“It’s just to help me sleep better, so it can’t be that bad.” Cynthia said out loud as she was carefully pruning her tomato plants. She had been growing her own food for over a decade now, and her hands flowed like a well-choreographed dance as she trimmed. Still, her thoughts weren’t on her current task. She had a black box in her bedroom that she was dreading opening. For the last three years, Cynthia had been plagued by the same nightmare. She would fall asleep fine, but then wake in a sweat and a panic. Mark, Cynthia’s husband, went missing almost 4 years ago. When she fell asleep, she still heard his voice. Sometimes she would see his face too. He always looked calm but said the same thing every time. “Cynthia, find me.” Cynthia would wake up every time in a panic that she had never found Mark, and struggle to go back to sleep. She never got more than about 3-4 hours of sleep a night now. She tried every natural sleep aid she could figure out, but nothing helped. After a few months, she had sharp migraines that never got better. Cynthia and Mark lived a very natural lifestyle and usually could find what they needed to treat injuries or illnesses in their garden or the woods around their house. She made herself a tea out of willow bark, peppermint, and ginger that would numb the pain, but the pressure never went away. One day she was sitting and talking with her sister Julia, and Cynthia collapsed onto the floor and blacked out for a few minutes. By the time she woke up, Julia had called an ambulance and the EMT’s were talking to Cynthia. “What is your name, ma’am?” One of them asked slowly. “Cynthia,” she responded right away. “Do you know where you are?” he continued. “At my sister’s house,” she said with a defensive tone. “Can you tell me how many fingers I am holding up?” he asked. She leaned back as he thrust his hand towards her face. “Three,” she snapped back pushing his hand away as she sat up. “Don’t move ma’am, we need to make sure nothing is broken,” The EMT ordered. Cynthia shook her head. “I am fine, just tired,” she replied. “Cyn, you are not fine,” Julia retorted. Cynthis turned to see her sister sitting on the floor next to her. “Let them take you in to get checked at least.” “No!” Cynthia snapped back. “I won’t go to a doctor.” Cynthia had not been to a physician in years. She didn’t trust all the machines, tests, and other devices they used to diagnose and treat people. Cynthia and Mark worked hard to create a life that was in harmony with nature and found a big part of that for them was avoiding modern technology as much as possible. Cynthia still had a cell phone, but rarely had it on her. She did have a laptop and basic internet as well, but beyond that she lived a fairly tech-free life. “Cynthia, either you let them take you or you let me take you,” Julia demanded as the EMT’s examined Cynthia. Whether it was because of the stabbing migraine pain, or the anxiety of being surrounded by first responders who wouldn’t leave her only, Cynthia’s willpower crumbled. “Fine, you can take me,” she mumbled. “There are no obvious injuries, and it should be safe to move her. She needs to be checked by a physician as soon as possible.” Cynthia was irritated that one of the EMTs was talking to her sister like she wasn’t there. Julia nodded and then the EMT came and knelt in front of Cynthia. “You need to be seen by a doctor right away, ok?” The EMT was nodding his head as he spoke like it would convince Cynthia to agree with him. Cynthia turned her head back towards her sister and ignored him. The EMT leaned close to Cynthia and whispered, “If you go to Dr. Nabul, you will find him.” Cynthia jerked her head back and saw the EMT stand up and write on his clipboard. “What did you say?” she demanded. “That you need to be seen by a doctor right away.” he replied taken aback by her tone. “By which doctor?” she pried. “Whomever you choose, ma’am.” The other EMTs had packed their equipment and started to head towards the door. “But, what about Dr. Nabul?” She said sitting up more. “Um…if that’s who you want to see, then call his office and get an appointment.” The EMT tore a piece of paper off his clipboard and handed it to Julia. Cynthia stared at him as he left and as soon as the door was shut, she stood up and yanked the paper out of Julia’s hand. “Cyn! What has come over you?” Julia responded shocked. “He told me I would find Mark,” Cynthia replied hastily as she scanned the document for any mention of Dr. Nabul, finding him, or Mark. “Cyn!” Juli yelled and yanked the paper out of her hand tearing it. “We are going now, get in the car.” Cynthia started to wonder if she was hallucinating from the sleep deprivation and felt embarrassed acting so rash. “Ok, let’s go,” Cynthia said defeated. As they were driving, Julia did her best to reassure her sister that it would all be ok, but Cynthia was lost in her own thoughts about how real the EMT’s words had seemed. “Cyn, are you even listening to…” “Can I see your phone,” Cynthia asked interrupting her sister. Curiosity had finally won, and she decided she would look up Dr. Nabul. “Why do I even try?” Julia replied exasperated and handed her phone to Cynthia. “Because you love me,” Cynthia responded immediately without looking up from the phone. “What are you doing?” Julia asked trying to monitor her sister while staying focused on the road in front of her. “Just a second,” Cynthia replied as she struggled to use the search bar and typed one letter at a time slowly. D – r - . – N – a – b – u - Before she even finished typing the whole name, a suggested search popped up that said, “Dr. Nabul, Cynthia, find me.” Cynthia gasped and dropped the phone on the floor. Julia was startled and swerved for a second. “What are you doing?” Julia asked. “Did you see that?” Cynthia pointed a shaky finger at the phone on the floor as she spoke. “See what?” Julia replied. “They are in my head. I knew it. They already know everything about all of us.” Cynthia said panicked as she started to cry. “Who?” Julia asked worried. “Them! Big brother, the tech companies.” Cynthia was now sobbing in shock and fear. Julia pulled into a park and ride, rushed out of the driver’s seat, and ran around to the passenger door. She opened it, picked up the phone off the floor and wrapped her arms around Cynthia. “Shhh, it’s ok, no one is in your head,” Julia comforted. Cynthia knew Julia didn’t get it but was too shaken to argue and just put her head down on her sister’s shoulder and sobbed. After a few minutes when she was calmer, Julia let go and held the phone up so they both could see the screen. “What did you see, Cynthia?” Julia asked in gentle tone. “Search for Dr. Nabul,” Cynthia instructed shakily. Julia swiped Dr. Nabul into the search bar and a suggestion popped up, “Dr. Nabul, the sleep specialist.” “That’s not what it said!” Cynthia yelled smacking the phone out of Julia’s hand. Cynthia started to feel like she was going crazy. Julia sighed, walked over to her phone, and picked it up off the asphalt. Julia shook her head running her finger over the new crack in her screen. “I’m sorry,” Cynthia said defeated now sure she was hallucinating. “Cyn, let’s get you the help you need,” Julia replied in a soft tone, putting a hand on her sister’s shoulder. Neither sister spoke during the rest of the drive to Dr. Nabul’s office. When they arrived, Julia went around to her sister’s door and helped her to her feet. Cynthia’s objections to seeing a doctor was completely overshadowed by the new fears of losing her mind completely. Julia helped Cynthia, who was still shaking, sit down next to the rack of informational pamphlets before going up to the intake desk. Cynthia’s mind was racing with the EMT’s whisper and what she read in the search bar and with the migraine pain, she had no energy to process anything that her sister and the receptionist were saying. “It will take a little while, but he will see you today,” Julia announced with a relieved tone. Cynthia nodded sadly. After 30 minutes of being lost in thoughts of crazy hallucinations, Cynthia longed for a distraction and grabbed one of the pamphlets on the top of the rack. She scanned over the front fold talking about Dr. Nabul and his innovations into improving sleep with little interest. Then she opened the fold. “Cynthia, find me. I am waiting.” Cynthia threw the pamphlet across the waiting room and started sobbing again. Julia immediately wrapped her arms around her sister. “What happened?” she asked lovingly. “I am not crazy!!” Cynthia yelled. “No, you’re not,” Julia assured her, holding tighter. “That pamphlet said the same thing as my nightmares,” Cynthia announced breaking free from Julia’s embrace and marching over to the pamphlet. Julia walked calmly over to her sister as she stood over the pamphlet glaring. Julia carefully picked it up and started slowly reading the words on the front. Frustrated, Cynthia grabbed the pamphlet and opened the fold. “Right there!” she pointed to where she saw the words. “You can find peace in sleep again. A better sleep is waiting for you with the help of our patented Deep Sleep Band.” “No!” Cynthia screamed, grabbed the pamphlet, and tore it in half. “Cynthia, calm down!” Julia yelled. Cynthia looked up and saw a scared child being comforted by his mom across the room. Floods of guilt and embarrassment washed over her, and Cynthia ran out of the clinic sobbing again. “Just give us a minute,” Julia assured the receptionist as she rushed to follow her sister. Cynthia sat on the curb sobbing while Julia held her and did her best to comfort her. After a few minutes when Cynthia started to gain some composure, the receptionist stepped out. “Dr. Nabul said he will see you right away,” She informed in a soft tone. “Thank you,” Julia replied. Cynthia looked up at the nicely dressed receptionist. “I’m not crazy, really,” she explained desperately. “I am sure you’re not, ma’am,” the receptionist replied holding her hand out to help Cynthia stand. Cynthia struggled to her feet with Julia and the receptionist’s help, and they both escorted her into one of the examination rooms. The room was painted to look like the night sky, and there was a fully made bed with soft pillows and a comforter off to one side. Other than that, there were a couple other chairs and a white band hanging on a hook above the bed. “Please lie down on the bed,” the receptionist instructed Cynthia. As Cynthia sat on the edge of the bed, she realized that every muscle in her body was sore, and the headache was worse than it had ever been. She started to cry again, this time more from the physical pain. Julia helped her lie down as she kept sobbing. Cynthia had no clue how much or little time passed before the doctor came in, but it felt like an eternity to her. “Cynthia, I am Dr. Nabul,” A thick Indian accent finally shook her from her tears and back to her surroundings. The man on the chair next to her was old with a long white beard and long white hair. He wore a bright purple shirt and a jacket that was covered in colorful flowers. Cynthia was so surprised at his appearance, that she was sure she was hallucinating again and refused to respond. “She’s had a really rough day,” Julia offered nervously. “I am sure she has, that is too bad, I am so sorry,” Dr. Nabul said in response to Julia. Cynthia was relieved that Julia was responding to Dr. Nabul, because it meant her mind hadn’t created this strange doctor. “I am not crazy,” Cynthia said in a cracking voice. “Oh, I know you are not, no worries there,” Dr. Nabul assured excitedly. Even though it felt relieving to hear she wasn’t crazy from someone else, Cynthia was worried that he hadn’t even examined her before concluding that. “Please will you step out of the room, miss,” Dr. Nabul said to Julia as he rolled his chair closer to the bed. “What are you going to do?” Julia asked nervously. Dr. Nabul sighed. “I am going to help your sister with her nightmares and sleep issues, of course.” He said impatiently. “Uh…ok,” Julia replied as the receptionist escorted her out and closed the door. “Do you know what this is?” Dr. Nabul asked grabbing the white circular band off the hook above her. Cynthia just shook her head. “This is the patented Deep Sleep Band. It will make sure you are not plagued by nightmares ever again.” He informed cheerfully. Ever again sounded unrealistic to Cynthia and she started to get nervous. “How does it work?” Cynthia asked timidly. “It responds to the subconscious brain waves and emits a frequency that regulates the waves while you sleep so that you find peace in your rest.” Dr. Nabul spoke with the excitement of an inventor selling his new gadget on an infomercial. “All you are going to do is place this on your head when you go to bed, and you will find what you need to.” Cynthia wondered if Dr. Nabul was actually using the word find as much as it seemed or if she was starting to hallucinate again. Either way, her headache was now so bad that she couldn’t focus on any thought real or hallucinatory. “In the meantime, let’s take care of that headache.” Dr. Nabul pulled a syringe out of his pocket and uncapped the needle. Normally Cynthia would object, but she didn’t have the energy anymore. Her muscles were so sore, she barely felt when the needle pierced her skin. Within a few minutes, though, her migraine was gone. She had not been this clear headed in years. “Maybe I will be ok,” she thought as she sat up. Dr. Nabul opened the door and held his hand out to motion Cynthia through it. “You can go now,” he instructed. Cynthia got up, walked out the door, and the turned back quickly and muttered and thank you. Dr. Nabul didn’t seem to notice. She met Julia at the receptionist desk again and the lady behind the desk was already typing vigorously. “Come back if the band stops working or you experience any strange side effects,” she instructed as she typed. When she finished, she grabbed a white box off a stack next to her and handed it to Cynthia. “Sweet dreams,” she said with a smile as Cynthia took the box. “I am so sorry, Jules,” Cynthia broke the awkward silence that had permeated the first 15 minutes of the drive home. “You seem better,” Julia replied in an almost snarky tone. “Yeah, he gave me a shot,” Cynthia responded with a drop in her voice. “Of what?” Julia asked. “I don’t know,” Cynthia replied sadly. “What, my sister not questioning what a doctor gave her?” Julia questioned mockingly. Cynthia rolled her eyes and they returned to awkward silence. “What is that?” Julia finally asked pointing at the box on Cynthia’s lap. “It’s a band I wear at night to help me sleep better,” Cynthia replied. “Well, I hope it works,” Julia said. “Me too,” Cynthia replied, feeling guilty for all the hell she put Julia through. After saying goodbye to her sister, Cynthia went home and decided to take advantage of the first time in a while she wasn’t plagued by incessant migraines by taking care of her garden. After clipping the last tomato plant, Cynthia wheeled the scraps over to the mulch pile and dumped them. Everything she did that night was like she was on auto pilot. She was grateful to not be in pain right now, but worried about a device that would change her brain waves. “Maybe I’ll just use it for a little while until I get into the habit of sleeping better,” she finally justified to herself and got ready for bed. She pulled the white band out of the box. There were no buttons or switches, it was just a white band. She picked up the instruction manual, all it said was, “Put it on and lie down, that’s it.” Cynthia could almost hear Dr. Nabul’s thick accent as she read the simple instructions. She placed in around her head and was surprised how snuggly it fit. She then lied down carefully and closed her eyes. It must have been only seconds before she was fast asleep. In her dreams, Cynthia was walking down a familiar street in her small rural town, towards a familiar café. She walked in and up to a familiar table where she sat in front of a fresh cream cheese danish and a cup of chai tea. She looked into Mark’s eyes for the first time in years. “You finally found me, Cynthia, I’ve been waiting here a long time.” He reached out and grabbed her hand tenderly as he spoke. “Mark,” she said with a tender whimper in her voice and found herself unable to say anything else.


Day 1 Something rather weird happened tonight - while I was out in Paceville, I took a shortcut through the stairs on ‘Strip Row’, and I saw that creep Daniel Savona standing in the entry to ‘Sensations’. I think that was the name; these clubs all seem to have similar names - Sensations, Steam, Angels, Darlings.... He might have been on duty, but somehow I don’t think so. He was chatting with another guy like they were mates. He had a drink in one hand, and a girl’s arse in the other. My impression was that he’s a regular. Hmmm... that could be interesting; a cop dropping into a strip club to unwind, after a hard day’s work. Then again, Daniel’s a slimy creep, so maybe, I shouldn’t be surprised. Still though, he’s a police officer - isn’t there some rule about cops hanging out in places like that? I mean, if he were to bust that girl he was with, it could constitute conflict of interest. I actually need to check this out.

Day 2 I asked auntie Google, and she turned up the Malta Police Force Code of Ethics - revamped and re-issued this year apparently. It makes reference to something called ‘conduct unbecoming’ but then does not go on to specify what that would be.

‘Conduct unbecoming Malta police force’ only yielded a few complaining letters to the local papers, all signed with pseudonyms. For the purposes of research, I read all four of them - all complaining about officers either being too brusque or too keen to write parking tickets. I didn’t know police officers still dealt with parking offences; I was under the impression that had been outsourced to traffic wardens.

Haha.. at the end of the code of ethics there’s actually an address where ‘an aggrieved member of the general public may file a report for unethical behaviour allegedly committed by a police officer’. I wonder, has anyone ever used that email address - somehow, I cannot see too many people willing to put their name to an official complaint. And if anyone has, have they ever gotten a reply. I wonder what really happens when the Professional Standards Office of the Police Force becomes aware of possible ‘conduct unbecoming’. I know I’m more than slightly biased, but I do not trust them to not ‘protect their own’. Day 3 I thought I could let it go. I thought I could forget about seeing Daniel in a strip ...ahem, gentleman’s club. After all, Paceville is hardly my scene anymore. I was only there the other day because Martina asked me to meet her there after work. And Daniel gives me the creeps, ffs. Why would I want to run into him again? But nah, I can’t help my stupid self.. and here I am two days later, incognito, lurking on the Strip Row stairs. I’ve been up and down them about six times already. No sighting of Daniel yet - thank god for small mercies - but the club is definitely ‘Sensations’. I remember the elaborate cornicing over the doorway, because it reminds me of my nana’s house. Only hers was the real thing; this is probably some cheap polystyrene crap.

Maybe I’m on a wild goose chase. Maybe he really was on duty, and the other day, he’d simply run into someone he knows. And even if he is a regular here, what does that mean? I’m uncomfortable; straightening down my denim skirt, and trying to look ordinary, all the while being careful not tumble over my heels. Already two men have asked me if I’m looking for ‘a good time’ - this is beyond absurd; I’m going home. That’s when I see him - he’s on the steps up to the club, with a group of men, and two women today, his hand draped across the shoulders of one of them, openly groping her chest. I wonder, how does she keep so impassive. As the men all clink bottles, Daniel looks in my general direction, and I shrink into the shadows, afraid he might see me. I needn’t worry. He might be looking but his attention is elsewhere.

I hurry past and head home. Day 4 I’ve been thinking about it all day. Daniel definitely is at home there. As I went past last night, he called to someone inside, and seconds later, another girl materialised at his side, holding a tiny tray with a tumbler of whiskey on it.

Okay, so he hangs out at a strip place. So? The code of ethics doesn’t specifically list that as unethical behaviour. And don’t most men ogle scantily-dressed women, either in real life, or on a screen? It’s not as if I didn’t know Daniel’s a class-A sleaze.

I open the fridge, looking for something to eat. There’s fresh veg. I did my weekly shop the other day, before I met up with Martina. But I’m not in the mood for veg. I don’t know what I’m in the mood for. My mind keeps going round in circles. And coming back to the same thing. A glimmer of a feeling, intuition maybe, that there’s more to this. But what?

And for heaven’s sake, why am I so stuck on it? On Daniel? I know, I know. I’ve never liked the guy, ever since he tried it on with me, while we were both at work.

It was one of our fundraisers, and he was on security duty. As fundraising manager, I was responsible for the housekeeping of the day, among other things, and I’d briefed him about what was where. A few hours later, I was pinning up some winning tickets to the board near the exit, when I felt someone grope me. I turned, ready to smack the creep, only to find the uniformed cop I’d been briefing earlier. I was lost for words. What cheek! He didn’t even care that he was conspicuous in his uniform. He didn’t offer an apology either; instead he’d said he’d been thinking about me all that time. Now, I wonder if my intuition is not just my antipathy towards Daniel. Am I just imagining things? Is it just because I know him to be creepy? Am I making more of this than it really is? Oh heck! Day 5 I spent all day going over and over my thoughts. Still no clarity.

I need to do something about this; if I don’t, it will just eat away at me. Of this I’m certain. But what?

~~~~~~~~~~ Thank god for Brian. I called him, explained what I needed, and he was up for it. Wouldn’t miss it, he said. He even called off a date, to come with me. And here we are, me in my loosest-fitting jeans, and an oversized hoodie. I’ve squeezed my chest into the tightest bandau top I could find. With some artful contouring, I’ve given myself what looks like a somewhat manly jaw. The usually muted (‘sensuous’) lighting in the club and my buzz cut - it seems to have been enough for us to look like a pair of blokes looking for a good time. I paid for my entrance ticket.

There’s girls everywhere.. girls taking orders, girls bringing drinks, girls giving lap dances, girls gyrating around poles. The patrons are all men, in all shapes and sizes, and ages; unlike the girls who are all slim, pretty and young, some younger than me. The gender divide couldn’t be more stark. I remind myself I’m meant to be a guy, and look like I’ve been to places like this. I keep my eyes peeled for Daniel. I really want him to be here tonight. But I am also scared he’ll recognise me. Brian complains that the price of the drinks has gone up. I’m bored.

Then I see him - like the last time I saw him, Daniel’s wearing a suit. He walks up to one of the tables, and exchanges a few words with the men. He gestures to one of the girls, and she hurries over, tablet in hand. While she’s taking orders, Daniel palms her arse before moving on. The same thing happens as he moves from table to table, chatting, groping, joking.

‘That is not someone who’s just hanging out,’ Brian’s voice cuts into my thoughts. ‘That’s someone with an interest in seeing the customers satisfied.’

Suddenly, I just need to leave. I’ve had my fill of this tawdry club with its pretense of classiness Before going to bed, I open up the link from the Code of Ethics and using my untraceable email account, fire off a complaint about How I think it is unethical behaviour for a police officer to hangout in a club like that one.I sign off with a man’s name.

Day 6

I called in sick today. Truly, I feel sick. Last night made me, as a woman, feel like I was living in a different dimension. It made me feel sullied somehow. I showered the minute I got in last night, and again this morning, and I still feel it like a layer on my skin. Brian is sure Daniel has - how shall I put it, a ‘business interest’ in the club.

I wonder if someone has read my email from last night. I have no reply, not even an acknowledgement of receipt. Would I have gotten a response had I mentioned a stake in a strip club? Would that be ‘in line with the Force’s Business Interests & Additional Occupations Policy’? Brian thinks we should go again, and get pictures. I think Brian just wants to go there again. I think we need something more substantial than photos taken on the fly in a dimly-lit club. I need some sort of proof. Who can I ask to get the info I need?

Day 8 Pay dirt! After a day of digging into various dead ends, I remembered that my friend Tanja works at the Business Registry Office. And today, she came up with the goods. The club is registered to a company called Magick Entertainment; which is in turn, owned by three people, one of whom is Daniel Savona. The other two are both sitting MPs; one on either side of the House. It makes sense, really - given the polarised and volatile nature of Maltese politics, Daniel would want to have partners on both sides of the political divide. It’s how a lot of Maltese businesssmen ensure their business ticks over, regardless of who wins elections. Tanja even sent me a copy of the relevant documents. She knew I’d want them. This is bigger than what I thought it was a week ago. So, now it’s official - this police officer does have a stake in a strip club... how interesting is that? Day 9 Rachel, my editor, wasn’t too impressed when I told her about Daniel, and his stake in a strip joint even though I quite laboured the point on potential conflicts of interest. But she sure sat up when I revealed who Daniel’s business partners are. That got her all fired up. Really, I should have thought of it myself. Considering that both of Daniel’s partners are very keen on pushing their ‘family man’ image, the news that they part-own a strip club should make quite a bit of noise. I’m kicking myself - I should have thought of it; I would have thought of it, if I hadn’t been all laser-focused on Daniel. I need to get a grip. My antipathy for Daniel is personal. Personal is not work. Personal doesn’t pay my bills. Work does. I need to focus.

Although, now that I think of it, writing about the politicians could have a knock-on effect. One thing leads to another, and all that.

Now to settle down to write my piece. Deadline’s tomorrow. Day 10 And.... it’s online. I did my best. Fingers crossed this will generate the response I’m hoping for.


He remembered the day God found him and the way God found him.

Under a storm-bruised sky, he was standing in uniform, shuffling after the mourners. Their voices beat back the thunder as they rose in funerary song (O, Roc, Of The Blackest Cap). The Proclaimer of Grief, a boy not yet twelve, stood with the solemnity of his elders and clashed a pair of cymbals at the door.

The God-found man did not sing. It was not very becoming of him, but he just moved his lips. He had always been self-conscious of his voice. Should he, at least, have hummed a note? Did he draw too much attention to himself? In hindsight, he suspects he was made holy to be punished by Proto Deva, but at the time, he thought little of it. He simply looked at the long black hair caught in his fingers and thought, Huh .

But once God found him, he was never left alone. His hair came out first in slithering tendrils, and then in great clumps. It fell out when he slept, when it was windy, and when he took a comb to it. His son said, “Just like when we brush the cat.” It became harder and harder to hide, and eventually, he was entirely out of vogue. His neighbours began to look at him sideways, attempting to discern if he was mad or simply ugly. Some people—almost all of them brutish and strange—saw their locks with the swords they use to kill and the knives they use for bread. These people, it is agreed, are terribly unfashionable with their jagged bangs and angled trims. Fortunately, they are also usually poor and can be tucked out of sight, where we cannot hear them say things like “I don’t want my hair to get stuck in gears or wheels and lead to my untimely death.” “Wretched,” tut the wealthy, who would dare not step out without their hair styled in the fashion du jour. For men today, the thing is to wind the braid up and up in a conical formation, a narrow mountain. For women, braided buns are favoured—the more the merrier, as a symbol of both status and health. For those who identify their gender otherwise, either approach will do, as long as they pull it off. When the sun caught the dome of the God-found man’s head, passersby flinched from the glare. He was a beacon of strangeness and drew the Church like a moth. But Proto Deva, called on to summon the God-found man to his people, struggled to understand him. “You’ve never,” he squinted, confounded, “Partaken in feta?” The God-found man’s diet omitted many Church favourites. “Nor goat?” The God-found man confessed awkwardly that he was a vegan. “What do you mean you’d rather not sing? You attend mass, and I just saw you at the service for—you mouthed the words? God, are you sure this is the one?” But he was, and bit by bit, the last of his hair fell away. His wife, in either spiritual or aesthetic agony (the God-found man couldn’t tell; she was very timid now when she kissed the top of his head), said she would weave a scarf of what he’d lost and wear it every day. Proto Deva, whose hair trailed behind him like a cape, and whose wispy beard ended at his groin, was no fonder of the God-found man, but now protective of him. He would rub the God-found man’s head in the Sacred Oil of Glory and force upon him holy literature. They listened to hymns. Even the God-found man agreed some of them were pretty good. And it took time—perhaps more time than it takes most people to accept that they are the one chosen by God—but the God-found man came around. He began to look at his oiled scalp and see, as the scriptures suggested, the moon above in him. At night, when he looked up, he saw himself among the heavens. It was true that he no longer clogged shower drains or went to sleep with wet hair. His arms had not cramped up from braiding, and his mornings were no longer wasted agonizing over fashion. He reflected on his life thus and concluded he had lived it well! He was a dutiful, loving husband who regularly went down on his wife. He was an attentive father to his young son. He had painted some nice, harmless, morally inconsequential art. He had tipped appropriately. Indeed, perhaps he had lived it so well he was God-found, God-blessed, God-bald. “You know,” Proto Deva said to him earnestly one day, after they had gorged themselves on God’s word, “What a man like you means to our people. Now you are versed in the scriptures. You were chosen for a reason—and I’m glad you’re able to think of some, because I still don’t get it—and you must go where the devout can see.” They prepared him for his debut, a process involving four Protos and a choir. One Proto polished his head until it gleamed, massaging his temples til he was both half-asleep and heavily perfumed with eucalyptus. A second Proto drew squiggly lines in oil down his back, where his hair once lay, before a third Proto robed him in the grim black gown of the Church. The Church recently condemned the straightrazer among Protos, and so the God-found man had kept the hair along his cheek and chin. Proto Deva twisted curls into the coarse hairs with his finger, adding a touch of wax to hold the shape. Finally, a choir sang From Our Crown to Earth, and off the God-found man and Proto Deva went. “We’ll start in the Barren.” On the furthest edge of town live the lowest caste of craftsman. You will rarely see a fingerman, not unless you are very poor, very daring, or evidently some religious missionary. From a bird’s-eye view, the Barren souk ripples like a sail; their stalls are tarped with thin fabric, and their alleys too. Within these curtained halls are fingermen wares for fingermen prices, fingermen families upon cushions taking coin. In the factories, wealthy men feed fingermen scraps. In exchange, they are careful with the textiles they’re given. No one has mastered ripping as the fingermen have. With magnifying spectacles, they hunch over workbenches and make slow, precise tears in the cloth. There is no fabric they cannot master, no material too thick or unwieldy for them to conquer. They wear caps on their thumbs with glass for a nail so they may rupture the skin quicker. Some close their mouths on metal dentures, with a brutal smile to saw and slice at ribbon and twine.

The fingermen’s cuts are famously exact, but the work is punishing; many leave their jobs with fingers curved like claws, with permanently rounded shoulders, and with fading eyesight, from staring so long at such dainty thread.

Most beautiful things that fingermen have touched are not here. Here, there are corns and small pots and poems and ashtrays, sold by those who can’t labour in the factories: fat-fingered infants, people with bad backs, and the blind. When the God-found man and Proto Deva entered the souk, people mostly ignored them. Proto Deva pushed the God-found man ahead of him in the aisle, urging, “Go, go,” like the God-found man knew where. The God-found man walked up to a vendor. She sold pyramids of spices and little beaded lizards for children. “Hello.” “Can you move that fucking thing? I have the sun in my eyes.” He stepped sideways into deeper shade, ducking his head from the afternoon glare.

“Do you want something?” Awkwardly, he shuffled on the dusty path. “I wondered if you wanted anything from me?” “Like what?” “Like answers. To questions like ‘How can I too be lightened of my burdens,’ or something.” “Nope.” He scurried back, “Proto Deva, I don’t think they’re the religious type.” “Maybe you’re not being holy enough.” Proto Deva raised his voice to the souk, “Do you see this man? He has ascended from his earthly burdens, and now his crown is lightened. He is a model specimen for humankind.” A fingerman squinted at them down the aisle and heckled, “What are you buying?” It took some convincing—and several more uneventful conversations with vendors—before Proto Deva agreed to quit the souk. As they took their leave, they passed a boy bleeding into the dirt. Next to him, a mature woman was on her knees, threading the wound. She felt around the dust for a knife, but, finding none, leaned into the gash, which smelled of iron and rot, and tore the suture with her teeth. “We’ll try the platz,” Proto Deva said officiously, shaking red-stained dust from his hair. “People may try to touch your head. Do not be alarmed. It is thought by some to bring fortune, and I insist that you allow it, should anyone try.” In the platz, where there is water for the earth and money for the people, the paths are laboured by flora and gossip. No one immediately attempted to touch the God-found man’s head. “You—” a woman with two large, braided buns above her ears gasped, but then had to pause to tug her dress free of thorns. There is often a quiet war against bushes, which grow into pathways and press against houses and have, at times, ripped gowns and stolen hats. “You have—” “Yes,” said Proto Deva proudly, “He is a man of God.” “No, not that,” the woman stumbled over a vines as she approached. At night, they say, a brigade takes machetes to the bark and hack at the green veins in the road. But it is never enough, and there is always a rich woman or a horse who trips, and then the bored, braided people riot. “He’s got the strangest head I’ve ever seen.” “Yes, it’s a sign from Above.” The God-found man didn’t feel holy. His head felt cold. “My, my,” the woman said, putting her hand over her mouth in glee. “It’s hideous.” “Excuse me!” Proto Deva puffed up, “This outstanding man has been recognised for his goodness. By following his example, we will all be free!” “Oh dear,” said the woman. “I hope not.” Defeated, the men slumped outside of an atelier. There was a flood of traffic and a drought of interest. The dress shops are making a killing these days. They’ve discovered how much tidier a hem can be if you fold it inward before stitching. Now, even those who can’t afford fingermen-cut cloth can buy garments without ragged edges. “Proto Deva,” ventured the God-found man. A rat ran past his shoe. Recently, an idiotic but undeniably handsome gentleman attempted to prove that rodents can be put to work too. For a fortnight, he smeared peanut butter along ribbons where he wanted a cut, then left them on the floor overnight. The result is that the rats are now better dressed than the fingermen. “Do you think perhaps that perhaps we are misreading this situation? No one but you—and, let’s be real, you’ve been a hard sell—sees my holiness. Perhaps I was not chosen by God to be a leader of men. Perhaps I am only bald.” Proto Deva looked over, affronted. “How can that possibly be? You are blessed with fortune—yes, for, again, inexplicable reasons. If we were not meant to master our hair, to bear our hair, to reconcile our hair … if we were not meant to be burdened thus, God would have given us something to cut it with.”


Biology Sarah felt her abdomen and belched under her breath. Not again she thought, as her bloated stomach churned and gave way to gas. The classroom she found herself in, Biology was full to the gills and quite frankly, just another boring elective she had gotten stuck with. Presently clutching her stomach, she lifted her leg as unsuspecting as possible and tried to gently push gas from herself. What she thought would be a discrete moment, was immediately broken as the gentle push became a little squawk between her bottom and the chair. “Please, not now,” she said pink faced and flustered under her breath. Sweat poured from her and she brushed her long blonde hair to her side wiping an already damp handkerchief over her forehead. To her left a girl sitting next to her grimaced and Sarah felt it like a punch to the mouth. All the while gas continued to build in her like a hot furnace. Suddenly, another flatulence rang out like a church bell across the room and within seconds she became the center of attention. Most of the class laughed while those around her gasped audibly with disgust. Some even pulled shirts over their noses and others used their hands to fan away the invisible stench. Sarah stricken with embarrassment looked down hiding her face and tried to make herself as small as possible. Upon her horror she noticed how her stomach began to grow jarringly outward. It stretched her long red dress that normally was taught against her slim figure. Swiftly the dress began to tear as her stomach continued to bloat like a hot air balloon. “Fucking hell,” she yelled as she became wider, wider and even wider. The classroom fell silent with audible gasps as Sarah’s belly continued to grow. The teacher, miss Daisy dropping her chalk tried to the best to her ability to push coherent words from her mouth. “Sarah, a.. aaah are you alright,” she blubbered. Sprawling, Sarah’s legs bent outwards and her stomach became the size of a small car. “Fine, miss Daisy, continue on,” came from her now fat cheeks. All of a sudden, from Sarah’s belly there came a screech like nails on a chalkboard. “Oh gosh, they are really hungry,” said Sarah. The screech quickly turned to many squeals which sounded like thousands of tiny little voices trying to break free from her center. Abruptly her stomach buckled, caving inwards and from her open entrails there sprang forth various yellow wriggling legs; at first just a few then hundreds, marching one by one in unison. The creatures themselves where thin and elongated, like large eels with centipede structured legs and antennas. The grotesque horror was graspable about the classroom as everyone broke out in screams. Their voices quickly became lost among the creatures who in turn where giddy with noise as they plunged forward and outward breaching for air and sustenance. Toppling over each other they slithered and crawled for all avenues of the classroom. Sarah’s neighbor, one of the former giggling girls who was frozen in her panic became the first victim. A whip came from the centipede like tail and its thorny barb struck her in the middle of the chest. It pierced directly through her as blood came gushing from each end. Poisoned from the creature her skin started to bubble, flaming outwards from the center of her wound. She was burning alive yet there came no sound, only shock and surprise as she melted into a puddle of bone, skin and blood. Sarah’s children excitedly plunged themselves into their hefty meal, tails wagging about like dogs giddy with the prospect of a treat. Their mandibles retracted and gave way to a suction cup which in turn became a vacuum for the entrails of the students and teacher whom were being absolved one by one. “Slow children, eat slow, leave some for your sisters” came from Sarah like a wail in her bloated form. Her chin tripled in size and her eyes bulged from her fat face hanging from their sockets. Her mouth unhinged and her tongue swatting back and forth became loose and fell to the ground. She continued to grow into a blob reaching the height of the ceiling while teeth and bile spewed forth as more of the creatures made their way up her chest and through her throat in the birthing ritual. The ground of the classroom became one large pool of blood, bone, skin and muscle tissue as the last of the living burned up. From above the blackboard the clock struck the end of the hour and a bell rang loudly from a speaker annunciating the end of the period. The creatures all looked up at the sound then back to Sarah chittering together in their disappointment. Class was over. Quickly they worked on devouring each entrails of blood and guts left on the classroom floor before making their way back inside of the homely body. One by one they crawled up inside of Sarah regurgitating some of their devoured morsels into the middle of her open stomach. It was like a courting dance that certain birds perform and Sarah felt proud of the intimate and bonding moment. With each returning family member, Sarah started to reduce in size. Her skin tightened and shone with new vigor. Teeth regrew and sprang back into place as her jaw adjusted back to normal. She picked up her tongue from off the ground and it lustily jumped back into place as soon as she had gotten it near her mouth. One last fart came from her and it was long, sour and beautiful. She clutched the desk squeezing out every last little pocket of gas and orgasmicly she moaned and belched simultaneously. She sat there naked, breathing heavily, stroking her taught belly in a circular motion. Looking up at the clock she was suddenly struck with panick. Springing from the chair she grabbed her backpack. From it she snatched another red dress and slipped it over her slim radiant figure. She headed for the door, swung it open and ran down the hallway littered with classrooms. Running like the wind she rounded the corner in the distant hallway and yelled in a belching tone, “shit, I’m gonna be late for Geometry.” The End Thank you for reading, I'm interested in any feedback good or bad. I'll be writing more horror stories weekly and hope to improve with time.


The clouds were covering up the sky, the vineyard, and the cornfield my neighbor owned was covered in snow, so was everyone else’s house. I got up excited and woke my younger sister Luisa up, we both put our jackets on and left the house to play, it was the best moment I got throughout the day because later on, I would have to take care of the house. You see, I am only a twelve years old girl, but my mom is a hard worker she was the one who put food in the table and blankets on our beds. We didn’t have a lot of money, and to be more specific we couldn’t afford electricity or a nice meal, therefore we had to take showers in the lake during the summer, and with mugs filled with water during the winter. We lived in the middle of nowhere in Frosinone, Italy. We had only three neighbors, one of them was a communist congressman that every kid was afraid of – Although he had amazing cherries in his yard no one would dare to approach his house-  My dad moved to another country to start a new life right after I was born, he still helps us with the house though, sometimes I wonder what would happen if I moved to Brazil to be with my dad. “Kids, come inside it’s time to go to school.” My mom yelled from the kitchen window Luisa and glanced at each other finished up our snowman and ran inside to get our backpacks and a slice of homemade bread for lunch.  My mom kissed us goodbye and we walked to the train, everything was covered in snow, so it was hard to walk, but it was our only transportation to school. I’m not going to lie, it was fun, and sometimes one of our neighbors, Lorenzo, joined us on our journey to school. His financial situation was a little better than mine, but he lived with his dad, just like everyone else in school… Today the train didn’t crow, workers from all over the country took all of the space on the train, don’t get me wrong I’m not complaining, they work cleaning up the mess that the war made and helping families and places that lost everything. However, it feels certainly nice to be able to sit in a comfortable booth with my friends. The ride lasted one hour and forty minutes, twenty minutes less than usual. The school was another challenge to me, I have always enjoyed learning, I craved information all of the time, all of my teachers thought I was a role model to my class, but at the same time, they thought I was a freak.  I had to give my mom a short and cold letter written by every teacher, every single day.

                                                                                December 14 th                                                                                9:00A.M Dear Ms. Cardin Francesca is disrespectful with her classmates and I, again, please teach your child some manners. This type of behavior will not be tolerated anymore. Mr. Reddin

“Another one honey?” My mom looked at me with concern in her eyes while I handed her the letter with my right hand trying to hide the left in my pockets. “Your hand is bleeding… Let me take care of this” My tears were falling onto my cheekbones; my mom was so thoughtful although she agreed that I had to start using my right hand for my own good. She grabbed a glass of water and a piece of old clothing to wrap my hand. “every time, you look at this bruise just remember you have to use your right hand.” And that was what I did, I slowly learned and took care but sometimes it was inevitable because of the habit. On the way back to school, Luisa, Lorenzo, and I were talking about what he wanted to be when he grows up.  “I want to fight for our country just like my dad did,” Lorenzo said with confidence in his voice “But your dad died during the war, and it’s not like you have a lot of choices…” I said breaking the mood “You may be right, but I would enjoy it.” “I wish I could work and help mom out” Luisa sounded depressed for a minute but a few seconds later she was jumping around in the snow “Don’t be silly little sister, that would be my biggest dream, but we are not allowed to” We walked past the central fruit and vegetable market in Rome, the fruits looked so tasty and beautiful. “Oh, I wish we could buy one for mom, they look so good,” Luisa exclaimed. “We don’t have the money today Lu, but I am sure we can come with mom during the weekend.” I hate to say this to her, sometimes it is hard to watch an eight years old kid starve, but I think she was used to it just like I was… “I can get us some apples, my nonna gave me money to buy fruits at the market today,” Lorenzo said with a big smile in his eyes. “You don’t have to Lorenzo, It’s so sweet of you though.” “Don’t worry it would be my pleasure” I could hear the excitement in his voice. Lorenzo bought us and my mom apples, and we laughed and talked all the way back home. The next morning Luisa and I woke up early to go after the chickens to get the eggs, today my mom was planning on making a better meal because it was almost Christmas eve. It was tedious work, but Luisa and I knew it would be worth it later tonight. We got the eggs and raced each other to the house, while we were running I tripped on something stuck in the ground underneath the snow. “You broke half of the eggs!” Luisa screamed and helped me to get up. “That was all your fault, we shouldn’t have run” I was covered in eggs and it was my best clothes. “I know what we can do, we should go ask Lorenzo if he has eggs” Luisa turned around and started walking in the direction of his house. “Wait! I think There’s something under the snow, maybe its worth something!” I exclaimed but Luisa was already too far to hear We knocked on his door shaking, my fingers were freezing but I was sweating cold. I didn’t want that Lorenzo saw me like that or if he thought I was being rude to ask. When Lorenzo opened the door, he gave a big smile and told us to come in. We nervously waited in his small living room, everything looked so beautiful to me, his house had a living room, kitchen, and three bedrooms. It was different than my house, we only had a kitchen, one-bedroom, and the bathroom was outside in the cold. After a few minutes, Lorenzo brought the eggs and offered to help. I sent Luisa home with the eggs while I showed him what I had tripped onto earlier that day. “It is the remainder of war weapons. I can’t believe it! That is worth a lot of money. It is a Christmas miracle.” I said while giving Lorenzo a big smile “Come on, let me help you take this to your house” Lorenzo picked the weapon up and I could tell it was heavy When we got home, my mom was surprised to see what we found, we said a prayer that night and we made a promise to go visit my dad. When I woke up this morning, I noticed that my mom and Luisa were already packed and ready to go. We took the train to the Port of Civitavecchia located in Rome. Lorenzo came with us to say goodbye, he has been so sweet lately. I was so excited to go to another country, especially because I have never been on a boat before. Lorenzo said goodbye to my mom and Luisa first, they both thanked him for everything he has done for them and they turned around, leaving Lorenzo and I alone for a minute. “I’ll miss you; I hope you know that,” Lorenzo said softly. I could tell he was blushing “ I’ll miss you too, I don’t know how long I will stay in Brazil, maybe forever. I want to thank you for everything, you are the sweetest” I noticed I started to blush as well. “No problem, I hope you enjoy your time, I’ll write you” He looked down to his feet, so I grabbed his face, gave him a kiss, and I left in a hurry. Now we are in the boat and all I can think of is that I’m going to have a new life, live with my dad and Lorenzo will not be in it, I know I love this boy and that probably I will never see him again, but I know he was a big part in my life for all of those years.


She found herself looking for her wedding ring. The woman was sure that she didn’t misplace it, because she hardly took it off, except for an occasional clean every six months. She had searched everywhere and she was becoming desperate. Her wedding ring was all that she had left of her late husband. Her dark, wavy hair was in disarray. Her clothes were caked in dust. Searching through the storage room was her last option. Her hand brushed against a box. Could it be? Curiously and eagerly she got the box from the cabinet. Her dark brown eyes gazed at the innocent box. The box was filled with letters. A light gasp escaped her mouth when she recognised the familiar handwriting. Messy, yet intelligible. It was her husband’s letters; she never found out that he kept all of his letters for her, even the ones that he did not send. Hands trembling from emotion, she opened a letter. “I came up with some shitty poetry today,”She read aloud. “It’s a far cry from my best work, but I hope and pray that it cheers you up. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, since it was my fault for being a complete arse for the past few weeks. But please, my dearest, write to me if you have the time.” The woman paused.Her emotions nearly overtook her. She could clearly hear his voice as if he was beside her. Was it her imagination? It was only a few weeks after the horrid news that she received. There was nothing that could bring her husband back. “Here it is, my beloved, a short prose of a love struck would be poet for his muse. “Oaths are not meant to be broken. Names have power; your name that has escaped my lips has left me enthralled, enchanted by the very thought of us being loved so deeply that the oceans cannot fathom its depths.” She glanced at the paper. She spoke his name for the first time since he passed. Her husband always had a way with words. Something in the short prose— or was it poetry— stunned her and made her choke out, trying to stem the flood of emotions that overtook her. Her husband’s stories and poetry always calmed her down. She had to learn more. •• It turned out that he had left more than a dozen letters in the storage room, all of them unsent to her. She spent hours poring over his words, his emotions and his messy scribbles and short drawings. There was one letter of his that tore her heart apart. It was grief that finally took hold of her, aided by simple prose. “To sleep and to dream are two intertwined things. A dream can last seconds-even a few minutes. It fades. But what if I dream of you even before I have met you? It seems that I have known you for forever and a day. So intertwined our souls are. To dream of you is a delight. Whatever happens, my beloved, I will find you in another life and we will be together again. Until then, I will wait for you.


Captain Dieter took a long drag from his pipe whilst gazing upon the waters of the frigid Baltic Sea from the bridge. After the Armistice was signed and the Great War ended, the crew, once of the SMS *Swabia,* became pirates, changing the name of their ship to the SS *Fury of the Reich* and repainting the tricolor on their flag into a Jolly Roger. It had been two years since then and they had recently received a telegram from a supposed officer by the name of Alban Krebs, a major in the West Russian Volunteer Army and the commander of a battalion of 400 Freikorps militiamen that now sought to desert. When the ship docked at Ventspils, Dieter went out to meet Krebs and his men himself but found they were nowhere to be found. However, in the thick early morning fog, this made sense, as even with a kerosene lamp, he could hardly see ten meters in front of him. When, soon after, he heard the march of hundreds of men, due to this lack of visibility, he was only able to tell they were German as, in the same direction, he heard a similar number of men singing, "\[And when the day ended, we shook hands for the last time. She was laying on my, my arm, my heart was being so warmly, don't forget Maruschka, the Polish girl!\]" It was a folk song that, when he was on the ground, he had noted, the men often sang in place of the usual marching songs. After about a minute, the fog began to clear and the men came into view. Until regular officers, Krebs walked on foot ahead of the men, who were in remarkably good formation, for paramilitaries. "\[Not only are you late,\]" Dieter joked, "\[you were the ones who told us when you'd be here.\]" "\[Well,\]" Krebs replied, "\[plans change. Besides, it was only one minute.\]" "\[One minute for the Bolsheviks to arrive, execute me, and my crew to leave you here and sort out a new chain of command themselves. Now, come on, get on board. We best not waste anymore time. Besides, I need your men for something.\]" Krebs and his men marched aboard, most of the crew already there now having to share their quarters with the men, taking turns sleeping in the bunks and on the cold, metal iron floor in sleeping bags. He and Dieter looked over a map of the ocean to survey their next target and plan their next raid. Most of the time, this was done at night, when the rest of the crew was asleep and would not be bothering them. There was a war room, but they preferred to talk in the bridge as, if a British ship came along, Dieter could steer the ship away and hopefully remain unseen. On the first night, though, this did not occur. He let Krebs sleep in his quarters as, firstly, he was his guest, and secondly, he didn't sleep most nights anyway. "\[You're more important to this ship than I am,\]" Krebs had told him, "\[You should get some rest.\]" "\[It's fine,\]" he has replied, "\[I'll manage. After all, what else is caffeine for?\]" After that, Krebs accepted Dieter's offer and fell asleep in his bed. Captain Dieter took a long drag from his pipe whilst gazing upon the waters of the frigid Baltic Sea from the bridge.


In the basket contained wet red cotton shorts, two black leggings pilling on the crutch, a wool blend navy jumper included in a laundry bag, nickers with various patterns and a pink dressing gown with faded coffee stains and cigarette holes. Each was lifted and left to dry in the Australian winter sun. We had had long, cold nights, westerly winds, and the adaptation was to catch the warmest part of the day and when the sun would air dry the garments. Australia has a unique washing line called the Hills hoist. Although the company closed their doors recently, most back yards still have one. The hoist is a square apparatus, made square by the outline of wires or lines. It can be heightened and locked in place with a handle within the centre of the device. Most times, the lines are not locked, and the square rotates, catching the sun and breeze. The hoist has been a play pen for generations of Australian children swinging and spinning like a merry go round, leaving it with a lopsided closer to the ground and the opposite, a high side well above stretched arms upwatds, harder to be reached. Usually, the words, "Wait till your father gets home," are exclaimed with satisfied children peering out windows at their the played, ellipsed empty spin of their vacant household tool. The red shorts had red plastic pegs to match. The pink dressing gown had four pink plastic pegsto match; two to hold up the shoulders and one each side to stretch out the sleeves. The black leggings had spliiting wood pegs and springs that would bust to be dismantled properly sorted for recycling bin. The patterned knickers were also hung, each with two matching pegs, the most prominent colour in their pattern. Kristina had read that placing clothes in an upright position, the way they were normally worn on the body gave positive energy and good luck. Hanging them upside-down drained the clothes of luck and made them negative. Sort of like a horseshoe mentality about luck. All the clothes were in their correct category. The dressing gown with the underwear. The daywear with the daywear. The jumper laid on a towell draped over a plastic accordion airdryer, so it did not stretch. Christine's ducks were lined up for the day. It was 10 am, the right time to grab the sun, and the kettle boiled. Matt smiled and kissed her on the crown of her head. As she drank tea and relaxed, scrolling thru her social media, Matt swiftly went to the back door, saying, "Going to the shed to find that screwdriver I'm looking for Darl!" Kris smelt his double layered cologne, the matching hair/condition liquid, the skin cream, and spray on deodorant he said he had bought at a discount. Christine yelled, "Exploring your feminine side? You smell like a pheromone factory." He laughed out, "Ha ha Kristine Angela Murphy " The shed door swung open with a well intended bang. Matt wanted Kristine to think he was doing his usual. Playing coy, he walked to the Hills hoist, avoiding the kitchen window quickly, which had clear view of his actions. He photographs a long shot of the clothes, a closer category of the clothes and finally the individual items with their matching coloured pegs. Each pic he edits first by cropping them so the subject of stuff is apparent and then colour enhancing the individual clothing so their actors, the pegs, stood out.

Back in the shed, Going posted to Facebook page. He posted the pictures together on one post in a column formation, with no caption, to his family and friends. He grabbed his screwdriver triumphantly, returning to Kristine, "Oh, look, I found it." "That's good honey, we really need that leg tightened on that Ottoman, glad you can do it today!" He yawns a well thought out yawn, stetching like fern frond, rolling, exaggerating, looking in total control. "You know love, I will make a coffee and relax first" "That's OK, I've noticed you've been more active lately. As the kettle boiled, Matt half smiled as his phone pinging repeatedly. Stretching again very slowly into his reclining chair, he tapped his message alerts to feeling smug and delighted. From his sister, "I always knew she was a nutcase!" From his best friend, John, "Someone needs to put a bullet thru her head and save humanity of her!"

Then came the potential hens shuffling before the strong rooster, "She has mental health issues. She's crazy.

"Oh Matt, just throw her out of the house" "She's no good for you, I can come over when she's out... smiley faces, heart, smile wink emojis. Matt had never acaccepted Kristine's Facebook friends request. That hurt Christine, and she ask him once only Why and he erupted him declaring, "Everyone needed their own space and he was one of the reasons. Dealing with her confused mind all day everyday was too much" Kristine felt awkward around his family. They could be very dominating to her, and she felt uncomfortable. His friends seemed no better, so she would quietly say, "I need rest, you know, my mental health issues and I just need time," avoiding loud talk, football on the TV, and feeling an outcast. Work appeared on her phone call. Christine answered, "Yes, I can be available for another shift, I feel smashed, but since ppl are sick, I guess it's best I show up." She dragged herself to the shower and wore a neatly hang dress in the wardrobe followed by leggings for warmth. Her older age of 50 years seemed to allow her bones to feel the cold more. Round her neck she placed a knitted scarf, like a hypnotised snake it coiled tightly at her throat and lost all muscle response at its head and tail. Sometimes she would help it slither over her mouth, almost gag her speech, as frigid air clogged her lungs to be stopped with wooden fibres Questions ran through her head like, would she return to two towells in the bathroom again? Would she find an unexplained bottle of mascara on her vanity again? Would she see long brown hairs tangled on a pillow of static in the loungeroom when she only had shoulder length blonde hair? Kristine had tried to ask Matt the various questions still in her mind today, to have her medication increased by the doctor. Matt's heavy depression was ignored and he would over indulge himself about her mental health with her doctor talking of his own needs the whole session. "R U WELL", he texted to her that day at work? Christine did not reply, she was far too busy. She knew to have her meds when she got home, stay quiet and sleep it off so she had energy for tomorrow. Kristine cleaned herself with a late night shower. Her clothes in a heavy mess on the tiles and she took them to the washing machine lid was closed. Opening, she saw the double beds twisted wet sheets, pillow cases and doona cover. Returning to the bathroom, she wiped the misty mirror  with her hand leaving a large oval of clear with droplets of water forming on its circumference.  She wrote with her red lipstick, "Today is always a new day." Below, she wrote with her purple lipstick, "Slow and steady wins the race!" Below that she wrote with her pink lipstick, "It's ok not to be ok!" Later that nite Matt unable to sleep wanders to the tiolet. In the kitchen he could be heard by Kristine pulling the ring on a beer can, as fizzy drinks have a bigger popping sound from the gas. He walked into the bathroom, with his phone. Kristine could here the camera sounds, knowing he would photograph her outburst and listening carefully as he fiddled on his phone to be followed by bell alerts were he sniggered. She went back to sleep peacefully in the eye of the storm.


“ZOMBIES!” yelled my best friends, Brooklynn and Charlie.

At first I thought they were joking.

They always play pranks on me but, the way they ran to the tree house was telling me they were not kidding around.

This is it.

The end of the world.

I can’t believe it.

I thought that I would be one of the first to go.

The first thing I think to do is pull the ladder up and lock the door in our tree house once Brooke and Charli

get in.

Next

I wonder if there are any more survivors hiding in their houses or tree houses.

I get on my walkie-talkie system that I got from my parents

5 years ago.    I went on every channel and screamed, “ HELLO!

HELLO!

IS ANYONE THERE?

THERE ARE ABOUT 30 FREAKIN’ ZOMBIES AT MY RIGHT NOW!

IF ANYONE IS THERE SAY COPY, TELL ME YOUR NAME, AND ADDRESS (if you live in Oregon).

MY NAME IS ADDISON (Adi) MY FRIENDS ARE HERE AS WELL.

THEIR NAMES ARE BROOKLYNN (Brooke) AND CHARLIE (Charli).

WE ARE ON 389 EDEN RD, IN OREGON CITY.” My voice hurts.

I just yelled a lot of words.

I need water.

Wait what happened to my mom and dad and… One Hour Ago… “I’ll meet you after school at the tree house!”

I say to my friends.

They prefer to run home while I would much rather ride the bus.

I am pretty lazy.

But when I am on the bus I draw or stare at a super cute boy on my bus.

I would never have a chance with HIM though.

My stop is not very far from the school, only about 15 minutes give or take.

It’s an extra 5 minutes for Brooke and Charli because they walk or run.

That's when they do their daily gossip.

Today was a running day for them because they came at the tree house yelling “ZOMBIES!” and they weren’t kidding.

The good thing my tree house has lots of food to last us.

A bad thing is we don’t have a toilet.

Present Time… The zombies are getting really close to the tree house.

Then we get a response from the walkie-talkie.

It was really glitchy.

But I could still make out the words.

“Hello this is James, William and Oliver.

We are on top of my roof.

Our address 159

Harding RD, and we are in Oregon City as well.”I knew James, Matthew and Oliver.

We went to school with them!

And Harding RD is a neighboring road.

At one point in time I actually liked James.

That was like in second grade though!

I’m a seventh grader now.

And you probably know you can’t change the past that's that.

It’s going to be totally awkward spending the end of my life with my two best friends and three boys.

He's smart so maybe he will make a zombie cure.

But what if he doesn’t.

I start making a list, “How to survive the zombie apocalypse (without becoming one of them).

Always have access to a car Go to the store once a week STAY AWAY FROM ZOMBIES Meet up in groups of people” That was all I wrote before William, James and Oliver pulled up in a Jeep Wrangler (my favorite car ever!).

They're a year older than us so yes they can drive a car.

He called some more of his buddy’s to come.

Not even 10 minutes there were 9 people in MY treehouse.

I didn even invite them.   But whatever.

I called some friends, some picked up and others didn’t.

They drove here in their parents car even though they can’t drive yet!

They figured it out quickly! Or so that's what they told me.

I don’t know where my parents are and if they're safe.

Oh no!

One of James’s friends fell off of my treehouse into the zombies!

He is dead or at least a zombie.

James' face is HORRIFIED.

That was one of his best friends from kindergarten.

We all hope in cars and start to drive.

I don’t really know any zombie free spots but James, William and Oliver were driving around before they came to my house.

My friends let me drive!

It’s so fun but I never imagined learning to drive during an apocalypse.

James takes us to a secret area in a forest.

I think it’s a really good area to get attacked in so I drive me and my friends somewhere else.

James Follows us. I drive or vert the sand dunes where me and my friends always hang out. It's so vast out there and there's probably no one out there.

Good thing everyone brought food.

But we’re living with BOYS.

I would not be surprised if they ate everything in a week.

There is a store near the dunes

but it would be very risky to go in there.

After we set up “camp” I walked to a high point in the dunes.

Oh great.

James is following me.

“Hey Adi!

Wait up!

I need to talk to you.”

Well I don’t.

He should have talked to me in the second grade.

I sit down.

He sits VERY, VERY close to me.

He leans over as if he were to kiss me.

I hide behind him as he kisses the air.

He grabs me from behind him and flips me over so that I’m laying in the sand.

I don’t move.

“Adi, I like you. Like a lot and I have for a while now.

I was just so scared to say anything,

I thought you might hate me.

Will you forgive me?” Of course I would.

All the girls at school fall for him, but he’s falling for me!

He leans in for another kiss.

This time he gets it.

I couldn’t deny the way his eyes sparkled in the sunlight.

“Hey Adi!

Whatcha doing? Oh My GOSH!  Dang it.  I forgot how snoopy Charli is when she's under stress

“Charli let me explain.

Well…” It’s going to be hard to explain.

“You see...umm…” I am super choked up.

I am never really this choked up.

James stepped in, “Okay Charli.

I know that you have a boyfriend now just let Adi have one.

Please?” James is so smooth with words.

“I just thought I’d never see James with you Adi!

Congratulations!” She runs over and gives me a hug and one of our friends kisses on the cheek. That means she approves!

“Just a little piece of information, back at camp Oliver is kissing Brooke! Come on!”

We ran back to camp as fast as we could.

James carrying me on his back when all I wanted to do was run in the sand!

Brooke was totally enjoying herself.

James yelled ”Hey Oliver!

Come check this out!” Just so Brooke could have a minute alone.

Brooke's expression on her face is OMGG!

She has never really kissed a boy.

And Oliver’s a good kid.

Oliver has had a little thing for Brooke for a while now.

I’m happy that he made a move.

Two weeks later… Hey!

We’ve survived two weeks so far!

Yesterday James asked me to be his girlfriend and guess what I said? YES!

Like a week ago Charli developed a little crush on William.

She calls him Will now.

I think she might be first to make a move on him!

Will told James he likes Charli a little too.

In my head I keep screaming Oh My Gosh!

Whenever James kisses me his lips feel so warm.

Charli always finds us when we’re hiding or sitting in a romantic spot.

 Some of our friends died on trips to the store.

That’s the sad part but we figured out we could drive through the building.

It’s super fun!

James never found a cure.

Or hasn’t yet.

We found some people like us who have been surviving the apocalypse.

They are 18 years old.

Only a few years older than James, Oliver and Will.

We are allowing them to stay with us.

I can’t believe how long we’ve survived!


IV - OFF THE RAILS After a string of ‘rather uninspired’ work written for the *Times*, my services have been placed on temporary hold, to ‘reinvigorate the senses,’ or (more likely) so I can quietly disappear. It’s terrible really, how often I find myself in these situations. Just last month I looked so proudly at my exploits: dodging bullets in Qatar, protesting in Venezuela, being nominated for countless awards courtesy some writing association dictating journalistic standards as if they could grasp excellence… I’m bitter. I sit sweltering in South Indian heat approaching forty degrees celsius. The Kerala Express violently jerks in reaction to what looks like rusted rails and… air. My mother sits beside me, gazing through barred windows as childhood ghosts streak the passing fields. We are on our way to visit perhaps our fifth set of relatives, custom dictates a meeting with each one, ‘especially after so many years, *this* one held you when you were just a baby!’ The trip was her idea. Watching me waste away through journalistic failure sparked her idea of a cure: The motherlands. Kerala, *God’s Own Country*. ROAD TO ADOOR We spew from train to train platform through noise you’ve never seen. Coolies balancing massive suitcases on their heads, weaving through crowds. Patterned shawls sweeping the platform with the speed of instinct. The clamors of commerce, the smells of fried foods. We pass by vendors selling all kinds of wares, from water bottles to purses to peacock feathers, careful not to look too long in one direction as we head toward the exit. We find our driver, Santosh, outside the station. He’s a stoutly built man about fifty dressed cleanly in an off-white dress-shirt and gold-lined lungi. His grey hair seems doused with a lifetime supply of coconut oil. We awkwardly exchange greetings and I help him with the luggage. Santosh is the talkative type and begins chatting with my mother in Malayalam about their family histories. Apparently, my mother knows his wife’s second cousin’s dog’s best friend’s previous owner’s nephew. They bond on this. They continue chatting as I peer through a one-way glass. I am there but not there. I understand most of what is being said but I cannot really speak the language. Growing up in Canada, my parents thought it best to not teach me so as to not impede my English (??). Hence very little of the language is now my own, and I have even less to pass on. Santosh’s car, a white Hindustan Ambassador Grand, finally stutters to start and we pull away from the station. I am too tired to complain about the lack of air-conditioning. Driving on these roads requires obscene levels of apathy and assertiveness. Every crack of space between the piled cars is quickly filled with scooters and motorcycles, some of which hold three people. Motor horns are used constantly, not out of anger or frustration, but as a subtle warning before the driver bursts onto their desired route, forcibly merging. Stuck behind a truck going too slow, Santosh begins weaving behind it, taking note of oncoming traffic before quickly overtaking and only slightly avoiding a collision. My mother’s high blood pressure and hypochondria have gotten the best of her. She reproaches Santosh about his ‘crazy driving’; he is courteous enough to listen and agree (with a few wobbles of his head), but the drive has remained more or less the same, and my mother has been forced into silence, into staring at *anything* but oncoming traffic: at billboards of fair-skinned beauties in glittering bridal wear and jewelry, at countless 5G wireless ads and vivid almost cartoon-like political posters. Scattered patches of huts face the road with their storefronts, several of them with branches of *nendran* bananas (delicious) hanging right above their entrances and commercial refrigerators with *Pepsi* signs seen easily from the road. Small clusters of population gather variably near the huts, immersed in the inescapable vibrations of 1.3 billion souls packed in space less than one-third the size of Canada. I’ve seen the *same* man several times. He is an old and lean and veiny figure. His skin is sun-stained and dark and deeply wrinkled, especially around the eyes. He watches the passing noise with a blind and almost vulgar sort of distaste, his head slowly oscillating and his hands clasped behind his back and his eyebrows furrowed and his face prickly and unshaved. He watches. He is condemned to watch the noise with a blind and almost vulgar sort of distaste… We park at the side of a junction. My mother spotted a *chaya kada* (tea shop) and felt wistful for a cup. Tea, or *chaya*, is somewhat of a national pastime. India is the world’s largest consumer of tea (consuming thirty percent of the world’s output) and its second-largest producer (after China). But Kerala chaya is different. Frothy, creamy, and delicious, it is locally called *Adicha Chaya*, meaning “One Meter Tea.” Served in a small glass, the shop owner prepares it by boiling water, adding smashed cardamom and smashed peppercorn, and then adding loose black tea leaves. After letting it boil, he adds milk and stirs often, straining the leaves and—finally, pouring the tea from one mug to another, again and again, *one meter* apart. The motion serves many purposes: it mixes the tea, cools its down, spreads the aroma, and creates the frothy texture—all while producing a rhythmically calming sound and spectacle. We sit and sip our chaya in front of the hut and take in the mixtures of flavor, heat, and bustle. Santosh tells us a story of his childhood, of a man called *Half-tea*. Every morning he would purchase a glass of tea (ten rupees), but then instruct the shop owner to give him only half. Returning from work at the end of the day, he would then request the other half, earning his moniker. Santosh cannot remember his *real* name; Nicknames, or *house names*, are a large part of Keralite culture. Usually given by parents, it is quite common to have a formal name on your birth certificate but then be called something completely different. My mother’s formal name is Sara, but her house name is Beena. Ninety percent of our community would likely not know her *real* name, and it would not be a stretch to say that she *feels* more Beena than Sara. We finish up our chaya and my mother spots a snack store. We are about to purchase in-bulk snacks for back home but not before Santosh warns us about their somewhat shady practices. Entering the busy store there are many workers, a common thread of bold fast-talking boys in jeans and dress shirts and flip flops. Their voices ring above the bustle and in between large vats of snacks: fresh plantain and casava chips mixed with every spice under the sun, endless flavors and textures and colors of halwa, fresh cashews… with no prices to be seen. We take note of each and give a list for Santosh to buy later. Though my mother and I are of local descent, our foreignness is painfully obvious; the way we walk, talk, and navigate space speaks more for who we are and where we come from. Santosh will return later and purchase snacks on our behalf (with a tip of course) at a more reasonable price. We enter the Ambassador Grand and pull away from the junction and continue on our journey. It’s different being in Kerala than anywhere else. Perhaps it’s because here I can’t *be* completely foreign, so my sense of identity starts to merge instead of reaffirm. Something stirs at these sights and sounds. I can’t place it. In the heavy heat, speed, sweat, the red dust spewing clouds through car tires. It emanates from Santosh and now my mother, something much bigger than them… I fall asleep to the sound of cars honking. ARRIVAL We arrive at the house around dusk. It sits at the bottom of a hill surrounded by tall trees and the road leading to it paved by gravel and tall weeds. The house is white and one-story with a flat roof and wooden sheds at the back. A woman in a saree, a helper, sweeps the porch with a broom made of dry wild grass. Inland India. Old Kerala. Much different than the brochure: Cochin airport powered by solar panels, Lulu mall, Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple, drifting through Alleppy backwaters in a houseboat surrounded by coconut trees and wiry fisherman casting their nets in the foreground of a sun just about to set. *God's own Country*. I think of the places I believe I have seen. Perhaps they too were just the brochure. We are greeted on the porch by our relatives. It is only an hour until dinner so we exchange pleasantries and then quickly unpack. The house is noticeably old, cracks and other signs of decay line the pale-blue cement walls. There are no hallways, the rooms simply link to one another like a mash of mismatched cubes. But I sense a unique warmness that comes with this old worldliness and desolation. The warm yellow light, the cricket quietness, the faded flower-patterned bed sheets, the smell of mosquito coils. All my passions and restlessness—overwhelming back home, seem now like a restless dream. Dinner is served. Rice, avial, chicken curry, papadum, and lemon pickle. We eat using our fingers, the practice based on the premise that eating is a sensual activity, and touch is part of the experience along with taste, aroma, and presentation. The meal is delicious. My cousin sits next to me at the table. She is around the same age and is a history major. Her English is excellent (much better than my Malayalam anyway) and she educates me on the various spices used for our meal. Did you know that black pepper originates from Malabar, Kerala? Black pepper! An utterly essential ingredient for so many cuisines—all indebted to the Malabar Spice trade. We wash our hands and sit together in the living room and continue our discussion of history. She ends the night by declaring that she cannot possibly go through it all. I laugh and head to bed. UNSCRAMBLING NIGHTMARES I’ve been having trouble falling asleep. It’s very odd. I usually like rooms that aren’t my own. When the weight of my own decisions aren’t draped around me… I’m a sailor at sea. I’m a wreck without eight hours. Maybe it’s because the bed’s next to this wall—messes with the feng-shui. Writing helps I guess. Thinking too. Pacing. Thinking. Thinking things. Mosquitos hovering. A lizard just fell through the blurring fan blades, its tail detached—*it’s* still moving!—mind of its own, or nerves I think. Don’t look at the time it’ll make it worse. Exhausted. Right on the edge of sleep. Excruciating. Morning already. Strange feeling, dawn when you haven’t slept… like the world moved on without you. How many days have I lived like this? Jet-lagged and weary, going through the motions, just trying to get home. Home. So much to do. Santosh awake and dressed. Mom awake and cheerful. Quiet breakfast. Idli and sambar. Waiting on the porch and peering at wild dogs with testicles. Strange how strange it is to see dogs with testicles. Car horns. Melting through noise and heat. Crippled beggars. Skin-whitening cream ads. Malls—air conditioning (!). Piles of sarees and lehngas and salwar kameez bought and rarely—if ever—to be worn. *So cheap!* Carelessly crossing streets and hoping to make it. Faintly. Beginning to feel delirious. Crowds and heat. Pulse and breath just pounding through my core. I don’t like *knowing* there are this many people in the world. In their own worlds. Made of voices and fears and dreams as *real* as mine. Back at the house again. Finally. Sleeeeeeep. ***The rest of the story is available for free on my substack, the link is available through my profile!*** If you enjoyed my work and would like to read more, please subscribe tp my email list. I publish a monthly short story or essay every second Sunday.