With a firm grip on my shirt collar, an arm tugged me out of my cubicle office chair. I bent backward, hearing the chair hit the floor at the same time as me. Locking his grip onto my collar, the guy dragged me through a town of cubicles. “What’re you doing?” I asked. “As of this morning, your name is on the Z-List,” I heard the man say. “I’m taking you to your trial.” “It can’t be, no,” I shouted, but the guy continued to drag me out. “Let go of me.” Coworkers were avoiding eye contact, I was getting dragged and no one paid more than a glance to the tall muscle dragging me. My boss walked through the stair-well exit, then as he saw the man dragging me, he moved aside, taking a sip from his coffee mug. I was clawing the floor until tossed into the elevator. \ The muscle brought me into a dark room where he dropped me to a chair. I held my arms against the chair handles in silence. That’s when I hear a click. A lamp brought light to the other side of the room. The dim lamp light revealed a tall, wooden podium extended across the room. Alongside the podium, I saw hooded figures and I couldn’t make out their faces. In the middle, the lamp revealed an older man under the hood. “It would appear that trusted members in society have voted that you require rehabilitation. Before you reenter your community, you must serve the judges of the Z-Watch until you earn a citizen status worthy enough to reenter society.” “What? I don’t know who put my name on that list, but I’m a good member in society, I didn’t commit a crime. I don’t need vigilante rehabilitation.” “My job isn’t to decipher who put your name on that list or why. My job is to evaluate whether you’re a worthy citizen of worth status that qualifies to reenter society.” “Wait-” I tried to talk. The judge hit his hammer. “Silence,” the judge’s voice made me still in my chair. “Your current citizen status is currently set to chaotic.” “Ch-chaotic?” I asked. “As a new member on the Z-List, your status is chaotic by default. You must work your way up to outstanding citizen status again if you want your name off the list.” “What do I need to do?” I asked. “Serve your community. Earn your title as an outstanding citizen and you can rejoin society. The judges of the Z-Watch have been watching over the safety of ordinary citizens such as yourself since before you could open your eyes.” “I’m not a danger. If I am, why not call the cops and jail me?” I asked. “You may have not committed a crime, but trusted members of your community seem to think you require a citizen evaluation and pose a safety risk. The Z-Watch must rehabilitate you before you *do* become a danger to your society. It’s time to serve.” “I can’t serve now, I have a full-time job.” “You won’t go hungry while you serve, son. You’ll get your pay cheque. *Show* the Z-Watch judges that you care for your community. There’s a lot of dirt in this town that needs cleaning and as you’re on the list, it’s time to get your hands dirty. Are you ready?” I couldn’t help but think about how crazy this situation was, I was caught in the net of a vigilante group. They wanted me to volunteer but Z-Watch volunteering isn’t a part-time commitment. It’s like they give you a leash and tie you to your phone. You have to take the calls and do the errands for the Z-Watch Judges around town. It seemed honest at first, but who was I to go out there as a vigilante to help order citizens around? “I can’t do it, I’m just not made to work on the street,” My head turned to the muscle then back to the judge. “Are you sure you want to reenter society as a chaotic citizen?” “I’m sure.” “If that’s the case, then you can go,” the judge gestured for the muscle to untie me. I was out of the chair, “uh judge, thanks for understanding.” “Good luck, son,” the judge said. \-- The muscle gestured me out of the judgement room. It seemed like this trial took place in someone’s place of residence. A small house on a regular block. Time to find the nearest subway station. Everyone on the train was quiet for a moment. Then I started hearing chatter over the screeching train-tracks echoing through the tunnels. People started to bring up their phones to their faces. Afterwards, they started to look at me. My heart pounded as someone to my right nudged me. “Yeah?” I asked, turning to the man on my right. No response from him. He seemed to be uttering mutters under his tongue. “Ch-chaotic Z-Lister,” he muttered. “M-must be controlled.” “Are you okay, sir?” I asked. Everyone on the train broke into chatter. They’re all looking at me as they started to stand. “Young man, how can you walk in here with a chaotic status?” The middle-aged blonde woman told me. Everyone started to stand, gazes gravitating toward me. Their stares sending shivers through my weak knees. Someone came up to me with a phone to their ear, “Z-Lister refuses to serve,” the man said. “Neutralize him before he hurts someone.” “Get the hell away from me,” I realized a crowd started following me off of the train. I flew up the stairs to leave the station. At one point, I felt a blade slice some skin off the back of my neck. Or was it someone’s nail, attempting to claw at me? I jog toward an intersection set to a red stop light. After coming to a stop for a second, I realized I was about to collapse. Not enough energy to raise a finger. With no plan in mind except to get away, I took a right turn to the cars parked along a quiet road. As I turned, my vision revealed the mob on my tail. The on foot chase must’ve lasted more than half an hour. Around twenty or thirty of them, roaring and yelling for me to stop. As I stood in the intersection, I knew I had one of three ways to take. A figure from down the road caught my attention. Is someone calling me? “Over here! Quick, I’m right here,” the man waved, his foot holding the door open to one of the restaurants along the curb. I had my eyes set on the next intersection, I couldn’t stop for this stranger, I thought. Though, I realized I felt an overbearing tiredness, like I’d already exhausted the energy needed to get away. I couldn’t help but keep looking at the man holding the door open, “come in here, I can help you.” “Help *me*?” “I’m on the list. I’m a judged citizen, just like you. Those vigilantes are getting closer, now get in here so I can close the damn door,” the man’s voice escalated. I didn’t have a breath in me to keep running, so I followed him inside. My eyes tracked him as he ensured all locks were snapped shut. He had these glasses with big frames and sweat sliding down the side of his neck. Stuck to his skin was an old dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I wanted to sit down, but we had to shut all the windows as the mob passed the restaurant. I noticed a half empty glass of water on the barstool, “go ahead, drink,” he said. I emptied the glass into my dry throat. While exhaling, I leaned against the bar table, not an eye off the windows. It was starting to get quieter. Most of the crowd passed the restaurant and started heading to the next intersection. “What the heck were you doing out there as a chaotic Z-Lister?” the man asked. “I don’t know why they’re after me… I think the judges are doing more than just cast me out. I think the judges are turning everyone around me insane. One second I’m on the train, next second everyone’s trying to kill me,” I watch the veins on my hand. “Welcome to the list, kid. Guess now’s when you learn what the judges have been really doing to chaotic Z-Listers. Judges have a supercomputer configured to trigger everyone’s emotions to act against you. It doesn’t matter what you are or why you’re on the list. What matters is you get phazed out if you exist with a chaotic status.” “Damn,” my jaw stayed open for a few solid seconds. “That sounds like one messed up piece of tech.” “It’s something, isn’t it? The judges of the Z-Watch. They can’t keep up with everyone on the list on their own. They need a supercomputer to help. A computer that makes sure we stay in the prison.” “The prison?” I tilted my head. He snapped his finger, “wake up Z-lister, since you refuse to volunteer, the judges put you in a cage.” “A cage?” “With a chaotic status, everyone around you gets hacked to break you open until you submit to the judges. The world is a prison until you complete your rehabilitation. That’s why that crowd was after you.” “How could it be like this? What’s happening to the world?” “World is the same. You just woke up today on the wrong list. This was always the nature of this. I reckon at one point, the supercomputer made *you* act out against other chaotic Z-Listers throughout your life.” “How long have you been on the Z-List?” I asked. “Two years.” “Two years? Why are you still on the list? Did you try to serve?” “I served, I broke my knuckles on a daily basis helping put criminals away. I managed to reach the ‘good citizen’ status. But a while into the game I realized, the judges always needed servants, they weren’t just going to let us loose. And as long as we’re still on the list, they can keep up away from society for as long as they please..” “What do we do?” “Run,” the man asked. “Right behind you,” I nodded. “Good,” the man marched to the back of the restaurant, waving to me to follow along. I paced behind him. “There’s a door at the back of this restaurant, we’ll make our way through the alley, then get to a main road to make our way out of here.” I started hearing engines roaring at what seemed like a block away, “You hear those engines? Looks like the Judges already sent their errand boys are here,” L said.”I think we’re about to see a judge real soon.” A roar came into the road. A large black truck, flashing high beams into my eyes. Another truck like it came from the other side of the road, spreading the people on the road apart. They both zoomed toward us and zigzagged to a full stop. A large guy with a cape jumped out of the truck, “you’re coming to see the judge,” said the Z-Watch errand boy. “Jake, when it comes to facing a judge, it’s not a matter of *if* you face trial. It’s a matter of when,” L placed his hands above his head. “Better not struggle. We’re in the palms of the Judges, it’s best to submit before they crush us.” I looked up to the podium, I saw hooded figures and I couldn’t make out their faces. In the middle, an older man had his face revealed. “Please, take my name off the Z-List,” I shouted at the podium. The judge pointed a piece of chalk to a chalkboard behind him. On the board, I saw a column of words. First the word laying on top was, ‘outstanding’, below it was ‘good citizen’. Next the word, ‘satisfactory.‘ ‘Chaotic’ was written and underlined in the very bottom.“ “Once you get to the level of an outstanding citizen,” he tapped the chalk against the board. “Then you’ll get your name off the list. You’ll qualify to get back into society again. But for now, you need to serve.” “You can’t do this to me, you can’t control me like this, I’m an adult,” I noticed my voice rose. “Hell, *you’re* an adult, sir.” “Silence.” “Judge, just outside this room, I saw your Certified Public Accountant certificate… I think this is your part-time job or something,” I took a step closer to the podium. “I know you’re serving this purpose as a vigilante, but I shouldn’t be on the Z-List, I’m a good citizen, I swear.” “Either way, you must begin your rehabilitation or you *will* be permanently programmed out of society itself,” the Judge leaned forward. “Is that clear?” I exhaled out of my nose, “okay.” “Okay what? Do you really want to stay with a chaotic citizen status? No one will even look at you, so wait like a young, respectful gentleman and pick up the call to serve.” “Why…” I take a breath. The judge had to hear this. “How could you vigilantes sit there and judge me like this? Who’s judging what you do as people in our society? You’re a vigilante, you’re not an actual judge.” The judge didn’t respond. He just looked at me. I started feeling uneasy, it started with a bit of chest pain. Then my head started to feel heavy. One of my eyes started to twitch. I looked at the judge and he didn’t seem bothered. “Something the matter, Jake?” My breathing was getting slower, “no, judge.” “You seem exhausted.” I looked at the lamp in front of the Judge, then back down to his stare. He was watching me struggle to take breath. My thoughts started to become unsorted. I began to sweat, it wasn’t out of embarrassment from the Judge watching. I fell off the chair and laid myself on the floor. “Sometimes you’ll stray off the path, but realize, I don’t have to place you behind bars to imprison you,” I heard the judge. I reached my hand up toward the podium. I felt nothing but head pain. I realized he didn’t care for what I was going through, “help,” I called out. “You’re not going to die. Do you feel that? Feel the grasp of our powerful system? We call it the Mother System.” “The system?” My eyes were nearly shut but I was regaining consciousness as he spoke. I remembered the supercomputer me and L were talking about. “It can sift through the code of your brain like nothing else, gazing straight into your soul….” “Please, make it stop.” “My suggestion: free yourself of the chaotic citizen status, serve and volunteer,” he tapped his cane as he stared down at me, I layed there sick, watching him. What was he doing, what sort of system was he talking about? Or was it witchcraft? “J-judge,” I fought to breathe out the words. “Okay, you can turn down the Mother System,” I heard the judge tell a figure next to him. Now, I was regaining my ability to breathe again. “Does the Mother System frighten you?” “What sinister technology is this?” I asked. “The Mother System is programmed to fix subpar citizens. There are no worse citizens than chaotic. See where you stand now?” “I understand you judge, I will serve.” \-- My first service call was helping to wipe the remains of a corpse off an apartment floor. Other days, helping local police control gangs that brought trouble. It was order after order to help law boys clean the streets. Sometimes it was a simple drive along with the neighbourhood watch to help them look out for robberies and the districts with soaring crime rates. Z-Watch representatives would reach me with a phone call. I didn’t know how much of what I was doing mattered. But judges must’ve been the ones who saw the bigger picture. I’m sure the last judge I spoke to sees the bigger picture, they see how Z-Watch props up our communities. My hand was on my phone before it even rang. I stared at it, waiting for a Z-Watch service call. A ring brought up my pulse. I pick up the phone, “hello?” I said. “Hello Z-Lister Jake. I’m a Z-Watch representative.” “I’m listening.” “Okay. You’re getting a big request. This one is priority high.” “Woah,” I react and whisper over to L what the rep told me. “Judges are getting happier with you, but if you want to make them really happy, this is the kind of service you want to do,” the representative continued to tell me that this was the mission that earns us a lot of points with the Judges. The Z-Watch will for sure elevate my status after this one. A young girl in a poor neighbourhood had been kidnapped. Once the girl gets to safety in one piece, I get my satisfactory citizen status, leaving behind the chaotic one. A young black girl disappeared. No one knew where she went, the police officer on the block informed me. The officer said that one of the witnesses told him the girl was last seen with a gangster that lives across the street from her family. Through a reported analysis, the Z-Watch’s Mother System predicts that he’s 95% likely to be the kidnapper. I look at the gangster from a distance. He’s twice my size, “What do you want?” He asked, an annoyed expression sat across his face. I took out my phone to show him a picture of the missing girl, “I need to find that girl.” “What’re you concerned about her for?” “I need to know her whereabouts.” He laughed. “You were last seen with her, you know where she headed?” I ask, not breaking my straight expression or eye contact. “I don’t know..” “You need to tell me where she is.” “I can’t help you.” I ask the gangster once again,“where is the girl?” I ask the gangster. “I don’t know, I’m heading back into my house, get lost,” he slammed the door behind him. “He won’t talk,” I told L. “What now?” “Backup. Our target might require mind control,” L said. “Mind control? What do you mean?” “We extract truth out of him, with the help of the Z-Watch of course.” I watch L bring up his phone, picking one of the numbers on the contact list, he texts one of them, “Is Mother System online?” A response to his text appears in a second, “mother System servers are online.” “The Mother System?” “We want the girl now and alive, yeah? We can make this mission simple, all we really do is text a Z-Watch representative and they’ll have the mother system inside the gangster’s mind and hacked in no time.” “So we’re going to use a system to hack a person’s mind? Don’t you think that’s messed up?” I asked. “Yeah. But if we can’t find the girl, can you really afford to face a judge again?” I shook my head, “no.” I watched L text to the Z-Watch rep, “I need the target to have a fear of level 3, he’s not revealing information about a kidnapped girl”.. This brings a response text to his phone, “A judge accepted your request to the mother system, the system will now modify your target.” “What happens now?” I asked L. “Now watch the gangster’s house.” We stood outside his house. A sudden scream came from the gangster’s home, as if he were trapped in there with a monster. “What the heck is going on in that house?” I asked. “His brain got hacked to elevate his fear level to three. For all I know, the Mother System is making him hallucinate the walls of his home collapsing on him, you’re sure going to make him talk now.” “Wh-what?” The gangster burst outside the house, like a corpse collapsing in his front yard. “Why’re you getting on the ground like that? What’s wrong with you?” I asked him. “I don’t know what’s happening, the inside of the house is hell and you're becoming the shadow as I look at you, I don’t know who drugged me man,” the gangster cried out. “A shadow?” I realized that Mother System must’ve been playing with his emotions, but it seems to have made him hallucinate. L must’ve used a level of fear that was too high when he commanded the system to raise it to three. I don’t know who that guy is. He seems young. I’m not here to hurt him. I just needed answers. I approached the gangster, I felt sorry seeing him lay down like that, “please, where’s the young girl?” I asked. “I can tell you, please don’t hurt me,” the brainwashed gangster said. The gangster started spitting out everything, telling us the kidnapped girl was in his basement. She’s safe now. But what did it take? We had to drive the gangster’s brain into a state of fear. Was that justified? He kidnapped that girl, he has a history of sexual assault. Maybe an investigation wouldn’t have had the same result, but who am I to say? I’m just a service Z-Lister and the Judges pull the strings. I held my phone to my ear, “Jake, I’m a Z-Watch representative. I assume you want an update on your status as a citizen.” “Yeah, I do.” “Well, last job puts you above satisfactory. You go straight to good citizen status.” “What? No Way,” I exhaled relief, a lot of tension fled my mind. “The judges are proud of your recent contribution to your community, making the gangster confess to the kidnapping.” “Thank you,” I hung up the phone. I look at L,“we might’ve been upgraded to satisfactory citizens but we’re still on the Z-List, judges are still judging us.” “For now. But you know how to play the game now, right? We just have to serve.” “I guess.” “This is all for the greater good, we saved that girl, right?” L asked. I didn’t know how to answer him. I used a system to make someone else feel uncomfortable. The judge used this computer system to instill fear in me. Yet I have the audacity to use it to instill fear in others. If I was using something like the Mother System against another person, am I that different from this cult that terrorized me? But I knew it was all to do with my name on that cursed Z-List. I had to keep my neck elevated above a chaotic status. I served the judges and made them happy. In returned they promised Z-Listers freedom and a better tomorrow using us as servants to build the new world.


Abandoning his 20-year-old sports car which suffered from a serious oil leak at the San Francisco International Airport was Jeff’s first real step outside his home town. He decided to embark on a flight to the capital of America’s last frontier, a city which he researched years ago during a grade school homework assignment. After paying cash for his one-way ticket, he could only count on what remained in his wallet, a mere five hundred dollars. This freedom to get away from it all unfolded only after the brute realization that he and Maria were just no longer good for one another. Breaking up spontaneously like this was a numinous experience, a liberation he had never dreamed of before. At the same time, it was heart-wrenching to admit that love was not enough to overcome the insurmountable differences arising between two young persons so attracted to one another. If only Maria had taken to heart the sound advice of first lady Nancy Reagan: “just say no”, they might have been able to weather the storm together. The first leg of the trip landed at Seattle where Jeff was to benefit from a blessing in disguise. You see, the airline was offering a free round-trip ticket voucher to anyone who would volunteer to give up their seat on the now overbooked connecting flight. Jeff, in no rush and who was just now embarking on this uncharted adventure, accepted the incentive to continue to his destination on a later flight scheduled to leave in just a few hours more! It was a late August Sunday afternoon when the aircraft’s pilot performed the expected smooth landing at Juneau International Airport. Because of the State of Alaska’s northerly position on the globe, the sun was still very high in the sky this time of year. Jeff travelled light this day, not having even brought his toothbrush. The total of eight hours in the sky had now taken him 1,500 miles from home. Jeff was the first person off the plane to summon a taxi, which took him downtown during an economical 15-minute fare. The foremost thing on Jeff’s mind was to rent a room for the night. And before his money ran out, he would need to quickly find work somewhere or other. Having not researched the local accommodations beforehand and without having the energy to run around town aimlessly, Jeff checked into the first place he found, The Alaskan Hotel. This well-preserved Victorian building on South Franklin Street was erected during the Alaska Gold Rush and would have to make do for now. After purchasing a few bathroom items at the pharmacy and grabbing a bite to eat, Jeff called it a day. The bed, linens, and furnishings appeared to be newish and plenty comfortable. After breakfast on Monday morning, Jeff took a short walk to the local branch of the state employment service. His last job was making deliveries of cash to commercial banks via an armored truck. When Jeff spied a job announcement of “bank teller” posted on the bulletin board, it naturally caught his attention. Jeff’s Great-aunt Gertrude had tutored him in arithmetic even before kindergarten, so Jeff felt he had the skill set and integrity necessary to work efficiently and correctly with any and all financial transactions. He filled out the appropriate form to discuss his interest in that work offer with an office staff employee. After a brief wait, arrangements were made over the telephone with Doug, the credit union manager, to interview Jeff the following day. As he checked out of his hotel room, Jeff had faith that things were already looking up for him here in Juneau. But before he left, he asked the front desk clerk if, by any chance, the hotel offered a weekly rate for a longer stay? The answer was “no”, but the same gentleman suggested Jeff might have better luck at another place just around the corner. Jeff headed right over to the Imperial Bar on Front Street. The Imperial, established in 1891, was known as the oldest operating bar in the State of Alaska. When Jeff introduced himself to Sandy, the bartender, he was not yet aware of the history of the structure and its business reputation as a dive bar. Sandy explained to Jeff that the two upper stories of the building were rooms for rent. The only room available at the moment had plumbing installed only to accommodate a small wash basin. Any resident living there would need to share a shower and toilet located in the hall. When Jeff found the rate was less than a hundred dollars a week, he made arrangements with Sandy to move right in! The deal for the room was completed about noontime. Before Jeff could even walk upstairs to inspect his new home, one of the few local gals in the bar offered to buy him a beer. Jeff was both surprised and suspicious at the offer, but politely accepted the come-on. Jeff soon forgot whatever chit-chat took place between them while sipping his drink. But he will never forget what happened in the end. When the conversation concluded, the girl’s true intentions came to light when she asked Jeff for cab fare. Jeff did not want to upset the natives, so he gave the lady a twenty dollar bill. She left (never to be seen from again). That turned out to be a pretty expensive beer after all! At the time, Jeff did not recognize the bartender or his new “drinking partner” as native Alaskans of the Tlingit tribe. Later he would learn they are well-known for their woodworking skills, especially with respect for carving the legendary local totem poles. Jeff found his bare room had no refrigerator, kitchen, or microwave; furnished with only a bed and a chair. For the moment, he could not afford any more restaurant meals either. He walked over to the local “Super Bear” market on Mendenhall Mall Road to find some items to eat that he could store without refrigeration. He decided on some baby food in the glass jars with the twist-off lids and soda crackers. Then he purchased a new pair of slacks, shirt, and tie to wear for his job interview the following day. Tuesday’s interview with the manager and assistant manager (Cindy) at the credit union could not have gone better. Jeff was asked to report for work and training the following day (Wednesday). Jeff’s room had no television or telephone, so after the interview he walked over to the public library on Marine Way to do some reading. During this first visit he picked up the newspaper and looked over a few magazines. In the coming weeks, he would take some books back to his room to read during the evening hours. The first day training as a bank teller was stressful. Leif, the young man (head teller) performing the orientation was charming and easy going. By the way, Leif is a Norse name meaning “heir” or “descendant”. The pleasant credit union members were all Alaska State employees who worked in the large government building across the street on Willoughby Avenue. Thanks be to God, by the time Jeff’s cash on hand had run out, it was payday! Jeff was taken aback the first time he encountered a black bear roaming a downtown street at night. He was informed this species of bear were rather small and habitually raided the garbage cans while leaving the human population alone. Nonetheless, Jeff wanted nothing to do with this aspect of summer Juneau “nightlife”. Fortunately, the larger and more unpredictable brown bears reside on nearby Admiralty Island. When his fellow co-workers at the credit union discussed seeing the Aurora Borealis the evening before, Jeff felt left out of the exciting conversation. His room at the Imperial had a window, but it lacked a view of the skyline. Regardless, it might be difficult to see the Northern Lights clearly from downtown thanks to the bright street lights. The second month in Juneau, a larger room which included a small kitchen and a private bath became available just down the hall at the sane Imperial Bar. Jeff was ready and willing to pay a higher weekly rate for more amenable lodgings and moved right over. Sometime later, one weekend afternoon, Jeff heard a loud rustling sound coming from another room down the hall. He walked over to investigate. The noise was due to a lady cleaning out the inside of the room with a snow shovel. However, the room was not filled with snow. The room was filled with hundreds, maybe thousands of empty beer cans! Every square inch of floor space was covered in aluminum beer cans to a height of a foot or so. The bathtub was filled with empty cans also. How could anyone walk, let alone live, under such conditions? Safe to say the last resident living there had a drinking problem. Utilities were included in the rooms rented at the Imperial. Winters were the most uncomfortable time of the year indoors, but not for the reason you may be thinking. It was actually so warm inside that Jeff had to leave a window partially open even in the month of December. You see, individual rooms did not have a thermostat and it seemed the heating system (wherever it was controlled) was constantly in operation during cold spells. What happened to the voucher Jeff had been given from the airline for a free round trip anywhere the airline serviced? Well, Jeff flew back home to California on vacation without having given any prior notice to his family. They had no clue of his upcoming visit. When he walked in the door to see his parents, they were in for a shocking, but sweet surprise! Back in Juneau, eventually a family on the uppermost floor of the Imperial who lived in the largest room in the building was planning to move on. They offered this “penthouse suite” to Jeff, who would have been amiss not to accept such an opportunity to upgrade. Not luxurious by any definition of the term, but the most spacious room available nonetheless. Another increase in rent was required, but still well within Jeff’s budget. Jeff’s four years living in Juneau became an exploit of sorts and a pleasure. Not everyone is willing to fly to Alaska on a whim with literally just the clothes on their back. But then again, thirty-five years ago it was a whole different world we lived in. Even today, in order to insure a successful relocation in a faraway place, it’s best to bring plenty of ambition, confidence, and adaptability rather than just pack a suitcase full of garments and bathroom necessities.


After a brief hiatus, we’re back for more spotlights from our recently concluded cycle of Serial Saturday! It’s been such a treat to watch people develop their stories with us and bring arcs to a close that for some have been with us for quite a while. For a good handful of writers on Serial Saturday, their stories are continuations of stories that started on /r/writingprompts. For those who have participated in WP contests, you may remember some faces of this next tale from /u/Kammerice. Here at we thoroughly enjoyed /u/Kammerice’s story of gritty noir fiction, featuring a mouse on the tail of a murderer with powerful connections and means. There was a reason why Kammerice’s episodes ended up in our fan favorites so much-- the worldbuilding and character work is impeccable, not to mention, the story is immersive and leaves us wanting more. But don't take my word for it! Here's a small teaser: >THE DIPLOMACY OF MURDER > >Dead mice are as common as the cold, but a foreign envoy murdered in a low-rent part of town is strange, even for Elmgrove City. A Marshal is needed to avoid a diplomatic incident and it’s chain-smoking Blueberry Obcas’ bad luck that he gets the call. With Sergeant Zielen of the City Watch, the investigation takes him into the city’s matted underbelly and the world of political conspiracies. Rubbing whiskers with conviving spies and backstabbing civil servants, he uncovers a plot to assassinate the Mayor of Elmgrove City. Will Obcas be able to catch the killer before they strike again? For our first run of Serial Saturday at it was important for us to get author impressions of how their experience went with us, and give readers a peek at the "behind the scenes" of creating a flash fiction serial. Here's Kammerice’s take on that: >Obcas has been with me for a couple of years now, debuting for r/WritingPrompts 6th Birthday competition in 2018 in a piece that has since gone on to be (almost) a novel. Since then, I've written about that cantankerous mouse every chance I've gotten. Last year, I finally started interacting with the WP writing community, I began submitting Obcas pieces for Theme Thursday. When Serial Saturday was announced, I took the opportunity to rewrite the TT pieces into something more coherent with an ending in mind rather than just chasing a new prompt each week. > >Writing for SerSat has been a challenge. I've found myself looking forward to Campfire each week, which has meant writing something that people would want to hear! I've also wanted to forge ahead, explain some aspects in greater detail or bring in new characters, but the word limit always gets in the way. This is has been fantastic and infuriating in equal measures: lines of dialogue and entire minor characters have been sacrificed to keep me on target, but this has meant the story is more focused than anything I've written before. > >Serial Saturday has been the first time I've had live audience feedback, and the difference that's made is unbelievable. I never tailored the story to subvert (or even meet) expectations, but hearing thoughts and theories about the plot, week on week, was uplifting and encouraging. The critiques I've received have been accurate and helpful, friendly but not patronising. I'm looking forward to working on Obcas' next case in SerSat2021! With *The Diplomacy of Murder* at an end (for now) there is only one thing left to do: show off this newly finished story for obligatory bragging rights here on . Let the bragging begin! Without further ado, here's /u/Kammerice’s Table of Contents. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ (not posted to r/shortstories) (not posted to r/shortstories) \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ You can check out more of Kammerice's work by going to their subreddit, /r/The_Obcas_Files. Congrats on finishing your serial, Kammerice, and we can’t wait to see what you do next. <3 from the team at , , and Serial Saturday. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *For more information on the Serial Saturday program feel free to check out our* *.* We have members from all around the world and who have all kinds of schedules, so there’s usually someone awake to talk to. We also have scheduled readings, oration critiques, spur-of-the-moment story time, or even just random hangouts over voice chat.


Earth 2156. “W-Who are you?” said the lady, whose sudden appearance had frightened me seconds prior. In my surprise, I had unconsciously jolted backwards while suppressing the urge to scream as loud as my lungs allowed me to. She seemed more terrified than shocked, almost petrified by an indescribable horror that laid before her eyes.

Past the initial shock, I racked my brain to formulate some words but my voice couldn’t come out. It just wouldn’t. The woman finally broke the tension with her query. I uttered that I was an Earthling, to which her expression shifted from fear to bewilderment. “A what?” was her response. I reiterated my answer and added that I came from sector 4-Q. At that, she looked a little bit relieved. “So you are a Quartz ? What are you doing here? Why aren’t you with them ?” I nodded and fumbled to explain that I had left the Central Den in hope that the neighboring area could provide me with the supplies I lacked. I paused, not knowing how to respond to her last question. She seemed to process the information. I wondered if my response satisfied her. It did. “I’m a hu- I mean an Emerald from 2-E. You can call me Viridian. Nice to make your acquaintance…uhmm….” “It’s Q-9856” Again, she appeared confused. “Is that your name?” she asked dubiously. I nervously confirmed that it was indeed my codename; I was a little taken aback by her reaction. Had she never heard a codename before and why did she have a name like that, without any numbers? Why was she in this sector anyway? It’s not like hers was next door. “Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I’m not familiar with the culture of lower Clusters… .” I could only guess that my annoyed expression had betrayed me. That was to be expected from someone who had been spoiled their entire life. Who were we kidding? I simply shrugged and asked her what had brought her here. “I was in charge of an exchange program between the Sapphires and the Emeralds . Then, I took a liking to this place and decided to settle here as a liaison agent between the two Clusters .” Frankly, I expected her to tell me the reason why she was still here on Earth but we must have felt the same way; unprepared to answer that. Still, it partly explained what she was doing in sector 3-S. “Are you…alone? Is there anyone else with you?” I could tell that she was looking for an affirmative answer but I could only provide her with a negative one. She appeared disappointed but she wasn’t the only one. I initially had hope of finding other Earthlings like me. I desperately tried to contact those who had remained with a transmitter I had found but I quickly gave up. Within the first six months of their departure, I realized that I was the only one walking the Earth. The only Earthling to be precise. It was to be expected. I had been foolish to believe that anyone else would want to stay behind on a dying planet. Foolish enough to think that life would be better after they left. Still, the Clustering no longer existed….because there was no one else to Cluster. I felt miserable, lonely and pitiful. But I was free. And there she was, standing before me. I could barely contain my relief. It was simply surreal. “Why didn’t you go?” The sentence had slipped from my mind to my lips so naturally that I instantly brought my hands to my mouth. Before I could formulate any kind of apology, Viridian stopped me. “I always thought that I would die on this planet, that I would never see the end of the Red Coral project and that…..mankind would eventually perish.” She took a deep breath and continued. “I could barely believe it when the Diamonds announced its completion. Deep down, I knew I wouldn’t be happy there, that I wouldn’t find what I wanted there, that I…..” “…..wouldn’t have a place there?” As soon as I said that, I felt a wave of embarrassment take over me. “I-I didn’t want to interrupt you.” She stared at me before giggling. “I guess you are right. Deep down, I knew my place was here. Others called me eccentric and even suicidal…but I see I’m not alone in my unorthodoxy.” I smiled at her comment. “I was also alienated for not following the prophesied ideologies too. But being the stubborn Quartz that I am, I stayed true to my conviction. I just couldn’t stand the Clustering anymore.” I had so much questions but I later found out that the Emerald did too. Viridian declared that I should stay with her since we were most likely the last two remaining “humans” -to say it in her terms- on Earth. She showed me around the facility once ruled by Sapphires and helped me get settled in one of the hundreds of unoccupied rooms. Our encounter had been quite serendipitous; I had left the Den after depleting most of the meagre supplies they had provided me with. It took me almost two months to cross the border between the two Clusters . The arid environment and the scorching sun proved to be major obstacles for someone so unaccustomed to being outside for long periods of time. Being on the surface, I realized that the few historical and astronomical classes I was allowed to attend had accurately portrayed the damage cosmic rays had done to Earth. I was immensely thankful for the protective gear that had been gifted to me as a parting present. The land was barren of any signs of life; only dry land expanding on all sides. There were a few eroded antennas sticking up from the ground though. The wind was practically nonexistent and the rain….  Well, the red rain seemed, unsurprisingly, odd to me since I had never seen rain before. So did the normal one, actually. But I would only collect the latter; the water I had had all my life had never been red, you see. A few days after I entered sector 3-S, I came across the underground facility of Viridian. My remaining sustenance was getting dangerously low and I was beginning to fear that my end might come sooner than I had anticipated. Finding it had been a stroke of luck, but meeting Viridian was a miracle. After a week, I became familiar with the intricate underground structure which could only be compared to a maze. Despite the obvious degradation due to lack of proper maintenance, the lavish and elegance attributed to Sapphires inexplicably emanated from the hidden infrastructure; the walls were adorned with beautiful detailed carvings of the Earthlings and their tragic history. An overly glorified one, if I might add. Viridian was eager to know more about my culture and this eagerness went both ways. I was also curious about the strange terms she would use nonchalantly during our conversations but I didn’t want to appear too ignorant. It would hurt my pride. “What do you mean by that? You were not allowed outside during the Clustering ?” Her tone clearly suggested indignation and frustration. “Well, yes. Lower Clusters such as Quartzes and Amethysts were not permitted to be outside. Only the upper ones like yourself could. We were kept alive as labor for the other Clusters due to our commonness so there was no need to educate us beyond a certain level.” I tried to keep my tone as steady as I could but saying those words woke the rage of being so unfairly treated by the upper Clusters . “This is beyond disgusting!” exclaimed Viridian, “How could we have been so blind! Q-9856, I promise you I had no idea this was how the lower ones were treated. Why would they do such a thing?” I couldn’t have cared less about the truthfulness of her words or so I told myself…. But seeing her so sincerely sorry for my fate made me realize that, perhaps, I did care. I thought to myself on how lucky I was not to be alone on a dying planet with an unsympathetic Earthling. I told her that even if she knew, it wouldn’t have changed anything since; she couldn’t blame herself for something beyond her. “It’s only the past now for me. That’s why I chose to be here and not on the Red Planet . I simply hope that those I knew are faring better there. That’s all.” Viridian reluctantly agreed but I could still see the pity in her eyes. The Sapphires had left quite the food and water supply; Viridian estimated that these would last for roughly for two years if we were careful. It was more than enough. Earth wouldn’t be around by then. It was a dying planet after all. From time to time, I would subtly enquire Viridian about her weird vocabulary; she explained that “human” was simply another word for Earthling . One that was used long ago, well before the Clustering and the “Fifth World War”. I didn’t ask what the latter meant because, you know, my pride…. She also briefly stated one time that “mankind” meant the two of us. I could only suppose that that was what “humans” called themselves as a whole. The others had opted to be known as Red Corals . They didn’t matter anyway. One morning, Viridian came to me bouncing around saying she had a bright idea. “Since the Clustering has been abolished, don’t you think that you should have a new name?” I looked at her surprised; I had never considered my name odd since all Quartzes had similar ones albeit the different numbers. However, she seemed in such a happy mood that I just couldn’t refuse her. I gave in and told her she could chose whichever she found that would fit me. She proudly announced that she had one already ready and I realized she had given the matter some serious thought. “Cyan it is!!” she exclaimed. “It’s pretty. But what does it mean? And how does it fit me, Viridian?” “It was a tradition in my Cluster to be named after colors so I don’t really know if it has any meaning to it, just like mine. I only know some that have been passed from generations to generations. And for why it fits you, well, it’s simple and sounds elegant! I get the feeling that it will suit you!!” I laughed at her comparison. “Nobody has ever called me simple or elegant but I’ll accept the compliment gladly. Thank you for this beautiful name.” “You are welcomed, Cyan” she replied and proceeded to wink at me. I mimicked her and we both ended up laughing. Those little moments made us forget our impending deaths, if only temporarily; the deafening countdown echoing all around would cease for an instant. We were happy; nothing more, nothing less. Viridian and I would sometime discuss the fate of those who had abandoned Earth; did they find the promised liberty and rapture that had been prophesied on the Red Planet , if those we knew were still being oppressed and if we had forsaken our place there. We knew it was pointless to torture ourselves that way but we just couldn’t shake away those doubts. Those same doubts that would pester me at nights, during my journey, as I would laid under a sky illuminated by billions of lights. The gaseous beings scattered in space had been an endless source of fascination for me, given that I led the life of a mole due to the Clustering. A glance at their majestic sight was enough for me to question my insignificant existence. I had shared those feelings with Viridian but she showed no such admiration for the galaxy; sure, the night sky and stars were splendid…but they were just lights. With time, I came to the realization that this lovely Emerald had many sides to her; her optimistic, joyful, eccentric and pragmatic sides made her who she was. She had turned her back to all the privileges that the Clustering offered her and, quite possibly, her life. But she smiled and laughed. She cherished what her choice to stay had given her. I found myself envious of her for that. We lived, laughed and cried together; each day passing by brought us closer to the inevitable doom. We never left the facility and when the time had come, we hugged each other as the Earth was torn in billions of pieces. Yet, my doubts never left me. Had I been born an Emerald or even an Amber , would my perspective on things have been different? If I had not been born a lowly Quartz , would I have been on Mars with them ?

Would I? Would I have been happier?


The sixth-floor apartment they lived in was nothing special. It was out of the inner city, far enough to miss most of the commotion, but not far enough for a house that the rich liked to live in. The wife looked after three children of the home; aged eight, five and two. A police salary covered the cost of the apartment and not much else, but that was about what was expected. Leon left before anyone else was awake. Walking three blocks from the apartment block, he boarded the first train of the morning, sat for exactly six stops before taking the first exit out of Watanabe Station, heading up the stairs to the left. The glare from the streetlights hit his eyes as usual. It was early in the morning, not that the sky lightened much further later in the day. The eerie glow from streetlights were a standard fixture throughout the city, pollution covering the sky in a thick layer. Gas masks or other breathing apparatus also weren’t an unusual sight for the health conscious, not that anyone too careful about their health would be living within city limits. It’s where the money is, of course, but it’s not for the faint of heart. The rich often worked here but commuted out of the city to make their home, for their sake of their longevity. Even still, jobs were hard to come by unless you were identified as someone at the top of your field. Entry-level positions were essentially non-existent. With the advancement of Artificial Intelligence in the last century, cityscapes were dominated by a robotic workforce. Why would a company pay a salary to a human worker when they could purchase a robot to do it for free? There weren’t AI unions, or health and safety regulations on the artificial workforce. They were engineered to be more resilient, both mentally and physically, than their fleshy counterparts. Human workers still had a place, but they were few and far between; either in a managerial position or a specialist role a corporation wouldn’t trust a robot with. Just a few short blocks from the station, Leon entered the Watanabe Police Force headquarters, the largest building in Watanabe city. Low-level criminals were housed underneath the facility in a minimum-security prison, but Leon was headed to the top floor. When room for outwards expansion of the city stopped being an option, buildings went upwards. “Leon, about time you showed up,” a large officer greeted him as the elevator door opened, “we need you in room four right away” Leon was the lead interrogator of the force, trusted with interviewing any sort of dangerous criminal who posed a serious risk to the safety of the citizens of Watanabe City and the surrounding areas. In this age, terrorism was a huge threat, and Leon often worked closely with other police bureaus to keep an eye on a number of known gangs and terrorist organisations looking to leave their mark on one of the big cities. Entering the viewing chamber behind room four, Leon was met by two leading officers. “Coffee, Leon?” A server robot asked “No, thanks” Leon replied “And you, Officer Reynolds?” The robot enquired The officer shook his head before turning to Leon. “We think this one was programmed to deliver and detonate an explosive in the city centre,” he briefed, “We don’t know who he’s with, but he was caught with an unarmed bomb near town square and brought here. We figured you could get the rest out of him.” “Has it talked yet?” Leon inquired “Not a word” Leon nodded, heading out the corridor and unlocking the door into room four. The robot sat shackled to a chair, motionless. Taking a look at the one-way glass he was behind just moments before, Leon prepared to do his job, shutting the heavy door behind him and locking it. The interrogation of an AI isn’t how you might picture a typical questioning of a terrorist. There’s no blood or waterboarding, no sleep deprivation or obstruction of common liberties. This wasn’t Guantanamo Bay and a robot wasn’t your standard terrorist. Leon specialised in getting information out of these mechanical terrorists, finding out who programmed them and why, what connections they have in the criminal underworld, and extracting any knowledge they may have of planned attacks. The ‘interrogation’ was more of a controlled hacking, overcoming the robots encoded systems and trawling through code that corresponded to stored memories and information. The code could be converted back into a format that allowed the officers to see what the AI had experienced before it was captured, but Leon was just responsible for overcoming security protocols installed in the robot by whatever gang it was working with. Whenever the process was complete, the robot would either be destroyed or wiped and repurposed. After seven hours in interrogation room four, the extraction was complete. Leon exited to the room to congratulations from other officers, it was their turn to sort through the data now, but without Leon the force wouldn’t be able to extract the data at all. “What’s the plan for the robot?” Leon asked one of the senior officers “It depends on how deep he is with whatever group he’s working with,” The officer answered, “with no bombs gone off they’re going to know we got him, but he might still be useful for us.” Leon nodded, “understood.” The elevator ride down the building always felt longer than the ride up, but today was an exception even to that. Leon was halfway down when the elevator shook with the vibrations of an explosion coming from above. The lift fell free a few floors before catching on the cable again and continuing smoothly to the bottom. Leon braced himself as the elevator reached the bottom floor, half expecting to be ambushed, but nobody greeted him. Running outside, Leon saw a crowd had gathered observing the damage. Leon looked up and knew right away what had happened. The top section of the building was in flames, windows having been blown out and parts of the walls scattered on the ground around the crowd. Neighbouring buildings were damaged too, their proximity to the police station causing them to take force from the explosion. A few people were bleeding, hit by debris falling from the building above, but they were much better off than the poor souls that had been on the top floor. The robot must’ve had a bomb hidden within it somewhere, a part Leon must’ve overlooked. He was lucky to make it out of there, most of the other officers were on the top floor when the building exploded. They wouldn’t have survived that. Sirens converged as other emergency services attended the scene. The upper floors wouldn’t be saved, Leon knew, but the bottom half of the building would likely survive. Attacks on law enforcement weren’t the rarest occasion, but one this successful was uncommon to say the least. Leon was picked up by a group of police analysts from a neighbouring precinct, questioned for what he knew and what he had seen, and then released to continue on his day. “You’ll be contacted and informed of what happens next,” he had been told. There was nothing for Leon to do except head home and await instructions. Leon stood in the kitchen, his thoughts on what had occurred that day. He held himself responsible. It was something he could’ve caught had he looked closer at the robot, but he hadn’t. The other officers would’ve caught in when they went through the code later, of course, but it had exploded before they had a chance. It was sheer luck Leon had left when he did, or he would’ve been caught up in the blast too. Leon heard the jangling of keys as the front door opened, Senior Officer Kennedy stepping inside. He hadn’t been at the station that day, luckily for his sake. He was on patrol when the explosion happened. The wife met him at the door, embracing him. “Welcome back sweetheart,” she greeted him “Thank you darling,” Kennedy returned. “Daddy!” The middle of the three kids greeted, glad to have their father home. Leon watched the family, part of him wishing he was able to have the same. “Leon,” The wife said, “How about you get dinner started?” “Yes ma’am” Leon obeyed. Leon retreated to his room to prepare. There was no bed in his room, which was around the same size as a closet. There was a mirror on the far wall, which Leon stood in front of. He looked down at his gloved hands, removing one and then the other to reveal his metal palms. He unbuttoned his police uniform, replacing it with a white button up shirt and bow tie, and an ironed pair of black trousers. He wasn’t required to wear an apron, the family weren’t that traditional, but the rest of the uniform comforted him with a sense of purpose. He glanced in the mirror, looking at his artificial features, and prepared for his home duties.


The scent of a fresh dryer sheet fills my nostrils as I reach into the machine and wrestle out an armload of warm clothing. I plop it on the counter and start to fold.

Those are Dad’s nice pants, they have to go on their separate pile because they get hung up.

Here is Mom’s hoodie that she stole from Phil; which pile can I put it on and not be accused for favouritism? I deliberate for a minute, the go with Mom, because Phil can’t do anything to me. Mom can.

And those— those are my brother’s work jeans that should not have been in the same load as the other clothes. Here is the dress I wore on Sunday. Just past the knees, flaring skirt; it’s perfect for church. My hair looked really nice that day too, and I had bothered to put on makeup. Whenever I was playing piano, I endeavoured to look nice.

There is another pair of Alex’s work jeans. These are stained with dirt as well as paint. He wore these when we were trying to get the roots of an obnoxious little tree that kept growing in our flowerbed. Dad had pulled out most of it with a chain attached to the tractor, but he moved on to bigger and better while Alex and I worked for another hour with shovels, pocket knives, hammer and chisel, you name it, to get those little pieces out. I tell you, that was a resilient tree. It will probably come up again this spring.

Savana’s dress is so yellow. It’s got a big tropical print on it, and contrasts nicely with the tanned skin she has that I try not to be envious of. She wore it for our family pictures.

Here is my Mario t-shirt. It used to be Alex’s, but his arms got too big, so he handed it down to me. Imagine getting hand-me-downs from your little brother! Of course, it is reasonable when your little brother is also half a foot taller than you and probably that much more muscular. It’s my favourite shirt for off days during the week. Coincidentally, its the shirt I wore when I broke up with the only boyfriend I ever officially had. He said he was convinced, but I was not. I had hated myself for not being able to love him, but the feelings simply weren’t there, so I ended it before it got to far. I lived on pure prayer during that time. It was hard. But I’im still here, and so is that t-shirt. We’re both better for it: I’m happier and wiser, and the t-shirt is softer and stretched out but still not faded. I smile as I fold it. He is now engaged to a girl much better for him. Another one of Mom’s hoodies is in the stack. She seriously wears them every chance she can. She used to have three, each different brand and different styles, but all the exact same shade of pink. Tyler’s Batman t-shirt, and another one. The kid has never seen a superhero movie in his life, but he has an imagination to rival most directors, I am certain. He can play for hours by himself, making the most amazing / crazy / realistic / hilarious sound effects while flying from one couch to another.

Here is a shirt that Phil almost never wears! It looks so nice on him. He’s tanned too, and the peach button up looks so classy.

I honestly don’t know how Tyler manages to tear holes in all his pants. It’s not like he runs across a long floor, throws himself to his knees, and slides on the polished wood like my brothers and I did when we were younger. Although Phil only ever wore through one knee. We never did figure out how that worked.

There is a black tank top. An item I hail as the most versatile piece in my closet. The most pleasant memory I have with that article is in the garden with Mom. The ground was slightly damp, not muddy, and felt cool and soft beneath my feet. It smelt amazing. The tomatoes were just beginning to ripen, and every so often I would pop one Ito my mouth, savouring the sweet, sun-warmed goodness. Dirt was under my fingernails. The sun was pleasantly warm. A cool breeze played with the strands of my hair that had escaped from its braid. It was a perfect afternoon. Mom was teasing me about a guy that came to camp that year, and I was blushing because I was now of an age when I was allowed to think of such things. That is years ago now.

These jeans are mine too. They have a stain on the right thigh because I was babysitting, and little Noah reached up to get my attention with a hand full of mud from the sandbox. I have some super cute pictures of him and his brother that day.

Here is an apron. It came out remarkably clean, considering what it is used for on a daily basis. I got a cookbook for Christmas with all kinds of amazing recipes: like lasagna soup and buffalo chicken quesadillas and sticky pork bowls and shrimp scampi roll ups and funnel cake. Everyone is reaping the benefits of that gift!

There’s something in the pocket of these jeans. They’re Mom’s. It’s Kleenex, of course. Hopefully she’s not getting allergies again.

Aha! There are my leggings! I knew that someone had them, and here they are. Well, they are going back in my stack now.

A door shuts outside. The Armada is back. Voices spill into the foyer, then spread over the rest of the house. My peace and quiet is over. Tyler comes into the kitchen first. I ruffle his hair. “We’re bringing pizza,” he announces.

“Cool!” He peeks over my shoulder to my laptop. “Did you get lots of writing done?” “Yes, I did. Do you want me to read it to you?” “Yeah. But later. I’m hungry. The teacher made us do lots of laps today.” Savana comes in then. “We’re bringing pizza.” “I know.” I smirk. She groans. “How do you always know stuff?” “I have my ways… Shall we set the table?” We do, and Mom enters, carrying the things the kids have dropped. The other boys are just behind her, carrying pizza boxes. I hear a door outside again and look out the kitchen window. Dad just got home from work.

“Did you fold the laundry?” Mom asks. I stand still for a moment. My eyes widen. “I completely forgot; I’m sorry, Mom, I totally meant to.” “Oh, Keri—“ “But I wrote a whole story about it?” I give her my best innocent smile. She grins too. My forgetfulness is well known, and well acknowledged. I just get to fold laundry later.

“Let’s eat.”


Our eldest lad wasn’t there for our first anniversary, although he made his presence felt. I struggled with the extra weight in the summer’s heat and boy could he kick. Walter carried the picnic basket, blanket, pillows and anything he could think of to make me feel more comfortable. The contractions started before we finished our adventure and we had to dash to the General. That was thirty years ago; our pearl anniversary is proving to be an entirely different celebration. # “Morning, Mrs Williams,” says Mr Bennett. “How’s your old man doing?” “You know Walter,” I say, smiling. “Loves his stomach.”

“I’ve got some lean minced beef for him and our herb sausages are on a special.” I always said food would be the death of him. Whatever I conjured up he enjoyed: plates of pasta, bowls of Bolognese, lashings of lasagna; followed by hearty portions of tiramisu made with rich soft cheeses soaked in Tia Maria, followed by roasted Italian coffee and an occasional brandy or two. He’d wolf it all down like there was no tomorrow. #

Walter had been an active man in his prime, but since his accident he’s lost that edge. I never thought he’d hang up his boots by choice. Seven years have passed since he retired at fifty and he’s come to embrace a sedentary existence.

His injury changed everything. The dodgy right knee was an excuse. It was his ego that took a battering. He couldn’t bear the thought of being out-run by anyone, and the idea of engaging in ‘walking-soccer-for-seniors’ was anathema to him. Dribbling a ball past geriatrics wasn’t his style. It never will be. Even at fifty, Walter never ever accepted his age as an obstacle. Walter would spar with the best of them. He never shied away from a physical challenge or a hard tackle.

# “I hear your hubby’s having a spot of bother, Mrs Williams,” says Mrs Dawson. “You know my Walter,” I say, smiling. “Always thinking about his stomach.”

“I’ve got your order of mascarpone and two tubs of full fat cream cheese.” He loves my tiramisu. Bless him. Fading away wasn’t on his agenda. He visited the surgery straight after the accident, and the doctor told him to put his leg up or he’d never play soccer again. The old Walter didn’t have a lazy bone in his body. He worked hard, played hard and wanted to go out with a dynamic bang. It was his teammates who persuaded him to slow down. Walter succumbed to their pleas however, six months later his doctor put him on a strict diet. He told Walter if he carried on overeating, he’d achieve his life’s goal and explode by accident. That’s easier said than done. Walter was never one to be told what to do. I couldn’t insist he changed his ways. He could be obstinate when he was of a mind.

# “Happy anniversary, Mum, did you guys get my card?” “You’ve caught me in the kitchen, love,” I said, craning my neck to cradle the receiver. “I’m up to my elbows in chopped onions and fresh oregano.” “How’s Dad doing,” he asks and clears his throat. “I’ve tried calling but---” “Oh, you know your father,” I say. “He doesn’t like surprises.” Walter stopped answering the phone about six months ago. He never had much interest in small talk. Getting to the phone had become a chore. I answered it on most occasions. I’d cover the receiver and say to him, “It’s for you.”

He’d shake his head and mouth out, “Tell them I’m indisposed.” # The excitement of playing for the team has become a memory. He missed the push and shove of match days at first. Now armchair sporting pursuits have replaced the weekend match fixtures and training nights. He invested in a satellite dish and discovered endless channels of soccer; live, recorded and archived. There were interviews with current players, biographies of former stars and documentaries featuring former managers talking about cabinets of silverware and trophies ad nauseam. His passion for his beloved sport now knew no bounds and allowed him to indulge his appetite at the same time. # I recall how he used to badger our lads to get some fresh air. He’d grab the RC, switch off the TV and drag both of them outside. During your school holidays he’d run circles round them for hours. He was so competitive that even when they’d got bored and sloped off, he’d carry on. They wouldn’t recognise him now. # It’s funny how ‘putting your feet up’ can become a habit. The slow decline was an incremental process subject to occasional tectonic shifts of consciousness. Five years ago he’d hobble about on a crutch and get under my feet in the kitchen, and then as his eating pattern evolved he helped less often. In the meantime I fixed, mended and cleaned the house and he got used to me getting things done. The household continued as ever; I made it all appear to be effortless and little changed.

# At first, Walter hated the notion of dependency, and then he got used to the attention. I remember one incident when the doorbell rang, and he grabbed his footstool to raise his damaged leg. His adopted posture surprised the visitors and drew an immediate reaction; he enjoyed the sympathy. Everyone decided he needed cheering up, and they returned with homemade cakes, chocolate cookies and candied fruit, to his delight and delectation. He’d offer pots of tea and sports anecdotes in return for a non-stop stream of sugary confections and pastries. Walter held court in our front room and I’d barely be acknowledged. As long as his guests had hot beverages, that was all that mattered. I could have gone out for an hour and they wouldn’t have noticed. #

It was surprising to witness his change of behaviour, but shocking when his other knee developed an issue too. The lack of exercise and overeating put pressure on the left leg and as a result the problem doubled. His doctor recommended resting both legs, otherwise he’d struggle to walk again. Walter’s sporting life was becoming his distant past. A vicious circle was developing. The more Walter rested and indulged, the more weight he packed on and the worse he felt, which encouraged him to snack and put more pressure on his joints, and discouraged any further activity.

# Thirty years have zipped past. It seems like yesterday when we exchanged vows and kissed on the church steps. Confetti filled the air. Everyone cheered and wished us a happy future. I was a lucky girl, and I knew it; he was quite a catch. Walter’s twice the man I married all those years ago. He’s doubled in weight in the last seven years. We can’t get away, which is why I’ve shopped for ingredients. He’s a creature of habit now. We’ll both take a deep breath and prepare for another thirty years together, providing today’s operation goes to plan. # Our lives haven’t gone as planned for a while. Tonight was supposed to be our special celebration; a candle-lit meal for two. I go through the motions and set two places at the dining table. I relish the opportunity to place out our formal cutlery. That was the eight-piece set we received from my parents. It came in a presentation box. A classic wedding gift designed to last forever. Alas, the best crockery’s not remained intact. It’s suffered a few mishaps and over the last seven years. Walter’s recent tantrums have got worse. I remember what he was like when his favourite team lost on a Saturday afternoon. He’d stomp about all evening and refuse his supper. Now it’s as though his side is losing every day, except now he’ll snack for Britain to cheer himself up. # “Walter!” I’d shout every night, competing with his TV sports shows. I always called twice in case he hadn’t heard. “Your dinner’s ready when you are, love!”

The house is quiet this evening. The landline rings in the front room.

Walter hates the phone. He fears the worst. The phone continues ringing.

I walk through to the empty front room and sigh as I lift the receiver. “Hello---” “Is that Suzanne? Mrs Suzanne Williams?” “Speaking,” I say. “Can I help you?” “Nurse Cummings here from Gardner Ward,” she says. “It’s about your husband…” There are shouts in the background, feet running past and harsh bleeping noises.

“Please be straight with me, nurse.”  “He’s recovered from the anaesthetic but he’s requested a DNR.” “An DNR request after a knee operation?” “He says his life’s not worth living, and he wants a Nil-by-Mouth instruction too...” # I press the button on the entry phone. They buzz me through and I head towards the reception and rest our old wicker basket on the desk. “It’s our anniversary, and he was so looking forward to a romantic night---” “That’s fine, Mrs Williams,” says the receptionist. I give instructions for microwave. I’ve adjusted the times for their industrial power settings. The dessert should rest in the fridge, if there’s room; it’s better chilled. “Room six is third on the left.” She says, pointing to her right. “Mr Williams should be awake now.” She smiles and disappears with the food to the rear kitchens.

# “So what’s this nonsense about a DNR?” I lean forward and plant a kiss on his lips. “The food in here is dreadful, I couldn’t face another plateful.” “Happy anniversary, love.” I open the basket and spread a tablecloth on his bed table. “Don’t suppose you brought any snacks.” I rest the wicker basket on the bed by his feet and bring out a bowl of cashews. “You know me, Walter,” I say, removing the cling film. “But don’t get used to it.” A broad smile spreads across his face as his stomach groans and rumbles for all to hear. “You’re a life saver, baby.” “We haven’t started yet.” I shake my head and chuckle. “Just don’t get used to it.” The End


Fog stretched like a tarpaulin through the cold streets of Victorian London. Young Elizabeth had eaten some bread and beans in one of the pubs for a meagre supper and was about to go to one of the communal dormitories where, for a little money, one could get shelter from the nightly cold and a blanket, when she heard quick footsteps behind her. Speeding up her own walk, she turned into Berner Street. She didn't get far, though, because just a few seconds later a leathery hand wrapped itself around her neck from behind and squeezed, taking away her breath to scream. Deep red blood seeped from the gaping wound on her neck and ran down the curb, mingled with the autumn rain. A waiter who was taking his pub's rubbish to the yard spotted the lifeless body and reported his sight to the local police station. But Elizabeth, despite alerting the police, was not to be the last victim on this uncomfortable night. *130 years later* "Seriously? Only 17 pounds each?" Maria raised an eyebrow in disbelief. She didn't have much time to complain about the stinginess of her guests today, though, because no sooner had the last guest left the restaurant than the restaurant manager asked Maria into his office. "Paolo called in sick," Bruno grumbled, typing something on his keyboard. Maria groaned. Paolo, the colleague who was actually in charge of chopping, pulping and dressing, was not sick. The whole staff knew that by now. He just had a penchant for cannabis-infused treats and preferred to float very high above the clouds instead of showing up for work. Maria was one of the few colleagues at the trendy London restaurant who had no problem taking the night shift. Many of the cooks and waiters, because of the history of the street, refused to stay longer than necessary and especially alone in the location. Exactly 130 years ago, the body of a young woman was found here in what is now Henriques Street at around 1:00 in the night. The person who committed this gruesome act was none other than the serial killer now known as Jack the Ripper. Whenever one of her colleagues began to talk about the alleged haunting of this street, she could only shake her head with laughter. Maria did not believe in ghosts or anything else supernatural. And she was sure that Jack The Ripper was just a maniac who had a hatred for women. That such people exist has been proven countless times in recent years. After a short negotiation about whether Maria would still take the day shift tomorrow or have a day off, the young cook and her supervisor decided that she could sleep in the next day. When the last colleague had also tidied up his station and said goodbye to his well-deserved evening off, Maria rummaged out all the utensils she would need for the preparation. For a moment, she looked around the empty room, which had been wild a few hours ago and smelled of countless delicacies. Maria had always dreamed of becoming a cook. But since there were no suitable apprenticeships in Maria's place of residence at the time, she decided to pursue a career as an industrial clerk after school. After three years of dragging on and on, and one and a half years in a depressing open-plan office, she decided she didn't want to go on like that. On a spur of the moment whim, she sent in an application for a vacancy as a cook in a newly opened restaurant in Whitechapel. She didn't even expect a reply and was all the more surprised when an invitation for an interview popped up in her email box a little later. The owner of the restaurant had been so impressed by Maria's motivation, commitment and attitude to life that she was allowed to sign a contract for a permanent position only a short time later. For the first two months, Maria had been sleeping in hotels or staying with friends, as she had moved about 200 kilometres away from her home in Romsey to pursue her dream. After a long search, she finally found an affordable two-bedroom flat close to her new job. In good weather, she usually decided to walk the 20 minutes. If the UK was ever to be miserable with its clichéd crap weather, it was only a few minutes on the District Line. To break the silence, Maria turned on the radio, which had probably been hanging around this spot when Jack The Ripper was doing his mischief here, and listened a little to the quiet music. "Let's get started then," she said to herself and began to quarter small tomatoes and then tip the pieces into the plastic box provided. In rhythmic movements that matched the 80s music, Maria ran to the fridge again to get a new pack of tomatoes. Back at her workstation, she tried to reach for her knife, but this time her grip sank into emptiness. Puzzled, she looked around. She was sure she had left the knife here. Had she taken it to the fridge and left it there? After a short breath and admitting that she was simply tired from the long day at work, After a few minutes of searching, Maria gave up and reached into the wooden block to pull out a similar knife. As she reached for the mental end of the knife handle, an icy shiver ran down her spine. The kitchen had cooled rapidly in the last few minutes and Maria began to freeze. It was actually still quite pleasant outside for the end of September. A quick glance at the list of everything she had to prepare told her that all she had to do was take care of the prawns, the lettuce, and the rudiments for the sauces. On her way to the cold storage, Maria decided to bring back a popsicle as a reward for the work she had done. She placed the box in the space provided and leaned into the freezer to decide between mango, strawberry or chocolate ice cream. Just as she reached for one of the cones, a bang sounded behind her. Startled, the young cook wheeled around. The door of the refrigerated warehouse had slammed shut. Had Bruno not closed the window? No, it was almost impossible for a light late summer breeze to blow the heavy metal door shut. Fortunately, the storage room could also be opened from the inside with a code. When Maria went back to the kitchen, she called out a few times to see if anyone was here. She suspected that the cleaning service had taken care of the cleanliness of the restaurant a little earlier today and that they had closed the door, thinking that the last person had not locked it properly. But there was no answer. She was alone. Suddenly the silence made her feel a little uncomfortable. Silence? Maria's gaze wandered to the radio, which had fallen silent during the time she was away from her desk. With the broom that stood next to the door, she carefully brushed against it, hoping it was just a loose connection. But the old appliance did not make more than a hissing noise. Annoyed, and a little uneasy she switched it off and fumbled her mobile phone out of her chef's jacket. Then she would listen to some music on this new app, or even better continue watching the series she had started a few days ago because her best friend was totally raving about it. She placed her mobile phone against the wall at her station and started playing the fourth episode. Lost in thought, Maria removed one shrimp after another from their shells and placed them in a mixture of oil and various spices. A bloodcurdling scream jolted Maria out of her monotonous movement and the drama that was unfolding between the head doctor and a pretty nurse. In shock, the prawn slipped out of her hand and hit the tiled floor with a soft splat. Without really thinking about it, Maria sprinted in the direction from which the scream had come. Panic was written all over her face as she tore open the back door of the restaurant. This scream underlined her otherwise unfamiliar unease and reinforced her belief that something could not be right. A few seconds earlier, in the rush, she had reached for something that could serve as a weapon. However, when Maria looked around the small side street, she only saw a young couple taking it as a shortcut to their hotel. "Did you hear the scream too?" she gasped when they were within earshot. "What scream? No one screamed here," the young man explained, a little confused, pushing his partner a little away from Maria. "Ok. Have a nice evening," Maria murmured and pulled the door shut behind her. Only now did she realise that of all the things that could be used as weapons in a kitchen, she had reached for a …. skimmer. Carelessly she fired it into one of the sinks and glanced at the clock above the swinging door leading to the bar. It was 1:03. Fog had formed and put a steamed-up film on the windows of the kitchen. Shaking her head, she ran through the kitchen towards the small bar. From panic and frantic breathing, she felt an uncomfortable dryness in her throat. Just as she was about to put on the bottle of cool water, there began to be a rustling in the back of the room. "This darn radio is driving me crazy," Maria cursed, walking quickly to the door, following the radio's cord and yanking the plug out of the wall socket with a jerk. Due to the jerky movement on the power line, the ceiling light began to flicker a little. "This can't be happening. If there's a murderer behind me, it's like a cheap horror film," Maria raged. But Maria was alone. Although it felt as if someone was watching her through the fog outside the window. The unease was still heavy on Maria's chest. She decided to just finish peeling the prawns and then go home for a well-deserved rest. Her colleague Ellen could chop the salad the next morning, there was enough time for that. „Just some cleaning up and then I’m out of here”, Maria said, again only to herself. After she had put her utensils back where they belonged, she let her tired gaze wander over the counters once more. In the place where she had just wiped with a damp cloth, there was now something shining in the dim light of the kitchen lamp. Her knife, which she had been looking for for hours. Confused, Maria raised her eyebrow and put the knife away. Maybe her colleagues were right after all. Maybe Maria was not alone.


Dear Charlie, There is something not right with me. I’m not sure what it is. The doctor keeps telling me but I never remember what he says. It is not right that they are keeping me here. It is like a prison, they are watching me every day, every moment forcing food down my throat every second. Why can’t they just leave me alone? I can look after myself. Why don’t you ever come and visit me? Anyway, love to your mum. Hope to see you soon.  Love,  Gran  Hi Gran,  Don’t worry you are not in prison. You are in a care home. Mum had to put you in a couple of years ago because she could not look after you anymore. Gran, they are just looking after you. Please don’t worry. Did you eat the chocolates I brought you two days ago already? I’ll bring some up next week.  See you soon and lots of love,  Charlie  Hi Uncle Ben,  Hope you are holding up okay? How’s the therapy going? I know, you said you didn’t want contact with us anymore after Mum’s death but I need your advice about something. Gran doesn’t remember that Mum died last year even though I keep telling her. Her dementia is getting worse. Should I tell her or just play along with Gran’s version of reality? Please come and see us soon. We’re going up to Mum’s grave next week, maybe come up with us?  Hope to hear from you soon,  Charlie  Dear Charlie,  What do you mean I’m in a care home? Why? Your mum was always crazy and selfish. What is she doing, leaving me here? You know what, I don’t want to see her anymore. Make sure, you bring my chocolates next week. They feed us dog food here. I’ve been alive eighty-seven years and I can’t even be treated with respect when I’m about to hit the grave? Bloody hell.  See you soon,  Gran  Gran,  I’m coming up tomorrow, as something really bad has happened. We couldn’t get hold of Uncle Ben so we won’t over to his house and we had to call the police. He was on the floor, clutching his whisky glass, the one he loved. He…. I’ll see you soon Gran.  Charlie  Dear Charlie,  This is Isabel, the care home manager. We just wanted to offer you our condolences on your uncle’s death. We are concerned as your grandmother is not eating at the moment. She refuses anything we offer and now has taken to locking her door at all times. We try to force it open, we have the key, but she piles up suitcases on the inside and we can’t get in. So we have to coax her out of the room saying her children have come to visit her. As she does not remember that they have passed away, she often comes out of her room. However, when she realises that they are not present she becomes angry and now has become verbally abusive towards the member of staff. It is upsetting for the staff and patients. If this continues, we can not keep her here anymore as she has become disruptive and abusive. Please feel free to give me a call at any time if you would like to discuss this further or stick your head around my office door. Again, very sorry to hear about your uncle.  Best wishes,  Isabel  Dear Isabel,  I am distressed to hear this about my grandmother. This suggests that her dementia has rapidly become worse. She used to do this at home, pack her bags, it became so bad that the fire brigade said that her room was a fire hazard. We thought that putting her in a home would calm her down or that there were professionals who could subdue her. Clearly not. I will discuss it with my sister and get back to you.  My apologies,  Charlie  Dear Isabel,  My name is Rosie and we met when I first put my grandmother into a home. Charlie has shown me your letter and I think that it is substandard that you cannot do anything about my poor grandmother. Can you not give her some medication or warm milk or something to ease her mind?  As a care home, you should be adept at dealing with this, this being confused elderly people who just need a little bit of reassurance? She can’t hurt you, she is too weak to. So stop treating her like some animal baiting her to come out of her room. Please give me a call so we can discuss this further. My grandmother will not be kicked out of your incompetent care home.  Rosie  Hi Gran,  Just to let you know that Rosie and I are coming up to visit on Saturday. Would you like us to bring anything up?  Love,  Charlie  Dear Charlie,  That’s lovely that you are coming up. Make sure you bring me a handsaw, some rope and a pair of handcuffs. I’m getting out of here. Say hi to your mum for me.  Love,  Gran  Charlie,  I can’t believe Gran did not remember me. I only saw her a month ago. She has gone downhill so much since then. Charlie, I am really worried about her. She clearly had not had a shower in a while, the room looked like a rubbish tip and she refused to eat anything. I mean what if this is it? What if this is the end? I hate to be so morbid but you saw her yourself. Oh god, Charlie, I’m not sure I can take another death in the family. Oh god, what should we do? They will kick her out and neither of us can look after her properly. We are absolutely screwed.  R  Rosie,  I just got off the phone with Isabel we need to race down there. Gran’s fallen out of a chair. She is being taken to St Thomas’s. See you shortly. C  Hi Gran,  How are you feeling after the operation on your hip? We try and visit every day but due to coronavirus, neither of us are allowed to see you. Let us know if you need anything and we will leave it in reception for you. Hope you are not in too much pain.  Lots of love,  Rosie and Charlie  Hi, darlings,  I have finally escaped that awful prison. The food is so much nicer here and literally no one talks to me all day. It is heaven. They have the television on all the time so I just watch that. My legs are really weak though because I spend all day lying in bed but I do not have anywhere to go. I haven’t seen you two in ages. Your mum came up yesterday and we had a lovely wee chat. Anyway, must go Midsomer Murders is on.  Love,  Gran  Hi Gran,  Just had a call from the hospital saying you are not eating again. Is everything alright?  Charlie  Charlie,  My mother cooks for me every day so I do not need to eat this awful dog food. Vera told me that the bomb shelter at the end of the street was destroyed last night. Absolutely awful.  Gran  Hi Gran,  Its Rosie. We are allowed to see you for five minutes today. Would you like anything at all?  Love,  Rosie  Charlie,  Some woman called Rosie is contacting me for no reason. I don’t know who she is, tell her to stop contacting me.  Gran  Charlie,  She does not know who I am at all. This is awful. Honestly, I cried the whole way home as my own gran does not recognise me. My kids want to go and see her but if she doesn’t remember me how will she remember them? I just had to tell them that because of corona she is not allowed more than two visitors. Oh god, this is just awful. On top of the year that we just have had, this now. I genuinely can’t take any more. It is making me too stressed to see my gran like this. Oh, I hope that some cure is found for dementia soon. My stress levels have sky-rocketed and they won’t come down until I know she is okay. But she will never be okay, will she? Charlie, should we arrange to meet with the doctor again? Maybe he could put her on some medication. There has got to be something that can be done. Sorry, I know I am just ranting at you which is probably not very helpful but I can’t explain it to my kids and Mark is too concerned with the fact that he has been on furlough to offer any emotional support. You probably have your problems. Let me know if you need help with anything.  Love, Rosie Dear Charlie, I am writing to you because we need to know whether your grandmother, Audrey, will be returning to our care home. We need to lease the room if she is not returning so please let us know what will happen. Best wishes, Isabel Dear Isabel, we are unsure as to what is happening with my grandmother. She fractured her hip bone after the fall and the hospital is saying that she will require a chair that has more support for her. Can we contact you by the end of the week as we should know by then whether my grandmother will be strong enough to leave the hospital? Charlie Dear Charles, We have a long waiting list for potential residents so could you please inform us of what is happening? Isabel Dear Charles, This is a final letter. If you do not immediately contact us your grandmother’s room will be emptied and her belongings shall be put into the bin. This is urgent. Isabel Dear Isabel, I find your tone completely unreasonable. My sister and I are dealing with the situation by ourselves with no help from anyone and you are harassing us about a room. This is unacceptable and I will be writing to higher management. This hospital said she will have to stay for a little while longer so I will collect her things tonight seeing as this is so urgent to you. We thank you for your non-assistance during this difficult time. Charles Hi Charlie, It’s your gran. When are you going to come and visit me? I really want to go home but I am in so much pain that I often can’t move around much. Dearie me, your mother is a right handful. Only yesterday, she was telling me that you were off to university and I can’t believe I have not seen you in so long. And where is your sister? She never comes to visit me, selfish cow. I had some really nice shepherd's pie last night. It was so nice that the pain went away for a little bit. Remind me when you come down to see me that we must go to the garden centre. I want to plant some bulbs in time for winter. See you soon dearie, Gran Hi Rosie, It was nice to see you at the funeral last night. Haven’t seen each other for almost two years. It was a lovely eulogy you gave and I know that Gran would have appreciated it. Do come round for a meal at some point when this whole business is over. Give my love to the kids and tell Mark if he ever needs to talk he can give me a ring. Love, Charlie Hi Gran, I know that you are gone and probably will never get this but I just wanted to say that I love you and I am so sorry that you suffered that way in the end. You did not even recognise me in the end,. It must be so terrifying not being able to recognise people or forgetting who you are. I hope you are happy wherever you are and God bless you, Gran. Lots of love forever, Charlie


A man sits alone in a room. His hands are cuffed tightly in his lap. There is an empty chair across from him and it’s so quiet he can hear his own heartbeat. The door opens and a young man enters, casually sitting down. The door creaks shut, locking the two men alone in silence. “Vincent,” the young man said. Vincent answered with a cold, silent stare. The young man wore a loosely fitting plaid shirt and jeans. *Must be undercover,* Vincent thought. “I’m going to be honest with you,” the officer said. “I’m new at this. I’ve never done anything like this before, so you’ll have to forgive me if this is a little…awkward. I want to ask you“ “what’s your name?” Vincent broke his silence sharply. The young man took a breath and answered. “My name is Paul.” “Ok Paul, I’m going to need you to listen to me very carefully,” Vincent leaned forward on the table. “I’ve taken the life of a man because I didn’t like the way he looked at me in a hallway. I kept him alive just long enough so he could hear his heart stop beating. I am…different.” “I don’t value human life the way most people do. People are a disease and I am the cure. I wish you could have seen that man’s last moments Paul. It was beautiful.” They sat and stared at each other for a moment. Vincent continued. “I can tell you this because you and I both you know can’t touch me because of who I am. Listen to my words. I killed a man for looking at me in a fashion that I didn’t appreciate. I never even knew his name. You’ll need to choose your next words very carefully.” Vincent gazed at the young cop with cold, dark eyes. Your move. There was a long pause. Paul broke the silence with a question. “Do you know how you got here?” Vincent stared at the officer, thinking, but didn’t answer. “Here, let me show you something.” Paul calmly reached into his back pocket and pulled out a long, jagged knife. There was dried blood on it. Paul slid it across the table, just out of Vincent’s reach, almost daring him to reach for it. “I took this from the evidence locker.” “That’s delightful Paul, tell me more,” Vincent answered, sarcasm creeping into his voice. Another long pause. “I know what you did, you bastard. I know what you did to that poor girl.” Paul’s calm exterior began to break, emotions creeping into every passing word. “That girl was fourteen years old, you fuck. You say you’re different, that you don’t value human life; well I know that’s how you’ll play it in court. You’ll plead to the jury with sober eyes, you’ll get the best lawyer money can buy. If your wallet can’t get you out of this, you’ll get off on an insanity plea.” “Smart boy,” Vincent answered. “So what are you going to do about it? Plant evidence on me? Force a confession so you can send me to prison?” “No,” Paul said, looking at the ceiling to fight back tears. “You’re going to get something much, much worse.” Just then, the lights went off. Vincent felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. *This isn’t a police station. Paul isn’t a cop.* The lights came back on, and Vincent was alone. The knife had been removed from the table, replaced with a crumpled Polaroid. A young girl and her father. The same young girl whose screams had echoed throughout Vincent’s apartment just days before; her bloodstains were still on the wall. Vincent leaned forward, and he knew that the man in the picture was the same man who was sitting before him moments earlier. Vincent managed to crack a half smile. *Ok then.* He nodded to himself once. *Good for him.* Vincent leaned back and tried to relax. He knew as soon as that door opened again, his life would probably end. He knew from experience that any struggle or tension in his body would simply prolong the pain. He took in a deep breath and held it. Just then, as the walls seemed to buckle with tension, he realized he hadn’t heard anyone open the door to leave. Vincent managed a short sigh of approval before the lights cut out again.