myself. Eventually, coughing triumphantly, I pulled open the heavy oak door and stepped out once again into the cool black evening air. Standing on the top step, I waited impatiently, turning in anticipation, before the familiar waves of relaxation washed over me. Like sliding into a hot bath on a cold winter’s night, I yawned allowing myself to feel my lungs flood with air, and as I sat on the cold stone stairs, relishing the breeze of another summer’s night, I know. At that moment, I know, know I’m not an addict, know that I'm brave, and know that I can be loved, for a perfect second, all that delusion is enough.


The room was still dark when he awoke. He did not open his eyes for a while; he just kept quiet in the bed, breathing in the stale but familiar air. He turned to the other side of the bed, not wanting to get up yet. It was still warm. He sniffed the pillow, hoping it would smell of her, and opened his eyes. It was the morning of Halloween. The curtains were drawn, and the room had a greyish hue. It had been like that for a while now. Grey. Sort of colorless. He wondered whether that was just how it was now. He got up and put on his favorite fluffy bunny slippers. The ones she had got him. If he did not have a costume, at least he could dress his feet up a bit. He wiggled his toes, making it look like the bunnies were wiggling their noses. He chuckled a bit, but the sound was just as stale as the air in the room. Just as grey as the colors. He went into the kitchen. There she sat. At the kitchen table, her computer in front of her, sipping coffee from a cup. She looked beautiful. Her dark blonde hair was still messy from the sleep, and she had dark circles under her eyes, but she was her. She was just as she had always been. Simple, beautiful. He sat down at the table opposite her. She did not look up; she just took another sip from the coffee. He poured himself a cup and took a sip. The taste was colorless. It did not even taste grey; it just felt like nothing. He thought of water, but water still has a taste of minerals and nature. This was just nothing. He quickly put the cup back down on the table. She got up and went into the bedroom while he looked after her, noticing her slumped shoulders and her red eyes. He wanted to go after her. He desired to make her feel better. He wanted to show her the love he felt, but he did not know how. "I'll be going out," he said. More to himself than to her, but she did not answer anyway. It was Halloween, the end of October, so it was cold. It did not bother him. The air was fresher, and the light was whiter. Still grey, but whiter. That is at least something he thought. He took some long, confident strides. Maybe this day it would be better. Perhaps this day, something would be different. He walked down the street, looking at all the different people. He always loved to do that, and it kept him occupied. He wondered about their routines and what brought them here on this particular day. He made up stories about the people he passed all the time. Maybe that guy with the round glasses and the tweed jacket is a professor. Perhaps he has a giant library at home and loves philosophy but also a good splatter movie. Maybe that girl with the jacket is an artist. The color of the jacket could be purple. She loves colors in her paintings as well as her clothes. She has a studio with giant windows and brick walls and plants everywhere. Or maybe real life is not as perfect. Perhaps the guy with the glasses is a high school teacher with a tired wife and a screaming baby. Maybe the girl with the purple jacket could not find anything else on sale. Or perhaps it was just his imagination, and the jacket was not purple but dark grey. No, he thought, she is an artist. He came across a flower shop. He always contemplated going in there. Every time he came across it, he thought about it, even though he knew it would not matter. But this day felt different, so he went in there. The shop was decorated for Halloween with carved pumpkins around the flower arrangements and tiny, decorative skulls in the bouquets. He looked around for a long time. Looked for anything that resembled purple. It was hard in the grey light and the Halloween themed items, but at last, he found a bouquet he felt could be purple. It was always her favorite color. He looked up at the cashier counter, but the lady behind it was talking eagerly with another customer. He felt in his pocket for change. There was nothing. But this was supposed to be the day. He was supposed to give these flowers to her today; he could feel it. He looked at the cashier again. She was still talking to the other customer. Surely, she would not notice one bouquet missing. He slowly turned his back to her and walked out of the shop. Now he was one big smile. He smelled the bouquet. It did not really have a smell, but still, this was the right thing to do. This would make everything okay again. The colors did not seem as colorless anymore. That woman's hat was definitely blue. And that tree was definitely green. And the bouquet he had picked was definitely purple. He thought of her and the warmness of her skin, the beauty of her laugh. He thought of her sadness as she went into the bedroom this morning. He just wanted to show her he still loved her. He looked down. Purple. Now his step was even more confident. He smiled at everyone on his way, but no one smiled back. Still, he kept a grin on his face all the way back to their apartment. He almost jumped up the stairs and opened the door so fast it banged against the wall. But he did not care. He was home, and he brought flowers, and everything would be as it was. But she was not there. His smile turned into a strained grin. Not as romantic as he had hoped, but he sat on one of the kitchen chairs, bouquet in hand, staring at the door. He still smiled a little. He sat there for a long time. One hour went by, then two. The bouquet in his hands was beginning to hang a bit. Maybe he should have put it in water, but it was too late now. And he wanted to give it to her as it was. Simple, but beautiful, like her. So, he sat still, eyes eagerly watching the door, ears intently listening for a sound, a footstep, or a breath. But everything was quiet. The night was beginning to show itself, and the whiter colors slowly faded to grey again. Finally, he heard something. Her laugh. Her beautiful, trilling laughter. Her known footsteps on the stairs. But he also heard something else; a man's voice. He heard the key in the lock, and the door swung open. There she was, in another man's embrace. He got up quickly. Their two bodies were writhing against each other as they stumbled through the apartment towards the bedroom. She was dressed as a witch, and he was a mad scientist. They did not even notice his presence. He dropped the bouquet on the floor without noticing it. As he stepped on it to run across the kitchen to the bedroom, time seemed as if it had slowed down. He heard her giggle, listened to his moan, but felt as if he would never reach the bedroom door. When he finally got there, she was on her knees, and he was looking pleased. "How could you?" He screamed at her. "How could you do this?" She did not react. "I'm right here! I'm right here beside you!" He screamed as loud as he could, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'm right here, and I always will be." This time his voice was a whisper. "Please..." But they did not notice him. Maybe that is just how it is when you are dead. He could not be in the room anymore, so he slowly walked to the kitchen, and there on the floor, he noticed the bouquet. It was not purple. He wished so hard it was purple, but it was grey. As the moaning in the bedroom got louder, he fell to the floor. He was right here beside her as he always would be. Him stuck here forever in this grey purgatory. Her moving on and forgetting about him. He just wished she could see him. Just hear him. Know he was there. Or maybe what he really wanted was that he could not see her. Could not hear her. But he could. Her moans got louder as he fell further onto the kitchen floor, surrounded by the fragments of the grey bouquet. That is how he fell asleep, to the sound of her, on that first Halloween night since his death.


It was making noise again.Luna yawned and stretched. She slowly sauntered over to the cage they kept it in. Her humans had one thing right, keep the noisy fur ball locked up tight. The fuzz ball shivered, visible tremors riding up its body in waves. When Luna sidled into its vision it shook even more, vibrating out its own little earthquake. Luna smirked. She rubbed herself against the bars then carried herself away with a swish of her tail. It yowled. The noise sent hackles raising down her back. Luna shuddered. The hideous pest had forced its way into her domain for less than a day and it was already disrupting her nightly routines. Luna rushed the metal box they shoved the little rat in and shoved her claws through the bar hissing. The pitiful fuzzball fell back with a yelp and cowered at the back of its cage, small like a yarn of wool. Luna smirked a devilish kitty grin and turned away, full of pride. All that hissing had made her thirsty. Luna lapped from her water bowl. Water never taste so good. Luna just settled into grooming herself when she heard it let out another cry. This time more painfully pitiful than before. Luna tensed, but she continued her cleaning. She did not stand up until she was fully bathed and even then she took her time, drifting towards the crying ball as accidentally as possible. It will not know it drew me. Luna studied the creature in the cage. It lay there shivering and whining. When it saw Luna it timidly stumbled to its paws and cautiously shuffled over to her on giant paws, too big for it to know what to do with just yet. The golden flea bag stayed belly to the ground, showing its subservience. It did however let out a tentative tail wag. Three gentle thumps. Luna sighed. If the beast were to be here it might as well be her beast. Just as everything else in the house was hers. She stood nimbly on her hind legs and pushed at the latch holding the pup in its place. The door swung open. Luna nimbly stepped out of its way. A living teddy bear watchfully discerned a new world. The little creature wouldn’t be out of place on her girls bed. Her girl collected lots of soft little animals and couldn’t choose between them so they all slept in her bed. Of course Luna was her favorite and made sure her girl knew it. She would bat those stuffed competitors away from her girl every chance she got. This little fuzzball was much like her girls collected bears. No competition. Yet the new bowls, the new toys, the new baskets, all placed where her things were supposed to go made Luna nervous. And more than that it made her angry . And yet all of the malicious, devious little plans she had plotted in her clever cat brain that very day melted away when the fuzzball fell over its own paws again. Luna shook her head and with a swish of her tail she trotted out into the kitchen, through the cat flap, into her world. The sun was yet to come out, it was still the hour of the cat. On a more normal eve, Luna would have been out all night and only musing on the idea of coming home round about now. She had wanted to make sure the infiltrator didn’t move any of her things or pee on stuff. It would not pee on her stuff. Luna sprang to the fence and looked out onto the streets as the dusk lightened to a concrete grey. Other cats were just starting to trot back towards there domains. She could see stripe tail leaping his fence and vanishing off into his lands. Blotches stopped to look to her before heading off on his way where were you last night? Luna twitched her whiskers and blinked to convey a sort of nonchalance that only a cat could carry. Luna was about to spring off into what was left of the night when she turned back. Her cat flap had swished again who dared to use her door? Ahh. The cuckoo in the birds nest. She could go for a baby bird right about now. The pitiful pup stumbled on the steps. It was as if the pup had bars of soap strapped to its paws. The pup blinked and looked all around it, nose twitching. It’s eyes seemed huge, drinking in the sites and scents of the garden with big greedy gulps. The puppy trotted forward, eager to explore, when its paw touched grass (Luna suspected for the first time). The pup yelped and shot backwards, startled by the new sensation. Luna rolled her eyes and stood stretching, unlocking her powerful legs. She sprang down from the fence and stood opposite to the pup, patting the grass with her paws. The puppy stared at her wide eyed before trotting across the grass towards her. The puppy sped up and nearly knocked her over, a cheap van sliding on black ice. Luna sprung aside at the last second, hissing. The little fuzzball looked confused, it just sat there blinking before its nose led it on an adventure into the bushes. Luna had had enough of this. She sat and licked herself, disinterested (a cat as fine as her could never be too groomed). Fuzzball came and parked next to her. Luna shuffled to the side a little and fuzzball shuffled with her. Luna continued to groom herself, refusing to give the annoying yap any attention. The sun rose over the garden, illuminating everything within it with brilliant light. The puppy glowed like a fuzzy lantern. Luna’s own dark hair shone with a silver sheen. Luna stopped licking herself and looked up. A most beautiful sunrise was emerging on the horizon. Do you have a name? The puppy blinked. The girl kept saying Buddy. That must be it. They sat in the sun together, basking in its warmth. Buddy leaned against Luna. After resisting at first (mainly for show) Luna let him. ****** Luna learned to tolerate Buddy, with time. Buddy did have some redeeming qualities. As much as Luna loved her girl she was not big on ribbons and dresses, or tea parties all that much. Her girl had Buddy for that now and Buddy was too little and pudgy to escape a little game (several dozen little games) of dress up. Luna smirked as Buddy let out a little pitiful whine, looking to her for help. She always left him. Buddy also provided a get out of jail card to Luna for ‘walksies’. Her girl, in addition to inflicting humiliating dresses and bonnets on her, also attempted, more times than she should, to take Luna out on a leash and call her ‘doggy’. The humiliation! The one time her girl succeed in her attempts to ritually abuse her person, Luna had seen all the other cats snickering at her from fences. She had never lived it down. Now Buddy went on ‘walksies’ and he actually enjoyed those much to Luna’s befuddlement. But it got her out from her girl’s grip for a time and Luna was grateful for that. Luna enjoyed having time to be more cat. She had many important things to do after all and although she had many talents she could not be everywhere at once. Now Buddy could entertain in her absence. Her appreciation of his innate ability to occupy her people did wane one night. It was her worst night as far as Luna was concerned. She had come in a little after supper to grace her humans with her presence a little more before heading out to run her nightly errands to find Buddy in her spot. The dirty sneak! The treacherous hairy beast had taken her spot draped across her girl’s lap at family time! Luna bristled with rage. But, she would not let the cat snack get the better of her, oh no! Luna slunk around her owners legs, on her best charm offense. Wide eyed and positively adorable, Luna rubbed against her people and ‘meowed’ in her best baby voice. Her man reached a hand down and scratched her ear absent mindedly. Her girl did not even look up, fussing over preciously putrid Buddy. She squealed when Buddy stretched in his sleep, delighted by even his most involuntarily pointless movements. Luna paced back and forth, her meows becoming more shrill. Her man said something and her woman stood up and threw Luna out of the room, sounding angry with her! Luna yowled at the indignity before stalking off, offended by her humans disrespect. Buddy would regret this. ****** Luna had enjoyed tormenting Buddy while he was young. She would pounce on him out of nowhere, sending him skittering into his little crate, pin his tail to the floor until he was squirming so much than when she let go he went flying like a little furry bullet. The best times were when he knocked into the wall. Her favorite way to torment the pup was to play ‘lets ignore Buddy’ where she would simply ignore him. That game was very effective. Buddy, if nothing else, was very attention hungry. Of course, when he got bigger, Buddy was a little harder to torment. By Summer, he had doubled in size and towered over her, like a winters sun. He made her squint in pain. His barks were like the roars of a lion, deafening. And he always had something to bark at - her humans, the postman, the television, birds, shadows. Every time Luna prowled in the garden, intent on her prey, be it bird, mouse or leaf, Buddy would slide in like the great clumsy oaf he was and bark up a storm, scaring her prey away. Luna had taken to hunting away from the house now. Buddy was consistent with him attempts to annoy her. The great yellow freak seemed to be under the impression they were friends too (an impression she certainly never perpetrated). For some reason the pup had insisted on calling her Moon Paw from an early age and it stuck. A lot like Buddy himself, her large, clumsy shadow. He followed her everywhere, always sniffing. The sniffing irritated her. All that snuffly noise and his nose was so wet! Whenever Buddy confronted her with his snout, she shied away. No dog nose would be leaving damp patches on her fur! But it wasn’t just the nose Luna had to worry about - Buddy liked to lick. Buddy licked plates and tables, stains and hands, bones and - Luna. Whenever Buddy managed to catch Luna of guard (which was a rare occasion that Luna was embarrassed by) he would give her a great big lick, messing up the fur she had worked so hard on getting to lay j ust right. Luna would reward Buddy for his crass actions with a swipe of her paw. When he was a little puffball she would crack him on his nose with a rewarding Fwhack but now he was older the shaggy fiend would spring back, paws lay wide, butt in the air lets play! Luna would stalk off. ****** It was a sunny afternoon and Buddy lay in the garden, head lay his paws. He was moping, Luna knew. For the first time the house was empty and Buddy wasn’t out too. It never bothered Luna, she had always been left in the house and loved every second of it. It was truly her domain in those moments where she could go anywhere . Luna slunk over to Buddy and sat near him, watching her yellow nemesis with large eyes, bright jewels like sapphires. Buddy turned his head away and huffed. He didn’t enjoy being in the house without their humans, Luna knew he was needy and hungered for attention. Luna licked her paw a few times then glanced back at Buddy. He looked brown in the shade, with just slight flecks of sand along his rump. Luna twitched her whiskers and then walked over to Buddy, curling into his side. Buddy raised his head and gave her a large lick on her face. Luna tolerated this. The sun shifted position in the sky above them, puling away the shadows. The two friends basked in the afternoon sun. ****** Luna slept a lot now. She slept a lot these days. In little nooks and crannies around the house. The top of the stairs. Beside the couch. A nice bush in the neighbors garden. Luna slept and dreamt of when she was young and lithe, a huntress. In her dreams she could catch anything in her jaws. In her waking moments Luna’s paws ached and her senses were dulled. Her nightly excursions became shorter and shorter until she just went out at sunset and returned when the sun came down. She liked to be in the house more now, preferably in her own quiet place. Buddy’s face appeared over the top of the couch, like the sun appearing over the horizon. He wore a big doggy grin and drooled on her head. Luna mewled pitifully. She didn’t have the strength to put Buddy in his place now. Buddy forced his way round, Head and paws pushed into her little space. Lets play! He barked. Luna mewed and turned away from him. Not now Buddy, I am tired. Buddy barked more, prodding her back with his paws - Play! Play! Luna sighed and shakily got up onto her paws, joints creaking. Fine. Buddy pinned her easily. Ha! I win! He grinned. Luna began to heave violently. She was never one for rough and tumble, but she would indulge Buddy from time to time throughout their lives together. But now she couldn’t anymore. Buddy nudged her with his nose. what’s wrong Moon paw? Tired. She replied between coughs. Buddy whined and lay next to her. They curled up on the rug in front of the fire. ****** Buddy bounced up and down by the front door, impatiently barking and whining. His humans were very mean to him today. Not only had they left but they had taken Moon Paw with them too! Buddy had been left alone for ages and ages. He’d worried at the rug with his teeth just to vent his anxiety. Buddy heard the car door slam! My humans! And Moon Paw too! Buddy couldn’t wait to pounce on Moon Paw, but he’d do it gently. Moon Paw had been tired lately and when Buddy had nudged her gently with his nose this morning her eyelids fluttered gently before closing again, she dozed fitfully. Sick? Buddy had asked, fully of worry. Moon Paw had mewed quietly in response. Then their humans had put Moon Paw in her own crate and taken her away. He hoped she hadn’t been taken to the funny smelling place with the mean four eyed human who took his unmentionables. Buddy whined at the thought. If that awful human had taken Moon Paw’s unmentionables too he would chase him and then look after Moon Paw. Curling up beside her and giving her a big lick to cheer her up. His humans came in and Buddy could smell the sad on them. It was a damp, cold smell and it meant his humans needed him. Buddy bounced around them barking happily cheer up! I’m here! The man patted Buddy on the head before walking by. His girl had sprung a leak, steamy droplets falling from her eyes. Buddy sprung up and kissed her It’s okay! I’m here! His girl giggled, then more water leaked from her and she flung her hairless paws around Buddy, and made his fur damp. Something must be very wrong. Buddy stood there for as long as his girl needed him. When she sat by the stairs he sat too. His girls face was red and blotchy. She sat, stroking his fur. It was only as the shadows crept in, as his girl started to fall asleep and the woman shook her awake, gently leading her upstairs that Buddy wondered Where’s Moon Paw? The TV was blaring and the man sat staring at it. Buddy went up to him and rested his head on his knee Why do you smell of sad? Where is Moon Paw? The man scratched his ear and kept watching the moving shapes. Buddy wandered the house looking for Moon Paw. He found her crate, empty. It smelled like Moon Paw, but it also smelled of... Sick Buddy sat and whined. A few nights had passed. The damp smell of sad was still on the skin of his humans and Moon Paw was nowhere to be seen. Buddy eventually understood that his humans smelt of damp because of Moon Paw. Because she wasn’t here anymore. And Buddy smelt of sad too. ****** Buddy pushed himself through Moon Paw’s door to the garden. It was smaller than it used to be and Buddy struggle through with a huff and a grunt. On the other side he shook himself and drank in the nights scents through his nose. Out here he could still smell Moon Paw. He had woken one morning and all of Moon Paw’s things were gone. Her cat bed, her toys, her food bowl. Even her scent was starting to fade. Buddy surveyed the garden. All this would always be moon Paw’s. Buddy walked over to their lake. The pool in their garden that they had played by so many times. Moon Paw pushed him in once when he was just a pup and Buddy had pushed her in when he was bigger. Even now he had bark laughed. The moon shimmered in their lake, a great white face floating on the water. Moon Paw’s face . Buddy howled. Don’t worry! I’ll look after them! For a moment the moon winked at him.


Detective Merry Giftsleigh puffed on his mistletoe pipe and watched the hidden compound at the base of the jungle volcano. Artificial Christmas trees littered the ground inside the fence, plastic melting under the Hawaiian sun. Mixed among them were tangles of Christmas lights higher than an elf’s head, next to heaps of discarded lawn reindeer and uninflated snowmen. It had been an hour and he hadn’t seen a single guardsman or guardself on patrol. Slapping away a mosquito, Merry decided that was long enough. He extinguished his pipe and crept up to the chain link fence. Some quick work with wire cutters and he was into the compound. Merry finally got a good look into the two largest buildings in the compound. Warehouses, doors open to reveal further Christmas paraphernalia. Bins of loose tinsel. Barrels of eggnog. Ugly sweaters draped over every surface. And most of all, thousands of unopened presents, nearly pouring out of the warehouses. This went far beyond the candy cane fraud that had put Merry on the case. “Well, I’m cocking my gun,” he said, drawing his mint shooter. He crept down the alley between the warehouses, heading for the helpfully-labelled “Administration”. Up on the rooftop, a faint *click, click, click* was his only warning. “Rudolph’s antlers!” Merry cursed. Why did he always forget to look up? Merry dashed for the end of the alley, a staccato chatter chasing him. He ducked around a corner just before the shots caught up with him. A glance at the ground confirmed his worst fears. The madman was firing black licorice. Santa only knew where they’d found it after the Gifteva Convention’s ban. There was a brief pause as the guard reloaded his astringent ammo. Merry ran for the administration building. He slammed the door shut just in time; the next volley rattled off it. He toppled a filing cabinet in front of the door to gain more time. The office was filled with Christmas cards, piled on every available surface. But Merry Giftsleigh’s attention was drawn to the dartboard behind the room’s only desk. A calendar was pinned to it, turned to the current month. December 25 was lined up over the bullseye. Merry jerked in shock as a dart struck Christmas. It came from the office chair behind the desk. Leveling his mint shooter, he barked, “Hands where I can see them! Turn around slowly.” “Oh my, Detective Giftsleigh. I didn’t expect to meet you here.” The chair swiveled around, and Merry froze. That familiar, cute button nose of evil. “Nutmeg Frosting,” he grated. “I never thought even a former elf would go so far. How could you? Christmas supplies ruined-” “Ho, ho, ho,” Nutmeg cackled. “You think that’s *all* I did? Stole some decorations? No, Giftsleigh. Did you not see the cards, and the presents?” Merry raised a Christmas card so he could read and keep an eye on the Arctic’s Most Wanted elf at the same time. “This- this is addressed to Santa. It calls him a... How could you?” “I’m afraid Hawaii isn’t sending cards to Santa this year.” Nutmeg grinned. “Or rather, the ones he’ll get will be *altered*.” “No!” “Yes!” Anti-jolly fervor burned in Nutmeg Frosting’s eyes. “Every child in Hawaii is sending a nasty letter to Santa this year. They’ll all end up on the naughty list. The few that wrote early, well, you saw their gifts on the way in.” Merry’s aim shook. “You won’t get away with this. “I already have. Hawaiian Christmas will be yet more ruined.” Someone began battering at the door. “Give it up, Giftsleigh. You’ve lost.” Merry grit his teeth, desperate for a plan. Then it came to him. Circling the desk, he slapped handcuffs on Nutmeg. The ex-elf was a master criminal, but the restraints would slow his escape long enough. Booting him out of his chair, Merry took the seat and lit up his mistletoe pipe. “What are you doing?” Nutmeg growled. Merry rolled his eyes when he saw Nutmeg already fiddling with a lockpick and put his feet up on the desk. “Having a smoke.” Cracks appeared in the door. “You’re mad.” Merry puffed to get a decent ember going and picked up a Christmas card. He held it over his pipe until the flame caught, then threw it onto the desk. Onto the pile of slanderous cards. “No!” Nutmeg, arms free, lunged for the flames. With a kick, Merry scattered the burning paper across the room. “Pity I can’t bring you in, Nutmeg, but I’ve foiled your schemes again. Most likely see you next December. And, you filthy traitor,” Merry tipped his cap, “Merry Christmas.” The door broke open as Merry hopped out the back window. Nutmeg’s cry, “Happy Holidays! Happy Holidays!” pursued him through the jungle. Carols to his ears.


In many ways, an orchestra is like a jenga tower, for its success rests equally on all the individual parts. A few missing pieces and it collapses. Leonard’s job as a conductor was holding together that delicate construction. He kept a clear view on each and every part at all times. Aware, that the smallest disequilibrium could bring the entire structure tumbling down. Tonight’s program was Johannes Brahms’ third symphony. A challenging piece for a young conductor like himself. To get into the right headspace, Leonard followed his usual ritual. He arrived at the theater a little over an hour before the show, which meant he still had some time to sit down at the piano in his changing room and clear his mind. Then he took a shower, shaved and put on his white shirt, black tuxedo suit and bow tie. He sat down again, this time facing away from the piano, the sheet music on his lap as he scanned the orchestration for the more challenging parts. He settled on a selection of passages to rehearse. While he acted them out with his eyes closed, the first bell rang--fifteen minutes until the beginning of the concert. He closed his eyes again, now it was crucial not to hurry. The conductor is the one who decides when the concert starts after all. As the second bell rang, he rose from his seat, did some light stretches and went to the restroom. The third and final bell rang, while he was washing his hands in the sink. He took a deep breath and winked at his reflection in the mirror. Then he calmly approached the concert hall, Leonard could hear the musicians tuning their instruments through the thick, wooden doors, a smile spread on his face. He opened the door and stepped into the hall. The audience’s whispers turned to silence. As he walked toward the podium, the audience now applauding, he caught a glimpse of his father sitting in the first row, smiling right at him. Leonard panicked, his face flushed red, his throat constricted. In that split second, his composure dispersed. He stepped up to the podium, shook the concertmaster’s hand, turned around and bowed down to the audience. As he turned back towards the musicians, he closed his eyes for an instant, if this was a dream, he’d like to wake up right about now. Nothing happened--he sighed and grabbed the baton. Why? I never use the baton. Too late to set it down now, isn’t it? Leonard lifted his arms hesitantly. His hands were trembling. What followed is the most overlooked aspect, when it comes to conducting. The moments of silence before the music start are just as important as whatever follows. A frown encroached on his face, but he immediately regained his composure. The musicians needed to put their complete trust in him now. They had their own ways of reaching the state of togetherness, that they needed to hold throughout the entire performance. The last thing they could use right now, was to pick up on his insecurity. He took a deep breath and gave the brass and woodwind section the signal to start. The second his hands moved, his heart dropped into his stomach. This buildup is way too slow. It was going to be a long, difficult battle. Brahms’ third symphony builds to an imposing climax within the first three notes, by which point the orchestra beams in its full brilliance. Now that he’d initiated at such a snail-like pace, he had to stay committed. He could speed things up after the peak, any sudden overcorrections would throw off the musicians. Maybe it wasn’t actually his father watching in the front row? Wasn’t he supposed to be living somewhere in Belgium or Sweden? He fought to keep his mind clear, but the thoughts kept pushing at the veil of his consciousness. He noticed he was now crawling through the orchestration. The baton in his hand felt unusually heavy. If this is my dad, why would he show up now? Oh crap-- . He’d forgotten to signal for the oboe players to start their phrase, a few of them had begun playing regardless. For once he was thankful to the individuals that never seemed to care much about his instructions. He signaled to the others players that they should join in on the next phrase. Leonard worked his hardest to stay focused. If this was in fact his father was watching, he wouldn’t let him have that power over him. It must be him. Although he had never seen his father, he knew exactly what he looked like. Leonard closed his eyes before launching the next movement, he tried to give himself up to the flow of music. He must’ve noticed my mistakes, being a concert pianist and all. Leonard felt rage build up in his chest. His father’s gaze was like a knife in his back, draining him of attention. Why would he sit in the first row of all places? He should know that would distract me. How could he be so inconsiderate? My father never cared for me when I was young, why would he care now? Did something happen? Was he sick? Leonard drew his attention back to the orchestra. Oh my god, I’m playing way too fast now. He needed to get it back together. With the music so quiet, he couldn’t afford another mishap. Pearls of sweat dripped down his temples. By the third movement, Leonard’s Anger had subsided. Only a heaviness remained in his chest. Leonard remembered his piano recitals when he was a child, at the end of which, he always expectantly scanned the audience, hoping he would see his father. Every single time he ended up with his head hanging low on the car ride home. Good thing he didn’t show up to any of those recitals, I can barely handle it now. Oh shoot-- . He almost missed a French horn entrance. His left hand gestured hastily. Perhaps he should’ve chosen to mess up one of my recitals, not this performance with the symphony orchestra. Leonard wasn’t going to let himself be distracted any longer. His father was just another audience member. In fact, if by chance one of his many babysitters was watching tonight, he would be in the presence of someone, that’d actually cared for him, as he was growing up, and they surely didn’t make him nervous. He pushed through the third movement with a resolve to enjoy the music and nothing else. Okay I’m playing super slowly now. Time to pull himself together for the final movement. Leonard managed to keep a somewhat clear mind for a few minutes. His face wore a blank expression and a lump lodged in his throat. He could’ve at least called me before showing up here. Why didn’t he try to contact me earlier? His mother had fought hard to bring him through. He never even had a stepdad. He’d blown on countless eyelashes and birthday candles as a child, wishing for a father. Any father would’ve done. His mother must’ve been too hurt to find a new husband. His sense of the symphony was completely broken at this point. He couldn’t establish a proper connection to his players. It felt like he was stuck in between a boulder and a cliff, unable to express the musical sentiment through his gestures. He was used to his coaches telling him to tone it down, that he shouldn’t be taking the attention away from the music. So naturally, he tried to hold himself back. But he couldn’t help himself. He just naturally moved to music. Now that he was experiencing the other extreme, he just wanted to go back to his own eccentric style of conducting. This felt way worse. At the end of the concert, Leonard was panting, bathed in sweat. He gave a shallow bow and shot a glance towards his father, who sat in his seat, weeping. Leonard's heart raced as he scrambled off the podium. The baton still in his right hand. A quick shower later, he sat in the changing room, absently jingling on the piano to calm his mind. His heart was still beating loudly in his chest. He sighed and decided to rise from the chair. He grabbed his bag and walked towards the theater’s exit, nodding absently in response to the greetings he received. The moment he stepped outside, he froze abruptly. His father was standing on the sidewalk, holding a bouquet of flowers. Leonard stared at him in disbelief, he returned an awkward smile. Leonard had spent hours contemplating what he would say in the unlikely event his father ever showed up. Regardless, he was unable to open his mouth to speak. “Congratulations, it was wonderful.” His father stammered, as he walked up to Leonard. He extended his hand to his son, who shook it wordlessly. His father looked much older than he’d envisioned. Leonard raised his eyebrows, “Why are you here?” “Lenny,” his father sighed. “I understand, if you don’t want me here. I’m sorry. I can’t give you an apology that excuses my behavior.” His father pulled a business card from his breast pocket. “Please take this, if you ever want to reconnect, I just wanted to let you know how proud I am.” Leonard accepted the card and the flowers. He flashed a weak smile, as he turned and walked away hurriedly. Tears streamed down his face, he could no longer hold them back. Leonard chuckled at the fact his father thought of him as Lenny. He was still conflicted about his father’s sudden appearance. He’d quite badly thrown him off his game tonight, but whether he liked it or not, without his father’s absence, Leonard would never have worked so hard to become a conductor in the first place. In many ways, life too, is like a jenga tower, it’s unpredictable and the missing pieces eventually add up and decide your path for you. But who’s to say you can’t pick up those pieces and carefully slide them back inside? Ultimately, in life--unlike in a game of jenga--you set your own rules.


Different day, same nurse with a stump where her empathy should be. ‘And you’re absolutely sure you fell down the stairs again?’ Sienna nodded and the nurse rolled her eyes. ‘You sure are a klutz,’ she commented and licked her finger to turn the page on the form she’d filled out last time. ‘Still no family history of inner ear disorders? Strokes? Brain tumours?’ Some nurses at the emergency department tried to coax the truth out with words dripping like honey, but Sienna was allergic to honey. Some raised their eyebrows so high they looked like they were about to detach from their faces, transform from caterpillars into beautiful butterflies, and fly off forever. No matter how raw Sienna felt, no matter how many stitches she needed, she knew to keep that big mouth of hers shut. In Sienna’s native, Eastern European language, the oversized mouth she supposedly had would be called unblanched . She wondered if that would have made a difference to her husband. If he knew the expression, would it inspire him to pour boiling water down her throat and watch the red skin on her tongue come away just like it would peel off a tomato? *** When she came home from the hospital, a cardboard box was sat on the kitchen table. She could see from the way it was dented slightly near the bottom that it had been simply dropped on the surface. Bob emerged from the pantry. ‘I found some shit of yours in the garage,’ he said with his mouth full, pointing at the box. ‘Now let’s see your face.’ He approached her and a familiar grip closed around her jaw, but she knew that this time, it wouldn’t end up dislocated. Bob had a process, and part of it was sweet, post-fight reconciliation, especially if she’d needed ambulatory care. Sienna suspected he probably imagined her making out with one of the nurses after the stitches had been put in place, which would explain why he was always so insatiable whenever she came back. ‘They cleaned you up well,’ was his final judgment and he ran his fingers along the cut. She didn’t flinch. ‘You’re a brave girl after all.’ *** The box had bits and Bobs in it. Sienna’s old life and new squeezed together, things of no consequence that never got unpacked when she’d finally moved in with her husband. The contrasts reminded her of a charity shop display window, with tennis rackets next to evening gowns next to books on stargazing. She couldn’t remember the transition from a lone immigrant to a lonely immigrant wife. On top, a guide from a London museum Bob took her to when he was still trying to impress her. A framed picture from a holiday he booked on condition she would work for that beach body . A plain, boring Valentine’s card in an obscene shade of pink. Pink stands for flesh that reveals itself from beneath the burnt sienna skin, she thought, and her hand wondered absentmindedly to a scar on her forearm. Underneath, she found a diary she’d kept when she’d first moved to the very foreign country. Her native rambling got progressively interspersed with more and more English words, flippant and proud like children on their first day at the kindergarten. At the bottom, she saw a book in translation she didn’t recognise at first: Rose Madder by Stephen King. She opened it and found a stamp claiming the paperback as the property of her town library, its name embedded on the first page, all red and accusatory. She couldn’t recall how it was ever possible that she’d brought the book along with her. *** She told herself she would only read for ten minutes to jog her memory. But she couldn’t put the book down and a dangerous feeling crept up on her: an opening to a person she once knew as herself was widening like a creaking door. If her thoughts got loud enough, Bob would hear them and come running with lubricant to put an end to the incessant noise. Here was a book about a Rose Daniels, a woman escaping domestic abuse by walking into a painting made with a type of dye called rose madder, pictured on the cover. Sienna remembered how incredulous she felt reading it for the first time, how little empathy she could muster for the protagonist. How eventually, she abandoned the book halfway through. Who was that silhouette in her distant memory, so sure she would never be beaten around the bush, never get bent out of shape? Bob managed both at the same time once when he broke her arm behind some rose bushes on their trip to a botanical garden. He dragged her there after she’d been on his case like the world’s smallest violin for hours on end , going on and on about their sterile lawn. Sienna learned a lot of English expressions that day. Bob had a unique way with words -- they could suddenly invade the physical realm in the most literal way. He once told Sienna she ought to have her mouth washed out with soap, and he did it for her, holding her head in a steady grip under his armpit until she gagged on the bitter suds. That’s how she learned the expression. Nails were regularly hit on their heads until they turned purple and had to be tugged off Sienna’s fingers. Curiosity did once kill her old, blind and beloved cat when it had to suffer the consequences of peeing in the marital bed. In her ideal world, it would rain cats without the dogs, and she promised Bob she would never forgive him. She closed the book and looked at the cover. She spotted some raw sienna in the painting, which was the same hue her bruises would always eventually pale into: the most curious, sickly shade of brown. *** She realised that simply turning up at the airport wasn’t a solution people opted for anymore: they all booked their tickets in advance. But she couldn’t do that either way, not with the joint account. Bob loved going through the statements day by day to investigate Sienna’s outgoings. ‘What’s the public transport charge for?’ he’d ask innocently and she’d reply with such zest it only made him more suspicious. ‘It was raining hard earlier, so I took the bus home.’ ‘Why is there a supermarket bill from today? Did you go out?’ ‘An international fee? Have you been sending money to your mother again?’ ‘What does Bitchbox stand for?’ It was Birchbox, the only waft of monthly luxury she would ever get. A few pathetically tiny samples of cosmetics she had no use for, with a beautiful calligraphy brochure attached every time. Love yourself, queen. Every day is your day. Look beautiful, feel gorgeous. None of the travel-sized bottles and plastic containers had made it into her hand luggage. She had the book and a few changes of clothes in her bag, and the pristine woman at the counter with no discernible facial expression was staring her down like some artefact of the past. ‘You’ll have to wait until there’s a cancellation or a no-show,’ she explained after giving Sienna’s request for a plane ticket some thought. ‘It might take a while.’ ‘No problem,’ Sienna replied and wondered whether the woman would just forget about her. ‘Thank you,’ she added with emphasis. People in this country loved expressing gratitude, even when nothing was being done for them. ‘Thank you in advance,’ she remembered to pile on. She walked away in a chuffed-to-bits state of mind. This should make the robot lady feel obliged enough. *** The sweats started like some twisted waterworks as soon as she inserted the credit card into the terminal. She waited, suddenly feeling like her bladder was flooded, and ran away the moment the boarding pass was printed and handed to her. She didn’t make it. She felt a warm, spreading fullness in her underwear which made the material cling to her skin, and then a tiny trickle ran down her thigh. She changed out of the ridiculous thong she could floss with into boxer shorts -- the forbidden pair, reserved for the messiest, bloodiest periods only, as per Bob’s Bible of Bootylicious. *** There was nothing remarkable about the flight, no unnatural buildup of emotions, no dreadful turbulences which would symbolise Sienna’s rocky path to a smooth landing. She fished the book out of her backpack for comfort, but she ended up stepping eagerly into the pages. Carts were wheeled and plastered smiles were flashed at her, but she barely raised her head to shake it. No, thank you. Thank you in advance for not bothering me any further. *** She remembered the name of the narrow side street the library was perched on because one of her school friends had lived right above it, and she gave the address to the taxi driver at the airport. She’d withdrawn as much money as she could, fearing her husband would block the card as soon as he caught on. It would cost her wordy Bob a pretty penny , as he often said. At the same time, with no pain , there was no gain . The library was just how she remembered it, tucked into an otherwise normal building with floors and floors of flats above it, one of which her friend had occupied. Sienna gave the librarian her name, but her loan sheet couldn’t be found. ‘Do you get rid of members if they’re inactive for long enough?’ The woman shrugged. ‘On occasion.’ The book card was also not in existence anymore, which the librarian proclaimed after sifting through a folder with the words LATE RETURNS written across it in red ink. Sienna put Rose Madder down on the counter. ‘I’d like to return it anyway,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to pay anything,’ the woman reassured her, hoping Sienna’s determination had an obvious, financial source. ‘Stuff like that happens.’ ‘No, no,’ Sienna interrupted. ‘I’d like to return it. I can’t explain it right now.’ The lady stepped back a little. She knew that inexplicability wasn’t a real word for a reason, and its adjective form, inexplicable , often prefixed news reports about terrorist attacks and school shootings in faraway lands, and she felt something foreign about the manic woman on the other side of her meagre barricade. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said finally. ‘Checking that book back in is a lot of paperwork,’ she added. In a country where mentioning bureaucracy was equivalent to pulling out a bleeding, beating heart, surely, the Sienna woman would understand. ‘Treat it as a gift from the library.’ *** Sienna stepped out and the sour smell of old paper and old people subsided with the next inhale, so warm and dry it could only be continental. She looked around. Her childhood home wasn’t far, only a thirty minute walk, but she was in no rush to surprise her parents. Her feet and hands weren’t tingling, and she wasn’t apprehensive, not anymore. She discovered that her favourite ice cream parlor had been replaced by a tiny shoe boutique with touching pairs of flip-flops and sneakers clearly selected by someone with provincial taste trying to impersonate Gucci. They told her the old owners had moved to a bigger building nearby and she found it without a problem, now clinically clean, stickers of excellence and hygiene in the windows. Sienna only tucked into her treat when she’d reached the park, by which time the four scoops inside the waffle boat had melted out of their spherical shapes. She turned her phone on and it buzzed in her hand for so long she could feel the tips of her fingers numb from the vibrations. Missed call from Bob, message from Bob, email from Bob, missed video chat with Bob. She answered when his palindromic, ridiculous name next lit up her screen. ‘Yes?’ ‘Where the fuck are you? Why is there an airport charge on our account? And ATMs? Twice? Sienna?’ She got distracted by two children rattling past her so fast it shouldn’t be possible on a tricycle, and she admired their need for speed. ‘Yeah,’ she replied. ‘Yeah? What kind of an answer is that? Where are you? I’m coming to get you.’ It occurred to her briefly that he could, but she realised he wouldn’t know the name of her home town if he had a gun put to his stupid head. ‘Alright, Bob. Come get some,’ she replied and clicked off. The sun was shining and the children were making more noise than should be possible when you’re that small. She would get up soon, her stomach pleasantly filled with sugar Bob would have called charged with cellulite , or pumped with the bingo wing mutation . But she wasn’t going to call it that anymore, no, it could just be called ice cream again. She felt a little dizzy when she got up and her hand wandered up to the dissolving stitches holding the two parts of her left eyebrow together. She realised with all the force in her thrice-concussed mind that she wouldn’t have to wrap bandages around her head anymore. And that somehow, she’d need to wrap her head around that .


Jolting claps of flame, thunder on the brain. Sinewed synapses writhing, electric tentacles in the dark. Pulsing jellyfish to a tube worm’s feather, a consuming mycelium on a decaying carcass. That sudden realisation of the mess you’re in, you know the sort. A twisting, wrenching, churning sinkhole inside that could swallow life itself. You can’t leave here, you know that. Act natural. Are you sitting upright? Do you look your best today? I hope no one’s watching. Judging you for not having a significant other, a house, a car. Because that’s what you want, and it’s what they all have. Stop biting your nails, it’s weird. Everyone watches you indulge your compulsions, and they think you’re disgusting. That’s why you stay perfectly still when Emily looks over, so you can’t do anything wrong. She smiled at you, once. You couldn’t sleep for days. The back of her head, a cascading chocolate ponytail under the white office light. Her soft neck and the intoxicating perfume that calls to you from across the room, a taunting pheromone you can’t stop drawing in. You’re obsessed with her, she’s all you think about. The only good thing about working in this gruelling office is the woman who doesn’t even know that you exist. Fantasies of what could be culminate daydreams, and you almost muster the courage to go talk to her. All that empty gumption and false bravado is swiftly silenced by Chris. Emily always laughs at his jokes. The blushes and giggles, and the way she always plays with her hair when he speaks. He’s smooth, gift of the gab, but he’s also fat. He doesn’t look after himself whatsoever. He took your promotion, and now you’re the accountant that amends his financial documents. You’re the nit-picking monkey who’s been slogging away in this whitewash hell for three years, and he's coming up to his first. The boss, Andrew, is a stuck-up tosser. He assured you’d get a pay rise on multiple occasions, but you heard nothing. You hate him. Detest him. What’s stopping you from ki- “David, what’re you doing?” “Sir, I-” He stammers, frantically jerking the mouse around his dirty desk and minimizing the personal document. “Did you finish analysing the asset turnover ratio?” The boss questions, leaning over and trying to read the spreadsheet on the monitor. “I was looking at the um, the short-term and the cash flow. I think, well, the current account-” “David, I asked you to do that two hours ago. What have you been doing this whole time?” Andrew questions loudly, and the office falls deadly quiet. “It was taking longer than I thought it would.” “That’s not good enough, what’s that document there.” “Where?” “It’s minimized down there, is that work?” “Um, no. That’s nothing. Not work.” “Open it up, show me.” “Sir, I don’t want to.” “Do I look like your schoolteacher? My name’s Andrew. Open the document.” David reluctantly shifts the mouse down to the taskbar and returns the piece to its maximised state. He feels the blood rush to his face and his stomach melting as Andrew silently reads the whole thing. “If only your accounting was as good as your poetry.” David dissociates in his chair and starts counting the individual pixels on the monitor screen. “We can’t have harassment in the workplace. Your feelings for Emily, Chris and I need to be kept to yourself in the future, alright? Not in your personal diary.” “What did he say about me?” Chris demands. “Well, he started writing poetry and then it turned into a deviant little rant. I don’t want to offend you, but he wrote about you being fat.” Chris chuckles for a while before returning to his work. Emily doesn’t move a muscle. She’ll pretend like she didn’t hear but David knows how intelligent she is, how switched on she can be. “And David, this is why you’ll never get a pay rise, because there will always be someone better than you.” “Yes, sir.” “Andrew.” “Sorry.” “You’d better stay later and crack on with some admin for Chris’s files. Treat it as an apology for being rude to him.” “Okay.” “Oh, and David, you couldn’t kill me.” He puts a hand down on David’s sloped shoulder. “You can’t even walk to the printer without pissing yourself.” Andrew grins as Chris erupts into laughter again, and he returns to his own office. David remains frozen for the remainder of the day. He skips lunch, doesn’t drink, and steadily completes his work. As colleagues leave one by one, he finally feels at ease. No more eyes, no one to look at him. He opens his inbox to find mail from twenty-six minutes ago. A folder sent from none other than ‘chrismanagerial@balanceconsult.com’ along with a subject containing the description ‘Fat Administration :)’. Documents upon documents that he must have been sitting on for days like a rotten hen, now casually dropped into David’s inbox for him to deal with tonight. Robert, in marketing, just finished working on some new flyers for the company. He’s a softly spoken and kind man, a few years younger than David. He lets out a sigh, switches off his computer and hauls a rucksack over his shoulder. “Alright mate?” He startles David who was entranced by the monitor. “Yeah, I’m alright, Rob. Yourself?” “Knackered, it’s been a long one.” He moans, turning to leave. “Me and the boys are going down the Oval for a few pints and some pool at seven. You’re more than welcome to come.” “Thanks, but I think I’ll be heading home after this.” David brushes him off. “You don’t have to play; I’ll buy the first round and you can come have a laugh with us. Colin’s there, you’ll like him, he’s a scream.” “I’ll think about it.” David smiles, leaving it in the air so Robert would stop asking. The PVC door at reception slams shut, leaving David the last desk-jockey alive in this soulless prison. There’s a certain peace with being alone. It’s not a positive thing but equally not a negative either. David’s comfort lies deeper than the surface of his skin, for his imagination can run wild when the fear takes control. He opens the embarrassing document once again, ruby red as he reads. Fingers start prodding the keyboard as he constructs more phrases for his feelings, more analogies for his thoughts. This method of mental digestion soothes his sickly stomach. He types until he feels his bladder. Shooting pains ricochet through his quadriceps and knees as he gets up for the first time since eight o’ clock this the morning. Waddles past the printer, he glosses over the patch of carpet he wet himself upon last month. It’s all dried now, but he still pictures the stinking, straw-coloured puddle that was once discharged from his pathetic body. Down the corridor near the kitchen, David pushes the toilet door with his unkempt hands. The keratin talons on his fingers bend against the wood. Staring at the ground to avoid eye contact in the long mirrors, he navigates to the furthest cubicle. The one he routinely eats his lunch in. Dropping the toilet seat down and perching on the bowl, shooting pains fly through his legs once again. While urinating, he clamps his eyes shut for a few seconds, and everything goes quiet. SQUEAK The unmistakable sound of the gent’s door shatters the silence. David hastily lifts his legs from foot view, his eyes wide with shock. Waiting for a moment, holding breath deep in his chest. No footsteps followed; the door is too heavy to be a draft. Mere moments feel like years before David cautiously worms his way to his feet. A sensation he knows all too well trickles down his spine, and the feeling of being watched lurches over. Animalistic tingles of flight or fight spark the urge to turn, let curiosity execute the decision. By slowly panning his eyeballs to the right, he can finally see it in his peripheral vision. Up above, in the next cubicle, someone is looking over at him. A mass of sorts unmoving. David’s heart pumps wildly, though his body turns cold. The swallowing, squeezing contractions of his oesophagus echo loudly in contrast to the nothingness around him. He meditatively inhales in preparation to stare back, face the individual observing him. Just as he spins to the right, the mass sinks below. David opens the door and walks round to the neighbouring cubicle. Upon inspection of the interior, he finds nothing. “Yeah, really funny.” He stammers mildly at the door. After the interruption and forgetting to flush, he returns to his designated cubicle and fumbles with the flush lever. Walking back out into the vastness of the room, it’s now there in the corner. Facing the wall, the dark mass stands stationary by the sink. At first, David rubs his eyes. What he is seeing, he cannot physically perceive. Like a lash stuck to the cornea, or unidentifiable remains of an insect plastered a windscreen, David’s eyeballs struggle to communicate the information to his brain quick enough. Whoever, or whatever this being is, shouldn’t be there. Not in this world. He begins walking backward at a speed slower than a tortoise, holding his gaze upon the man-shaped optical abrasion before him. Tensing what little muscle he owned, he prepares for the moment that the thing flies toward him. Though it never happens. He backs out of the door, making sure to gently release the squealing hinge. Once it was fully shut, he ran for his life. Snatching and clutching all his belongings, he takes to the PVC door. Agoraphobia is usually blinding, but David had never been more relieved to be outside. The bus stop is nearby, and he doesn’t have to wait long for the 103. It’s late, everyone is eating tea with their families now. The bus is almost empty, there’s no one except an old man sitting near the back. David barely squats on the lip of a seat in the middle of the bus, making sure to keep his hands to himself in prevention of touching any nasty germs that may be present. Fixating on the red ‘stop’ sign on the yellow handrail, he waits until the bus driver peels away. The journey back round his town was a quick one, and the view from the window was startling. Every stop along the high street yielded more of those embossed black phantoms. Their piercing existence carved into David retina, his fearful focus glides back to the comfort of the red button once again. One by one, in his peripherals, empty seats begin filling up with shadow men. He opens his bag and tears a page from an accountancy book. Scribbles and scrawls as the black pen crawls, steadily he writes about things in his sight. Those beings of haze maintain their gaze. Darker than coal, penetrating his soul. Everything around David suddenly dissipates. The bus driver has parked up and is walking to the rear of the vehicle. There, he places his hand on the old man’s shoulders, waking him up from his doze. “Sorry to wake you, Stuart. This is your stop.” The old man’s eyes slowly pry open, revealing sunken holes in his visage. “Can I not stay on for another round, Michael?” Stuart’s fragile capillaries make up a small, bruised hand that gently wraps around the driver’s. “It’s my last round, I’ve got to get home to the kids, mate.” Stuart closes his eyes again, loosening his grip on Michael. “I think it’s my last round too.” He crackles, a singular tear rolling down his wrinkled cheek. “Michael, I’m starting to think that I’m really lonely.” “I’m sorry.” The driver mumbles, unsure of what to say. “Although,” Stuart smiles. “There’s only so much riding and old geezer can do in one day.” “Can I drop you home?” Michael asks softly. “It’s alright, I don’t mind walking, and you’ve got your tea to eat.” The driver helps Stuart to his feet as he shuffles down the walkway. As he reaches David, he stops for just a moment and looks toward him. “I don’t think you ever really get over it. You only learn to live with it.” Stuart solemnly states. “It’s Friday night, son. Shouldn’t you be with your friends?” “Come on, Stuart.” Michael impatiently guides him to the door. The frail man poodles along the street, holding his plastic bag of things. “When there’s no getting over that rainbow.” He sings heartily outside. “When my smallest of dreams won’t come true.” The driver apologises for the delay and continues his journey. David looks onward for a while before quickly punching the red button. “Getting off?” Michael questions. “Yes, I’m going to go to the Oval.” The driver goes to speak then hesitates. He checks his watch instead. “I’ll drop you nearby.” “Thank you.” David breaks a small smile. Outside the Oval was busy. It may not have been for other people, but for David, it was a lot. He slowly drops from the door of the bus, and they shut behind him. The impending doom washes over once again, his sickness twists around inside. He stares at the ground whilst walking, avoiding eye contact with the patriots outside. Soon enough, those patches scratch into view once again. “LOOK AT ME.” A shadow hisses and screeches repeatedly. “LISTEN.” Another screams from across the way. “I AM THE WORD IN YOUR EAR.” He pushes past and gets inside. Immediately, he is overwhelmed by the sounds of clinking pint glasses, scraping chairs, fruit machines, music, pool, chatter, laughter, singing, shouting, it’s all too much. He becomes entirely overwhelmed. “David!” A voice calls. “Nice to see you, man.” Robert is leant against the pool table; his friends bat their eyes. “Oh, God.” David utters. The expression he wears is that of an animal in headlights. He turns back out the door and into the quiet street. The masses move in close, reaching out to hold him. They’re clearer now. The faces of Andrew, Chris, and his own parents, all dance around as they shriek. “Stop it, just stop it.” David blubbers, swaying his arms around to waft them away. They dissipate and reform like black mist, covering his eyes and face. He falls to the floor and folds up into a ball. He cries like he never has before. “David, what’s going on?” A familiar voice asks. “I saw something I shouldn’t have, and now it’s coming to get me.” He chokes back tears. “Let’s get you up on your feet mate, ‘cause your making a scene here.” David is helped up and held by a couple of men. They walk him over to the bench and set him down, sitting down next to him themselves. “Right. What’s going on, fella?” “I can’t do this anymore.” He sobs. “The world is caving in on me, I’m being crushed.” An arm falls over his shoulders, and one of the men lean in. It’s Chris. “The world is fine, Dave.” He assures. “You’re the only one crushing you.” “I can’t do anything right, I’m useless.” “Did you finish the admin files earlier?” He questions. “Y-yeah.” He sniffs. “Well, there you go. I wouldn’t call that useless.” “But that’s monkey’s work. Child’s play compared to what you do.” “Dave, my job is easy. What you do, however, keeps the company together. You work harder than anyone does in that office, so don’t think bad of yourself. You’re the glue, my friend.” He pats David’s back. “Sorry for calling you fat.” “I could do with losing a little weight,” Chris chuckles. “No one is out to get you, and you can’t let Dave hold you back.” “We’re all in the same boat.” Robert adds. “It does get hard sometimes, no matter who you are. Just remember that you do have friends, people who care about you. I know things have been hard since the passing of your parents, but we’re always going to be here.” “We both know you want to leave this place sometimes, Dave.” Chris looks out onto the road. “But if you weren’t here, our lives wouldn’t be the same anymore. You’d be leaving us in a world without you.” “There may be no getting over it,” Robert continues. “But there’s always learning to live with it.” “Thank you, both. I think you’ve just saved me.”


"A demon." "Yeah man, that's what I've been trying to tell you. A demon wrecked my place last night." Dave looked up from his phone. "Are you sure it's not just your latest excuse for your crappy housekeeping habits? I mean, really? A demon?" I shook my head a little. "Come on man, that's harsh. But yeah, really, a demon. You know the PS5 controller I borrowed from you last week?" Dave nodded and laid his phone on the breakroom table. He sat back as he said, "Yeah, what about it?" "The demon stepped on it!" I stomped my foot "smash, into a hundred pieces!" Dave glanced down at his phone then back up at me. "Ok, let's say it was a demon. How did a demon get into your living room?" I stepped back a half step and looked down at the table. "Well, I, uh, I kinda summoned it" I mumbled, trying to say it without saying it. "You summoned a demon. Ok. How, exactly, did you summon a demon?" I looked back up at him. "Well, that book I told you I found, the one in that weird language, remember?" Dave nodded. "Well, it turns out that there's a translator app that can use your camera to read it. So, I went through and translated a bunch of stuff and read it and figured out how to do a summoning ritual." Dave leaned forward and put his forearms on the table, palms flat. "You did all this? Really?" "Hey man, I'm not stupid you know. I know how to do a lot of stuff and I can figure things out pretty good sometimes." Dave nodded as he shifted back again and crossed his arms. "And yet you summoned a demon in your living room and let it trash the place." I could only nod a little. "Well, yeah, I did do that, but I didn't expect him to trash the place. That wasn't part of the plan." "Ok, so, what was the plan? What are you planning that requires a demon?" I smiled. "Well, getting rich and stuff. You know, and not having to be afraid of anyone or having to work or whatever. Just doing anything I want whenever I want." Dave just looked at me. He stared at me until it got uncomfortable. I started shifting my weight back and forth until I couldn't take it anyomre. "What, man? Why are you just staring at me?" He spoke slowly and carefully. "I can see why someone might try to summon a demon to get all those things, freedom and stuff. But I'm still not sure I can believe you actually did it." I nodded a little. "Yeah, ok, I get it man. That's fair I guess. But I'm not lying, I swear." Dave nodded. "I can see that you believe it. So I'm not going to try and argue with you. But now I have to ask, what's next? Is your demon going to give you what you ask for?" I nodded. "Yep. Today! Just as soon as he's done, uh, taking care of a few things... a few, you know, demon things..." Dave started to speak but before he could we heard screaming out on the plant floor. His eyes darted to the door then back at me. I nodded. "Look man, I really like you so I decided to give you a chance. If you stay in here with me then you won't get hurt. Because I'm in here this room is off limits. But," I turned and pointed towards the door. There was more screaming and the sound of machinery and stuff being thrown around. "If you decide you just have to run out and try to help or save anyone then you're fair game." I turned back to face him, leaned over and put my hands on the table. "Stay here, man. You've got a family. I'll hook you up and..." Dave slid his chair back and stood up, eyes wide and completely freaked out. "You crazy or something? What the hell is wrong with you?" The screams and the sounds of destruction were overwhelming as he ran out the door. It faded some when the door closed. I stood back up, put my hands on my hips and looked at the door. "Dangit Dave, that's why I really wanted you to stay with me. You always were such a great guy.