~ May, 1946~ When Mother sent me to deliver gifts to Mr. Kent, I didn’t reckon I’d bother. I’d take the basket, sure. Fine. Then maybe I’d walk a half-mile up the road and dump the stuff-maybe eat it, actually-sit awhile in the dust, and head back home. After all, new residents shouldn’t be the ones delivering presents. That’s the town’s job, isn’t it? You know, all the welcoming old villagers and their shiny smiling faces, coming to bear gifts to the newcomers? That’s how it’s supposed to be. But no one was very welcoming in Blackoak, Kansas. Not the families, not the land, and definitely not the other kids. They whispered things and cast funny looks at me and my old clothes. At school I’d heard kids call our new home the Riddler house. Supposedly the man who’d lived there had been a recluse, died alone, and now haunted the place. I didn’t believe the haunting part for two reasons. One, no ghost in their right mind would want to haunt a miserable house like Mr. Riddler’s. Two, he wasn’t dead. Mother had met him when buying the house. He conned us, if you ask me. The floors creaked, the walls peeled, and the windows offered only a depressing view of whispering yellow grass. The house was falling apart, just like everything else in the stupid town. I was staring out at that endless ocean of fields when my mother’s voice rang through the house for the third time. “Susie. Take the basket and get out.” She wasn’t yelling, but I flinched at her voice anyway. I’d ignored her long enough. I grabbed the bundle of bread and jam off the kitchen counter and kicked my way out the front door. The screen banged shut behind me. I could have stopped on the road and carried out my initial plan. But I didn’t. Barefoot, I trudged over the dusty path, sweating and thinking about an old wedding photo of my parents, about how sharp my mother’s features looked nowadays: her hollow cheeks, her dull eyes. No longer soft and plump, no longer gentle. No longer happy. No one was ever happy anymore, it seemed. But Mr. Kent better be, I thought menacingly, swinging the basket, when he gets these confounded jellies. I was lucky I didn’t pass his house right by. While I was still on the road I had that uneasy-being-watched-feeling, looked up, and there it was off in the distance-sitting on the crown of a grassy hill, windows dark like eyes. If there were any ghosts in this town, they lived in this house, for sure. It even looked like a phantom with its off-white siding, black gaping eyes, and wide front porch mouth. Up the hill I trudged, until I was encroaching on the ghost-house’s front yard. And there I stopped. The prairie grass murmured in the wind. Behind me, trees rustled their dry leaves; somewhere on the house, a shutter squealed. Quiet. I hated quiet. “Who’re you?” a voice barked. I jumped. “Suzanne Ellis,” I said, but I couldn’t see who was talking until a figure rose out of the tall grass. It was an old man, with a thin white beard and a tattered pair of overalls. “Who’s that?” he demanded. I gulped at the hoe in his hand. My knees shook a little, but I stood up straight anyway. “Neighbor,” I answered steadily. He contemplated. “You’re in the Riddler house?” I nodded. Some of my hair had come free from my braids, and it blew across my face. “Well, did I invite you here?” I shook my head. “Then get off my property!” Turning, he propped the hoe up on his shoulder. I watched him for a second, stunned. “Rude way to welcome a guest.” He didn’t stop. “Not a guest if you weren’t invited. Get off my land, girl.” The basket handle grew slick in my hands. “Aren’t you gonna ask me why I’m here?” He turned again, and this time I could see red blotches in his ancient face. “I don’t care why you’re here, just-” He paused at the sight of the stupid gift basket. Maybe he realized he was yelling at an eleven-year-old girl and felt bad. “What’s that?” he asked gruffly. “Gifts.” I made my voice as falsely cheerful as possible as I held out the basket, resisting the temptation to drop it and smash the jelly, and waited. He seemed confused. “What?” I asked, irritated. One of his bushy brows went up. “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?” “Just-take-the-basket.” He stared at me. “Leave it there.” “Excuse me?” “Just drop it.” “My mother made this stuff. For you .” “Didn’t ask for it.” “Well, I didn’t ask to bring it!” “I said leave it!” “Fine!” I shoved the basket to the ground. Glass shattered. Jam was all over the dirt. Bread my mother had spent hours laboring on, wasted, inedible. We stared at it. “Mm,” he said thoughtfully. Then, “Clean it up.” Anger made my face hot. “And what if I don’t?” “Then I tell your mother all about that food you just wasted, that’s what!” That shut me up, for about three seconds. “No need to flip your wig,” I muttered, stooping to pluck glass shards out of the dirt with trembling fingers. “What was that?” I straightened up, wincing at a slice on my finger. A crimson drop of blood stained the jam jar. “You’re an ungrateful old man-that’s what.” His brows narrowed. “You’re an ungrateful little girl.” Then he disappeared into his house. I carried the glass pieces halfway home in the basket, buried them under some trees, and then made the mistake of bringing the empty basket inside. Mother was furious. “That was part of the gift, Su!” she said, slapping her drying cloth against the counter. I fumbled through my explanation and ended up telling her the whole thing anyway. Then she was even more furious. “You’re apologizing tomorrow. You’re going over and saying you’re sorry.” “But-” “No!” she snapped. “I don’t care what you have to say about it. You’re apologizing and you’re bringing over more bread and jam. I’ll not have our neighbors thinking we’re some uncivilized barbarians.” “He’s the barbarian.” She stood there on the kitchen floor, staring at me, grinding her teeth. “You have no respect.” Having delivered this blow, she resumed washing dishes. “No supper for you.” As if I cared. I barely slept that night. Thought about escaping through my bedroom window and spending the midnight hours lying in the field, but I had nothing to climb down on. My stomach growled and my eyes begged for sleep, but every time I shut them I saw my mother in her wedding gown. Smiling. She had Dad in that photo. Dad. Be my brave girl. Tears stung at my eyes. I swiped them away with my knuckles before remembering that she was not watching me, could not see me, could not tell me to cheer up and put that frown away. Next morning I had school, but afterwards I was sent straight over to the Kent place with the same darn basket and different goodies. He was in his yard again, in the same spot, hoeing a square of dirt. When I approached he looked up and his eyes went all stormy-looking. “I’m here to apologize,” I said stiffly. No sound except murmuring prairie grass. He waited expectantly. “Well?” “Well, here you go.” I set the basket down and started to walk away, but he called out. “Where’s the apology, then?” I fidgeted with my blouse sleeve. “Fine. I’m sorry for yelling at you and arguing and smashing your gift.” He waited as though I was supposed to go on. I did not. Finally he nodded his snowy head. “Very well. Apology accepted.” And he resumed hoeing. That hadn’t gone as terribly as I’d thought it would. Suddenly it seemed like a better idea to loiter here than to return home to Mother. “Well, what are you standing around for?” he said. “Nothing.” “Didn’t your mother teach you not to meddle with strangers?” I shrugged. “She don’t care.” I watched him for a minute. “Whatcha doing?” “Gardening.” “Whatcha growing?” He glared. “A garden.” “Yeah, of what?” “Flowers.” He paused to lean against his tool. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “If you must know.” “Why?” “Can’t an old man garden in peace anymore?” I shrugged again. “I dunno.” It was far more entertaining to bother him than to go home and sit in the deathly quiet. If I sat still for too long I’d be faced with images of my smiling parents. “So how’d you get out here?” “What do you mean by that?” “Out here. Kansas. Middle of nowhere.” “My family,” he said, “has lived here for three generations, little girl.” “Suzanne Ellis,” I reminded him, inching forward and taking the basket along with me. “Mr. Kent, do you think Riddler haunts my house?” He sighed. “Maybe.” “But he’s not dead.” “He’s not? Well, I wouldn’t know.” “Why? You a recluse, too?” “You could say that. I suppose.” That was fascinating. Why some people were so attached to their houses, I couldn’t imagine. Usually I’d do anything to stay out of my house for as long as possible. “Why?” He paused. “You’re quite a rude child. You know that?” “Yeah. Mother’s told me.” He scratched his head. “Well, I guess when you get to my age it’s easier to stay home than go anywhere else.” “Oh.” He scratched his head again, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “You should run along home now. Don’t want your parents worrying ’bout you, do you?” “Don’t got parents. Just Mother. My dad’s dead,” I informed him. “And I told you my mother don’t care.” He stared at me like I was an elephant in a zoo. “’Course your mother cares,” he said gruffly, ignoring the part about my dad. “Well, she used to. Before he went to the war,” I said conversationally. “But she misses him and she doesn’t really care what I do now unless it’s really bad. Like ruining your stuff.” “I see.” “And so that’s why she made me come back. Also, do you have grandchildren?” “A few. One granddaughter. Eveline.” He surveyed me for a moment. “Your age, probably.” “Does she go to school here?” “No. She lives in New York.” “Oh. Do you visit?” He shook his head. “Recluse, remember?” “Oh, yeah. Well, why doesn’t she come visit you?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he tucked the hoe against the house and began climbing the stairs. “Go home, little girl.” “Suzanne Ellis.” I left the basket near the dirt garden and decided it was probably supper time anyway. Mother did not speak at all during supper. After that I began dropping by the Kent place after school every day. Mr. Kent would dig his garden and I would chatter away, everything I couldn’t say when I was at home or at school. All about reading and how I hated math but liked science and wanted a telephone in our house, even though I knew we weren’t rich enough for that. All about Mother and Dad and the wedding photo on the vanity. And how my dad had red hair and that was why mine was red, too. And how he left for war and the last time I remember seeing him he hugged me and gave me a kiss and told me to be a brave girl. I shouldn’t have told him that, because I started crying. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks and I tried to hide them behind my hands, but I knew my cheeks were getting all red and suddenly I had to sniffle to breathe because my nose was running like a river. Mr. Kent stared at me in disbelief. “I-I’m sorry,” I choked, pressing my nails into my cheeks. “I’m-I’m not-supposed to cry.” I waited for him to scold me, but he didn’t. He simply stopped spreading sunflower seeds in the dirt. “Brave people have to cry sometimes,” he said softly. “No they don’t.” My voice broke. “Certainly, they do.” I didn’t believe him, so I waved my hand dismissively. “I’m fine.” But my nose crinkled up and I discovered the tears weren’t stopping yet. “You miss him, don’t you?” he said, setting down his trowel. I nodded. He sighed. “Wait here.” I watched his blurry figure climb the porch and disappear into his ghost-house. I was left alone in the ocean of dry grass. The ends of my red braids glinted in the sun. Brave girl. Mr. Kent returned carrying a photo, a very old one of five unsmiling people. A mother, a father, and three children, all of them dressed to the nines in frilly dresses and ironed suits. “My family,” he said, handing me the picture. “Although there’s three children not in the photo. They weren’t born yet.” “That’s your wife?” I pointed to a pretty-faced blob on the paper. He nodded somberly. “Mrs. Etta.” “She’s gone, too.” A statement, not a question. He paused. “Not gone,” he said slowly. “Deceased, yes.” He looked over at the dirt garden. “She loved sunflowers.” I swallowed. Her eyes sparkled in the light, though her mouth was a thin, sober line. “Tell me this, Suzanne,” Mr. Kent said, as I traced Etta’s dress with my finger, “do you think soldiers are brave?” I nodded, and a tear stained the edge of the photo. “Oops.” “I was in a war, too. And when Mrs. Etta died, I still cried.” Brave girl. “Really.” “It’s true.” I sucked air in through my nose. “I haven’t seen Mother cry.” “That doesn’t mean she isn’t sad. Your mother misses your dad too, Suzanne.” The photo crinkled as I handed it back to Mr. Kent. He took it in his wrinkled hands and smoothed it out. “You aren’t any less brave because you cry. Your mother might not know that yet.” We were silent for a minute. Rustling grasses and creaking shutters filled my ears. I snuffled. “Are you a recluse because your wife died?” “Maybe that’s part of the reason.” “Will I be a recluse too?” He sighed. Elderly people sigh a lot. “I hope not. You’ve got lots to do in this world, Suzanne Ellis.” That night at supper, I told Mother about school. She nodded a bit, and actually asked if I liked my teacher. We talked more each night. I thought maybe the dullness was leaving her eyes, each day, very slowly. I knew for sure it was true when I walked in the door one afternoon and her face lit up. She was happy to see me. I made her happy. My brave girl. * * * * * * * Mr. Kent passed away a year later. He died as he had lived-quiet, thoughtful, unknown. He watched from his porch as I watered his sunflowers one last time, and then I helped him inside and said ’bye, just like I did every day. And that was the last time I talked to him. His granddaughter did visit him, once, before he went. I met her on the road and nearly fell over when I saw how much she looked like me. Red hair, brown eyes, freckles all over her nose. “I hate them,” she laughed. “So do I,” I said, “but maybe we’ll grow out of them.” Then I remembered the way my mother had counted them the other day, calling them stars. They did look a little bit like constellations. “But they’re kind of pretty, really.” Eveline visited again at his funeral. Her face was very red. I took her hand, very softly, and said, “It’s alright to cry.” And I did not try to hide the tears that fell down my nose. And Mother did not tell me to put away the frown. Instead she drew me close, cradled me against her chest, and planted a kiss on my head. I felt a tear fall into my hair. My brave girls.


19 th May Wednesday ‘ He’s right here' Gathering everyone, I pushed everyone to the back exit. Suddenly I felt my knees weaken and almost give up on my posture: he’s near. There was no time to explain, I felt the goosebumps take over me as if to warn he is near-by. We needed to run. Since it was only me that had the unique ability to see him, the only hope they have is me. mustering up all my courage I turn to my friends. ‘I made up my mind’ I say. ‘What are you talking about El?, we will die here’ she says. ‘We won’t’. I say. ‘Get out of here and don’t wait, run fast as you can’ I knew that he could smell us. Especially me. I can feel him just as much as he feels me. That’s why he’s here for me, I’m the only one that can get rid of him. So he is afraid of me as much as I am of him. I watch my friends break the back door and run out, Stacy turned around, with tears in her eyes shows a hesitation to leave me, but I nod reassuringly. ‘ I know what to do’ 15 th May Friday I hurried to the bus and sat near my spot. Everyone seems to want this seat and I’m not going to this up without a fight. ‘How are you so selfish, you never give this seat up, ever’ Stacy stands in front of me looking at me as if I owe her an explanation. ‘I’m not. I’m just very fast’ I say. She rolls her eyes at me and sits on the opposite seat. Honestly, the view is amazing, but it all goes downhill when the bus comes to an abrupt stop and everyone hurls to the window seats to see what happened. ‘Oh my god’ was the first thing that I said. Suddenly I disliked the view very much. Stacy pushed me aside with a force to see what I saw. Immediately her reaction scared the rest of the students for she banged on the glass and screamed ‘what is that?’ Beside the panicking I was trying to get Stacy away from the glass and make her sit still. My efforts proved to be purposeless as she weighed more than I actually thought she would. ‘Everybody just calm down, it’s just a dead deer’ the bus driver said to us in a very chilled voice. He even smiled at me. and that was disturbing. ‘Just calm down? That is a very dead deer with it’s eyes and one leg missing’ Stacy butts in. ‘it’s intentional’ The driver narrowed his eyes at Stacy giving her an expression as if he doesn’t like to get told off by a random teenager. ‘we’re off, we don’t have all day’ 16 th May Saturday Something felt extremely off. I’ve had rocky days the past few months, but now it just seems to have heightened. I keep thinking about how Stacy’s eyes widened when she said, ‘this is intentional’. We live in a small-town Amarillo, Texas. Nothing bad ever happens because that’s merely impossible because everyone knows each other here. If someone messes up, it’s for life. ‘It could have been a hunting session gone wrong’ Joshua said when I called him on the phone yesterday evening. ‘I don’t know how I manage to miss the best of the scenes’ ‘It wasn’t one of the best scenes’ I said blankly and kept the phone. I felt uneasy. I knew it wasn’t because of what saw. It was because I knew Stacy was right and I was wrong to let it slip away. What did the driver even do? Did he call the police? Seemed like he just wanted nothing to do with it. 17 th May Sunday Today, we met at Katherine’s, the most underrated coffee shop in town. It’s a win-win because we also get amazing coffee for a pretty great deal. ‘That was a conspiracy’ Stacy almost spits her drink on my notes. ‘If I wanted you to spill your coffee everywhere I wouldn’t have invited you all for this’ I say ‘Can we just forget this?’ Joshua shakes his head as if to say I’ve gone mad. ‘there are no tribes trying to kill all animal life so they can worship Satan’ ‘It sounds funny when you say it like that’ I say sarcastically. My eyes trail off away from them, and something made me stare out from the coffee shop and observe how calm outside was. Even though this town is cramped up with less space for the shops, everything is very classy. ‘You should have seen the test result I got’ Joshua shows off the paper ‘C- with no whatsoever planning’ Stacy stands up and gives him a slow clap, a sign of how little she cares. I pull her down immediately and tell them to shut their mouths. Stacy begins to protest but I look at her and says ‘look at that man’ ‘What man?’ ‘He is breaking that door!’ ‘What are you talking about?’ Joshua raises his voice. ‘Can you not shout?’ I hiss back at him and points at the man again. He was abnormally thing. The kind of thin where you would expect someone to get blown off by wind. He carried a long wire-like rod, except there were uneven spikes jutting out of the rod. The rod was almost as tall as him, but his stick figure made it difficult not to cringe. ‘what is that?’ I whisper. ‘What is what?’ Stacy grabs me by my shoulders and tries to get me up from the place we are crouching. ‘people are looking at us El!, stop this nonsense’ ‘I am not joking’ I shout unintentionally, and everyone stops what they are doing and looks at us. Joshua and Stacy backs off as if I’ve slurred at them. ‘what is wrong with you?’ He asks. I decided to slow the facts down. ‘There was a man, he broke into that shop and he went inside, except he broke and entered, he didn’t look...’ I couldn’t find the right word to describe what I witnessed. ‘Look what?’ Stacy looks at me. ‘...Human’ Both of them look at me for a second with utter complexity. I felt relieved for a moment, but they started laughing, making me feel like I was a psychopath. ‘Goodness, that was a good one El’ Joshua pats my shoulder really hard, that It made me almost fall backwards. We all collectively get up and what annoys me is that they were still mocking me. ‘why couldn’t they see it?’ I think. ‘Am I really going bullocks?’ ‘You got us though’ Stacy says with a relief but that reaches my limit. ‘let me show you’ I say ‘follow me’ ‘I’m not sure if that’s a good idea’ Joshua blocks me. ‘If you think I’m crazy, there is nothing to worry there is it? ‘Fine’ they say. We carefully cross the road and I could feel the adrenaline pumping though my veins. I don’t know what I expect to find. The shop owners’ body? Brutally murdered? Why else would someone carry around that sort of a rod? ‘Are you sure about this?’ Stacy asks, I mean, we’ve never been to this shop before! What does it even sell? Antiques?’ ‘Are you crazy, who buys antiques anymore?’ Joshua lashes out. ‘Can you two stop bickering? A man could be murdered inside, and you care about what this shop sells?’ Stacy opens her mouth to protest but we were already at the shop. As I suspected, the door was unlocked. I look angrily at both of my friends and give them an ‘I-told-you-so look’. Now they genuinely began to panic. ‘We should call someone, Elijah’ Before we could consider her option a man with a familiar smile opened the shop door for us. “hi, good day to you, can I help you?’ The man was quite chubby for his age, and it was as if he was being forced to smile. His clothes stuck to his body, making him seem larger than he already is. Why is he smiling like that? I ask myself with doubts that seemed to get more unsolvable by the second. While I was busy drifting off, Joshua pushed me aside and extended his hand’ ‘we were just passing by and realized we’ve never been here, so decided to take a look’ Smart. ‘come in, come in, you can call me Miller. We don’t get much visitors given that no one likes antiques these days much’ he says without an expression. I swear, am I the only one receiving negative vibes here? Despite all the seriousness we surrounded ourselves at the moment, Stacy mimics to Joshua, “antiques, I told you” Joshua in return shrugs her off. ‘Are you the only owner?’ I ask straightaway. ‘Yes’ he answers me, but his focus was somewhere else. The door. The door lock should be broken if I’m correct. I pretend to be very interested in the rusted lamp section and walk towards the door. Instead of checking the lamps, I direct myself near the door, to trace any sign of forced entry. Bingo. The lock is down, it’s clear that it was broken with a force. Clearing my throat, I say ‘Oh look the door is broken’ and looks at Joshua and Stacy. I raise an eyebrow to tell them to play along. Thankfully, Stacy gets it. ‘Oh, Mr. Miller you should probably get a new lock’ she says. For a second he seemed lost. It was as if, his body was here, but his expression seemed to be puddle of worry. He was dazed. His reply got me by surprise. “I broke it” he paused. We wait in silence for him to further explain, but he doesn’t. I know for a fact that the person I saw was the exact opposite of Mr. miller. He is more human-like, but the person I saw outside was more obnoxious. ‘Great’ Joshua breaks the silence. ‘we have to go, don’t we?’ ‘Yeah, I have...classes’ Stacy says, clearly a lie. Dragging me along with them, we get out of there with absolutely nothing but proving that I might indeed be trailing off from the very reality we are living in right now. 18 th May Tuesday Several days pass and I chose not to think about the events that almost made be doubt my sanity. I discarded it as a minor hiccup in my daily chaos. Until my phone rang. ‘Hey it’s Stacy’ ‘I know’ I reply. ‘what do you want’ ‘I know this is going to sound crazy’ she stops for dramatic effect. ‘but Millers is dead’ I have never sat up this straight with so much energy. I knew it. He didn’t break his door. It felt so good knowing that I might be able to explain what happened to millers. But this is a long shot, for I was the only one that saw this man with the metal rod. ‘lets go to see the body’ I say and end the call to dress up as soon as I could. I cycled down to the crime scene and it was great to see Joshua and Stacy already there. ‘This is insane, we just saw the man perfectly alright’ Joshua says. ‘I don’t know, he looked pretty uncomfortable to me’ I think out loud. After waiting a few moments near the same shop, the crowds began to swarm the whole place, the police secured the place and began to cuss at those who tired to intervene. We looked at each other and realized that explaining ourselves would be a bit difficult than we thought. ‘Excuse me officer’ I say after my patience was no longer coping up. ‘we’d like to talk to you about Mr. Millers death’ ‘Unless you killed him or know who killed him, don’t bother’ he said without even looking at me. Rude. ‘We might be able to tell you who killed him, I saw someone breaking his door’ The policeman looked at me with doubt. ‘okay, let’s hear it’ ‘The three of us’ I point to my friends ‘we were in that coffee shop’ and I point to Katherine’s. I saw a man, really thin as paper breaking this very door with a metal rod, in broad day light. I don’t know how none of the people saw this happening.’ ‘Right...’ the officer didn’t exactly show positive remarks about my story. ‘come into the shop, look at his body’ I definitely didn’t want to go in. I didn’t know what was waiting for me inside, if a dead deer could spook me out I don’t know what a dead man’s body is capable of doing to me. restless nights are already anticipated. The three of us carefully step inside and walk with utmost caution. The place stinks really bad. We pass the antique lamps and the cupboards. When the officer removed the white sheet off to reveal the body underneath, it was beyond horrifying. A cold crept up my spine like a wet spider crawling vigorously to get out of my skin. Stacy immediately turned back and covered her face. I wouldn’t blame her. Millers body was almost as if it wasn’t there. His hand was cut in half and his toes were missing. What disgusted me was that I remembered the dear. Just like that, his body was missing the organs, including the eyes. ‘he did it’ I say without having the energy to breathe. Joshua turns and wipes the sweat off his forehead and says ‘we need a sketch artist’ ‘What I’m worried about is, I only saw him from his back. ‘Describe what you saw kid’ the sergeant says and orders someone to draw what I described. I told them every single thing I saw. But at the end, the drawing looks as if I was describing something less of a human. The two police officers looked at me as if to tell me to be more accurate rather than describing something from a horror movie. ‘I’m telling the truth’ I say desperately. ‘Sure, kid’ the sergeant says and looks at the other officer while they both collectively discard the drawing and shove it in one of the boxes. 19 th May Wednesday I skipped school. I knew I should presumably tell my parents about this, but I knew they will think I’m insane even when my friends think so. I attend the first period to make it seem like it’s normal and got out out during the first interval. ‘Where are you going El?’ Joshua asks me. I jump at the sight of him and laughs it off. ‘I’m going to find out what happened’ ‘how exactly?’ ‘I’m going to wait at Katherines’ for a few hours on the lookout’ ‘guess you’ll need some back up’ Joshua gives me a reassuring handshake and I take it. ‘Stacy and I will meet you there, go ahead’ Without wasting a minute, I turn back around to grab my cycle and paddle off, but Joshua says ‘don’t do anything I wouldn’t do Elijah’ I smile and cycle as fast as I can. When I get there it was 10.00 am on the dot. I order my usual caffeine dose and began to wait. Few moments later Joshua and Stacy sit down in a hurry next to me and unload a camera on to the table. ‘let’s record’ she says. I look at her with a glimpse of hope and it felt great to have someone on your side. Few hours later - 12.30 pm Even though we had nothing to do but wait, this was getting out of hand. the streets were empty and there was no movement whatsoever. Joshua stands behind the camera and nods every few minutes to let us know it detects nothing. The frustration grew inside me like a seed and my hopelessness watered it every second. ‘Why is nothing happening’ I bury my face in my hands. I felt that day never existed. Maybe I was hallucinating. Even though I laughed at Stacy for overreacting, it’s me who couldn’t stand seeing that dead deer. ‘This is puzzling and stupid. You two shouldn’t miss school because of me’ It was not a moment afterwards when I decided to raise my head and look out the window. The frightful image appeared right outside the window; except I couldn’t react to what I saw. Seeing his face for the first time, I clearly noticed how his eyes were dead. The iris took the whole space in the eyes and they were hollow. The nose was almost non-existing and damp. One thing was for sure, Joshua and Stacy seemed to be going on with whatever they are doing. They didn’t see him. His non-human eyes pierced through my skull making me get up and scream at Joshua to tell me what he can see through the camera. He replied calmly, ‘nothing yet’. At that split second the window broke with a loud crash, shattering glass everywhere. Both Joshua and Stacy look at me and I nod; ‘ he’s right here’


The Painter Cat  Casey didn’t want to take the job but she had to. She needed the money to pay the rent and selling her paintings wasn’t covering it. She’d never worked as a maid before. She seldom cleaned her own house but when a woman at the grocery store remarked how badly she needed a housekeeper and was willing to pay, Casey sucked it up and introduced herself, offering her “services”.  The woman’s name was Meredith. She was 77 years old. She had a modest home in a very nice neighborhood and had asked Casey to come twice a week. Casey would be paid 300 a week - which was pretty good. The first few times were uneventful. Meredith’s house was well maintained and the work minimal. All seemed to be going well and then one day Meredith asked Casey to come into the study. She had a gift for her.  The gift was a canvas, brushes and paint. Meredith wanted Casey to paint her. She would be paid 1000 dollars for the painting when it was finished. Casey accepted the offer immediately. Meredith only asked that Casey paint her as if she were 30 years old but wanted to sit as the model. Casey was confused at first. How to take an old woman and paint her as 30 without ever having known what she’d look like at that age. Meredith didn’t seem too hung up on details, just told her to paint what she thought. Meredith took a seat on a chair near the window. The direct light defined every wrinkle and crevice in her sagging skin. Casey laid out the supplies and set about painting Meredith as she might have been at 30. It wasn’t an easy task.  Casey painted the entire day. Meredith prepared them dinner and they resumed again shortly after. It got dark and Casey kept painting. The lamp light softened Meredith’s features and Casey found herself enjoying the task and took liberty, creating Meredith as lush and fabulous as the soft golden light made her almost beautiful. By midnight the painting was done. Meredith found it remarkable and was overwhelmed with joy. Casey was about to sign it when Meredith stopped her and asked if she would simply sign it “Reynaldo”.  Casey was confused. She didn’t want to sign someone else’s name to her work. Meredith insisted and offered no explanation. Casey, tired and confused, grew agitated with the old woman and insisted on signing her name - which she did. Meredith was so distraught she picked up the brush, set it into the black paint and set about destroying the painting. Casey tried to stop her but Meredith was determined. At last Meredith stepped back, dropped the brush and retreated into her bedroom.  Casey knocked on the door and could hear Meredith crying. She finally decided to let herself in. She said she was sorry and asked to be paid. Meredith slowly got up off the bed and went to a drawer where she took out a small box and counted out ten one hundred dollar bills. Casey took the money and left.  Casey now had the money she needed for rent and did not return to clean Meredith’s house. At the grocery store later that week the manager appeared annoyed with her. When Casey commented, the manager told her that Meredith had paid for a painting and that Casey had argued the directions to sign Reynaldo at the bottom. Casey was furious at the suggestion of allowing anyone else to take advantage of her hard work and talent - to which the clerk snapped - Reynaldo had been Meredith’s beloved cat and was a far better painter than Casey would ever be. He had seen the painting with his own eyes and thought it was a hideous disaster.  Casey left, angry. Weeks later she found herself without rent again and no prospects for work so she took up panhandling outside a coffee bar. When she had five dollars she went inside to purchase a bagel for lunch and was amazed to see several portraits of Meredith displayed on the walls, all of them signed “Reynaldo”.  Casey ordered the bagel and remarked on the paintings. She was told they were painted by a cat which belonged to a woman named Meredith who was heir to a whiskey brand fortune.  Casey took her bagel and left. She was bummed that she could have peen paid lots of money to paint and that her prideful refusal had left her worse off than she had been in the beginning.


Another one of my Spooktober Stories, and one of the final ones before Halloween!  “Stick or Treat”   “The tall man, or so I call him,” said young Winnie, “is a creature of the night whom I see quite often from time to time.” The boy was short and plump. He wore a red t-shirt that was too tight for him and his wide belly poked out from beneath it as he sat rocking in his chair and spinning a yarn to his two friends, Trevor and Wenonah. They had been best friends since middle school. Too old now, being in their mid-teens, to trick-or-treat, they sat around in Winnie’s parents’ living room sipping apple cider and answering the door to pass out candy to trick-or-treaters at random intervals while his parents were away at a Halloween party. They had given up watching the scary movies on TV, each of which they had viewed a million times, in favor of swapping scary stories. “The first time I saw the man,” Winnie told his friends, who were hanging on his every word, “I was three. I awoke in the middle of the night to see him standing there in my closet. I jumped up and slammed the closet door and ran to my parents’ room. The next morning, we opened the closet together but there was no man there.” “What does he look like?” asked Trevor, his voice a tremor. “Well,” Winnie answered, “He is quite tall. 9 or 10 feet, easy. He has a very thin body, being beyond skinny, so skinny in fact, his torso and abdomen are indistinguishable, and when he stands at full height it looks like a rail. Almost like, like a-“ “A stick?” offered a skeptical-looking Wenonah, her dark black hair slung over the shoulder of her puffy, stitched, light brown sweater. “A stick, yes! That’s a good way of putting it.” Winnie said. “Wow...” Trevor gawked. His hands were clammy and wet where they had started to sweat. “How did a 9 to 10-foot-tall man fit in your closet? Ceiling clearance in there’s only about 6 and a half feet.” Wenonah objected. “He was crouching.” Winnie defended. Wenonah rolled her eyes. Trevor’s eyes widened. Trevor trained those deep blue eyes on his friend, who could practically see his short, buzz-cut brown hair tremble atop his scalp. He shook slightly and was on the very edge of his seat. “The man is really tall and skinny. He’s so skinny, like a stick, in fact, that he can disappear!” The doorbell rang. Trevor jumped. His mug of cider fractured on the floor, sending hot cider splashing up and burning him, but not badly. He yelped. The trio rose and greeted the skeleton, the witch, and the DreamWorks Minion standing on the front porch, and gave them a generous assortment of candy in their pails. Then they returned to their huddled circle of chairs in the living room, after cleaning Trevor’s mess and wiping up the cider from his pants. “Wh-what do you mean, he can disappear?” stuttered an eager Trevor. “Well, the third or fourth time I encountered this man, I was much older, 8 or 9, maybe. I woke up in the middle of the night, 3AM, I think it was, and I got myself some water. I was still pretty restless so I looked out the front window. There in the street, standing under the lamp, was the man, tall, skinny as a stick, and with his long, spindly arms reaching out with their big, long, sausage fingers dangling from his very round hands. MOM! I shouted, scared. After shouting for my mom several more times, I heard her rustle in her bed in my parents’ room, and begin waking and getting up. As she walked across the dark living room toward me, I watched as the tall man outside under the pale glow of the street lamp stepped sideways, and being thin like a stick, or a drawn line, even, he became all but invisible. I tried insisting to my mom to keep vigil and watch for him to turn back around, but she wouldn’t hear of it and made me go back to bed.” Trevor was completely silent. His mouth hung open. “What does this guy’s face look like?” Wenonah asked Winnie, in an ever so slightly mocking tone. “It is pale. His skin is pale, bright white, even, like paper. He has no face at all, just a big, round head.” Winnie replied. “You mean no face, whatsoever?” a thoroughly creeped out Trevor inquired. “That’s right.” The doorbell rang again. Once again, the three of them gave trick-or-treaters, this time a cowboy, a pirate, and an evil nun a load of candy to add to their already overloaded bags. Then, they picked right up where they left off. “So this guy is really real? You mean it?” Trevor stammered. “Oh, yes. He’s very real, I assure you. He comes stomping along on his two big, circular feet. Often times on Halloween. In fact, we might see him tonight.” “No way.” “Yeah. I can draw him for you if you want me to.” At Trevor’s behest, Winnie ran and fetched a pad and paper and began drawing exactly the man he had described up to this point. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. I can’t believe it. You can draw him, he’s real!” Trevor muttered. When he was finished, Winnie turned his pad to face his friends, revealing his sketch. Trevor gasped. Wenonah rolled her eyes. “Dude.” Wenonah remarked. “You just drew a stick man. All that is, is a stick man!” Winnie burst out laughing, unable to contain it any longer. He laughed until tears filled his eyes. His poking out belly shook and he kicked his feet. “Oh man,” he said, “I really had Trevor going! Ha ha ha ha ha!!!” Trevor looked stunned for a second, then turned red and scowled, realizing he’d been had. After a few moments passed, he smiled, then laughed, too. “Geez, man, I can’t believe I fell for that!” “Heh heh, I know! I literally just talked to you about a stick man the whole night!” All three friends laughed and scoffed over this ridiculous story. The doorbell rang. The three friends arose and went to answer the call. Opening the door, they beheld him: a long, tall man who was skinny as a stick, had skin the color of printer paper, a large, round, 2-dimensional head, long sausage fingers that looked hastily drawn in loops, and arms as long as his torso. Before them stood the very stick man Winnie had jokingly described in his story just minutes before. The blood drained from Trevor’s face. Wenonah screamed. Winnie felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. From nowhere, for he had no mouth, neck, or signs of vocal chords, the stick man spoke in a deep, low, grumble: “trick-or-treat!” Shrieking, the friends slammed the door, turned, and fled into the house, running up the stairs and barricading themselves in Winnie’s room, where they stayed for the remainder of that Halloween night. On the front porch, the stick man stood, satisfied. If he had owned one, his face would have been all smile. “Heh, heh, heh,” the figure chuckled in the same grumbling drone to himself. He stamped down the stairs of Winnie’s parents’ front porch with his large, round child’s drawing feet, and kept walking onward away from there, disappearing into the gray, foggy, cold night.


“Principal Davis is a cunt.” The anger that fueled the words is dry before the ink. I wet my finger and try in vain to rub the words from the faux-leather school bus seat. Across the aisle, Jason Withering’s dull stupid gaze presses on me. “So what, are you going to tell on me?” He shrugs. His road-kill eyes drift down to my chest. I shoulder my ratty book bag and head to the front, leaving my crumpled suspension form behind. “This isn’t your stop.” The bus driver doesn’t even look at me. “I moved.” He responds with a long sip from his big gulp. A hearty gurgle noise seems to indicate the matter resolved. We stop at a light. I grab the lever and pull it hard. It’s easier than I expected and the door hisses open. He reaches to stop me but hesitates when he considers the large fruity drink in his hand, settling instead for a half-hearted rebuke as I jog away into the drizzling rain. I cut through an alley, the town square and an elementary school yard. I stop a minute to wistfully watch the swings. There is a hole in the back fence in a bramble of poison ivy. I navigate though it, and then move delicately around a roadside monument to a traffic accident that lay just beyond. A car pulls up alongside me as I walk. The window hums down. The man inside has yellow eyes and a don’t-mind-if-I-do face. His car is nice. His watch looks expensive. “Where are you going.” “Home.” “Wanna’ ride?” “No, its right there.” I point to my house. “Oh, nice place.” I look at him funny. It’s not. On the street full of tidy houses, mine is the shitty one. In school we just read ‘To Kill a Mockingbird.’ Well I live in Boo Radley’s house. If I had friends, they wouldn’t come over. The windows are blocked with clutter. There is detritus all over the yard. Our old Cadillac has been turned into an island for sunning stray cats in the sea of tall grass and weeds. “I like your socks.” I stop to look down at my feet. My red knee-socks are full of holes and grass stained. I look at him closer. He has a giddiness around the edges that makes me uncomfortable. His grin is so wide it almost disappears around the sides of his face. When we get to my house, I peel away and run up the steps. The car moves down the street and turns out of sight. On the porch I peer through the window. I can see my Grandma sitting in her chair, cocooned in cigarette smoke. Her wig is drooping to the side. She holds an electrolarynx to her throat to coax out the mad barks that constitute her half of a conversation with the TV. I imagine the poisoned menthol smell of her cardigan. Death and chemicals. She always reeked of death and chemicals. As I walk down the steps and back into the rain, I tell myself this time I really am running away, but I know it isn’t true. I spend the afternoon wandering the woods behind the park. A stray cat follows me and I share my lunch with her. The two of us slink into an abandoned house through a busted window. We sit and read the graffiti on the walls. *Jenifer Leigh is a slut.* *Rockyeez mom gives good hed.* I wonder if there is anything about me in here. It’s night by the time I get home. I know the doors will be locked. That was the deal; in by dark or not at all. I scramble in through the bathroom window. Careful not to turn on any lights, I run a bath. A towel under the spout dampens the noise. I lay floating in the dark. The crickets buzz lazily. The only light is the dim yellow glow of the streetlamps outside. Some children see their future in the clouds. I see mine in the water damaged bathroom ceiling. There is a spot that looks like my pregnant cousin. Another looks like my friend Amy, who dances at the Playpen. And there is me, a small smudge just barely blooming into existence right above the window. It is a doom without romance, I decide. The quiet death of a stray dog crawling under a porch to die. It is too much to ask, perhaps, to avoid my fate, but I would prefer to find it with a bit more grace. What if I were Diana? Or a Kennedy? I almost smile as sleep overtakes me. I wake suddenly. The water is cold and the crickets sound louder, almost expectant. Someone is in the doorway. I pull back the curtain a little and see the silhouette of my Grandma. Her wig and the cardigan outline the shadows of her form. She shifts her head a bit as if to get a better look. I can smell her death and chemicals. “Grandma?” I see her raise the Elecrolarynx to her throat. “Hello dear.” The sharp staccato words ring out sharply. I don’t respond. A long disturbing silence follows. She begins shifting from one foot to another, apprehensively. I sink down further into the water, watching her. “I have brought you something.” “You can give it to me in the morning. Go back to sleep Grandma.” “But my dear, I want to give it to you now.” She shuffles forward, head down. Her hands pull a small bundle from her sweater pocket. As she unwraps it I can smell sweat and dirt and grass. I recognize my socks. She lays them out across the top of the toilet seat with large hairy hands. When he lifts his head up I see the giddy too-wide smile and yellow eyes under my grandma’s wig. I sink further into the water, a weak escape from the horror. He gestures to the socks expectantly, bobbing up and down faster. I ball my fists and try to scream but I only find the taste of the tepid bathwater. He is moving up and down in a feverish state now, a sock in his hand and an eager whine trailing from his mouth. He edges closer to the tub. I cannot watch. I sink lower and look at the ceiling. My water spot is growing. He has one foot into the bath. My water spot is spreading fast. Two feet. It’s bulging under the paint. He reaches down to touch my face and my fear changes to a rage like I have never known before. A fury against the bad school and the dead parents and the insane grandmother and this whole wolf’s den of a town. Loathing unfreezes my paralysis. The ceiling rips open in a flood and I scream out from a place inside both dark and primordial. His grin droops in surprise. Before he collects himself I ball myself up and kick out against the side of the tub, spilling out on the floor painfully in a wet tangle of limbs. His hands are on me but they slip. I run. He grabs me again, but this time too, I slip away. I grab keys on the counter and sprint the car outside. I hear him trip over my grandma’s body in the dark and the sickening flat sound of his face hitting the tile floor. I’m out the door and into his car. A howl from the house fills the night as I speed away. Its almost sunrise when I finally stop driving. I turn off near a sign for Amarillo and park on a road leading off to nowhere. I have no money, no phone, no clothing. There was a light up billboard outside Albuquerque with my face on it. When I open the trunk, I find my grandma’s jewelry. Its at the top of a large duffle bag full of similar pieces. Diamond watches, rings, pearl necklaces, an emerald tiara and a large wad of social security checks and cash rubber banded together. The bag is too heavy to lift. Next to the bag is a case with duct tape and and a long wicked looking knife. There is more. In the spare wheel compartment I find clothes. So many clothes. It’s mostly high school girl’s school uniforms. I put on a shirt and shorts emblazoned with the words ‘Valley high Pys. ED.’ There is blood on the sleeve I sit in the car awhile, listening to the thrum of the semi trucks on the highway with my eyes closed. When I open them, I can see dark clouds forming back in the west. I can feel the malevolence reaching out, calling me back to it. Demanding me. I put the Emerald tiara gently onto my head, checking it with care in the mirror. I drive east.


"If you've seen one Monet, you've seen them all." Madame X said to herself. She stood before the umpteenth "Water Lily" painting in the Monet exhibit, soon to close. Dressed in a long black dress, with auburn hair and pearl straps, she had had to spend eternity lifting one strap to her shoulder. Her artist, John Singer Sargent, was encouraged to paint out her fallen dress strap for a more conventional, if less appealing, strap placed firmly on her shoulder. She was stuck, always having to adjust the strap, just because of the controversy during the Paris Salon of 1884. "Water Lilies: 1916," she read the label aloud. The light in the room was dim; the museum was closed. Normally she would be enjoying the revelries of the Toulouse-Lautrec Moulin-Rouge paintings, but she had been putting off Monet all this time. Now, she had finally crawled out of her frame and caught the last of it. She glanced at all the other water lilies and bridges that Monet had painted. Tomorrow, the paintings would be packed and would be off somewhere else. She squinted at "Water Lillies: Part 24," and wondered just how many of the studies there actually were. Disappointing. Just more of the same. She glanced about the room. Way too many pictures of the bridge and water, she decided. Supposedly Monet was some sort of genius with all these duplicates. She sighed, and tugged at her strap again. Since Sargent had repainted, Madame X was stuck with pulling it back on her shoulder. She headed off to the sculpture exhibit. No security guards, so far. That was good. She wanted to see what she had heard a patron say as the girl soot before her frame. "It's as if the stone is transparent," the woman chirped. She was a young one, no more than a teenager, wearing an assortment of colors and patterns, a gold nose ring in her left nostril. The girl explained to her fella--boyfriend? that Sargent had been forced to paint out the strap, to make Madamee X more acceptable, more--dull. Madame X liked her immediately, Madame X grimaced. The statue room she approached was full of shuffling feet, of figures so stiff in stone knees, they had to throw their bodies from side to side to make any headway. The Greek athletes, their heads always turned in mid-motion, were the worst of them all. They couldn't see where they were going. As they shuffled about, she heard 'excuse me' and 'get out of my way,' come from the room. She stopped as her favorite exhibit, a reproduction of Michelangelo's "David." The statue was a fraction of his real size, which meant all his male magnificence was usually at eye level. Madame X's groin flushed with the thought. Where was he? Oh, there he was, talking to the Greek discus thrower. They always got along, flexing their muscles and bragging about their achievements. Over there, the ebony mother with child, a modern art of two figures, large and small, had retreated to the shadows. Mama was always trying to suckle the brat, but an oval hole was where her breasts should be. The babe in her arms wailed, hungry for his milk. The poor woman would never get that kid fed. Ah, the Bust room. No shuffling her, but facing rows of talking heads. Some had turned to face each other, but a few were quiet and had nothing to say. Madame X, pulling up her strap, stepped over to one bust. "The Veiled Virgin, by Giovanni Strazza," she read aloud. She studied the veil. My, that is extraordinary, she thought to herself. The work was exquisite, the veil, hewn in marble, looked, indeed, transparent. "What do you want, sister?" the bust demanded. "Why, I was admiring your veil," Madame X stammered. "Yeah? Well, that's all anyone sees of me, i'n't it?" she said. Her eyes could not open under the veil, but she looked so demure. Her thick accent startled Madame X. "I'm just another woman, dime-a-dozen. Didja know I was the mother of God? Well, no, not necessarily. I'm just a veil, cut from marble. Hell, I could look like a weasel, or a bottle of wine, or somethin'. Wouldn't have mattered. Just another one of them," her base scraped as she shifted towards the other busts of Mary, "but I got this stupid veil on me. Can't see nothin', it's all marble, you know." The Sargent woman did know. She said, "But the work is...." "Wha'?" the bust demanded. "Interesting? Unique? Unusual? Dats what dey all say, i'n't? What is it, sister, huh? What is the veil? Speak up!" Madame X frowned. "Obviously, far too transparent." The statuary room was beginning to annoy her. All those magnificent bodies, with noisy, exceedingly egos to boot. "I'll head to the modern art room," she said aloud to herself. "I'n't that where you always end up?" said the bust. "Far more interesting than you grumpy gusses," the Sargent woman sniffed. "Yeah? Well, watch out for the whiney Jackson Pollok, there in the corridor. It thinks it's upside down again. Stupid picture...," the veiled woman grumbled. The Sargent woman tugged at her strap and swept away to the new modern art exhibit. Here were all sorts of creatures. They peered at her in wonder as she glanced about the room. One red figure with huge teeth and two sets of eyes on top of its head, asked, "Oy! How you do dat?" "Do what?" asked Madame X. "Move," the image asked. "At least you can see," said a purple blob with massive feet. "All I can do is crouch down and hold my toes." "They're very nice feet, said Madame X. "You really think so?" asked the purple blob. "They're not too big?" "Oh, yeah! Definitely!" said Straight Line, slashing the canvass from corner to corner. "I'm a delicate woman," said a figure in green and yellow that looked vaguely like up-chuck." Madame X raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. The blue square with extra eyes and cartoon limbs nodded, its frame wiggling on the wall. "I must say," said Madame X, soothingly, "You all seem to have unusual features. What big eyes you have, Mr. Blue. And you, Miss Up--yellow, what big breasts you have." Miss Yellow wiggled her frame in delight. "How'd you get out of your frame," piped a square with a squeaky voice. "Why, I've been here for years," Madame X replied. "After a while, you get bored, just hanging on a wall. One night I peeled myself off my canvas and took to wandering. I've been doing so every night, ever since." She swelled with pride. "How long are you folks here for?" she asked. "Six months, maybe, maybe more," replied Purple Feet lady. "Then we're off to New York. Can't wait." Madame X sighed. She hadn't left Boston in years. She would have liked to go to London, or, perhaps, Paris, but John Singer Sargent was not nearly as popular as Claude Monet (though heaven knows why). She started. The rhythmic rattle of keys was approaching. Security. Quickly, she lifted her skirt and hurried back to the Sargent room. The subjects of the other paintings were hanging about, out of their frames. The children, thought Madame X. "Quickly," she said as she shooed them back to their respective paintings. "Aww," they whined, but they minded her, and climbed back into their frames. Keys was drawing closer. The Sargent woman raised her finger to her lips and scowled at each of the girls to silence. And not a moment too soon. The security guard entered the room and looked about. He could have sworn he had heard giggling, but there were only the Sargent paintings, of children playing quietly, of lighting paper lanterns, of society women staring out of their frames. And if Madame X's strap had fallen to her shoulder, and she had sighed, well, it was a good thing he hadn't noticed.


It’s still dark out when the call comes in. Some dog walker got a surprise on their morning jaunt, their prized terrier sniffing out a body laying a few feet off the street. The sun’s just peeking its rays out by the time Officer Blake gets out of the car, feeling a little tender from his 4:30 start and no coffee to comfort him. Muddy leaves practically carpet the sides of the road, colouring everything in muted browns. There’s a fine sheen of frost on the ground already, like winter decided autumn wasn’t dying fast enough for it. It's only just gone November, some people still have their pumpkins out, but Blake can already feel it’s going to be a long winter. His limbs ache at the thought and he lets out a huff, clouds spilling from his mouth. The flashing lights of the cop cars have already drawn some onlookers, more dog walkers, joggers and the like. Damn morning people . Blake eyes the still closed deli across the way, craving something to sink his teeth into, preferably something hot. He gets to work, making the crowd back up as he and his fellow officers set up a barricade around the scene. The bright yellow police tape goes up, a garish warning not to get too close. It doesn’t stop comments from the peanut gallery. “What’s going on?” a disgruntled jogger asks, “Has there been an accident?” “Dunno,” responds a rather rotund gentlemen with a chihuahua tucked under his pudgy arm, “Some cow got drunk and froze, probably.” The chihuahua gives a snarl when Blake passes. They’re not wrong. One of his favourite bars is just round the corner from here, so that drunk theory looks likely. If there’s one thing you learn on the job, it’s that it’s never too early in the season for frozen drunks. Blake hasn’t spared a glance at it yet, but he does now. They’re still waiting on forensics and their plastic blue jump suits, so all that’s visible of the body are its limbs sticking out from under a pile of leaves. Smooth and so pale they’re practically blue, Blake guesses it was a woman from the ripped, sheer stockings and high heels. Long brown hair lies plastered down to its skull, completely obscuring even the tiny part of its head you can see. Some people like to think it's like looking at someone sleeping. Peaceful. Innocuous. Nah, someone sleeping still has life in them. Movement, breath and a fullness no dead thing can get back. His fiancée Gilly snores a little, twists her lip and moans when she gets too cold, snuggling in closer to him. When people actually see what’s left of their loved one, it's just a husk, meat for the coroner to stick his knives into. Something foreign, unrecognisable to the living. That corpse isn’t human anymore. It’s gone the same way as the fallen leaves, dull and dead. “Need a pick me up?” Blake almost jumps. On his left is Detective Jack Weiss, black bags under his own eyes. He holds out a Starbucks cup. “Thanks,” Blake accepts the cup gratefully. Weiss is a good sort, got promoted before Blake, but still invites him over to watch a game. He even brings coffee. Black, two sugars. Blake takes a gulp of the scalding liquid, the warmth traveling down his throat in delicious ways. “Forensics still not here?” the detective asks. “Late as usual.” Weiss snorts derisively, peering with contemplation at the corpse. “You boys find any ID?” Blake shakes his head, ignoring the slight burst of irritation at the term. The forensics team chooses that moment to appear. Weiss goes off to say something to them briefly and a few minutes later they’re both finishing off their coffees while they wait for the things to get checked over. “You and Gill still coming round tonight?” Weiss asks, sipping his latte, “Mary’s keen for a catch up.” Blake winces a little, heat rising to his cheeks. “Not sure,” he admits, “Gilly and I had a fight yesterday, she’s at her mom’s again for a bit. Figured I’d let things cool down.” “Wedding stuff again?” Weiss asks knowingly. “Something like that,” Blake agrees. It had actually been about her engagement ring. She almost lost it and was angry he hadn’t taken it to get resized yet. The whole thing was stupid and had blown up bigger than it should have. But in truth, Blake might enjoy their fights a little too much. The way her chestnut hair gets that red sheen in the right light and her cheeks flush up in anger. She never looks more alive than when she’s angry, a firebrand hotter than the sun. In those moments, Gilly just shines. He’ll be in the doghouse for a couple of days, but the make up will be worth it. Maybe he’ll call her tonight, get the whole process started. Weiss grins at him, shaking his head. “Pair of hooligans, you two,” he comments fondly. Blake laughs along and then Weiss is finally getting called to take a look at the body. He watches his friend go before turning to check the barriers again. He’s close enough to see what the boys in their blue jumpsuits and masks are up to and doesn’t like to be caught staring. As he turns, his boot hits something. A spark of metal catches his eye just at the same time as his step sends it flying across the icy ground. It disappears in the blink of an eye, hiding under some rotting leaves. It's probably just a coin, but Blake steps forward and bends down next to the pile of leaves, one hand still holding the remains of his coffee. With the other he carefully starts clearing them away, trying to see what he kicked. Nothing yet. He picks up some of the damp leaves, ignoring the mud transferring over to his hand. He picks up a particularly mangled, brown leaf by its stem and... Bingo! Surprise, surprise. The metal thing turns out to be a ring. Silver, with a small diamond in its centre. Funny, it looks a lot like the one he bought Gilly. He picks it up carefully and holds it to his eye to examine. There’s an inscription inside and he squints to read. Gilly and Jamie forever. Blake’s heart stops. Gilly and Jamie forever. The words clang in his head like church bells. Loud. So loud he thinks he might not be able to think about anything ever again. The world spins, the morning suddenly becoming far too bright. Blake wants to drop the ring and yet grips it all the more tightly in his trembling fingers. The ring he was supposed to get resized ages ago. The ring that caused that stupid fight. His eyes snap to the corpse. It- She- It- She- The forensic team turns her over, clearing away the leaves and getting ready to transfer her to the morgue for further investigation. The coroner will do the autopsy to determine cause of- No, she can’t have an autopsy! Her mom wouldn’t like that! Hell, he won’t have it! Nobody’s touching her. They brush the hair out of her face and Blake starts walking towards her like he’s in a trance. The usually vibrant, chestnut locks hang damp and listless around her gaunt face, small strands clinging to her sallow skin here and there. Her make up is smudged and she’s dirty. God, she would have hated that. Gilly’s always so careful with her looks. Something flashes. White light pops into his vision, stinging his eyes. They’re taking pictures of her like that, all covered in mud and filth. He wants to smash those cameras, but his limbs just aren’t moving right. Weiss has recognised her too and now he’s looking at Blake. Blake though, doesn’t care. He only has eyes for Gilly. The world has flipped again. Gilly’s eyes are open. Her lips are painted blue and there’s a bruise around her neck, purple and red from where someone had their hands wrapped around it, squeezing until they’d wrung it all from her. That’s Gilly, but she’s not snoring. That’s Gilly but her lips don’t twist. That’s Gilly, but she looks colder than ice, the fire sucked out from her very being. That’s Gilly and- Someone killed her. Blake forgets how to breathe. Someone catches his arm, pulling him away from her. Blake almost growls. No, that’s Gilly! They start loading her into an ambulance and no! No ! She can’t go there! She doesn’t belong there! “Jamie!” it’s Weiss gripping his arm, “Look at me!” “That’s Gillian!” Blake says stupidly, “They’re taking Gilly!” “Jamie!” Weiss grips him hard, pulling him back to reality, “She’s dead!” It's so cold. The frost creeps over Blake and his vision goes dull. “ She’s dead ?” he repeats dejectedly. Weiss is looking sympathetic and weary. Blake wants to punch him. ”I’m sorry,” and Blake thinks a guy like Weiss means it, but he’s also got a job to do. ”She was murdered , Jack,” he states like it wasn’t obvious before, “Her neck...” He can’t say it. He can’t picture it. The transformation of his bubbly fiancée to victim chokes him. He thinks somethings been wrung out of him too. ”I saw,” Weiss sighs, “You know what comes next, right ?” Blake nods, slumping. He clutches the ring tightly in his fist and feels the little diamond dig into his skin. Weiss wants to ask some questions. Blake is a suspect . It doesn’t matter, he thinks as he looks down at the decaying leaves by his feet. A world without Gilly is a dead world anyway.


I wish I could cry. I wish I could cry for all the people that died during the war. Not just the soldiers, but the innocents. I wish I could cry for the other people, too; the ones across the ocean that launched their missiles at us. I wish I could cry for the people that had to launch our own missiles back at them. That must have been hard to do. I wish I could cry... but I can't. It has been a long, long time since I have seen another person. I've seen the radiation subside and the sky turn back to its normal, beautiful blue. I've seen the rubble of buildings finally be retaken by nature; the vines and dandelions covering the crumbling piles of concrete. I wish I could cry for them, let my tears quench their thirst. I really like their color; yellow. I wish there were more people here to see them too; to cry over them with me. A lot of the time, I find bones. I wish I could cry over them. I wish I could cry for the people that they once were; the people that had lives, and homes, and families, and happiness. I wish I could cry for all of those, too. Sometimes, I'll find the bones of animals. It's easy to tell which of the piles of bones were made before the war. I wish I could cry for them, as well. I feel happy for the piles of bones that came after, though. I'd still like to cry over them. Not in sadness, though. I wish I could cry for the decaying, empty homes that no longer had people to fill them; make them whole. It seems like it would be an awful lonely being if your purpose just disappeared one day. I think I might know something about that, though. I wished that I could cry when I came across a walled garden some time ago. The trees were sickly; twisted by the radiation. They were sad trees. I wanted to cry for them. They had once grown peaches. They had once probably been delicious. I wish I could have tasted one. Now, the sad trees stood between the four scorched, brick walls; their branches half-empty, with only a few leaves lapping up the sun when it sparsely showed its face. I wish I could cry for the sun. It used to show its nice yellow face to everyone all the time, every day. Now, I only see it every couple of weeks. I wish I could cry for the clouds. They used to bring rain down to grateful plants and the mouths of delighted people, now the only weather they bring is dark and icy. It has been a long, long time since I've seen rain. I get to see snow often, though. I wish I could cry for the summer, and the spring. For the summer, because it used to be a long, happy time. It is still a happy time, and the sun shows its face more then, but it isn't a long time. For the spring, because it no longer has the rains to make it special. Now, it's just a warmer fall. I wish I could cry for the fall, as well. There used to be lots of leaves for the fall to make look pretty. There used to be lots of leaves that the fall could cover the ground with. I like the color yellow, but I think I would have liked all of the nice oranges and reds of the leaves even better. I have seen some people before, not just the piles of bones. They are always so sad and scared. I wish I could cry for them. I wish I could cry when they ran away from me. I wish I could cry because I would never get to really say "Hello" to them. I wish I could cry, but I can't. I walk past an old parking building, covered with snow and browning vines. Summer ended not long ago, and I wish I could cry for it and the vines. Not everything here is dead, though. I can see smoke coming from the top of the concrete tower, so I go inside. There are cars here, lots of old, rusting cars. I wish I could cry for them, now without people to take them around. I find some stairs, and start to go up. The steps aren't crumbing yet, but they are quite small for my feet. I wish I could cry for the stairs, now without more feet to use them. The parking building is big, and it takes a long time to climb, but I don't mind. I like to think that it is happy to have something inside of it again. The roof looks like everywhere else, when it is covered in snow. It looks just like a white, fluffy blanket on everything. I don't need to want to cry for this blanket, though, for two reasons. The first reason is that this cold, mean blanket isn't a blanket that anything wants to be under. The second reason, though, is they there is someone already here. Even from across the roof, I can see her. She has her back to be as she tends a small flame she has built in a small crater that she has carved out of the snow. She has on a gas mask. I can tell from the straps that wrap over and around her head. Under the straps, though, I can see that she has long, dark red hair. It's such a lovely, deep red. I think it is what the leaves would have looked like in the fall. The nice red clashed with her coat, though, but I don't mind. Her coat, a rubber rain-slick, was the same color as the dandelions at the height of summer. I wanted to cry for her colors, but not in sadness. Beyond her, there is a rifle leaned against the rusting, metal railing along the edge of the roof. Next to it are the remains of a rabbit. I didn't feel like crying over the rabbit, though. It had died, but it wouldn't become just another pile of wasted bones. She was grateful for this rabbit. This rabbit died good, not like the people from before. I take a step forward, but the snow and the roof crackle under my step. She whips around. I can't see her face. I wish that I could. Through the eyes of the mask, I can see hers go wide as she falls back into the snow, next to the fire. I throw my hands up to show that I mean her no harm. I just want to say "Hello" to her. She screams and scrambles for the gun against the railing. She slips. Her foot slides out from under her, and she catches most of her weight on the butt of the rifle. She is still falling, though, and she reaches for the railing in a panic. It breaks. I don't have enough time to even take another step before she disappears over the side of the roof. I know she's gone. I want to cry... but I can't. I stand there for a moment, watching the struggling fire continue to smolder with its creator having left it behind. I want to cry for the fire. I look at my hands, still outstretched in a plea for understanding. I wish I could cry for these hands. I wish I could cry for the stumps of metal, wire, and electricity that I called hands. I wish that I could cry for the same reason I wish I could cry for the fire... ...but I can't.


I haven’t been to a bonfire since I was twelve years old. For the last eighteen years I’ve avoided them, stayed late at work on Bonfire Night, squeezed my eyes tight at the sounds of fireworks. All because of what happened that night all those years ago; I still hear the screaming of my friends, see the jerking movement of shadowy figures between flickers of dancing firelight. We had no idea how specific the rules were, we figured it was just a bit of fun. Stuff a few old clothes with straw, make a passable effigy of a person and call it the Guy. Shove him on the fire and watch him burn. Now I think about it, the whole thing couldn’t fail to have a dark and twisted background could it? More so than the treason thing I mean. Everyone knows the story. Guy Fawkes wanted to bring down the Protestant King and his government, in order to restore the monarchy to the Catholics who’d paid for and organised his attempt. Some people (wrongly) think of Guy Fawkes as some kind of freedom-fighter anarchist, much like they think of Che Guevara, the squalid killer and totalitarian tyrant, as an idealist for social equality. But that’s their choice, after all ignorance is bliss, and the truth of it is probably lost to the mists of time. It hardly matters. The only truth that really matters is the one that plays out every November 5th. I didn’t find out the truth for many years after it happened, but now I understand. I’ve been working in local government - a very specific department of local government - for many years now in a position open only to a few. Open only to people who have seen the things I’ve seen. And that’s how I know what I need to tell you. So I’ll tell you what happened to me first, because it’s the same thing that could happen to you. To anyone. To your kids, after they tell you they’re doing one thing and actually do something completely different. I’m not saying you need to watch them 24/7, but I am saying you need to watch them on the night of November 4th. My parents knew we were having a sleep-over at Tommy’s house. They just had no idea his parents were away. How could they have known? I was pretty adept at lying through my teeth about such things at that age. In any case, we snuck out at about 11.30pm, which to us was ridiculously late, and set about making our own bonfire. Our guy was made from Tommy’s clothes. There had been a vote, of sorts, and he’d lost. We figured his parents wouldn’t notice his stuff missing because he had the most clothes. Kid-logic, I guess. The straw had been taken from the bales up on the fields behind the houses and we enthusiastically stuffed the old jeans and jumper with straw, and tied the two bits together with string. We stuck a large stick through his neck so it protruded out, and the sack filled with yet more straw was then shoved ceremoniously onto the stick as his head. We thought it was brilliant. A life-size Guy all of our own. Before long the fire was blazing, and we started to worry that it was too big. Although we were pretty far from the town, through the woods and up on the fields, we wondered if people would spot us. Specifically, our parents. We were too young to think seriously about the police or fire brigade, or anyone else for that matter. And, now I think on it, I am astounded that no one came to investigate the fire that must have been like a beacon in that dark night, even through the woods. I had no idea that what we were doing was deeply, deeply dangerous. And not just because of the flames and the stupidity of being a twelve year old far from home on a dark night. I warn you, the next part of this is not pleasant, but I must tell you anyway. I am not likely to be allowed to live having disclosed this truth, but disclose it I must for your sake. Tommy and Ross were making the final adjustments to the Guy, fiddling with the cheap shoes that wouldn’t stay on the straw sticking out of the jeans and trying to fit the gloves at the end of the arm. I was standing a little further back, gazing in rapt awe at the leaping tongues of flame lapping at the dry wood we’d piled up. I remember the cracking of old sticks, the showers of pretty embers as larger logs split apart glowing briefly against the black grass. Shadows flickered all around us. And then the screaming started. I turned at Ross’s first panicked cry, and froze at the sight. The glove he’d been struggling with had his wrist in a vice-like grip, and Tommy was staggering back clutching his nose, reeling away from straw-man’s leg which had clearly just kicked him. Blood showed between his fingers, and for a moment I was transfixed by the sight, before my eyes were torn away by the terrified cry Ross made as the Guy took hold of his other arm and hurled him into the flames. The scream he uttered was something that has stayed with me my entire life, a howl of desperate, disbelieving horror and agony like the squeal of a petrified animal, and then lost in the crackle of flames. I only just managed to snatch Tommy out of reach as the gloved hand grabbed at him, and I dragged him back as the lurching nightmare lumbered forward on unsteady legs. It was its silence that almost cost me my life, that implacably relentless malice so unlike any threat I could have imagined with my childlike brain that it nearly rooted me to the spot with unfocused, confused terror. I hadn’t even had time to process what had happened to Ross, and I think the screaming in my ears was my own. The creature took another staggering step, its misshapen filthy bag-head wobbling unsteadily on its pole, its arms swinging as though ready to fall off. Tommy ran at it, tears streaming down his blood-splattered face, and shoved it hard in the chest, trying to push it into the fire. He was screaming too. The thing was knocked back, its arms flailing, but it didn’t fall into the flames. Instead it snatched at Tommy’s hand, pulling him down with it. Tommy fell on the other side of it, so that the writhing straw-man’s back blocked him from sight as it rolled over. I tried to move, to answer Tommy’s ghastly screams for help, but I couldn’t. I was motionless, impotent with fear. Tommy’s screams became gurgles as the thing made odd, frantic movements with its arm, which I realised with a hideous dawning horror were the motions of a man stuffing a Guy with straw. Somehow at that thought my mind cleared, and I ran forward, and saw what was happening to my friend. The sight has never left me. Tommy lying by the fire, his hair catching alight, his eyes staring unseeing at the stars overhead. Orange light and black shadows playing over his dead face, his features frozen in a look of unutterable horror. And the straw-demon, forcing more and more straw into his chest cavity, not caring that my friend was already gone. Again and again its gloved had thrust more straw inside him, as though oblivious to all else. I don’t know what I was thinking. All rational thought had long since gone from me. But from somewhere far away I saw myself dive at the monster, yelling in that primal terrified way humans have always yelled when fighting a last stand against a superior foe. But the thing was unbalanced. Hunched as it was over the body of my friend, it was unable to steady itself, and it fell easily to the side, knocking into the hungry fire. It was instantly ablaze. The old straw burst into flame with an almost impossible speed, the brilliant light and heat consuming it within moments. I stepped back, watching in grim horror as the thing writhed and danced, flailing uselessly at its tormentor, before collapsing, lying like just another guy burning on a bonfire. I turned and fled, I’m not proud of that. I left Tommy and Ross up there, and I didn’t look back. I spent the night outside Tommy’s house, because I didn’t have the keys. In the morning my parents found me, sitting motionless by the front door, my arms around my knees. I managed to garble out what had happened, and from that they and the police figured we’d been attacked by someone or something. They didn’t believe the story as I told it, of course, and put most of it down to a child’s shock. The remains of the bonfire were searched, but no sign was ever found of Tommy or Ross. Somehow or other news of my story eventually found its way to the ears of the innocently-named Department for Fire Safety at the local Council. It’s their job to make sure such things don’t happen, and before long I’d been inducted into their ranks. That’s where I learned the truth, and was forbidden to tell it. But tell it I will, if only to keep you safe. Or possibly to get my own back a little. I have no love for my erstwhile employers, as you’ve probably deduced from all this, and I don’t agree with their methods. The point is the first “guy” of the year, the first one completed on November 5th, contains the restless and tortured spirit of the man himself. Fawkes. Condemned eternally to return and be punished over, and over, and over again. It’s ghastly. It’s horrific. But that’s just how it is. I’m so used to it now the story doesn’t affect me anymore, which I suppose is part of the reason I hate my job. For what it’s done to me. Anyway, the Church has always known, and back in the old days firewood was hard enough to come by as it was, so no one built their own bonfires. It was all controlled by the churches and they largely made sure people were safe and the punishment went on and on, year after dreadful year. But as times changed, the secular authorities like the one I work for took over, and the job became less about keeping people safe and more about keeping the awful truth a secret. We make sure the first Guy built on November 5th is made by people who knew what they’re doing, in a controlled environment, and that when he returns he burns quickly without taking anyone with him. After all he does not return to the flames without a fight, as Tommy and Ross learned to their tragic detriment. Unfortunately for us, we’d built our guy shortly after midnight on 5th November, in a spot coincidentally between the Council patrols. No one stopped us finishing that effigy, no one checked with the lab whether it was safe. It sometimes happens. And the clean-up operation is usually a logistical and public relations nightmare, with the focus almost entirely on hushing it up. I can’t stand it anymore. The witness relocation programmes, the hush-money. The 24/7 surveillance of survivors. It’s wrong. I think people would rather be trusted to face the issue themselves. So now you know. Remember remember, the 5th of .


The sun was peeking over the horizon as its yellowish rays scattered across the raven skies. Birds spread their wings and soared in the black canvas of the sky along with their chirping music. Eyelids blinked upon hearing the wake-up calls from the roosters in the backyard. Mothers get up to prepare for breakfast while Fathers prepare for the day. In the City Capital of Davao in the country of the Philppines, the day starts the moment the sun rises above their horizons, enough for them to see its glistening beauty. Elders are traditionally and commonly the ones that only wakes up that early, and the rest of the youngsters spend the rest of the beautiful intro of the morning holed up in their blankets. Females are tasked with household chores and males take the responsibility of earning for money to get the through the day. Since old times, it has always been like this, but time itself isn't that boring. The former now gets to choose what she wants as long as she wants it and her husband supports her. Filipino males mostly has driving as their daily source of income. It's not that bad when you start but it doesn't get better even after you've become a veteran. Despite this, mostly still choose this job, aside from the work being easy, it also means easy money. Not in a way that'll make you rich in a minute kind of easy though. Jay, who was before a chauffeur, now drives a tricycle as his daily source of income. He's a renowned professional driver, famous in his line of work. He carries on his shoulder the burden of feeding five people in his family, three times a day, everyday. But not alone. Together with his wife, Rose, they have continued the life they were born with even after bearing three kids. One who always does something unimportant, one who always does something important, and one who doesn't do anything in particular. In that order, the oldest son is already in appropriate age to live by himself but is not permitted to, the middle daughter who is already so-so but still naive, and the youngest daughter who isn't really someone special to begin with, just her parents spoiling her is all. For Jay, the weight of the responsibility he's carrying with his wife isn't that heavy that it was bothersome. In a day, tricycle drivers like him earn up to P700 in maximum, that includes the fuel and the food they needed for the day. The amount left would be automatically for the bills, which is approximately just 1/4 of the whole thing. Despite that he never complains, save for the times that life really got in his nerves. His wife's with him through and through, even in times that she also felt like giving up, the faces of their children with eyes worrying for things they should not be worrying about always gives her the courage to hold on. Rose is the kind who's persistent when she knows that she's on the right and Jay's the kind who never gives up when he knows there's a possibility. For couples that work, it's not always about opposite attracts, sometimes it's about similarities contracts. With his wife earning less than the minimum wage in more than the maximum hours of working, Jay thought that he should be the one to hold the title of the breadwinner of the family. Content was in them for even though their bills were piling, they never once experienced starving. And that's the best thing Rose could've ever wished for her children while they were still in their care. Regardless of the situation they are in, as parents, they haven't forgotten that the best thing they could ever gift their child, if not the ones they want, is education. They managed to enroll all three to a prestigious religious school where the tuition is no joke. With the help of Rose's boss, which is actually just their near relative, the eldest graduated from grade 1 in the school to senior high school, grade 12 and is now a college student at a public university. The middle child got caught up in a situation where her mother needed to quit her current job. Apparently, she wasn't treated well in spite of her 22 years of service for the Buy and Sell Company owned by their relative. Lawyers were called and it was settled in the Local Governments' Office. And as usual, its always the rich antagonists who always pulls up something wins. With that, the case was closed with the door slightly creaking. The creak spread rumors of Rose, everything good and bad, from her boss' mouth herself. The middle and and the youngest had to continue their studies in a public school which unfortunately downgraded into modular education as Covid happened. It made everything hard for everyone, and no one's an exception. During the lockdown, where no one was allowed to leave their respective premises unless necessary, Jay and his family kept everything positive, their walls devoid of despair. They have received a fair amount of amilluration and emergency packs every month, as per the government says. After months of staying put, the local government finally loosened the grip but not totally letting go. With that, they thought everything was back just the way it usually was. But because of the fearsome invisible foe, everything changed in an instant. The streets that were once filled with busy people, was now devoid of any communication sounds. The park that was where kids would run around throwing things at each other was now only harboring pure nature sounds. The roads that were once full was now empty. And the people's faces that were once plastered with smiles, now covered by masks said to protect themselves from others. 'Was this always how it used to?' Would always cross everyone's mind. The scenery, the noise, and life itself took a sudden turn where everyone was left in a jetlag. It wasn't easy accepting it, how could it be easy adapting to it? The work that was once very easy to fulfill was now very hard to reach. If everyone were to move to the cycle of life, lives might be in constant danger, but if everyone were to stay the way they are right now, they would never come to grow and so is the world. That's why people always finds an excuse, to do the former or avoid the latter. Among the ones who chose to move forward, Jay was the probably the most pessimistic and Rose the most optimistic. Jay was demoted, the usual earning had gone down to half which was almost barely enough to feed his family thrice everyday. Rose found a neat job with a neat pay and a neat boss. It was smooth sailing for her but not for her spouse. She knows she couldn't do anything but just stay by his side through whatever happens. Every night they pray, every Sunday they pray, every meal they pray, and every time they get a chance they pray. It doesn't take all the problems away, but it sure lessens it and soothes their being. As the pandemic is still going on, death continues to march in the streets, probably on the way to your door, they have no other choice but to believe in themselves and to the One who made them. As someone as religious as Jay, there shouldn't even be a day where he doesn't make the sign of the cross, from his heart, down to his soul. fin


Endurance Fighter Setting The Scene. Wayne was a machine mechanic go scientist. He had created a game show called Endurance Fighter. Where the contestants had to fight robots built by Wayne. Work Shop. Wayne was working on his latest project. A fighting robot called The Destroyer, capable of throwing punches with great power. The Destroyer also had red lights for eyes which fired dangerous laser beams. Wayne was adding the finishing touches, connecting the second arm with a welding gun. Looking For A Contestant. As the game show was tough and the contestants normally got hammered, nobody wanted to go on the show. So Wayne decides to try his luck in the local pub. Wayne comes crashing through the door looking for a contestant. At the bar are three men enjoying a pint. Wayne runs up to them, with saliva spurting out of his mouth he asks a question. "Who wants to star on the next show of Endurance Fighter?" Peter and James are unsure and push David forward. As David is completely hammered he replies. "I'll do it I'm nuts!" As Wayne leads them to his van he shouts. "Come on quickly the shows about to start!" Wayne jumps in the front and the three lads bundle into the back. Arena. As Wayne drives into the arenas carpark the queue for the event is growing. David is now in the changing rooms, taking off all his clothes and putting on his sparking silver pants. Peter and James take a last minute chance to psych him up. "You can do it your completely nuts." Wayne is already out in the ring in his suit and tie. He speaks over the microphone to the audience. " Todays contestant is called David and he will be fighting my latest creation The Destroyer!" As David comes out the firework display is impressive and cheers like thunder can be heard coming from the audience. The Fight. David steps out into the ring over the top rope. The bell rings and the fight begins. The Destroyer is hammering David with powerful blows. David is swinging but failing to make contact. The Destroyer connects with an awesome blow, knocking David down to the canvas. David is unconscious when The Destroyer turns on his laser beams. The beam is getting closer if somebody doesn't do something David will surely fry. That's when Peter sneaks up behind The Destroyer and pushes him. Giving David time to regain consciousness. Then James throws in the iron chair towards David. Grabbing it he climbs to the top rope, jumping a great distance he smashes The Destroyer's head into pieces. Surely he won't be get up after that impact. After The Event. Wayne comes running into the ring and speaks into the microphone. "We have a winner David has beaten the Destroyer!" As Wayne passes David the microphone he is struggling to stand up. "I'd just like to thank my close friends Peter and James, without them I could never have done it." As the spectators leave Wayne is happy knowing everybody has had a wonderful day.