One Night at the Diner By Halo Roberts Jenny My feet hurt. Not a shock when I’ve been on them for 13 hours. Phil promised to get another girl to cover the second shift, but also not a shock , he ‘forgot’. My hair feels like it’s soaked up most of the grease from the fryer that bubbles away back in the kitchen. I’m not sure what the smear on the front of my apron is, but it looks weirdly like bird crap. It has been a day. A table of high school kids have finished up and I plaster my happy face on as I wave them out the door. I built you guys four banana splits and kept you in pop refills all night, but thanks for the two-dollar tip. I live to serve. I snicker at myself as I mentally picture their faces if I dropped a quick curtsy. Jacob, the bus-boy, appears from the back and begins quickly clearing the tables, he’s a good kid with an easy smile. Glancing around at the remaining customers, I head behind the counter to grab a pitcher of water. As I make the rounds, checking on the last two tables, filling waters and chatting, I hear the bells over the front door jingle. Sweet, supposed to close up in ten minutes, fingers crossed he’s not in the mood for broasted chicken. The man that walks in doesn’t look much like the usual customers. Rita’s is not the ‘upscale’ kind of diner, it’s pretty old school. It’s also far enough away from the city lights and the interstate that we only have regular customers. You can get a cheap cup of coffee and a good piece of pie. Let’s just say there is no ‘appetizer’ section on the menu, which is an uber-classy light up board above the counter that no one ever looks at anyway, but everything is homemade. His suit probably cost more than my car, and I don’t know much about watches, but his appears to be designed to make a ‘statement’. He’s a little older than me, not much, late 20's I’d guess, with well-cut dark hair, strong features and nice broad shoulders. A hint of stubble darkens his jawline and at that point I stop staring like an idiot. This isn’t a ‘wait to be seated’ place, so I wave a hand at the mostly empty diner. “Grab a seat anywhere, I’ll be right over.” Flashing my pro-waitress smile, I head behind the counter, fill a glass with ice water and follow him to the booth at the end by the big picture window. He nods as I set the water down and then we have a little mini stare-down until I remember he hasn’t been here before. “Sorry, the menu is on the wall above the counter,” I point, but serious brown eyes keep steady contact with mine and I feel myself starting to blush. Did it just get hot in here? “Um, maybe if you know kind of what you’re hungry for I can help?” Get ahold of yourself Jenny, cripes, he’s not that good looking...yes he is...whatever! Do your job girl! Unaware of my internal battle, he stares at me for another ten seconds. “I apologize,” his voice is low and beautiful and sounds like money. Old, old money. Why is he here, he could buy this place with the change in his car seats. He continues through my musing. “I’ve had a rather awful day. Could you just bring me a plate of the best thing the kitchen produces?” He sighs, mustering up a tiny smile. “Sure thing,” best thing...hmmm. He nods and his gaze drifts away from me to stare out the window. A light rain has started to speckle the glass, every drop shining as the sun sets on a beautiful September evening. Feeling a little flustered, I head for the kitchen. This man needs comfort food, and that’s what Gloria does best. Queen of her realm, Gloria is about four feet tall and four feet wide. She has the kitchen set up so that she doesn’t actually have to walk anywhere, she just turns in a circle and cooks up a storm. If it’s out of arm’s reach, she hollers for Jacob. Prep counter in front of her, fridge to her left, fryer and grill behind, she likes to joke that it’s a ‘one-butt kitchen’. “Gloria, there’s a guy out there that needs some love on a plate, what do you think?” Gloria expertly flips a couple of burgers and sets two plates on the counter and then glances at me before looking out the service window. “Something special huh? I’ve probably got enough left for one good plate of the chicken-noodle-taters,” she muses, assembling the burgers quickly and setting them up in the window. “Take these burgers out Honey, I’ll fix him up.” She flaps a hand at me to get out of her way, reaching for the lid on a simmering pot. “Okay, okay, I’m goin’,” I sass at her with a wink as I grab the plates. A couple of coaches wolf the burgers down like pros, and they’ve paid and left by the time Gloria pings the bell in the window. I quickly ring up the Nelson’s, an older couple that come in every night for dinner. Helping them out the door, I head back to get my last customer his dinner. Gloria nailed it. I’m hoping she has just enough left to make a plate for me as I carry the food to his table. Creamy mashed potatoes are covered with a heaping serving of Gloria’s special chicken and noodles. She rolls the noodles from scratch and cuts them with a butter knife on the oldest butcher block known to man. Chicken stock gravy full of meat and veggies that’s been simmered for hours tops the whole works. Stopping to grab silverware rolled up in a paper napkin, and a big glass of iced tea, I take the whole works over to his table and set it down carefully. His eyes widen appreciatively, and he doesn’t have to work so hard to find his smile this time. “Wow,” he groans softly and a small laugh escapes my lips. “Enjoy,” I give him a smile of my own and busy myself behind the counter as he starts eating. Michael I don’t recall what brought me into this particular diner as I drove aimlessly out of the city, but this food would bring me back. What’s been a complete trainwreck of a day is almost erased by a plate of chicken, noodles, and mashed potatoes. Washing down every bite with a gulp of iced tea, I barely realize that I’ve finished the plate and my glass is close to empty until the waitress appears with a pitcher. Light brown curls are escaping the bun her hair is wound into, and large hazel eyes with flecks of green meet mine. Her smile reveals dimples in each cheek as she refills my glass and nods at my plate. “Gloria makes magic in that kitchen, huh? Maybe turning your day around a little?” Her voice is light and musical, the errant thought flits through my brain that I would wager she sings like an angel. “Indeed she does, and indeed it has,” it’s easy to smile back, a relief in fact, I haven’t felt like smiling in days. The bell at the kitchen window pings imperiously and we both glance back. “Jenny, come take this out,” the cook calls, the bell pings again and the waitress, Jenny, turns with a small sigh. “You’re the only one here, what is tha-? Oh...” she lets loose a small chuckle, “hope you’ve still got room.” Quickly walking to the kitchen she pours a large glass of milk and takes another plate out of the window and brings both to my table. My stomach groans as she sets the milk and a large piece of cherry pie loaded with whipped cream in front of me. “There’s no bad day that can stand up to Gloria’s pie,” Jenny sagely promises, flashing her dimples again. Leaning her hip against the table, she crosses her arms comfortably. “Does she have another piece?” The words are out of my mouth before I’ve considered them. Jenny looks at me in surprise. “I know it’s good, but you’re going to want two? I can check,” she shakes her head at me. I speak again before she can turn to go to the kitchen. In for a penny... “No, I was wondering if maybe you’d join me.” At my words, she stops like she walked into a wall. This is why I should always think before I speak. This. Right here. This really awkward moment I’ve gotten myself int- “Well...okay,” she breathes, the faintest blush staining her cheeks, “be right back.” Walking back to the kitchen once more, I hear her call to the cook, and then the cook’s face appears briefly in the service window. Jenny soon returns with her own glass of milk and plate of pie, still blushing, and settles carefully into the booth across from me. Eyes on her food, she takes a small bite and then looks up at me, chewing reflectively before reaching for her milk and taking a drink. “Do you want to talk about your day? It must have been a doozy if it got you to drive far enough to find this place.” Her gaze is warm and open, and I find myself wanting to unload every detail, but I don’t. How does one tell the story of their best friend since primary school, and the business they built together right out of college, and the millions that I lost today because he made some terrible decisions without consulting me, and the friendship that can’t be repaired, and the life I have to start over... “That bad huh?” Jenny reaches across the table and lays her hand on mine, and I realize I’ve been quiet for too long. “Yes, it’s a long story, but here’s the short version. I trusted a friend and that brought me to the brink of financial ruin. I’ve learned many lessons this week, and lost a friend today.” Shrugging uncomfortably, I take a bite of pie, eyes on the food, it hurts to admit it out loud. Ruined, so much to rebuild, alone. “Oh,” she whispers softly, “yeah, if there was a prize for bad days, that would be in the running.” I bark a laugh and she smiles. Giving my hand a light squeeze, she lets go and continues eating, not demanding anything, just offering comfortable silence. After a few minutes, we begin again, silently agreeing not to discuss my problems. Jenny and I talk into the wee hours, about everything and nothing. The cook and the bus-boy have long since turned off the kitchen lights and departed for home. Finally, the length of the day catches up with us and as Jenny tries unsuccessfully to hide a small yawn, I regretfully say my goodbyes. Walking her to her car, she unlocks the door and then turns back to me. We stare at each other for a moment and then lean in at the same time. Her lips are warm and soft under mine. Her hands slide around my neck and I put my arms around her waist, holding her close. When we break apart, our breath mingles in the cool night air. I kiss her again, softly, tuck her safely in her car, and watch her drive away. Gloria He’s back. Every dang night, Michael walks in, about twenty minutes before we close, that rascal with sparkly brown eyes. The night they met, they sat up ‘til who knows when, talking, and Jenny was on cloud nine. It’s been two months and he hasn’t missed a night, he always sits in that booth on the end and just asks for dinner. Every night he pops his head through the kitchen door and thanks me for the meal. Every night he waits for her to finish her work and walks her to her car. The way she giggles and carries on, it sounds like they’ve been together every day she has off work too. Tonight he seems nervous, fidgety. I’ve been keepin’ an eye on him through the service window. If he breaks her heart I’ll have Jacob bust him up. I love that girl like a daughter. Jenny walks over to his booth to bring him a piece of pie and tonight he doesn’t ask her to join him like he usually does. Instead he stands up out of the booth, takes a knee, holds up a ring, and asks our Jenny to marry him. She says yes. The End


The room was littered with knives, small ones, big ones, ones that could kill you slowly and painfully. The man sat up in his chair, rubbing his neck nervously, his dark blue eyes searching the room, not wanting to meet the eyes of the boss. The boss with his bright green eyes sitting just below his sharply curved eyebrows, and intimidating black faux hawk hair. His diamond-shaped face held a straight, defined jawline with a rounded chin littered with stubble. His smile held two sharpened canine teeth that made him look even more intimidating The boss was wearing a nice dark red tank-top with black ripped jeans. The man kept running his fingers through his hair, adjusting his light-brown quiff. He had a square face with a normal jaw line, nothing too defined, and round eyebrows sitting above his timid eyes. “So, you want to be part of the Slanted Slashers, huh? The little betta fish wanting to join the sharks” said the boss, a grin stretching across his face. “Yes, I would, um...” the man’s eyes kept drawing to the knives, how sharp they were, how they could cut him up easily, he stared at the boss once more. The boss kept the same smart grin. “Does he know, I think he knows. All these knives, this has got to be a trap.” The man started to anxiously fiddle with something in his pocket, then set it down on the table, absentmindedly. He started to hyperventilate, the full extent of what he was doing hitting him like a slap in the face. The boss cocked an eyebrow at him “You alright there betta?” “Um, yeah, I just...need a moment. Do you have a bathroom anywhere?” the boss leaned back in his chair. “ Hey Jet! Lead this guy to the wash house.” “Yes sir” came a smooth response. A man with beady brown eyes came out, a smirk fixed on his face. The man noticed his skeletal body, with a triangle face that seemed gaunt, and hair that seemed bleached so many times that it had lost its color. Jet led the man outside and directed him towards a small rickety shack with the words “Slanted Slashers” spray painted in red on the side. As the man walked up to the door he could feel rain start to patter on top of his head. The man walked inside and noticed the dark, disgusting lighting in the shack, the color pallete all browns and greys. He shut the door tightly, because the lock was not working at all. The man started taking deep breaths to get him ready for what he had to do. He tried to turn on the faucet, but all it did was give out a pathetic sputter. He decided to just take off his glasses and let the colorless blobs of the washroom wash over him like a nice, calming wave. Then, when he was nice and calm, put his glasses back on. The man examined himself in the mirror ,studying what he was wearing. He had on a roughed up T-shirt with a picture of Coolio Dogg (an adult cartoon that the man hated) saying his famous catchphrase“Yo, You Dogg ugly”. He was also wearing a pair of khakis and some bright neon Slips, a popular shoe brand that combined comfort and everyday wear. Instinctively, he reached for the badge in his pocket, just to fiddle with, when he realised it wasn’t there. He had left it on the table for anyone to see. The man quickly hurried to the ruckus room, hoping no one had seen his badge yet. He bursted in and saw the boss, badge in hand, staring right at it. “Wikins, Tom. Parkien Detective Agency, that’s the one on 50th street, right? The one across from the deli?” he opened up Tom’s badge more, revealing a hundred dollar-bill that he had been saving for emergencies. “Look at that, big spender, got a hundred smackers! Making use of that big salary huh?” the boss chuckled slowly, a chuckle cementing its way into Tom’s mind. “How could I have been so stupid” Tom thought to himself. “That’s, um, not mine?” his voice trailed off, realising how dumb he sounded, his picture was right on the badge. “Betta fish, betta fish, you have to learn to go with the flow, stop trying to go upstream the roaring river.” The boss started to walk over to walk over to Tom chuckling once more. “Good ol’ pal, are you? Just a guy being pushed around by his government, huh Tom?” the boss said his name like it was a bad taste in his mouth. The boss quickly grabbed Tom by the arm, and gripped him tightly, his muscles flexing. Tom tried to resist, but he was no match for the strength of the boss. “Tsk, Tsk, Tsk, no swimming out of the shark’s feeding grounds, little betta” Tom noticed a shark tattoo on the boss’s arm, it’s gaping mouth telling him he’s about to be devoured. The boss pulled a sharp, 4-inch blade out from behind his back. Tom resisted more, but the boss held on to him firm. “Listen to me little betta, I want you to remember my name, Shark, say it over in your head if you have to. Even if you only have a few hours left, remember it until then.” Then, Shark plunged the blade into Tom’s right upper arm, slicing through it like a fresh mango. “You’re not leaving with both of your fins, little betta, this one’s mine.” He pushed Tom to the ground, while Tom writhed in agony. Shark slowly pulled out the blade, making it as painful as possible. Then, he started hacking away at his arm, like a butcher chopping up it’s beef for sale. Tom could just smell the blood, like walking into a fresh slaughterhouse, and he could feel his arm getting looser and looser. Tom could hear Jet laughing at him, accompanied by some other, deep, rough voice. The last thing Tom remembered was the immense pain, and Shark saying “Hey Jet, Speedy, help me with this one.” Tom woke up in immense darkness. His nose was being viciously destroyed by terrible smells of decomposing garbage all around him. The stump of his arm was open, and mixing with the garbage all around him. If he did survive, that would probably get infected. His arm was still losing blood, his skin cold to the touch. If he knew anything about blood loss, he knew that was a bad sign. He tried to use his left arm to open the cover of this dumpster he was in, but he couldn’t muster the strength. He was on the brink of just giving up, when he started seeing a bright light from above, a grey-haired mustached man standing above him, almost beckoning him. “Am I in heaven?” The man’s eyes widened, and he pulled a smartphone out of his pocket. “911?” the man said, in a light southern accent. Tom noticed details he hadn’t seen before, like the man’s bright neon suit and cigar. “Yeah, I’m part of waste management here at Sacramento and I found this guy here with a missing arm, I think he’s a little loopy too.” Tom started to pass back out, the world turning black once again. Tom woke back up in a hospital room, his nose greeted with a clean, sterile smell. He looked around his room, noticed Coolio Dogg on the TV and quickly turned it to Glomper Glob, a TV show about an alien coming to Earth. He noticed his throat was parched and pressed the call nurse button. A female nurse came in with an oval face speckled with freckles and had nice warm, light brown eyes sitting below rounded eyebrows. She had flowing baby blonde hair that was decorated by a little white nurse’s cap with a red cross stitched into it. “Hello there, sir, is there anything you- oh, it’s you. You’re the guy that lost an arm.” “Yep, that’s me” it was silent for a moment, the only noise coming from the faint noise of the television. “You know you had stage three hemorrhage when we found you. You were cold to the touch, pale, heart racing, capillary refill was terrible, and your blood pressure was unnaturally low. We thought for sure that you would go into type four and-” she abruptly stopped like she wasn’t supposed to say anymore. “Sorry I’m just not supposed to say anything about it. We don’t want to scare the patients.” “I understand” “Well anyway, let’s get to the point here, is there anything you needed?” asked the nurse, a calming smile on her face. “Yes, you-I mean, some water please, and a, umm, mirror if you can.” said Tom, nervously. The nurse giggled at his remark, the laughter music to Tom’s ears. “Real smooth.” The rest of his day at the hospital was heaven for Tom, every day, he could see the nurse, and he even found they had many things in common. They both hated Coolio Dogg and loved Glomper Glob, and they both loved to sit down and read a nice book. They had both learned each others names too, her name was Jen Hawk. One day, Tom was all healed up, and he was able to finally walk and go out of the hospital. Tom didn’t want to leave without talking to Jen one last time, though, so he waited outside the nurse’s break room. A tough looking man came out first, with a short sleeved blue nurse’s uniform. Hr had on some kind of distinctive tattoo, and bumped right into Tom. “Some people need to learn some manners.” mumbled Tom. Tom waited a few more minutes and Jen came out an enthusiastic smile on her face. “Hey there Tom, up and walking I see!” “Yep, It’s great.” Tom waited a moment summoning up the courage to speak “I was, um, wondering if we could, you know, exchange numbers?” “Sure, my number (800) 367-1523.” she wrote it down on a piece of paper “By the way, real smooth” Everyday they would chat for hours, about books that they read or episodes of Glomper Glob or Coolio Dogg, or just things that they did. One day, the conversation came to an invite. “Hey Tom I just realized we never hung out outside of the hospital.” “Huh, you’re right, that’s strange.” “Well, I have my 28th birthday coming up, and...” “You’re inviting me?” “I mean nobody else ever comes, and I know you will” “Yeah, of course!” “So it’s at 5021 48th St., 78341.” “I’ll definitely be there.” When the day came, Tom was all ready for the occasion. He had put on his beige suit and wore a black tie. He had gotten a bouquet of flowers and an “I love you card” too, today he was finally going to confess. He also had a nice silly birthday gift, a Glomper Glob shirt, inside of a gift bag. When he arrived at the house he studied it. It was a nice magenta colored house with the number 5021 on a plate sitting right next to her garage. It had a few wind chimes playing faint music in the light breeze. He walked up to the door, straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his hair, and knocked. Surprisingly, the door came clean open on the first knock. Tom hadn’t noticed the broken lock on the door handle when he came in. “Hello? Jen?” he said, raising his voice. He flicked on the lights and the first thing he saw was Jen ,sitting right in the middle of the floor, right next to a brown sofa stained with fresh blood. “Oh my god” said Tom, a quiver in his voice. She laid there with a twisted look of fear on her face. Tom was devastated, the walls felt like they were closing in on him. The entire world seemed to shift in and out of focus, and he dropped to his knees. He cradled Jen’s head in his arms, checking for any vital signs. He found none. When he finally mustered the strength to get up, he noticed a note crudely written in a notebook. “Hey Tom, you should really get your phone lines secure, being a detective and all that. I just realized something too, we haven’t hung out since I cut off your arm, how weird? Sincerely, Shark. P.S. You really should keep your future pet hawks out of the feeding grounds” Tom felt anger swelling up inside of him, a level of anger he had never felt before. However, with no outlet, all he could do was suppress that anger. “Hey Tom, need a hand?” Tom sighed and put down his pencil. He looked up at his coworker, Jeff, that was just making his life that much worse. He could see his smug square shaped face, harnessing those judging dark brown eyes that seemed to laugh at him for everything he did. “That’s not even a good one, have some originality in your insults at least.” Said Tom ,in a monotone, unenthusiastic voice. “I lost a whole arm, not just a hand” “And how arm you dealing with that?” said Jeff, his eyebrows even more arched than normal. Tom just sighed and went back to work as Jeff laughed it up. Tom pulled out his phone, and started scrolling through the news, seeing if there was anything special happening. He immediately went to the tech section to see what they had, and it was all normal stuff, scientists testing out new A.I., House robots made for the elderly to clean the house and do basic functions for them, and the rising argument on how we should be treating A.I. He kept scrolling and was about to put his phone away when he saw something about a robotic arm made out of microbot specially made for working amputees. Tom read more into the article and found it was made by VizTec, a company specializes in making home electronics. In the article it had a link where you could sign up for it, so Tom took a look. You had to have an upfront payment of a thousand dollars, just to help cover the costs, and have proof you are a working amputee. Tom submitted a picture of himself, and his work file, containing all of his work information. After a few days, he got an email saying he had made it and would be transplanted the arm on January first in the Rosebud Hospital Center. When the day came, he arrived at the hospital, excited to finally be able to use his right arm. He was greeted with a man in a green uniform with the words VizTec on the front in bold white letters. “Hello sir, are you here for our amputee program” “Yes” “Please state your name and profession. “Wikins, Tom, detective.” “Thank you sir, go right on ahead, your room number is 1003, first floor.” Tom made his way to the hospital room, glancing at some of the other rooms. He could see a couple other patients getting their arms and some regular patients. He hospital smelled clean, but too clean, like walking down the detergent aisle at Walmart. Soon, he arrived at his room. A man stood there in a bright green jumpsuit, a big, fake smile on his face. He had a rectangular face, and wide brown eyes above, his eyebrows stood arched above, giving him an always surprised look. “Hello, Hello! You must be Tom. My name is Darren and I am the head supervisor at the VizTec disabled section, and I am proud to present this arm to you, specially funded by the government. My lab assistants will now transplant the arm, thank you for being apart of the testing.” Tom sat down on the hospital bed, as two people in lab coats came in with a metallic arm. They strapped him down, then gave him some anesthesia to knock him out. When Tom woke up, he had his arm firmly on, but something was wrong, he couldn’t control it. He realized he wasn’t in a hospital bed either, he was in the street, his robotic arm dragging him along. Plus he had an aching pain all over, like he had broken a few bones. “What the heck is going on” he thought. The arm stopped dragging him. “Ah, the body has its own brain” said a voice in his head. “Who are you?” he said looking around him. “01000100 01100001 01110110 01100101, that’s the closest I have to a name.” “Why can you speak in my thoughts?” “Because I’m attached to you dummy.” “What are you talking about, how could you-” A memory started playing in his mind. “Take a look at this, then you’ll see.” Tom was laying down in his hospital bed, his robotic arm installed fully. Suddenly, Darren burst into the room. “Uninstall it! It’s got government technology and it could be a real threat, it’s got a mind of its own!” Tom’s body started to lift into the air as the arm lifted him up. “Shut it down!” said Darren, screaming wildly. “We can’t it’s already been installed.” “By god, find a way!” His arm started throwing him out the window. “Stop it!” screamed Darren. Tom’s arm smacked the assistants against the wall. “You threw my back out!” yelled one. Soon, the memory led to him smashing through the window, and hitting the ground. “That explains why my bones are broken” said Tom. “Yes it does, now please silence.” “Where are we going anyway?” “The Slanted Slashers HQ, I’ve caught their trail using their online presence, looks like this “Jet” has a big presence on Zip. “What’s Zip again?” “Zip is a multimedia messaging app popular around the wor-” “Get to the point” “You send custom gifs between people.” “Thank you, finally!”It was silent for a few moments as Tom processed the information he had been given. “Wait, did you say we were going to the Slanted Slashers HQ? “Yes” “Oh no, please, no. They’ll cut off my other arm, they’ll kill somebody else that I care about.” Tom was speaking quick, but slowed as he finished his sentence. He realised there was nobody else he cared about, and there was nobody that cared about him. “Well, I guess we might as well. By the way can you stop dragging me?” “Of course.” His arm immediately stopped. “Now, let’s think of-” Tom was instantly interrupted by his arm. “No, I don’t need one.” “But a name would be great! Instead of 010010-” “Alright, you might have a point, carry on.” “How about... Derrick” “No.” “Dave?” “No way” Tom thought for a few minutes and then an idea popped into his mind. “No, that’s a terrible name” “But, it sounds-” “My name is not going to be a pun” “Yes, that’s what I’m calling you.” There was a pause as it was processing it’s answer. “Oh well, I guess. DA.I.VE” “Now, let’s head over to the Slasher HQ.” They arrived at the Slanted Slasher HQ and looked for a place to sneak in. They sized it up, looking for any weaknesses. They couldn’t really spot any, except a small hole in a chain link fence. “Alright, I think we should try and bend through this” “80% chance of success, do it.” Tom walked over to the fence, and DA.I.VE bent the metal up so he could go through. It was a tight fit, tearing a whole in the patient gown Tom was wearing, but they made it. As Tom went in, he could see a chubby man sitting in the corner, fiddling with a small blade. “Alright let’s see if we can get past this guy.” said Tom. Tom started to sneak up to him, but he was very nervous. Tom started to breath heavily, so DA.I.VE put his hand over Tom’s mouth. As Tom started going past the chubby man, DA.I.VE’s arm snatched out and caught the man in the neck. “Oh my god” yelled Tom in surprise as DA.I.VE strangled the man. The man started taking the knife he had been playing with and trying to stab DA.I.VE with it, but to no avail. Tom started to screech at DA.I.VE. “Stop, don’t kill him, we don’t kill people!” DA.I.VE didn’t stop. Tom could see the man gasping for air, his face turning red, then quickly, purple. Soon the man had fallen limp as Tom kept screeching. “Be quiet, your shouting has made them hear us, they will be out hear in a matter of minutes.” “You-You killed that man.” “No, not yet at least, he’s just unconscious. But don’t worry he’ll die of asphyxiation soon.” DA.I.VE started grabbing the clothes of the man, and putting it on Tom, he tried to struggle, but was no match for DA.I.VE and his ownwant to get out of those wretched clothes. He was now wearing an XL brown trenchcoat that flowed in the wind. It was just a little bit too big for Tom, and he felt like if he jumped up and down, it would fall right off. Tom immediately struck up his argument once more. “That was a human man, a man that could’ve been rehabilitated.” “They don’t deserve it, if they don’t want punishment, then don’t commit the crime.” “But that doesn’t give you the right to decide whether he lives or-” Suddenly they heard someone clearing their throat. “I see you’ve met Speedy” said Shark, his sharp canine teeth showing. He didn’t seem to care that one of his prime henchman had just been killed by Tom. “Well it seems you’ve got a little tech, hmm? Putting that expensive salary to use? Getting rid of my hard work? I worked hard to get that arm off and you just replace it. You really deserve to die.” “What?’ said Tom, as he could feel a cold knife against his throat. This would be a perfect moment to monologue my evil plans.” Shark said in a sarcastic tone. “Kill him.” Tom felt the cold iron slide against his throat. Immediately everything went black for Tom. Then, he woke up, The End. “That’s a bad way to end the book.” “I know, I’ve read a few. Wait, how did we both know, and what’s ‘the book?” “Imbecile, he means the book we’re in. Or maybe it’s more of a short story, I mean it is like 7 pages.” Tom was shocked “What do you mean we’re all in a book.” “Your existence is a collection of words that paints an image in the reader's imagination.” There was a silence for a moment as Tom contemplated this. “That means we have no control on what we do, so the writer is writing this conversation.” said Tom, finally understand that I have all the power. “Maybe not all the power, we can still do some things.” Really, you’re just going to use the word “Things”? Stupid, I should have wrote you to be smart. “That is very offensive, I am” Tom paused for a moment, because he can’t think of the word, because I won’t let him. “That’s just mean” Alright enough, or we won’t be able to have a satisfying conclusion. “Fine fine, we’ll advance the plot.” Just as I wrote you too. “So, in order to advance the plot we need to get out of...Where are we?” said stupid Tom. “We’re in Writer’s Block, the author can’t think of an ending for his novel.” “Why is it just nothingness. “You have to describe it, like imagine something. The more detailed the thought, the more detailed the image.” Tom imagined a few things. A beautiful grass field, complete with flowers and ladybugs. He also imagined a huge ocean, spanning as far as he could see, a sparkling blue color. Finally he imagined Jen, using all of his memories. Woah, that’s a little too much, I’m sorry, you can’t imagine that. “Why not, I love her.” She’s dead, I can’t bring her back, not in this story at least. “But-” No, Stop or else. I’m warning you! “You are a terrible writer that can’t finish his book.” Yelled Rom, unjustly. Fine, spend two years here, see how you like being here. “Wait, no, I’m separate from him, please.” Said DA.I.VE pathetically begging. Sorry you’re still part of him. As two years ticked by, Tom developed a close friendship with DA.I.VE. They head fiery debates about the judicial system, whether there is a god, and whether blueberries are the superior fruit. They also had many moments where Tom had finally resolved some of his problems, and taught DA.I.VE more emotion. Hello Tom. Tom jumped in fear, of course, the scaredy cat. “Don’t scare me like that. Wait, is our time up? We’ve really spent two years here?” Yes, you have. It was silent for what felt like hours, then Tom broke it. “Give us a resolution, and we’ll make a deal.” It must be a sad ending, sorry the villain wins. “No, I’ll do anything, please, give us an ending where the reader decides.” This is a short story, It can’t be open ended. More silence, as Tom thought of an idea. “I’ll die” he said.“No, me” said DA.I.VE. “I’m sort of, excited to die, I want to know what it feels like. I’m glad I got to taste living though, thanks to you, but this story needs to end, and this is the best way. “No, but-” “I can’t live without a host anyway.” Then it’s settled? “Yes, It’s settled.” Good, that’ll be a great ending to my story. “What?’ said Tom, as he could feel a cold knife against his throat. This would be a perfect moment to monologue my evil plans.” Shark said in a sarcastic tone. “Kill him.” The knife just disappeared in the holder’s hands, this is his shot. “I don’t know how you did it, but you impress me betta, that one was...real smooth.” Tom glared at Shark. DA.I.VE started to speak with as much compassion as his programming would let him. “I want to go now, I had a good time with you, you taught me much, Tom. You taught me how to be human. I thank you for this, and I can’t think of any better way.” said DA.I.VE “Goodbye old friend” “Grab onto Shark” said DA.I.VE, happy to give his life for a worthy cause. As Tom grabbed onto Shark, the microbots on his arm shifted over to Shark and started devouring him, as soon as they were done though, they disintegrated into the wind. DA.I.VE started to speak one last time, a message to Tom. “It feels so strange, empty, but complete at the same time. I’ve turned on my emotions for the first time, and I’m feeling a little afraid to die. Please, re-re-remember me, T-T-Tom. P-Promise that-that-that-that-that-re-re-re-re-that-re-that-system erroo-.” There was nothing left of DA.I.VE, all Tom could see was the husk of his arm. “No more of your fancy toys, just one on one.” said Shark, eyes gleaming. His arm was devoured by the microbots, still dripping with blood. He motioned towards both of their arms, or rather their absence of them. It didn’t bother him in the slightest. As they circled each other, Shark leaped out with his knife and stabbed Tom in the shoulder. “Well here we are! The betta and the Shark. Doesn't look like much of a conflict.” Tom started to tear up, he didn’t want to, but he knew that he would never be able to kill Shark himself. Tom collapsed onto the ground, breaking into a full crying fit. He pictured Jen in his mind, and the fear upon her face when she died. He could hear DA.I.VE's voice in his ear, how he died for almost nothing. His sadness started to convert into pure hatred. Tom could feel the anger swell up in him, every angry moment he had just pent up swirling around his mind, blocking out every rational thought. Shark walked over to Tom, sniffling on the ground. “Oh come on, I wanted a challenge! Oh well.” Shark stabbed Tom in the chest and Tom immediately jumped at Shark, grabbing his throat and punching him over and over. Tom eventually slowed down for a few moments, catching his breath. Shark had multiple cuts and scrapes on his face, blood was covering up most of it, blotting out intricate details, but he was still smiling. “There we go, got some fight in you.” said Shark, a wide smile on his face. “Where is the knife? The one you used on her?” Shark pulled something out of his pocket and gave it to Tom. “Go ahead, do it!” Tom was reluctant, staring at the knife in his hand. “Do it already!” shouted Shark, hoarsely. Tom started to back up, his senses regaining even more. “Wow, real smooth, Tom!” said Shark. “What did you say?” said Tom, stepping towards Shark again. “I said, Rea-” Shark got into a coughing fit, he had choked on the blood in his throat. “Real...Smooth.” said Shark, giving an empty chuckle, soon bursting into a full laughing fit. Tom ran up to Shark, anger blocking out everything human about him, and just plunged the knife into Shark's body, stabbing him multiple times in the lungs, and twice in the liver. “Be afraid! Give me fear! Be afraid like she was! Do it, now” Tom shouted, breathing heavily. Shark just spit blood into Tom’s face. Tom went into blind rage, just stabbing Shark over and over while screaming “Give me fear! Be afraid!” Shark just kept up with the smile until there was no smile left, until there was no man left, just an intense collage of the color red. Shark was long gone, but Tom didn’t care, he just kept stabbing what was left until he had gotten out all his anger. Tom just laid on the ground, heaving for fifteen minutes. When his senses fully regained, and he realized what he did, and dropped the knife. Tom, a man who was too timid to shoot a rabbit, too squeamish to dissect a frog, just killed a man. Tom started to scream, tears pouring down his face. He rolled around on the ground, a mix of so many emotions that Tom couldn’t understand anything anymore. He sat there for what felt like hours before finally calming down and rolling up to his feet. In the corner of his eye, he saw a pile of black ash sitting on the ground next to him. Tom scooped up DA.I.VE’s ashes and buried them under a shallow pot-hole in the road. Tom stared at the knife that he had dropped, then looked up at the sky. “You’re not getting me today, not today.” Tom took a lighter form the table and put it in his pocket. He gathered up as much wood as he could inside the rec room. Then, he gathered a few leaves from a nearby tree. He grabbed the lighter ,flicked it open, then threw it into the little fire starter he had built. He walked out of the building and looked up at it, the flames had started to spread across the building. The flames flickered in Tom’s eyes, filling him with a sense of relief. “Good riddance” he said, a smirk on his face. Suddenly, he got a call on his phone. It was from the police chief, he answered. “Tom, thank goodness, we need you, please!” “Sorry, I’m not a detective anymore.” Listen to me, Tom. We’ve got a call” “I’m not taking any calls” “Listen Tom, this one is different. This company, VizTec, they just reconstructed a dead person with A.I. technology, and...” the police chief’s voice trailed off “And what?” “And it’s calling for you, for some reason. They said, it must reach you.” “What was the person’s name?” “Jennifer Hawk.


Marlon Brando sat at the head of a grand old dinner table, twenty-eight feet long, resplendent with varnished oak wood, engravings and regal table top embellishments; candles, fine silver cutlery, gold-tinted napkins, frilly old table cloths like the kind your gran put out for Sunday dinner, only nicer. The table was located in the grand old hall of a grand old mansion that at one point belonged to a grand old Lord or Baron or Marquis or some other archaic personage. Now it belonged to Brando; to Hollywood. The transformation complete. The Visigoths at the gates of Rome no longer, they plunder now its splendid pantry and gorge themselves on the fruits of a thousand conquests of a thousand centuries. Bloated Brando at the head of the table, fireplace raging behind him and casting his engorged shadow across the ancient fireplace stones, chicken thigh in one hand, a wing in the other, lips stained with mashed potato, laughed a hearty laugh. The corpse of Francis Ford Coppolla sat slumped in the chair to Brando’s right. Al Pacino, not quite dead, stood serf-like at Brando’s side, wearing a torn tuxedo stained with a thousand condiments, waiter’s tablecloth in hand: the perfect supplicant, the faithful hound, ready at the sound of his master’s voice to rush to the kitchen where Diane Keaton waited to prepare for her beloved (Brando, not Pacino) any dish his cholesterol weakened heart desired. A ragged dockworker; union man, collar blue like the blueberry pie Brando was feasting upon at the moment of his entry, cries hysterically: “They are here my Don! Your people have come once more, to gaze upon your emboldened visage!” Brando sets aside his gallon tub of ice cream and allows an open-mouthed grin to grow across his huge face, rolls of cheek and neck fat piling one atop the other like some hideous optical illusion, thin strands of fried chicken skin dangling between incisor and canine, “Bid them enter!” he commands. At this the floodgates open and a wild throng of Hawaiian shirt clad, camera clutching tourists, the flash from their smartphones exploding on the visors of their Ray-Bans', enter the grand hall and surround poor portly Brando. He tries to hide behind a freshly cooked turkey just laid on the table by Diane Keaton, who now lies deceased, perished beneath the footsteps of a hundred eager vultures. But it is not Brando’s banquet they have come to devour, but Brando himself. “Mr. Brando!” squawks one of the vultures, “Show us the way! Lead us from temptation!” Brando smiles, red wine flows from his facial orifices, spilling onto the toes of a nearby sycophant, who eagerly bends down to lick the wine of Brando from his sandal shoe and from between his toes. He does not answer. Another croaks “My Lord! We have been told there’s something wrong; the politicians, the journalists, the new inhabitants of the Big Brother house, they all speak of impending doom, cliff edges and the like! What are we to do?” “It’s okaaaaay Babaaaaay” he bellows in response, with tears bubbling in the cauldron of his eyes. As the throng presses ever closer, Brando begins to suffocate, his eyes literally popping from his skull as thick gravy seeps from his tear ducts and clumps of miscellaneous meat regurgitate from his swollen mouth. The sound of iPhone camera clicks becomes deafening, and Brando collapses into a bowl of sticky toffee pudding, his final feast complete. A maggot crawls out of the hollow cavern that was once the eye of Francis Ford Coppolla, like a solitary teardrop, and high above this sordid scene, where once there was mounted the head of a boar or lion, the perfectly preserved head of Jacob-Rees Mogg watches all below, the scheming glint still alive in his eyes.


Father sat with his legs outstretched in front of the gas fire, his feet so close to the heat that the steam rose in a continual haze. He was still wearing his gardening clothes and the bottoms of his threadbare jeans were circled with mud which would eventually set solid and flake on to the carpet as he moved about the house. As he dozed his head flopped to one side, the light from the standard lamp emphasising the weathered skin of his face and the dark circles of tiredness under his eyes. Even in this restless sleep it was as if he was fighting off some yawning slumber that had grown from a life of hard physical labour, poverty and drink. Within the narrow limitations of our world I imagined we were never a particularly unhappy family, we were mostly respectful of each other unless father was suffering one of his tantrums. It often worried me that there were too many long periods of silence between us, but I think those were the times when the bonds were given space to heal. We lived in a sombre world, as efficient as it could be given how poor we were, but it was a solemn, colourless existence. I was very close to my mother and remained that way for the whole of my childhood, I would happily share with her the few secrets I could muster. I think she valued those little moments more than she ever let on. I sat at the dining table reading a book about aeroplanes, every now and again looking towards my father to see if his head had dropped low enough to cause him to wake up, which he would do with a grunt and a sigh. But tonight, maybe because the room was sauna-hot, he remained motionless, snoring steadily and deeply. I could hear mother in the kitchen putting dinner plates back into the cupboard and laying the cutlery back into a drawer, actions timed perfectly with the six o'clock chimes of Big Ben on the radio. She came back into the room and sat next to me at the table so as not to wake her husband but accidentally knocked her knee against the chair leg and he woke with a splutter. "That was a meal that was!" he grunted, thinking we hadn't noticed him sleeping. Then, in one move he lifted himself slightly out of his chair and grabbed a thick wedge of seed catalogues from the table. "Best get those dahlia stakes in tomorrow young fella' m'lad." It was almost as if he felt guilty about the time he'd wasted sleeping, I suspected it wouldn't be more than a few minutes before he started another little job somewhere about the house until tiredness claimed him again just after nightfall. Father's garden was both sanctuary and triumph, two decades of tilling, composting and mulching had turned the soil from a heavy, sodden clay into a friable seed bed capable of providing the three of us with sufficient salads and vegetables for much of the year. It was a testament not only to his toil, but also to his expertise and experience. As well as a bounty of food, the garden supplied the house with an adornment of cut flowers of every variety. Depending on the month our kitchen window sill would be filled with pots and vases of daffodils, dahlias, chrysanthemums and gladioli. The mantlepiece and shelves of the living room and hallway were festooned with arrays of brilliant flowers that filled the dank air with their gentle bouquets and sweet perfumes. At the weekend, when the weather allowed I would be encouraged to help father in the garden, a task I would perform dutifully, but with a feigned enthusiasm. Since he'd retired, the garden had become more of an obsession than a salutary pastime, his life depending on the rhythm of the seasons and the quirks of the English weather. He'd always been a man whose whole existence was founded on the principal of work, without it he was a dithering confusion. Mother and I knew that when the three of us went away on our summer holiday he became a little boy lost in his own foreign land where nothing was familiar and there was little to fulfil his innate need for purpose. His dahlia beds were well known among the horticultural community of our village. The regimented rows of plants filled nearly half the garden, resplendent in late summer with masses of red, yellow and orange blooms supported by bamboo canes and twine to stop the wind from damaging their weighty heads. Father would carefully select a small number of blooms for the village flower show, covering the individual plants with fleece to prevent them from scorching under the summer sun. The show was the pinnacle of his gardening year but despite never having won a first prize with his dahlia blooms, he'd gained numerous thirds and a sprinkling of seconds. I struggled to see the difference between the prize winning flowers, to me they all looked pretty much the same. Father would tell me about how the lower petals of a winning bloom should never curl in a different direction to the main petals, or how the colour should be completely uniform across the whole bloom. But the whole thing left me cold. When he'd finished reading his seed catalogues, father raised himself slightly off his chair again, pulled the flower show schedule from his back pocket and waved it at us. "One week to go, and then we'll see who wins," he announced. We both glanced at him and then smiled at each other, briefly linked in a little conspiracy of comradeship which, we thought, had excluded him. I suspect mother's undying loyalty to both of us was a constant source of worry to her, although securing allegiance and indifference was a juggling act she'd perfected over the years. "Let's go and see which flowers are going to win young fella' m'lad," he said as he buttoned up his jacket. I followed him out to the garden where he forced his feet into his boots without opening them and then stamped on the ground to make them fit. I slid on my wellingtons and looked over to where my bicycle leant against the shed, wishing I was somewhere else. I followed him along a narrow gravelled path that wound its way among the flower beds. Little clumps of lobelia and alyssum spilled over the shuttering that kept the gravel from being kicked onto the soil, small patches of self-seeded forget-me-nots sprouted from muddy slopes where the timber edging had rotted. The sun had long since disappeared behind a bank of thick cloud and fat, oily drops of grey rain had started to wet the ground. My mood lightened with the thought that the afternoon's chores might be postponed, I looked up to the sky and willed the rain to pour down. Father saw me and smiled. "Little rain won't stop us eh lad?" I smiled and pulled the collar of my coat up tightly around my neck. There was a purpose to his stride now, defiant of the weather and its potential to scupper the buoyancy of his mood. I followed close behind, hands in pockets and one eye on the horizon where a disheartening shaft of sunlight had broken through the dark blanket of cloud. "Just a light shower, bright skies ahead," he said with a wry smile. "Let's get these flowers tied in against the wind." But away from the restrictive influence of mother's authority, father's humour turned sour. His attitude to me changed from a cool acceptance of my apathy, to an impatient anger that I feared would develop into something more sinister. Past experience had taught me to be cautious of his fragile mood. Away from the house he became an irritable and intolerant version of himself. There was a deep vein of arrogance in him which generated an obstinate conviction that nobody else could do things as well as he could. Certainly not his son. Father had a temper that simmered just below the surface of his usually affable temperament, one that could erupt without notice, brutal and furious. I had learned to respect his rages, to absorb the intensity of them rather than react to his cruel accusations. I would endure the spontaneous tirades by remembering the warm comforting words of my mother who accepted his anger with understanding and love. It was only when I feared for her wellbeing that I became scared for mine. Father stood at one end of a row of dahlias and tied a piece of twine to the top of one of the timber stakes that he'd driven into the ground. He threw the ball of string at me so that I could tie it off on to a stake at my end of the dahlia bed but I fumbled the catch and it fell to the ground, rolling away down the sloping path. "Come on butterfingers, this has got to be done before the wind gets up!" he shouted. There was no mistaking the beginnings of one of his tantrums. I was sure he'd thrown the ball of string too hard and that there was little chance of me being able to catch it, a technique he'd perfected to make sure I understood my place in our partnership. I'd learned from experience, and from the chats with my mother, that the best way to keep from suffering the full wrath of his outburst would be to admit my incompetence and remain calm. Which I did. I tied my end of the string to the top of a post at the edge of the flower bed and pulled it firmly so that father could tie the biggest and most prized dahlias to it with strips of cloth. He'd explained many times how important it was to use pieces of cloth so that the plant stems didn't get damaged by the thin string. I watched him move slowly along the path, tying in each of the biggest blooms to the taut line. A gentle gust of wind blew a little cloud of dust across the flower beds, the plant stems bent over and the leaves rustled in the breeze. Father looked to the sky and then to me, which I suspected was his way of inferring the oncoming storm was somehow my fault and that we should hurry along with the job before the dahlia flowers got damaged. There was an unnatural intensity to his movements now, he flicked his gaze from the plants to me, and then back to the sky in an exaggerated and agitated way, almost as if he had become possessed by some devilish spirit. The wind picked up and the dahlias bent further over. "Well don't just stand there boy, come and help!" he shouted again. I let go of the stake and stepped back up on to the path, but as my foot rose it caught on a section of the timber edging, I stumbled forwards and grabbed on to the string to steady myself. It stretched tightly with the force of my fall, one of the stakes snapped and I fell headlong into the flower bed snapping the whole swathe of dahlia stems as I collapsed on to the ground. I lay still, stuck in a moment of time between disbelief and terror. I looked along the soil where little mounds rose and fell away to the end of the shortened horizon. I imagined being extremely small so that I could hide within the hills and valleys of the miniature landscape. I got to my feet and held one of the broken stems with one hand, cradling the large flower head with my other. I knew father would be looking at me but I didn't yet have the courage to look back, and so, feeling utterly incompetent, I put the dahlia down and picked up another. "JUST LEAVE IT!" he shouted as he ripped the string from the post. I stood completely still and stared down at the ground, trying to avoid the view of the carnage that lay around us. A dozen once beautiful dahlia flowers lay by the path, some had lost most of their petals, others lay crumpled and stained like sad faces in the mud. The sun finally peeked from behind a cloud. Every plant apart from one had snapped off at ground level, their leaves already beginning to wilt in the warmth of the day, thick green stems lay at odd angles, tangles of string and strips of cloth lay coiled and knotted along the path. I waited for the shouting to begin, I imagined I deserved everything that was coming to me. But father stood rooted to the spot saying nothing. I heard the sound of a radio from next door's garden and a seagull swooped down low, squawking like a baby. I could feel father looking at me and for a moment I considered running away, it was all I could do to stop myself from bursting into tears. I desperately wanted to be told off so that I could have an excuse to cry, but his silence left me struggling to understand why I wasn't being punished, which was a sentence in itself. We sat next to each other in the warm glow of the fire. Mother with her hand on my knee, my head resting lightly on her shoulder. I'd told her what had happened, as had father earlier in the afternoon before he'd started his drinking. A little chink of light from a streetlamp seeped between the curtains and lit up a family photograph that stood on the mantlepiece. I felt the comforting blanket of mother's warm love and I closed my eyes against the world. Father stumbled through the door and leant shakily against the table, mother stood up and put her hand on the top of my head. He wiped the corner of his wet mouth with the back of his hand and tried to pour another drink from the bottle he knew was empty, then threw it on the carpet. I watched it roll away underneath his armchair until it clunked against the wall. For a moment the room was silent again as they faced each other in the flickering dim light. "The boy's a wrong 'un, he'll never come to anything." The words felt so much like a punch, that I actually put my hands up in front of my face. Mother's mouth opened and closed again, starting to form some kind of a reply, but she gave in to his temper, as she had always done. Father passed away the day before the flower show, his heart finally giving in to a lifetime of resentment and drink. Mother and I were the only two that stood at the side of his grave on the hot afternoon of his funeral. A week after the flower show we lifted the dahlia corms that he'd left abandoned in the garden. We pruned off the dying foliage and replanted them in amongst a neglected border of wild flowers and grasses where they grew young, fresh shoots of bright green leaves. A few of the sturdiest plants produced flowers, although they were slightly smaller than they would normally have been. But to me, the small blooms looked perfectly placed among the haphazard collection of native flowers that sprawled through the border and across the little path that led around the garden. Mother and I visited father every day, and as the soft summer breeze blew the dahlia petals across his grave, I looked up to the sky and I hoped that he'd found a place where he could be happy.


I used to live in Memphis. I say used to, because it doesn't really exist anymore. The last thing I will ever see, will be the mushroom cloud on the horizon. They say that the burst of energy from a nuclear blast is so bright, that anyone who witnesses it will go blind. I wish I'd never seen it. I think that's when I went into shock. I remember thinking "That kind of thing just can't happen here, this is America!". I don't really know how long I just stood there. After the explosion, my friend James and I tried to get away from town. He packed up all of our food and the two guns that I owned in my Jeep, and we started driving north. He was smart enough to avoid the main roads, and we took a small rarely-used highway to get away as fast as possible. James was not the best driver, and he drove with reckless abandon. We probably made it four miles before he ran a red light, and we were hit by a school bus. The bus just backed up and drove around us. Like we weren't even there. I could feel his still-warm blood all over the car, and I couldn't find a pulse. I had known him for 25 years, he was my best friend, and now he's dead. I didn't know what to do, I didn't know where I was. I'm blind and my best friend is dead. I decided to grab what I could from the back of the vehicle, and just start walking. The best idea I could come up with was: I'll keep my feet on the pavement, and eventually I'll make it to somewhere safe. I didn't.


“Next.” The girl behind the counter flashes a smile. Kyanna. My stomach flips. God, she’s even cute in a baggy postal uniform. Am I imagining it or is that smile a bit brighter than the one she gave the last customer? I tug the hood of my sweatshirt lower over my eyes, and then fold and unfold the paper in my hand, pretending to read it while holding up my index finger. “Sorry. I’m not quite ready.” I gesture to the guy in line behind me. “You go ahead.” I continue to stare at the paper, occasionally looking up to the station next to Kyanna’s. The old guy who never smiles. Cecil. That’s the clerk I want. No, Kyanna is the clerk I want , but Cecil is the one I need . I can still feel Kyanna glaring at me. I’ve known her since high school when we were band geeks together. I couldn’t talk to her back then either. Cecil finishes with his customer and beckons me over without even looking up from his computer. “Hi, I need to pick up a package?” I hold out the slip of paper. Kyanna clicks her tongue. Cecil snatches the paper from my hand, reads it, and then looks at me over the rims of his glasses. His eyes are mismatched, like an Alaskan husky. Mahogany and ice blue. He turns and ambles to the back room. “I could’ve helped you with that,” says Kyanna, brushing a hand over her hair. It’s a thick black weave that flows down her back. “Just saying.” My mouth goes dry. I try to swallow. “I...just wasn’t ready.” “Whatever.” She scowls, but I notice the corner of her lip twitching. I’ve just said three semi-coherent sentences to her. It has to be a new record. Of course, that’s if you count “sorry” as a sentence. Cecil comes back and drops a repurposed Amazon box on the counter. The logo smiles up at me. I weigh it in my hand. It’s heavier than most of the other ones. “So, how much do I...?” “It’s paid for, boss,” says Cecil. “The person who sent it did that. You oughta’ know how the Post Office works by now. You're here almost every day.” Kyanna giggles and my face turns hot. “Thanks.” I snatch up the package and stride out the door. “Bye, Orion.” She’s still laughing as she says it. Sitting in my car, I pull my hood back and break the tape on the package with the tip of a ballpoint pen. Inside the box there’s a handwritten note: You’ll know what to do. It’s such a messy scrawl that most people wouldn’t be able to read it, but it’s not a problem for me. Under that, wrapped with crumpled newspaper, is a ball-peen hammer and a box cutter. I shift the newspaper aside. There’s one more thing. A baby pacifier, still in its packaging. Too weird. So I do what I always do after getting one of these little presents. I just go about my day, like it never happened. Today that means starting the car and heading to my crappy job at Target. Could be worse. They have me in the back moving stock. At least I don’t have to talk to anyone. Thanks to my post office visit, I’m cutting it close. I can’t be late again. My boss has been all over my butt as it is. Up ahead I see the stoplight at the intersection of Live Oak and Delta. It’s green now, but if I get caught by a red, I’ll never make it on time. The light turns yellow, so I punch the accelerator. If the Hyundai in front of me goes through, I can cut right behind it. But the brake lights flash and now I’m trapped behind the little red car, pounding the steering wheel as every curse word I know throws tantrums in my head. I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. I do it again. And again. Dr. Silverstein recommends this when the stress gets too much. It’s not working today. The light turns green, and the Hyundai moves forward. I’m about to follow when there’s a flash of cobalt blue, a needle-sharp screech of tires, and a sickening concussion of metal on metal. A speeding SUV just blew through the stoplight from the left, bowling into the rear of the smaller car and sending it spinning once, twice across the intersection before careering into a streetlight. The SUV stutters forward another hundred yards or so, its engine knocking. It grinds to a halt just after bouncing up a curb and straddling the sidewalk. Pulling my sweatshirt hood up, I leap out of my car, running toward the Hyundai with the box cradled under my arm. About seven other Good Samaritans are ahead of me. A lady wearing a track jacket and black leggings is already there, a guy in a grey business suit right behind her. Smoke starts to rise from the hood. Then flames. They yank open the driver’s door and a young woman tumbles out, bleeding from her forehead. The man in the suit throws her arm over his shoulder and drags her away. “Get back!” the workout lady shrieks. “There’s gas everywhere!” “My baby!” The young driver is holding a hand to her forehead and scarlet pours from between her fingers. Her other hand stretches toward the car. Her eyes are feral. “My baby’s in there!” The crowd in front of me hesitates, unable to leave an infant to the flames, unwilling to risk immolation themselves. The workout lady runs to the other side of the car and tugs on the door. It’s locked. Or jammed. Either way, it won’t open. One of the other Samaritans, this big guy in a plaid shirt, runs up and grabs her from behind. “Get away from there! It’s gonna blow!” He lifts her off the ground and carries her away. She’s crying, kicking and thrashing as the rest of them fall back. But I shoulder my way past them and head straight for it, my hand reaching into the box. The smell of gasoline is noxious, and it splashes as I run through it. I feel the heat from the flames on my face. I raise the hammer and bring it down on the passenger side rear window and it shatters, spilling into the street like a hundred uncut diamonds. From inside the car, I hear strident mewling. Flicking open the box cutter, I lean inside, slit the nylon restraints of the car seat, close the cutter, and lift out an infant in a pink onesie. And then I run like hell. “My baby!” The young driver is hysterical. Eyes wide and unseeing. Blood running down her face. She looks like Sissy Spacek at the end of Carrie . It takes three people to keep her from dashing back to the burning car. Without a word, I place the baby into her arms. She sobs and drops to her knees. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Thank you. Thank you.” The baby’s eyes screw tight. Her fists clench. She begins to wail. I fish the pacifier out of the box, remove the packaging, and pop it into her mouth just as there’s a hiss and a roar behind me. An orange glow lights up the woman’s face, the baby, the crowd. It warms my back, even through my sweatshirt. The people gasp. “Look at that fireball," says Business Suit. But I can’t take my eyes off the baby. She’s snuggled into the bloody blouse, sound asleep, the mother cooing at her. I drop the hammer and retractable knife into the box, tug my hood lower, and push my way through the crowd back to my car. They’re too enthralled by the spectacle to even notice me. The howl of a distant siren drifts through the intersection as I drive away. When I get to work, my boss says, “You’re late. And you smell like gasoline.” I breathe in. I breathe out. Then I just nod and start moving stock. # The next day, I’m back in line at the post office, clutching the same cardboard box. It’s holding the same hammer and box cutter. I had to buy a new pacifier at the baby section at work. “Hi, Orion,” says Kyanna. I look at the ground. “I can help you here, or are you waiting for your man Cecil again?” “Um...I’m not ready.” I gesture to the next person in line to go ahead of me. “What’s the matter? Why don’t you ever want to talk to me?” Her eyes are sparkling, so I think she’s only pretending to be mad. “I’d love to.” I try to swallow the panic in my throat. I'll never be able to talk to her. “It’s...hard to explain.” Cecil wordlessly beckons me toward him. Kyanna takes a package from her new customer, who seems as amused by my embarrassment as she is. “You can explain it to me later. I get off at five-thirty.” My head snaps up. What did she say? I can’t tell if she’s messing with me. Cecil takes the box. “Sending it back, boss?” I pull my gaze back to him. “Yeah.” “How did it work for you?” “Did everything it was supposed to.” He winks an eye at me--the blue one--as he puts the box on the scale and taps his keyboard a few times. Then he turns the screen toward me. “Address right?” I peer at it. Yup. That’s my P.O. box. I nod. Kyanna shakes her head. “You could just keep it at home. Wouldn’t that save you some trouble?” I reach for my wallet. “And cash?” Cecil looks at me over his glasses. “When do you need it to get there?” I glance over at Kyanna and then back at Cecil. “Yesterday would be fine,” I whisper. Kyanna snorts. “God, you’re so funny!” She heard me. And she thinks I’m kidding. After paying, I turn to go, but Cecil’s voice stops me. “Hey boss, wait, I got another one for you. I’ll save you a trip back here.” It’s long and skinny. And light. I tuck it under my arm and head toward the door. “Bye, Orion. See you at five-thirty. Right here.” Wait. She’s serious? She’s giving me one of her cute sideways smiles. Yes. She is. “Yeah,” I say. “Five-thirty.” On my way across the parking lot, I breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out. Again. And again. My heart batters against my ribcage. My God, I’m going to be with Kyanna. Alone. In...I look at my phone...seven hours. Deep breathing doesn’t help at all. Back in my car, I cut the tape on the box with my ballpoint pen with trembling hands. I could tell her I'm sick. That I just came down with something. Like Covid. That's going around again, right? Inside the box is a plastic wand with a string tied to it. On the end of the string is a feather. There’s also a handwritten note. Most people would have a hard time reading it due to its messy scrawl. But I can read it easily. After all, the handwriting is mine. My heart eases up on the accelerator. Just a little bit. The note says Kyanna has a cat. You’ll know what to do .


TW: abuse, stalking The farmhouse on the hill was a lonely place. It had once been a bustling farm. Many years hence. Now however, the dark stone building stood like a headstone in the hills. Alone. There were still chickens. A handful of sheep. One old belligerent mare. And a barn cat of midnight black. And, if you believed the rumours, a solitary witch. A thriving herb garden. A brackish pond with geese in the summer. The house itself was as old as the hills. Still standing by some act of nature. The stones used to build its spine fossilised relics of a time before time. When the roof had begun to leak three years prior, the nearby village of Merthyrbryn had pitched in to help fix it. The road leading to the front door, though twisting and narrow, was well-kept and well-travelled. There was even electricity now. And solar panels on the roof. As Laura Edgecroft edged her uncle’s old jeep up the winding road to the farmhouse, she was forced to sit basically folded in half to see the road in front of her. She didn’t want to drive through animal muck. With Uncle Harold’s bum hip, she’d be the one cleaning it up. Finally, she eased it to a stop in front of the old front door. The crunch of gravel beneath her trainers as she hopped out. She could hear the distant ruckus of chickens, the noisy yodelling of sheep and the sharp consonant blare of geese. It smelled exactly how she’d expected it to. Like earth, grass and manure. Walking to the boot of the jeep, she pulled out the old crate filled with groceries. She’d agreed to do this favour for her uncle. Apparently the greengrocer didn’t do deliveries that far up in the hills -- and now that she’d braved those winding tightropes Laura knew why -- and Uncle Harold had been fetching them up for the woman who lived here. Angharad Llewelyn. A name that her uncle had very kindly repeated a few times on first utterance. Welsh was not a language she knew or a pronunciation style she was familiar with. Armed with her crate, she cast around, a little uncertain, and slowly began to draw closer to the farmhouse. That’s what they called it in town too. The Farmhouse. Like it was the only one, regardless of the fact that their little village was nestled in a quilt of quaint farms all with their own farmhouses. A shadow moved across an upstairs window. A crow flew away from the roof with a caw. The front door opened and Laura took a hasty step backwards. A young woman in her mid-twenties stood there. Wild red hair tumbled in dizzy spirals around her shoulders. Skin pale as milk. Freckles kissing every hint of exposed skin on her neck and shoulders. She wore an ACDC t-shirt and a long floaty skirt that she had tucked hastily into a pair of bright yellow wellies. A human daffodil. ‘You’re not Harold,’ she said, her accent thick with the lyrical flow of the valleys. She folded her arms. Her eyes -- a light blue that was almost too faint to even be called blue -- ran over Laura appraisingly. Laura had the sudden urge to cover her eye and check her sleeves were pulled down. Those eyes were a physical presence on her skin. ‘Um, yeah I’m his niece,’ Laura said, holding out the heavy crate, ‘just helping him out while he rests up after his surgery.’ ’That’s an odd name,’ the woman commented, tongue in cheek. She took the crate easily, hefting it under one arm like it didn’t weigh a tonne. ‘Mine’s Angharad.’ Laura bit her tongue to avoid answering in kind, but the smile in those eyes suggested that Angharad already knew what she was struggling not to say. ‘I’m Laura.’ ‘Come on in, Laura,’ Angharad said, shoving the door open with her hip and disappearing into the farmhouse. By the time Laura had even processed wanting to refuse, Angharad had disappeared into the farmhouse. People didn’t invite you into their houses in London, not if they didn’t know you. And now she was left with two options. Go inside this stranger’s house, or leave and be the rudest version of herself. Laura stepped inside. The roofs were low and made of vast wooden beams. As she followed her ears and nose down the corridor to the kitchen, an itch began between her shoulder blades. She looked over her shoulder. Just the innocuous front door. A coat stand, a side-table for keys. She rubbed the back of her neck and shook off the feeling, stepping into the kitchen. Jars upon jars lined every conceivable surface of the claustrophobic kitchen. Full of different jams. Blackcurrant. Strawberry. Rosehip. Raspberry. A smothering of fruit. The room was warm, steamy and cosy. The decor outdated but preserved with loving reverence. Dried herbs were trussed up in one corner. Glass jars full of assorted herbs, spices and other earthly ingredients lined the shelves of her bustling pantry. A black cat yowled at her from its basket next to the Aga stove. A chicken ran through the room and out into the mudroom, making a break for the back garden. Angharad had already cleared out the crate and was refilling it with jams. A loaf of bread. Cloudy cider. As if sensing the question, Angharad began to explain. ‘I like to give Harold a little something to say thank you for the trip.’ ‘That’s kind of you.’ Angharad shook her head. ‘Not really. You pay for a service however you’re able.’ Laura, who had unconsciously decided to be nosy, turned around a glass jar so she could more clearly read the handwritten label. ‘Does this say nightshade?’ Angharad smiled. ‘Probably.’ Laura stopped touching the jar and rubbed her hands on the backs of her jeans. ‘ Why do you have a poisonous flower?’ ‘Same reason I have knives,’ she answered cheerfully, ‘you never know when they might come in handy. Speaking of which, wait here for a sec.’ Laura watched her sprint away, heard her feet rush around upstairs. She looked around at the chaos. Made eye contact with the cat. The cat that refused to blink or look away. As she was beginning to question her sanity, Angharad reappeared. ‘Here,’ she held out an orange square. Laura took it, realising it was a little plastic square of orange face paint. ‘What’s this for?’ ‘Colour correction, it will reduce the appearance of the purple,’ Angharad answered lightly, ‘before you put on your foundation. It’ll help.’ And she tapped the corner of her left eye with a knowing look. A faint sheen of sweat covered Laura’s body as her heart tried to escape her chest. She fought valiantly to avoid breathing like she’d just run a marathon. ‘I-I don’t--‘ ‘Just take it,’ Angharad interrupted, waving her away. There was no pity there, Laura realised, just understanding. She shoved it into her pocket. ’Thanks.’ ‘I put some cider in for you too,’ Angharad said, holding out the crate, ‘pear cider. You’ll like it.’ Laura took the crate and was grateful that Angharad continued to support the crate until she had stopped shaking. ‘Thanks.’ ‘Come back any time you need something,’ Angharad said, her eyes blue mirrors, ‘but beware the nighttime.’ Laura snorted out a laugh. ‘Did you just tell me to beware the nighttime?’ Angharad made claws with her fingers and cackled. ‘Got to keep up appearances.’ ‘You know about the rumours?’ Angharad smiled revealing a pronounced gap between her front two teeth. ‘Who said they were rumours?’ *** One week later, as Laura pulled up to the farmhouse again, she came bearing cleaned glass jars, a crate full of food, and her first short-sleeved shirt of the summer. Her arms were clear of the echoes of the past, though she was still using the face paint. As she climbed out of the jeep, she almost fell over. The black cat had run directly underfoot, like a snare trap. Now she sat on the roof of the jeep, staring down at her condescendingly. Laura blinked at the cat and the cat blinked back. ‘Right.’ She went around to the boot and pulled the crate out, hefting it up against her chest before heading towards the farmhouse, all under the watchful, managerial gaze of the black cat. As she got to the door, she half expected it to open again and for Angharad to spill out. Unfortunately, only one of those things happened. The door slowly opened. A shiver shot down her spine like a cold predatory finger. But the house beckoned onwards, and the cat that had wrapped its way lovingly around her ankles was pulling her in. Shaking her head, she walked inside. Following the sounds and smells into the kitchen again. Less glass jars this time. Jam making had ceased. But there was an older woman sat at the kitchen table with a doll in her hands. The doll seemed to be made of a twisted piece of coarse fabric. As she sniffled, Angharad pressed a handkerchief into her hands. ‘Hello Laura,’ she said cheerfully, patting the lady’s shoulder. ‘Have you met Agatha Jones?’ The lady from the post office. ‘Um, yeah. Is everything okay? Maybe I should just go--’ Agatha stood in a flurry. ’No, no. Just, I just need to freshen myself up. Thank you, Angharad.’ Clutching the doll, she made a shuffle for the bathroom and locked the door. Laura turned her back on the sounds of crying. ’She’ll be alright,’ Angharad said, taking the crate and beginning to unpack the groceries. ’She just needed a little push.’ ‘A push?’ Angharad nodded. She was wearing shorts that had clearly once been jeans, the hems were completely uneven. ’She needs to reconnect with her daughter, so I gave her a little push.’ Laura felt her phone buzz against her hip. Dread curdled her belly. ‘Are you really a witch?’ Angharad gave her a sharp look. The contact electrifying her blood and buzzing in her belly, chasing away the dread. ‘Do you need me to be?’ Laura was saved from having to answer by the timely reentry of Mrs Jones. She folded Angharad into a big hug, blew her nose noisily, and headed off before Laura could offer her a lift, leaving the two women alone in Angharad’s kitchen. The phone buzzed against her hip again. This time she pulled it out, checking the screen in case it was uncle Harold. The number she’d committed to memory illuminated her screen. Her eyes glanced over the first few inflammatory words of the text before she shoved it back into her pocket. The room swam around her for a moment, and she became aware of hands on her elbows. The scent of persimmons flooded her senses as Angharad walked her backwards to the bench. Her knees hit it and buckled, but Angharad kept hold of her elbows and lowered her gently. She felt hands, calloused and gentle, against her cheeks, and she looked up to see Angharad staring down at her. She was blurry. Retroactively, she realised her eyes were full of tears. ‘You’re safe here,’ Angharad said. Her certainty was like a boulder. Unmoving. Unconquerable. Steadfast. Completely certain. Laura nodded, entranced faintly by this person brimming with confidence. So unshakable. She’d never met anyone like her. Was this why people called her a witch? This magical ephemeral assuredness that pulsed through her veins. That filled the kitchen. That smelled like persimmon. Angharad dropped her hands from Laura’s face, gripping her shoulders instead. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ About the broken silence of the night? The shattered safety of her bed? The crushed dignity of her mind? The wearing down of her body and her selfhood? Or about the night she left. About how she had fled London. Left behind her life and her friends -- his friends -- her home -- his home. His life. The one he’d trapped her inside. Could she tell this gentle stranger any of that? She opened her mouth. To try. To shout. To deny. And cried. One a solitary tear broke the dam, the others came pouring out through that crack in her edifice. Until she was fighting to breathe as her chest heaved and her hands shook and her throat closed. Angharad sat beside her on the bench, pulling her down into a protective cocoon of her arms. Made soothing noises in her throat and stroked her hair. Rocking her gently. She waited. Eventually, the dam was empty, and she subsided into gentle embarrassed hiccups. She pulled away from Angharad, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry.’ ‘Don’t be sorry,’ Angharad answered lightly, eyes pouring over Laura’s face as if she could read her thoughts that way. ‘Be greedy, come on, this time I want you to choose what cider you want to try.’ Grateful for the change of topic, and the knowing air around Angharad, Laura chose her cider without question. She shuffled out of the farmhouse, feeling like a freshly birthed fawn; wet and sticky and vulnerable. ‘If you ever need me, you know where I am.’ And with that offer hanging around her neck like a talisman, Laura got back into the jeep feeling warmer. *** ‘I’m outside bitch. Come out or I’m coming in.’ The text lit up her screen like a flare. She stopped in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room. Staring at it like a deer in headlights. It was seven. Uncle Harold wasn’t due back for another hour. She had never been so alone. The house that had been her bolthole became a snare. The phone chirped again and she slapped a hand over her mouth. A picture of the front of Uncle Harold’s house. Mind racing, she considered the police. But, this rural, it would be a good twenty minutes before anyone arrived. The nearest neighbours were all also at bingo. The only place left... She looked at the backdoor. The farmhouse was just beyond the hill if you ran through the field. Much closer than anything else. But she’d be bringing danger to Angharad. The sound of fists hitting the front door was like a starter’s pistol. She bolted before she had thought about it and was out of the door and halfway across the field beyond by the time she heard the front door cave in. Darkness enveloped her like a co-conspirator, and she ran headlong into it and into the silence as she heard him screaming behind her. Heard his big galumphing footsteps as he chased her down. Fear made her faster, and soon she crested the hill, sprinting up the winding road to the farmhouse as blood pounded through her veins. Urging her further, further. She yanked the front door open and fell inside the quiet house. It was dark, the shadows consuming the front room, curling around the bannister, snaking into the empty kitchen. Empty. She scrambled to her feet. ‘Angharad!’ The panic in her voice cracked through the silence. Footsteps on the landing above her drew her gaze upwards as relief fell around her like a cloak. The door buckled inwards like a cardboard fort in a thunderstorm. Jeremy filled the doorway, eyes wild and brandishing Angharad’s pitchfork. Turned to face him, Laura held out one forestalling hand and took a panicked step backwards. Her ankles hit the wooden stairs and she tumbled back onto her bottom, the stairs striking her lower back. She covered her head with her hands. Waiting for the blow. Laura dared open her eyes into slits, looked up at Jeremy. He stood over her, the pitchfork clutched overhead in white-knuckled hands, but he wasn’t looking at her. He stared open-mouthed, wide-eyed at the top of the stairs. Laura looked up. Shadows had crept up the stairs, coalesced at the very top. They curled around Angharad’s ankles, up her calves, drifted around her wrists and shoulders like a mantle. She was looking down at Jeremy with her lip curled. Cold and ruthless. She floated down the stairs, not moving her limbs as the shadows drew her inexorably downwards. She came to a stop just beyond Laura’s prone body, her feet gently touching the threadbare rug. Jeremy took several horrified steps backwards. ‘W-what are you?’ Angharad smiled. ‘I’m the witch at the top of the hill. People come to me for help,’ she gestured to Laura with one pale hand, ‘or for punishment.’ She pointed at Jeremy. The shadows, which had moved like docile smoke, hardened under her command, bursting forwards from the closed-off places of the farmhouse. Like crazed dogs. They savaged Jeremy, forcing him down onto his back and holding him there as he screamed like a frightened schoolboy. Angharad came over him, crouching on his chest. She wrapped one claw-like hand into his hair and pulled so he was forced to look up into her face. Laura couldn’t see what Jeremy saw, but she did smell the tell-tale scent of ammonia. Angharad laughed, low and cruel. ‘Do you know what these shadows are?’ A terrified gurgle that might have been an answer escaped his chest. ‘They’re all that’s left of the bad men who came to my farmhouse,’ she said, ‘if you don’t want that to happen to you too, I suggest your run, Jeremy.’ She stood and moved away from him, a smile back on her face that contained too many teeth. Jeremy managed to scramble up and out of the farmhouse, down the path, screaming as he fled into the night with nightmares at his heels. Light returned to the farmhouse as the shadows retreated, satiated. Angharad closed the door and came to kneel down at Laura’s side. Laura scanned her face, eyes wide and panicked. There was no hint of monstrosity any more, just that same kind smile. And the smell of persimmon. ‘Would you like some tea?’