I never been a churchgoer. That’s the short answer for why I’m here. But I suppose you want the long version. I guess I owe it to you, after all these years. I never been a church goer for one reason: the relationship with the divine ought to be personal. Some say that temples all exist as a form of power. So man can divide himself into the ruled and the ruler. Anyone who claims such is as bad as their straw theology. It requires you believe that man is irreparably divided -- a man is either evil, and aspires to rule; or stupid, and fit only to be ruled. It robs people of their intelligence. I was never much for robbery. People don’t go to hallowed grounds because gods compel them. They do it for the ritual. Some might call it habit, but the two ought not be conflated. People hate habits. Tobacco is a habit. Finger-nibbling is a habit. Rituals, people like. We don’t call our toilet and coffee the morning habit -- no! The morning ritual. Mankind went and conflated ritual with the divine when he oughtn’t’ve. This road right here is my ritual. Before I stood on it, I walked it. Once at morning and once in the evening. I awoke before dawn, and strapped into my clothes. Jeans with a hole, flannel faded, and a patchwork jacket. Breakfast was never part of the ritual -- too inconsistent. Sometimes toast, sometimes fruit, sometimes memories. It was the boots that really kicked it off. Good, dependable boots. Ragged as all hell and ugly as sin by the end, but damn if they weren’t wonderful. Had memories for a lot of days after I bought them. I never regretted it. No sir, not a minute. And with the boots on my feet I was out the door and down this road. Back then, there were more trees farther up from town. Short, ugly little things. Full of bramble and toxic radican. But early morning? It could've been a fairy forest. The dew always looked like diamonds, even up close. Took my breath away. Then of course the road led into town. All shuttered up at that hour, such are those kinds of towns. All the working people getting rest for and from the night. You might catch an older gal on a porch, smoking away. I used to wave to them and smile. I think they liked that. A little genuine attention, you know? I ended at the mill, at the far end. It’s not there now, just some roots of it. The stacks used to stretch up to the heavens. I never saw any smoke come out, none of us did. We were too busy on the inside, though I reckon a little slipped out after shift’s end and got lost in the night. Only light was the town down below, warm with flecks of neon. Walking through town at the end of the day and back up the dark road, that wasn’t part of the ritual. That was habit, and nothing more. The Devil, though, he wasn’t habit. He was ritual. You look a bit surprised, but I told you: don’t mix up ritual and divinity. If your morning toilet can be ritual than so can the Devil. My boots were still new when I first met the Devil. I had memories that morning with tea -- the pover kind. I got half way down the road, a quarter mile, when I saw him. Imagine my surprise when I come across this older feller in a good suit, good shoes, with a nice hat on his head. And he had a cane -- well, like this one. The kind of thing you buy because you can. You know he looked a little out of place. “Good morning,” says the man. He had a kind smile and not a speck of dirt on him. And I say, “Good morning,” and then it occurs to me that there might only be one reason such a feller would be in such a town. “You on the Board?” I ask. And the man just smiled. “The Board?” he asks back. “For the mill -- aren’t you a Director?” says I. He shook his head and chuckled like when a little kid tells a joke. “No,” says he. “I’m not on a board of directors.” “The clothes made me think it,” I tell him. “Are you lost?” “No, I’m waiting for you,” he says, and then calls me by name. That sent a little shiver down my spine. “Who are you?” I ask. I might’ve whispered. “Why, I’m the Devil himself,” he says, tipping his hat and bowing a bit. Like it was an honor to meet me. “But I got lots of names, so call me what you want. Old Scratch, Split-Foot, Dragon -- just don’t call me Lucifer.” I think I swallowed sand and asked why, but I can’t be sure. And then I must have asked what he wanted with me, ‘cause what else do you ask Old Scratch? “Not a thing,” he says, looking off into the rising sun. I didn’t believe him, but the sun was awful high in the sky. I made a polite goodbye and went off to the mill. Didn’t tell a soul what I saw and by lunch I chalked it up to my breakfast. But that night, walking down into town, I kept an eye out. I thought I might see that kind smile under that nice hat in some dark alleyway, or under a neon sign. Maybe with one of the girls on the porches or handing some boys a bottle. I never stayed in town after shift’s end. I never had anything against the boys who did. It just wasn’t for me. I got it in my head that our little town must’ve made a hell of a ritual to catch the Devil’s attention. Then I was afraid. You run across the Devil by daylight, and you sort of feel safe about it. But in the dark? That’s his turf. I jumped at shadows the whole way home, but that’s all there was. I barred my door and swept the blinds closed, though. But in the morning, it all seemed silly. I cussed myself out for it. “The only Devil is the one in your head,” I told myself. Still, I ate half my lunch for breakfast, so that he’d stay in my head. Then strapped into my clothes, and those good new boots, and went on my way. And halfway down the road stood the Devil. I came close to turning heel for home, but that wasn’t a luxury I had then. “Good morning,” says the Devil, with a hat tip and a little smile. “It was,” I told him, and went on my way. Same as the night before, I was afraid. I bolted the door at home, and was sure I’d wake up to brimstone in the air. I didn’t feel silly that morning, but I wanted to. So I resolved a solution: I would poke at the Devil! My finger would go right through and I could be satisfied. It might mean I was crazy -- but at least the Devil wasn’t standing before me. I strapped into my clothes and boots and got on my way. “Good morning,” says the Devil. He held his hat in his hand and watched birds in the air. Full head of hair on his head, silver as anything to come out of Oneida. I took two fingers and poked him -- like this! A good, solid, poke, right? You felt me real as real can be. And you can guess I felt him real as real, too. My heart went up my throat and then beat faster than anything in the mill. The Devil, he just kind of rocked back a bit. Didn’t even stop watching the birds. I hurried to the mill, and back home after shift. But I didn’t bar my door that night. I got it in my head that the Devil wouldn’t come after me in the dark when the town was all lit up. I got to thinking that it must be like a moth to flame, you know? The next morning I woke up feeling silly. I had an epiphany that morning when I woke. Who’s to say that the old man was really the Devil, and not just some old nutter? I cussed myself out, strapped into my clothes and boots, and went on my merry way. I whistled as I walked. “Good morning,” says the nutter, and again he addressed me by name. This time, I felt no shiver in my spine. It’s a small mill town, and if some nutter wanted to learn my name -- well, that wasn’t hard at all. The older gals who smoked in the mornings knew my name. Even if they’d never known me. “It is,” says I, and I smiled wide. The birds flitted around, sometimes landing on tree branches and causing a cascade of diamonds. The sun was warm and the breeze was cool. It went on like this, for a time. For a long, long time. Seeing that old man by the road became ritual. Once, I humored him. “Say, why don’t I ever see you tempting the boys in town, Dragon?” I ask. “Ain’t that your kind of scene? Shouldn’t you be scooping up souls all night?” He just smiled at me. “Who steals their own china?” he says. At the time, I thought that was just nutter talk. Even though I told myself he was just a nutter, something always felt off about it. I never told anyone at the mill, not a soul. In my head, it was because it felt like a silly thing to talk about. But in my heart, it almost felt like fear. If he was just a nutter, why did my mouth dry up when I tried to mention him? No matter the season, no matter the weather, he was there. It started to eat at me. I’d stand at my door every night, fingers inches from the bar. Spend ten minute just pacing, telling myself how silly it all was. I started to wonder if he wasn’t a nutter after all. Maybe he was the Devil. Maybe I was the nutter. Years went by, and all we did was small-talk once a day. Until one summer morning. It had been an oven of a summer. This must’ve been August or so because I was already baking when I woke. There were no diamonds on the trees that day, and all the birds stayed in the shade. Not a cloud in sight. The sun felt angry that day. I didn’t realize what was wrong with the day until I made it to town. I waved at one of the gals -- then it kind of clicked in my brain. I’d made it all the way down the road -- and no nutter. “You seen an old man?” I ask the gal on the porch. “I see lotsa old men, hun,” she says. “This one wears a nice suit and has a cane,” I say. “A real silver fox type.” The girl scoffed a bit. “Nuna the old men I see wear suits,” she says. I ask around the mill, too. First time in years my tongue got loose on the subject. I ask if anyone heard about any deaths. None of the boys could say for sure. I was nervous and afraid after shift. I was nervous to see a punk showing off his new cane. The kind you buy -- or take -- because you can. I was afraid to catch a glimpse of some pale flesh in the underbrush. The man was a nutter, but he was a harmless one. And he’d gone and died somewhere. I was sure of it. I even said a little benediction at home. I barred the door, too. If some hooligans had done in the old man, I didn’t want them catching me unawares in my sleep. Dinner that night was stale bread -- I couldn’t find anything else in the dark pantries. In the morning, though, I found an apple. I figured it must’ve rolled into the corner days back. I was ready to eat around the worms. But the thing was shiny and red, like it’d just come from the tree. I strapped into my clothes, and my good boots which were becoming a little less than good, and got on my way. The day was hot, but not the abominable heat of the day before. The ugly little forest was steaming like the Amazon and the birds only flew when they really had to. I whistled a bit, and looked up at some passing clouds. “Good morning.” My head jerked down faster than a mill press. The nutter, of course, just smiled kindly. “I thought you died,” I say. He frowned a little. “Just out on some business,” he says. “Did you miss me?” “I guess I missed the habit of it,” I say. “Ritual,” he says. “You missed the ritual of it. A habit is a nasty thing, like drink. Ritual is something better. After all, we call the morning toilet and dress a ritual, not a habit.” “Well, glad you’re not dead,” I say, and start on my way. As I passed him, he says, “I liked your benediction.” I felt a fear in me again. I should’ve run or prayed. “Thank you,” I say instead, and started away again. “I trust you found my compensation,” he calls after me. “I picked it myself.” I didn’t know much what he meant, then. The mill boys ask if I found my old man, made a lot of jokes about it. I think they saw I was shook, and cut it out. I got home that night and barred my door. Shut the curtains, too. Then I saw the remains of my breakfast, just a thin apple core, sitting on the table. It hit me like a press. The nutter’s compensation that he picked himself. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I wasn’t afraid of brimstone. He wasn’t the Devil, but he had been in my house while I slept. He’d been somewhere real close by when I gave my little benediction. Next morning, I strapped into my clothes and boots and marched down this road. The old man was standing here same as always. He wasn’t paying me a lick of attention. I stomped right over to him and threw a mean hook. I had big arms in those days. I had no doubt in my mind I was about to knock his jaw off. Instead, I ended up in the dirt. It was like he was there on minute, and then --snap!-- gone the next. I didn’t see him move an inch. I looked up at him and he just had that kindly smile. “Good morning,” he says. “You son of a bitch,” I say. I scrambled up and got in his face -- like this -- and grabbed him by the lapel. “You were in my house,” I roar at him, but he just smiled and chuckled at me. “You know that isn’t true,” And I say, “Damn right it’s true. You heard me speaking, and you put that apple in my cupboard. You were in my house.” Then he narrowed his eyes at me. Real wry and foxish. “You barred your door,” he says. “For fear of hooligans.” The world got cold. I did bar my door that night. The old man pulled my fingers off his lapel one by one. I could tell that I’d only held on because he allowed it. There was a power in his touch. “You really are the Devil,” I whisper. The Devil just straightened out his lapel a bit. “I told you that years ago,” he says. “What do you want with me?” I ask. “Nothing,” he says, then looks at the sun. “You should get going -- you’ll be late.” I did get going. I didn’t know what else to do. But when shift ended that night and I walked through town, and then down this road in the dark, I wasn’t nervous or fearful. Yes, I really had been swapping sunrise pleasantries with Old Scratch himself the last few years. He’d never tempted me under those neon lights. Never once had he sprung out of the shadows all leathery wings and claws. If he hadn’t done any evil to me all these years, I doubted he’d suddenly try. Besides, I was a mortal man. How much can a mortal man do to stand against something like the Devil? How much can you do, huh? The answer was, and is, not much. So I relaxed. The Devil was part of my ritual, and I part of his. We made small talk. Sometimes I ask him a deeper question about life and such, but he wouldn’t say anything. Just chuckle. But if I ask him if God’s got a beard, he’d go and tell me all about the Lord’s bushy new sideburns. Time, and the country, moved on. We stopped making things they way we did. Started with a few layoffs. I blinked and the mill was running on a skeleton crew. No one could be fired and keep the presses pressing and the gears gearing. But it started to be cheaper to work us less. And the more free time the boys had, the more they spent in town. But I was a plow horse born into a man’s skin. I started getting frustrated, then angry. I was having memories and pover more days than not. Things started to break, and I knew they couldn’t be fixed. With winter coming up, I had to scrimp for coal and firewood. And so one morning, walking down this road to a short shift, I was just fuming like the mill stacks. “Good morning,” says the Devil. He was leaning on his cane and watching a snake eat a mouse. Just enjoying the day. I wanted to see that cocky bastard in the dirt. I kicked his cane out from under him. I kicked it clear into the bushes, but my other foot slipped from under me. I fell on my ass. And the Devil? Didn’t move and inch, course. Leaned on nothing but air, like his cane was still there. “Why don’t you fall?” I say. “Perks of being a deity,” he says, and leans up straight. I stood up, and when I wasn’t looking that cane was back in his hands. I looked down at my feet: my boot was torn open clear at the toe seam. I cussed a blue streak. “Mad?” says the Devil. “Yes.” “Why?” he asks, and tell him. I tell him about the short shifts and the short wages, about the layoffs. I tell him how angry I was without the work. “That’s not really true, is it?” he says. “No work is your frustration, but not why you’re angry enough to kick the Devil outta himself.” “I guess I’m angry at the boys from the mill. I always thought they were stupid for living in Company houses, eating Company meals, and spending Company dime in town.” “And now?” he says. “Now I feel stupid. I hate those boys -- they get less work, and they just get happier.” “Do you want a habit?” he says. “Would a habit make you happier?” I looked down at my feet. My toe stuck clear out on the left one, and the right one wasn’t far behind. I looked up, and I came this close to asking for a nice habit. “Say, what about a pair of new shoes?” says the Devil suddenly. “You must think I’m stupid,” I say. “No way I’m making a deal with Devil for shoes.” “No, no, no,” says the Devil. “I mean, I need to trade something, but let’s not get eternal. What about your old shoes? I give you mine, and I take yours.” I looked at my boots again. No way I could actually run around the mill in them. “Fine,” I say. I expected the shoes to switch like magic, but the Devil just pulled them off one at a time and handed them over. I did the same, and we switched footwear. Socks, too. The nice shoes looked a little silly. But they felt fine. Divine, even. The Devil moved from foot to foot in his new old boots, and smiled at them. “I like these,” he says. “Very nice.” My walk that morning was easier than ever. The shift was short but smooth. No one seemed to notice I was wearing dress shoes, and I didn’t care if they did. Walking through town, I half expected my feet pull me under the neon signs with their own demonic will. But if anything, I cared less than ever before. I wasn’t mad at the boys with bottles and girls. A few days later, a chill set in. “Cold morning,” says the Devil. “Is,” I chatter back. “You’re coat looks a little threadbare,” says the Devil. “And I’ve grown tired of mine.” We switched coats. I can’t say I regretted it. That winter was as bitter. The next week, I found my pants replaced on the hanger with a sleek new pair. My old flannel was gone, too. A nice dress shirt hung in its place. With a tie. Turned out, I knew how to knot it proper. “I didn’t ask for pants or a shirt,” I say to the Devil that morning. “I thought de-robing on the road would be uncomfortable in this chill,” says the Devil, hiking up my old trousers and thumbing a hole in the flannel. “Besides, if someone came along they might think I were robbing you. I’ve never been one to rob people. I have that reputation to maintain.” I couldn’t debate that. The next morning, he gave me his hat. “Free of charge,” the Devil says, sweeping a hand through his hair, like this. “I’m due for a change, anyhow. Can’t be the same old goat forever.” When I walked into town that day, I tipped my new hat to a gal. I saw her shiver, and she rushed inside. A few weeks more passed. The chill got worse and worse, until one day the sun shone down and melted the snow. The trees were full of crystal-clear icicles. Winter birds landed on the branches and made them tinkle together like windchimes. It was wonderful. “Good morning,” I say to the Devil. “It is,” he says. I stopped a minute to admire the ugly little forest. The Devil held out his cane to me. “I don’t think this is much use to me anymore,” he says. “I’ve got nothing. You already gave me this hat,” I say. “It’s not appropriate for me,” he says, gesturing to my clothes he wore. They seemed to fit better than before. I took the cane and hefted it. See the stone on the hilt, here? That day, the whole forest looked like that stone. “Well, I best be going,” says the Devil. “Where?” I say. The Devil looked a little scruffier, and a little younger. “I’ve got to get to the mill,” he says, and walked off to town. The mill burned down that day. Word is the Foreman fired one boy too many, and the machines just couldn’t be run right. But no one can really say for sure. Not a living soul made it out. For a while I lost my ritual. Still had a habit of standing here on the road, but it wasn’t the same. For a while, anyway. But enough of that. That’s just a long story from long ago.


GAME OF STRATEGY It’s a lot like playing Mafia. You know, that game that utilises a deck of cards to assign roles to people? Aces count as the Mafia, Queens are doctors, Kings are sheriffs, and the rest are the plebeian majority that hang around and don’t really have a whole lot of value. Except for a headcount. When I first stepped into parliament as a doe-eyed new member, I had the greatest hopes to achieve amazing things. I finally felt like I had a voice! All my big ideas now had a platform to be spoken into existence. Unfortunately, I quickly realised it was an exaggerated version of high school. Survival of the fittest, most popular, and with the deepest pockets. I won’t bore you with the details of all the work it took to get to parliament. It was hard. But, we made it. I want to take you back to my first Bill. ***** “I know, Jules. Yes. Thank you.” Alice puts down her phone and looks over to me. Today will be the first time I sit in on a reading of a new Bill, and she promised she would hold my hand through the whole process. Figuratively, of course. “So, Simon. It’s been a decade since we’ve allowed a male candidate in our party. You really need to be on your best behaviour.” I feel my cheeks grow warm. It was very controversial when I began campaigning to serve in our local government. But, something must have connected with the public, because here I am today. “We’re going to have all of Parliament’s eyes on us. They’re like bloodhounds. Don’t leak a drop.” Alice is quite fearsome. She has such strength and drive, it’s vastly intimidating. The room goes quiet as I step across the threshold and follow Alice to our seat. They’re looking at us, whispering. I keep my eyes down and settle next to Alice. Not a drop. Slowly, the roar of conversation builds up again and I look up to examine the surroundings. I am struck with awe. I suddenly realise where I am. I wonder for a moment how many people have sat in this seat before me. The history in the walls, the conversations in the cracks. The thick carpet, recently replaced, warms where feet have walked for centuries. This is the epicentre of peace, war, protest, and reconciliation. Words sharp as swords, poker-faced shields, angry tears, quiet shame. It has all happened here. The formalities begin, and I listen carefully to the Bill title. Dame Selena King’s booming voice fills the room, “I present a legislative statement on the Recycling Reform Bill.” The Deputy Speaker nods her head. “That legislative statement is published under the authority of the House and can be found on the Parliament website. Can I just ask members leaving the Chamber that you do so quickly and quietly, please?” Dame Selena continues her speech. “It's with great responsibility that I read this Bill a first time. The years have proven that current recycling programs drain necessary funds that could be better used in other areas of service, such as in the continued development of our tourist economy. The introduction of the Recycling Reform Bill today is a significant milestone, as the absorption of recycling into waste removal will release funds that will be reassigned to more important issues faced by our current economic climate. When passed, the Bill will create a single removal service and mass deposit site away from our country, maintaining the overall welfare of our citizens, and providing employment for underprivileged workers at said site...” I cannot believe what I am hearing. I flick through the pages of my planner. We’re not in April already, are we? Nope. Definitely still March. April Fool’s Day is still a couple weeks away. “…the Government ran a three-month consultation period with local councils to ensure that everyone had the chance to be heard…” I glance incredulously around at all the eyes glued on Dame Selena. Some are nodding their heads in approval. Others are furiously taking notes. I see a few women lean over to their neighbour and whisper in her ear. More nods. I have fallen into an alternate timeline, or some odd time warp. Surely this can’t be real. The Assistant Speaker stands up, announcing that, “the question is that the motion be agreed to.” Alice votes aye. She glares at me. I vote aye too. Not a drop. I wait to hear the noes. None. All ayes. Not a single opposition. Speechless, I follow Alice back to our office. She’s on the phone again, making some big, important calls. I can’t focus. Everyone is so busy. Nobody to talk to. I decide it is time to go home. Slow motion, I wander towards the nearest tram stop. I become increasingly aware of the overflowing garbage bins as I pass them on my way. A young girl drops a plastic bottle into a recycling bin. My internal dialogue cringes to realise that if this Bill goes through, there will be no recycling option anymore. I take a seat and wait for the rumble of the tram. “Sad, isn’t it?” I startle as a person sits down next to me. She has a hat on, low, casting a shadow over her eyes. Her coat’s collar is turned up, covering her chin. Hands in pocket, she stretches out her legs in front of her. “What?” “The Bill.” I try to grasp a better visual of the woman’s face, but all I see is a glimpse of red lipstick. She’s careful. “Who are you?” “A friend. “Who won’t tell me her name?” She shrugs. “What do you want with me?” I ask. “A favour. I know you don’t want this Bill to go through any more than I do. You’re not alone. I’ll be in contact.” She firmly shakes my hand, and then walks off. I glance down at my palm. A bank account name and password, with a small note attached. There’s a lot more where this comes from . Curious, I type the login details into an app on my phone. I try very hard to hold back the cuss word, but it slips out. $10,000. I think back to my first impression of parliament. Looks like I just drew the Ace card. ***** I notice yet another reporter on my tail, hoping to catch me in the act. It’s only been a couple months since the second reading of the Bill, and the public is ready to pounce. Alice still doesn’t know for sure that I was one of the noes, but she suspects it. I sense her disdain every morning. I try to remain chipper, but it’s not going to last very long. I look up at the cloudy sky and groan at the symbolism of a storm warning. The bloodhounds have turned their noses to me. She calls herself, “River,” the woman who met me on the bench at the tram. She did get in touch. Her instructions were clear. Use the $10,000 to kindly suggest to a member of parliament that they consider a very gentle, “no,” in their next vote. It didn’t take long for me to find one. Reece was my first. I overheard her complaining to her partner about the pressure she felt to vote, “aye,” at the first reading. When that first $10,000 was discreetly transferred, River was pinged, and she transferred $20,000 next, insisting that I keep half of it for myself, and use the other half for our next target. Lynne was a bit more difficult, but I heard that her house was in foreclosure, so I may have suggested that a financial gift would help. It felt strange, making these suggestions. I felt powerful, fighting for a cause, rallying for what I believed to be right. Ariana was my first taste of blood. In a fortuitous moment, I observed her in the arms of a young man just outside of a shady motel; a man who was not her husband. One photograph did the trick. Callie enjoyed one drink too many on a night out with my sister, so I recorded all the sordid details of that event. Freya was superstitious. A well-timed black cat and a strategically-placed cracked mirror convinced her to side with the noes. My kitty got extra treats that night. Those were just my firsts. Once I had a taste of the blood I couldn’t stop. I would do anything to kill this Bill. I see the reporter trying to hide behind a bush, and a cool feeling of dread settles in the pit of my stomach. They were getting too close. I message River to cancel our meeting. Then I delete the message. The quiet whiz of a drone somewhere above me draws my attention. I pretend not to see it, but the sound is all-too-familiar for me now. There is no proof that I’m the mole. No paper trail, no record. Just speculation. But of course their noses are pointing at me, the only male in parliament. I curse my sex. This is getting out of hand. River replies. “Fix it.” ***** She’s been kind to me, despite her harsh exterior. Alice has taken the time to mentor me, to see value in me despite what others think. She found me through my essays on law that I kept hidden on a blog that nobody knew the address to. She found me, somehow. Sweaty palms, dry mouth. I can’t believe I’m doing this. The cameras flash as I step up to the podium, determined to defend myself, my country. To make a stand. I clutch the blackmail notes and photographs in my hand. The mics screech. Live television. Who would have thought I would be here today? She doesn’t see this coming. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s done so much for me. I can’t let all her hard work on me go to waste. “People of this city,” I announce. I am surprised at how calm and even my voice sounds. “People of this city, today I bring tragic news. It is with a heavy heart that I must expose this horrendous truth.” You could hear a pin drop. A drop of blood drop. I pause. Do I really want to do this? All cameras on me. Hide all weakness, Simon. Hide it. “Alice Rogers is not who you think she is.” I hold up two of the blackmail packages. “In these envelopes are photographs and letters that Alice wrote to members of parliament, threatening to cause them great pain if they voted in opposition to this heinous Bill. For this reason, the Bill has made it to the Second Reading.” Even I am impressed by my silver tongue. “This Bill cannot go through, not when a knife is being held to the neck of innocent politicians seeking to preserve the beauty of our country by maintaining a comprehensive recycling program.” Alice looks up at me in disbelief. I see the police move towards her. Blackmail is a big no-no. “People of this country, you have a voice. Use it, for good.” Cheers. Screams. Reckless merriment and joy. Adulation. Appreciation. My heart swells with pride. I watch Alice being led away, tears streaming down her face. If someone had just turned over her card, they would have seen. Just another headcount. Mafia wins.


The time turned quickly from one to two. Twisting and turning on his double-sized, double-topped mattress, Jason couldn’t sleep. He reached eagerly for his glass of water and upon connection, something strange happened. At 1am, he couldn’t quite believe that anyone would have the audacity to ring the doorbell. Swiftly, he manoeuvred himself out from under the warm protection of his covers, and into the cold darkness of his hallway. He edged gently towards the door, careful not to give away his presence to a potential intruder. Reaching reluctantly with his right arm, he pried open the peephole. Standing roughly three inches from the door, was a tall, slim man. He was well dressed in a dark blue suit with large overcoat, clutching a New World Translation Bible to his chest. ‘Hello?’ Jason questioned, slowly backing away from the door. There was no reply. ‘Who’s there?’ he questioned again. ‘It’s me.’ The man replied in a delicate, almost musical voice. ‘I err, think you’ve got the wrong house.’ Jason wasn’t sure why, but he was shaking. ‘I don’t often get the wrong house Jason.’ The man moved closer to the door and placed his eye firmly against the peephole. Startled, Jason quickly backed away from the door, unplugged the lamp to his left, and armed himself with it. With an odd surge of courage, he revved up his vocal box and attempted to sound as intimidating as possible, ‘I’m awfully sorry, but you have definitely got the wrong house. I doubt you have anything useful to say at this time in the morning, and I certainly have no desire to speak to you. Good night.’ Jason checked all four locks on the door, and limply moved like a scared rabbit back to his bed. He sat there, upright for the next half an hour, hoping and praying that the man had gone. \* \* \* Time turned again, this time quicker – Jason still couldn’t sleep. He looked at his digital alarm clock, except this time, it was no longer casting its ethereal green glow across the room. The doorbell rang again. Jason spasmodically sat upright in bed. A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead. ‘Right’ he remarked definitively to himself. ‘This buffoon is asking for it.’ He whipped out his mobile phone and dialled 999. ‘Hello, you’ve reached the emergency services how can I help?’ ‘Hi, sorry to disturb you at such an hour, but there appears to be a man outside my apartment, and he won’t go away.’ He tried to mask the quivering impudence of his voice, but it was no use. The doorbell rang again. ‘And what is the address sir?’ The distant voice at the end of the phone was comforting, to a degree. ‘Number 1, The Terrace, New Street, Bradford.’ The words leaked out of him like helium from a balloon. ‘Hello? Did you get that? Is anyone there?’ He clutched the phone tightly to his ear; the line was dead. ‘Hello?’ He uttered once more. Not sure how to rectify the situation, he got out of bed once more, and feebly dragged his chest of drawers in front of his door. There was only one thing for it, to sit and wait, and hope that the man had gone away. \* \* \* His neck was stiff. He’d been sat upright against the drawers pushing all his force on it for what felt like hours; in reality, he’d been sat cooped up in his room for only twenty minutes. A knock at the door. ‘It’s the police.’ Jason’s eyes lit up. ‘Finally!’ He scrambled to his feet, moved his barricade and ran to the door; precisely unlocking each of the four locks. Stood to greet him were two policemen, one short and fat, the other tall and slender, ‘We received a call from this property about a lurker.’ Said the fat one questioningly. Jason blurted his reply at breakneck speed, ‘Er, yes that’s right, there was a man, he was well dressed in a dark blue suit with large overcoat, clutching a New World Translation Bible to his chest.’ ‘We’ll see what we can do.’ The fat man’s nonchalance ground Jason’s gears. ‘We’ll do a quick perimeter of the building, check everything’s normal.’ The tall policeman didn’t say anything. He stood there staring at Jason, and then, on command, sauntered off after the fat one. ‘What a strange pair.’ Jason remarked to himself as he slammed the door closed and did up two of the chain locks. He sat there by the door, eagerly awaiting their return. \* \* \* Ten minutes went by and there was no sign of the policemen. Jason rose from his squat to check the peephole, there was nothing but the cold white glow of the street lamps – he was shaking again. It didn’t seem conventional to him that two policemen could get lost when carrying out such a simple task, there was only one explanation. Jason placed his eye against the peephole to have another look. Startled, he fell away from the door, there was another eye looking back. ‘Hello? We finished the perimeter; can you open the door?’ Reluctantly, Jason opened the door, and was again greeted by the two officers. ‘Christ, what took you so long?’ He berated. ‘Sorry about that, my colleague Simon here got distracted by a very friendly squirrel.’ Perking up at this statement, the tall officer countered. ‘That’s not true, it was you who was taking fancy to that squirrel.’ The two turned two each other, covered their mouths and began angrily whispering. Jason, not in the mood for such a ridiculous argument, cut them off, ‘Er, excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but, are there not more important things to discuss?’ The fat man turned his attention back to Jason, his little red face blushing at the embarrassment of their domestic spat. ‘Well, we finished the perimeter, didn’t find anything!’ Jason released a sigh of relief. ‘We are going to have to ask you a few more questions though, just in case anyone else reports anything. Would you mind hopping in the car?’ Jason got into the backseat of the car and began answering the obviously routine questions. His mind drifted, and by the time it was done he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d said. It was 3am now and he was tired. Walking back to the house, he waved goodbye to the officers and relished the thought of a nice cosy bed. He then remembered that in his flustered state he’d forgotten to bring a key out with him. He tried the lock, and thankfully, it was open. Jason deftly applied all four of the chain locks and flopped into bed, without even bothering to take of his dressing gown; slowly, he began to drift off to sleep. Just as he was almost there, he heard a movement. Snapping into to action he flung himself upright in bed and turned on the lamp. There, standing in the middle of the room was a well-dressed man in a dark blue suit, with a large overcoat and clutching a New World Translation Bible to his chest. ‘Hello Jason’ he muttered wryly, as he stepped towards the bed.


“So what do you think?” Madeline asked. Billie shifted beside her, making the cushions beneath them slide against the flagstone of the church floor. They slid their arm out from around her shoulder to prop themself up, looking down at her as they said, “I think it’s natural that you don’t want to give up.” Madeline waited for more of an answer, but none came. “So… you don’t think there’s a chance?” she asked. “I didn’t say that. I just… I wouldn’t want to get your hopes up.” “And what about your hopes? What about your brother?” “There are still places we haven’t looked. We don’t know that he’s—” “I think we’ve both known for a long time that we weren’t going to find them — Liam *or* Joe. I just don’t think either of us wanted to admit it.” Billie sighed and slumped back onto the floor. “You’re probably right there.” Now, it was Madeline’s turn to prop herself up on an elbow, looking down at her friend. “But that doesn’t mean we have to give up. The chances are, the Poiloogs have them both. So all we’ve got to do is find out where they take the humans they capture, then get them back.” “That’s all, is it?” Billie scoffed. “I know it won’t be easy, but together — maybe with help from your friends — we can at least try.” “You don’t think they haven’t tried before?” Billie replied, a hint of scorn entering their voice. It was the first time Madeline had heard that tone from them, and it delivered the words like a punch to the stomach. “I wasn’t around when it happened, but I know that that was one of the first things the group tried. They lost a lot of people.” “So what? That’s it? They failed once and now they’ll never try again? They’re not much of a resistance, are they?! What are they doing to actually resist?” The cushions slid every which way as Billie scrambled to their feet. “I keep telling you not to call them that,” they said through gritted teeth. Madeline hurried to stand too. “I’m sorry, I just—” “And what do you know about what we do? You’ve been to one meeting.” “I know, but—” “Do you know what some of those people have done? What they’ve been through? Sometimes just *living* in this world is resistance enough!” “And how am I meant to know any of that if you don’t tell me?” Madeline shouted. But the loudness couldn’t disguise the tremble in her voice. “*You* were the one being all secretive!” She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure, before continuing at a more normal volume. “Look, I’m sorry I upset you. Can we just talk about this? If there are things I should know, I’d like to know them.” Billie looked up, meeting her gaze for a second before turning away. “I… I can’t right now. I’ll see you later Madeline.” She watched as they strode away, footsteps on the stone floor echoing off the walls. Her mouth opened and closed as she tried to call out, but the words wouldn’t come. And though she yearned to chase after them, her feet remained rooted to the sport. When they were gone, Madeline slumped back down onto the cushions. She brought her knees into her chest and hugged them tight as she let out a silent scream. But it did nothing to alleviate the pain inside. \ That night, as Madeline lay in bed, she stared at the walkie-talkie until there wasn’t enough light to stare anymore. She must have thought about reaching out and grabbing it more than a hundred times. But each time something stopped her. The look that had been in Billie’s eyes. That edge that had entered their voice. The way they’d walked away and left her there — alone with her grief. Still, she hoped the decision would be made for her. That she’d hear that familiar hiss of static followed by their voice. But it never came. She must have fallen asleep at some point because she woke the next day when the sun’s rays crept through the curtains and tickled at her eyelids. With that hollow ache still ever present in her chest, she forced herself to push past it. To take a deep breath, stretch, and climb out of bed. Once she’d managed that gargantuan task, she let her churning stomach lead her down to the kitchen. After a quick breakfast, she stepped out into the garden to wash, using as little water as she could. Every morning she missed her set-up at the library. Her water butts, her stove, her books. But thinking about that only served to splinter the shards of her heart even more. Then, with her only tasks for the day complete and no Billie to distract her, Madeline was at a loss. The idea of being alone with her thoughts was not an appealing one, so, for want of anything better to do, she decided to go looking for supplies. There were still houses in the area that she hadn’t searched yet and the hotplate Billie’s group had given her opened up some new possibilities for food. Her mind made up, Madeline grabbed her bag, tucked her book under her arm, and headed out the door. \ She returned home with a full bag and a full mind. The routine run, with no surprise incidents or encounters, had provided little distraction from her thoughts. She spent the rest of the day flitting from activity to activity, unable to settle. Working out in the garden only took her mind back to Billie. Reading triggered painful memories of Liam. None of her usual distractions worked. In the end, she went to bed early, hoping to speed the passage of time with sleep. Instead, she passed a frustrating night staring at the ceiling. She was sure she must have drifted in and out of sleep at some point, but she certainly didn’t feel rested. When dawn came around, she’d made up her mind. She couldn’t go on like this. The emptiness was starting to settle in, clawing out from the jagged hole in her chest. It was too much to bear. She reached out and picked up the walkie-talkie. But before she could press the button, there was a knock at the door. She froze, halfway to completing the motion. Shaking herself out of it, she dashed downstairs, stumbling on the stairs in her hurry. Without even pausing to check who was there, she swung the door wide open. Billie looked back at her, red eyes staring out of an ashed face. Their gaze flicked to the walkie-talkie Madeline still held in her hand and a pained expression flashed across their face. “I’m *so* sorry,” they whispered, voice cracking slightly. Madeline tried to swallow the lump in her throat — tried to blink back the tears. But it was in vain. She dived forward, throwing her arms around her friend. “No,” she said firmly. “I’m the one that should be sorry. You’ve done so much—” “Sshhh,” Billie murmured, reaching up to stroke her hair. “You don’t owe me anything.” “Maybe not. But I shouldn’t have—” “And I shouldn’t have either. Let’s leave it at that.” “So we’re okay?” Madeline asked, leaning back to get a look at their face. They dipped their chin, trying to hide the tears that streamed down their cheeks. It made her heart wrench to see them like this. But a small smile playing at their lips alleviated the pain slightly. With a sniff, they lifted their eyes to meet hers. “We’re okay,” they confirmed. “More than okay.” Madeline buried her face in the crook between their neck and their shoulder once again. “Good,” she mumbled. After another long moment holding tight to each other, Billie loosened their grip. Madeline looked up to see a frown furrowing their brow. “What is it?” she asked. “I don’t want to restart anything. But I just wanted to say: you were right.” “I was? That doesn’t sound likely,” she said with a playful smile. “No, I’m serious. I’ve thought about it a lot and you were right. About Joe and Liam. About where they are. And about what we should do.” “And what’s that?” “Rescue them.


For though I am strong And though I am not sad Sometimes all must pause And leave their souls to cry \- Austin Zalewski I could see that Dr. Paul Ostrander was perfectly happy. He had been that way since Winnetka in the ‘80s, thrilled to be Watson or Samwise Gamgee when our enemies would march up the beach (yet he played Batman with equal passion). Now I could see that he was happy from small to large, from enjoying a gratifying existence to admiring the waves’ quiet murmur at low tide. He was only slightly above average in most aspects of his life, but in the aggregate, far superior: confidently humble; his jaw not quite chiseled enough to catch a wandering eye, but able to keep one there once it arrives of its own accord; outspoken so as to encourage others to speak out themselves; more money than that necessary to enjoy life, yet not enough to indulge; having traveled and knowing the world, while still finding equally captivating beauty in Beverly, Massachusetts. He found mirroring Toni Morrison’s attention to fundamental human emotion – ascertaining, articulating, applying – to bring his life a particular and diverse focus. Ostrander found joy in, and gave joy to, his work. Endicott College students found him exceptionally enlightening, yet struggled to express the cause; it seemed clear that their skills improved throughout the course, yet correspondingly unclear how he would guide them to this result. Just one passage from Beloved illuminated his teaching philosophy, however: “Sweet, crazy conversations full of half sentences, daydreams and misunderstandings more thrilling than understanding could ever be.” It delighted him to sit amongst his pupils, watching the sun bend through the water on his desk and alight on a puzzled expression. Like many he found joy in love, but his was twofold – the corporeal one premeditated by Sula and the one for the text itself. He relished hot summer afternoons on the porch, sitting quietly next to her and admiring the beads of delicate sweat on her upper lip. He loved expecting to love her, he loved growing to love her, and he especially loved loving her – the unusually rewarding journey marked by “pleasant anticipation, like when you know you are going to fall in love with someone and you wait for the happy signs.” It was impossible to distinguish his love for her from his love for how the words predicted his love for her – assessing whether he adored reality or the intangible was irrelevant because they were interchangeable. A dynamic equilibrium. He found augmented joy in friendship; every conversation, every touch, every tear struck his core just as did Nel’s reunion with Sula…“It had been the longest time since she had had a rib-scraping laugh. She had forgotten how deep and down it could be.” With such delicacy Morrison gave life to that inexpressible feeling! He likened Stephen’s deep baritone over the phone to the surf’s slow, persistent rolling at dusk; circling round and round his ear and with each turn quieting his mind until only he and Stephen remained. Even his friends’ most arbitrary gestures revealed to him their particular literary beauty – how lucky he was to experience dual realities! They would go down to Boston some weekends when the weather was warm. Anna would have been 8 or so at that time, I think. Around the age when you still experience dual realities from your own experience – direct sensory perception contrasting with imaginative interpretation. The three of them, Ostrander, Anna, and she savored the feeling of grass between their toes as they gazed at the sky, bordered by the trees, bordered by the buildings. How could he be so blissfully happy? Ostrander left them there to enjoy the view one of those afternoons to walk down the path to the harbor. The ships waited patiently in the murky water – the sky so clear that day that they probably didn’t mind stopping to admire it either. He watched some water drip down the side of the railing for a while, concurrently sustaining the color of the black iron and glinting in the sun, then matched it in size and shape with his own salty tear. He let more draw out of him to mingle with the languid breeze and the mist on his face. He gripped the metal beneath his palms and felt aware that the waves of his sadness started beyond the fishing boats on the horizon. Then he sobbed, a timbre like Nel’s yet lacking the notes of oppression and loss: “It was a fine cry -- loud and long -- but it had no bottom and no top, just circles and circles of sorrow.


You’ve been comatose, sleepwalking through every joyless day. Every wall of your mind is painted grey. There are bad days and then there are worse days. On the worse days, everything hurts. Every small action or inaction gets you. You can be decimated by the most impersonal acts, your head working on them, twisting them into something painful that cuts you and keeps cutting you. Does that person like you? Probably not (and here is a long list of reasons why and here is a series of interactions with them that you fucked up). Does the world have to be so full of pain and anger and hate? (Well that’s a whole other kettle of fish but unfortunately human conflict feels tediously inevitable and therefore so does human suffering and this is a thing you can’t change even if you want to and that makes it worse and so on and so forth). On days like these you wonder how your brain got to be this broken. What on earth is it trying to achieve pursuing the same self-destructive pathways time and time again? The first time you had that unpleasant, unhelpful thought, you pushed it away. Why did it boomerang straight back, replaying in your mind as frequently as a Place in the Sun plays on Channel 4? (Why are trivializing your clearly problematic state of mind by comparing it to a mediocre day time TV show? Why are you alienating all your readers who aren’t British, or who don’t spend an uncomfortable amount of time watching day-time classics like you? Are they classics, or do you just not have a life? Why do you assume you have readers when nobody really likes you and you’re an awful writer? Etc etc.) On the merely bad days, you are visibly alive but invisibly dead. It’s curious that everybody sees you and interacts with you as if you exist. Well, it would be curious. Curiosity involves some level of engagement, and you are no more capable of engagement than a banana. Or a fish. (Like your curiosity, your desire and therefore ability to think up interesting comparisons has deserted you. Therefore, you are no more capable of thinking up an original metaphor than a banana. Or a fish.) Realistically these days are probably worse than the worse days. Your total detachment from the world around you is frankly terrifying and would probably scare you if you were capable of feeling that emotion directly. Compared to the worse days you’ve already experienced, though, these days feel like a welcome reprieve. You float through them glibly. You smile at people and interact with them disingenuously. At some level you are aware that there is a mental cost to your insincerity. Being fake, pretending that you are a normal, emotionally functional human is problematic in and of itself because it only increases your sensation of detachment. You watch yourself as if on screen, buzzing around, smiling and laughing at everyone and everything (kind of like Jasmine Harman on A place in the Sun). Inside, your emptiness expands (probably not the case for Jasmine Harman). Which one is the real you? Actress you performs in the real world. Real you hides away in your head, dwindling away to nothing until there’s only hollow you left. (You know that it’s a real option to share your apathy with the people around you instead of pretending to be Jasmine Harman. You also know that people can’t relate to the way you’re feeling and in any case will find it hard to process, perhaps blaming themselves, which is another thing you don’t want to engage with right now. You would also have to make a difficult decision about how to relay the news. Do you opt for dispassion, therefore embodying the very lack of emotion you are trying to express to them? Or do you opt for a glib, superficial delivery that takes some weight out of the message? Option 1 is probably the easiest delivery but the intensity of your message, combined with the strength of your soulless gaze and impassive tone you’ve used to deliver it, might be a bit strong. Option 2 might soften the blow but if someone tells you that they feel nothing with a rictus grin pasted all over their face might that actually be worse?) And then there are days like these. The sun erupts over the horizon, obliterating the darkness that you thought was you. You’re drenched in halcyon sunlight, illuminated in glorious rays of warmth. You thaw slowly. Degree by degree, dispassion fades. Where there was grey, there is hope. Today will be better. Maybe every day can be better. Tiny you imprisoned in a slither of your head is melting. You begin to embody yourself, your whole self, your whole possible range of emotions. You had forgotten that life could feel so intensely full, so intensely radiant. You feel like you are overflowing. You’re no longer watching someone else interact with the real world from a little corner of your mind. You exist in the real world now. You interact with joy. Every encounter is painted in vivid colour. Every experience excites you. It’s like you’re discovering the world for the very first time. These are the best days. These are the days where your hibernation ends and your life restarts. On these days you don’t look back on the grey days. You simply enjoy them. The grey days will return. When they do, perhaps you can retreat to your dark little corner of brain and bring this memory with you. Perhaps it can replace the black thoughts that overwhelm you. Perhaps it can remind you that there is hope after all the apathy. Perhaps, just perhaps, it will remind you that life is worth living after all.


This is part one of a series I've been working on for a while. Currently, I have six parts up (plus 4 parts of an alternate horror version). Warning Profanity.  The world is going to end soon.  Or that's the conclusion one would reach from surfing the internet. Mayan calendars predicted the end, they were wrong. Homophones said gays would be the fall of modern society. But they got the right to marry, and I got a raise two months after. The two incidents were most likely coincidental. Still though, one day someone is bound to say the world is going to end and the next day it'll be gone. Poof, up in smoke. No more dogs or cats, no more Ben and Jerry’s and existential crisis. No more keeping up with the Kardashians because spoiler alert for those not keeping up, they’d be gone too.  I digress. While someday the world may be over, that day wasn’t today. Today was for all intents and purposes, normal. Work was work. Hopefully, sitting in the car and contemplating life, afraid to walk into the office knowing damn well it drains every ounce of happiness from me isn’t a pastime that only I partake in. Because I did that today, as I do most days.  Then, Janet, she’s the receptionist, was in front of me somehow It dawned on me that I entered a sort of hypnotic state and walked into the office without realizing. She was chewing gum, smacking her lips eagerly, her eyes burrowed into me.  **Janet**: Well?  She intimidates me, more than other people do. I’m never prepared to talk to her. Not that it matters.  **Me**: The uh… calls? Today’s calls…  **Janet**: Um-hmmm… Here.  She handed me a folder. Same as any other day. Same as the one I had held in my right hand.  **Me**: This is… yeah, you know.  We trade folders. She’ll file my reports, and I’ll go track down pests. We’ll do the same routine tomorrow.  I turned around and pushed back out the front door. I walked not to my aging, beige Toyota, but to the aging, white company van. The side of the van says "Ron's Pest Control" in black text with no logo or even a phone number. Shouldn’t it have both, maybe even a slogan? One that rhymed, like “We fight pests better than the rest!” Also, I don't know who Ron is. A John hired me, Mike is another exterminator, Mary does something in the office maybe accounting, and of course, there's Janet, no Ron though.  ▪ ▪ ▪  A family was sitting outside their home with tents and a grill set up. The camping gear screamed, “help my house has been overrun with rats!” so I knew I was in the right place. The family was squinting at the van, it is never what people expect. I got out and circled the van, they now squinted at me. I am never what people expect.  **Me**: Is this 215 Hanger drive?  **Man**\-on-lawn: Yes sir.  **Me**: Rat infestation, right?  **Man**: Yes, are you the exterminator?  He glanced once more at the van as if it would answer him, well I suppose it did. I nodded.  **Man**: Well go on and get your equipment and let yourself inside.  **Me**: That won’t be necessary, I’ll go in and evaluate before I bring anything in.  Walking into the front door of the house, the family’s eyes were on me the whole time. That is until the door shut shielding me from their quizzical looks. The living room was modest. Only one photo of the family hung above a couch that has seen its fair share of movies from the outdated wide flat screen parallel to it. No rats though. Then my nostrils were attacked by the foulest stench of what had to be body odor and rotten food. There was a rat: somewhere.  On my left appeared to be the kitchen so I started walking towards it. The stench seemed to be getting worse so either I was getting closer or my body was refusing to get used to it. I stepped through the doorway, my right foot on linoleum, my left still on the living-room carpet. I turned my head to the left and there it was. It was red, not that color matters. Its claws were overgrown by a few inches and wrapped around a beer bottle that it most likely helped itself to. Its tail fell off the chair and spooled into a coiled mess on the floor. Its bright yellow eyes glanced over to me, they were puffy, perhaps it was rabid.  **It**: Hey  I moved myself into the kitchen and took a seat across from the rat.  **Me**: Hey.  The rat didn’t follow up with anything, just took a long swig of the beer.  **Me**: So, what uh, what’s your name?  **It**: Ron.  This Ron and the Ron I supposedly work for are probably unrelated.  **Me**: Okay, ah, Ron? You can’t be here okay?  If he doesn’t give up easily I’ll have to go back out to the truck and get the Weaponized Overcharged Rely Device or W.O.R.D for short.  Ron started sobbing.  **Ron**: Man, she’s planning on leaving me and taking the kids. I just needed to get out and collect myself, Ya know? But no bar would serve me.  **Me**: Because you’re a rat?  **Ron**: What? No, because I smell so bad. What you gonna do to me?  **Me**: Well, I’d taze you and call for back up. They would probably tranquilize you and lock you up.  Ron threw his hands.  **Ron**: Whoa man, no need to taze me, I’ll go. Rather deal with Samantha then spend time in jail again.  Must be one of Mike’s regulars. He got up and walked at the back door, which shut on his tail. It didn’t seem to faze him. I went out the front door.  **Man**: What’s wrong? Need your equipment? Told you to get it.  **Me**: No, he left, no need to get anything.  ▪ ▪ ▪  I went over paperwork with the home owners. They tried to tip me, very generously at that. I had to decline. It’s against policy. I watched for a bit as the family started taking down the tents to begin reclaiming their home. Then I left, off to the next house.  Oh, I should have mentioned it up top, Ron’s Pest Control isn’t your typical extermination specialist; our hours are 24/7. Well that, and we are one of the only few exterminators trained to deal with the weird and supernatural. And a giant 6-foot rat breaking and entering to help himself to booze isn’t an out of the ordinary call.  If you liked what you read, here's .


Philip whistled across the street. He felt good. Life was good! Mr. Brown: Philip's boss, was not an easy man to please, but he had just given him a raise. was pleased with him, and he had just received a raise.

Philip had lost his father the year before, and apart from the house he had lived in, he had left nothing. He had not worked much before his death, and the family's finances were meager. After the funeral, Philip had to go straight to work to support himself and his mother. With that, he had to give up his dream of going to college. Philip's father had not left him worldly wealth, but he had taught him the importance of integrity. He was hardworking, conscientious, and obliging. Everyone liked him, and besides, he had discovered that he enjoyed working in Mr. Brown's store.  Philip was happy to have a job and to support his mother. Most people who knew him liked the friendly boy with bright blue eyes and an honest face. As I said, most people. Except for Mr. Peters. He was generally known for his gruffness and, above all, his avarice. Philip was never bothered by his unfriendliness. He thought him: apart from accumulating money, there was nothing that interested the old grumpy bear. Despite his financial prosperity, he had to be a lonely man. Philip and his mother lived on a hill, at the end of a winding village street, in an old-fashioned house painted white, in the middle of a beautiful green field. The most beautiful lawn in the area. -"Tea?" Philip's mother asked as he walked merrily into the kitchen. -"Tea? I am hungry like a wolf!" he replied, but when he came a little closer to his mother, he saw that she had been crying. -"Mother," he asked worriedly, "What is it?" -"Mr. Peeters was just here." she replied in a broken voice. -"Why did that old miser bother you?" Philip asked angrily. -"He says we owe him thousand dollars." his mother replied. -"A thousand dollars?" Philip exclaimed in astonishment. "Didn't Dad pay off our debts just before his accident? He told me that himself. I remember it very well." -"Yes, your father said that, but..." his mother began. -"Where is the receipt?" her son interrupted, "Let's go look in the papers," -"I think the receipt is lost." his mother cried.

-"Lost?" Philip was shocked, "How is that possible?" -"He laughed in my face." the desperate woman lamented, "Let me tell you the whole story. But first have a cup of tea, boy." "Oh, I don´t want tea anymore." her son replied matter-of-factly, "Now tell me." -"About five years ago, your father had borrowed money from Abraham Peeters. At the agreed time when the money had to be paid back, I still remember it as if it were yesterday because it was extremely hot that day, your father paid back his debt to Mr. Peeters and got proof of payment. I saw that myself. Dad put the receipt in his pocket and then went to see his cousin, Paul. His wife was so terribly ill at the time. On the way, however, a violent storm arose, and just as Papa was about to pull into Paul's driveway, he was struck by lightning. That stunned him. It took him weeks to regain consciousness, but he never quite became himself again. Weeks, if not months later, I once asked for that receipt, but we could not find it. We have looked everywhere, turned everything inside out, but found nothing. And to be honest, Dad could not remember any of that. In any case, Abraham Peeters had left for California and never returned. His entire possessions were then left to his brother James. At the time I didn't worry much about it, and your father certainly wasn't in a position to worry about it." -"Mother!" Philip said forcefully, "Hold on because I don't understand your story at all." -"I'm trying to explain it to you, son." his mother said, startled. "On the day that receipt was signed, our old cat jumped on the table and knocked over the inkwell. The ink ran all over the table, and that note got stained with ink. The old Peeters was an advocate of absolute cleanliness, and of course, he thought an ink-stained note was impossible and tore up that note, I mean the receipt. He wrote and signed a new receipt. I've seen that myself." Philip sat looking at his mother thoughtfully. "I was convinced old Peeters had torn up that stained receipt, but that's exactly what James Peeters showed me this afternoon. He said he found it among his brother's papers." Philip's mother finished her story. -"How are we going to solve this?" Philip asked, "We don't have thousands of dollars to pay back right now." Philip got up and paced angrily in the kitchen. -"I'm afraid if this goes to court, your story won't be worth much, mother." he said with desperation in his voice. "Moreover, I am convinced that Mr. Peeters believes that he has a valid debt certificate in his hand. And that old miser will go to any length to claim every penny of it. We have to take another look, search thoroughly whether we can't find that evidence anywhere." -"I'm afraid that's a lost cause son." his mother wept softly. And it was. They couldn't find the note. -"Peeters is such a mean man, he had to laugh at that whole story about the cat and the inkwell." Philip's mother moaned. Philip couldn't help but admit that it sounded very unbelievable. There was nothing left to do, but to sell the house to settle the debt. Philip's mother seemed to have aged so much since Peeter's claim. He had turned very pale; his boyish face looked haggard. At first, he had hoped to settle, and his boss, Mr. Brown, had offered to borrow money on a mortgage on the house, but Philip was terrified that he would not be able to pay the interest on his salary. He wasn't afraid of hard work, but he didn't want to end up in an endless state of debt. He saw no prospect of paying it off. The house was sold and together with his mother, they moved into a small, rented house. Down by the river, because the rents were affordable there. Philip had died inwardly at the mere thought of his mother being evicted from her home in this way. She tried her best to hide her feelings for her son and to give him the impression that she was cheerful, but she found all of this very bitter. The house and lot had been sold and this was their new life now: in a small house down by the river. She had lost everything she was used to. This was a particularly heavy blow to her. Philip felt distraught and discouraged. His step lacked bounce and his face had lost its smile. He yearned for his childhood home. He was deeply unhappy. That winter, Philip's father's cousin, Paul, died. He left behind two small children. Their mother had died the year before. The two little boys were left penniless and homeless, as there were debts on all sides. "What will become of those children?" Philip's mother lamented. "We have to take those children in with us, son, and offer them a new home." -"Mother please!" exclaimed Philip exclaimed, "We don't have a penny of our own." -"We are the only family they have." his mother sighed sadly. - "Think about yourself mother." Philip continued, "You already deny yourself so much and you work way too hard!" -"Oh, stop it son! You should do it with love for those poor souls. Their father was your father's cousin. They are family, and we have to do what we can for those children. We can don't let strangers take them. Who knows what will become of them." Philip spent a week thinking about it. Taking in those kids meant two extra mouths to feed. His mother saw it as a privilege to take care of those boys. -"Okay mother." he finally said to her, "We're going to give those boys a new home. And so it was that Jonah and Sam, ages eight and five, came to live with Philip and his mother. They were a bit naughty and very lively. Before long it was Jonah's birthday. But there was no money for a present. -"Why don't you give him one of Daddy's books? The one with the nice red cover, the story about the pirates, little boys like that, don't they?" Philip's mother suggested. The story was not very special, but it was Jonah's gift, and on the day of his birthday the boy got it at breakfast. But that day there was another cause for celebration: when Philip wanted to wrap the book the day before to make it look like a present, he flipped through its pages carelessly, when suddenly he sprang up, his face white as marble. -"Mother!" he gasped. -"What's wrong son?" she asked in alarm. -"Look at this." he whispered, holding up a yellowed piece of paper. Mother and son looked at each other in silence for a moment. Philip began to laugh, and his mother let her tears flow. -"Do you think this note is valid as legal evidence?" she asked, sobbing. -"And why not?" Philip said dryly, "We'll have to leave it to Mr. Peeters' sense of justice. But it's worth trying anyway." -"Can a judge force him to pay us back the money?" his mother asked worriedly. Mr. Brown accompanied Philip when he went to talk to Mr. Peeters and together, they were able to convince him of the authenticity of the note. Peeters was a hard, stingy man, but he prided himself on his honesty. -"Then the story of the cat and the inkwell must be true." he bellowed gruffly. By spring, Philip, his mother, and, of course, the boys had settled back into their beloved home. -"We really owe our happiness to those boys, don't we, mother?" Philip said. "Because of their birthday, we found that misplaced receipt." Philip’s mother shrugged her shoulders and said timidly: "In the end, you were the one who decided to offer those boys a new home with us." "I didn´t want to do it at first,” Philip said, embarrassed, "if you hadn't come up with the idea of taking those boys in, it wouldn't have happened. It's your selflessness that has given us the privilege of having those boys with us. And for that: I thank you mot


A young man awakens with a breaking back, feeling ancient despite the twenty winters, and turns to his side. Drowsy and numb. He rises from his soft prison and puts on a pair of pants, the same of last night; a blinding star greets him from his window each day, so does a small bamboo on a glass tube adorned with a bronze coin. The bags under his eyes and his exhaustion remain eternal and the perpetual routine begins: He forces himself outside and flinches before the blinding gold of the skies, then looks down at his feet; healthy nature amidst a sea of endless concrete. Small vibrant flowers bring life into the oasis surrounded by the soulless white brick walls; improvised towers of plastic and tape are the homes of young and eager crops. The ancient young man watches them closely and caringly, he has named them: Monolith, Obelisk, Hope, Claw, Neo, Overflow… He quietly bestows them words of encouragement and is grateful. He rejoices in the presence of the bees, but despises that of the ants. Breakfast, a cup of mint tea or similar infusions, a handful of calories and then back into his self-inflicted sentence of isolation. Idiotic penance for thought-crimes. The pain grows for reasons well-known yet he ignores the cure and has chosen instead a half-assed treatment. Better than nothing. With each breath drawn, his ribs crackle along with his spine. With each letter typed onto the screen, fingers crackle. With each step taken, both his feet and knees crackle. With each passing minute, his mind crackles. He yearns for forgiveness that no one has He resigns to the numbness He dreams of morphine Before another soul, he fabricates a smile and a voice but behind them lies nothing. Only fear and weakness. Two voices argue and yell inside, one moves his body and the other, his mouth; they rarely agree. The first one yells without a tongue, the other does with two. A third one rises louder than the others, this one moves the soul. The mediator. The golden star begins to settle on the horizon, a warm infusion rests on the ancient’s desk. Peace. Hours passed, wasted? Perhaps. Futile are his dreams? Those of a calm morphine sea? Those of a day without screams? Those of a life without freezing fear? He will be handed no answer, for he has not yet earned it. The pale moon now rises, final meal of the day. He shares table with those who love him, yet he feels no warmth. Regret. A fabricated smile once again until the clock shows 10pm; he heads into the shower. The infernal water clashes with the arctic one and, in perfect synchrony, they drown both the pain and his poisonous thoughts. Serene. Methodical cleaning takes place, the skin breathes once more and the hair softens; the poison is washed away following the rhythm of soothing tunes. The clock now shows the 11th hour again, he heads back into his cell, feeling renewed. He leaves his pants on his obsidian chair, turns off the lights and partially jams the door. He returns to his soft prison of springs and cloth. The pain awakens just as he falls asleep, the nightmares continue. He dreams of burning flesh and twisted bone He resists the fear and the pain He dreams of cold morphine sea.


One foot in front of the other. That is where he kept his focus as he made his way down the country road, alone. Had he not, he may have passed out right there. His feet were blistered and raw from running all through the previous night. The hakama he wore were spattered with mud at the fringes around his ankles. The edges of his kimono—tattered from running through thick brush—flowed freely around him. Mementos from his late night escape. He kept one hand clenched tight around the hilt of his sword. This is no way for a Samurai to dress, he thinks to himself. Then I suppose I am officially no longer a samurai… The wind whipped at his face as he limped his way along the dusty road. He began to contemplate the events that had brought him here. How his whole world had turned upside down. Late last evening, Lord Zankoku had called in his top samurai for a council of war. This is not out of the ordinary as the country is locked in civil war. The shogun had passed away two years prior without naming a successor. A power vacuum ensued. Lord Zankoku was one among four other Lords vying for control of the country. As the war continued, Lord Zankoku’s tactics had become more wicked; commanding for whole towns to be decimated—women and children included. The Samurai had conflicted feelings about these cruel methods. This, however, was irrelevant. His honor required unquestioning fealty to his Lord. Luckily, he had not been sent on one of these missions… Yet. Before the Samurai reported to the council of war, he stopped by his family shrine located behind his house on the edge of the woods. He lit incense and knelt before the placard with his late father’s name on it. Closing his eyes, he commences to pray. Father. I need your guidance… my feeling towards my duties are conflicted. Gently he drifts off into a reverie like a leaf on the wind. A distant memory from his youth. The sun was shining bright. He was training with his father in the courtyard of their home…. It was late spring and the scent of white peonies pervaded the air. The two of them stood face to face holding their wooden training swords—their bokken. They were wearing identical white kimonos and red hakama. Eyes locked, their bodies standing as still as statues; sweat building up above their brows. His father then raised the bokken with a swift fluid gesture, bringing it back down with the force of a meteorite strike. The young Samurai steps to the left by three inches. Bringing his blade handle up, pointing the tip down and aslant to the left, resulting in a perfect parry. Had he been any slower, he would have suffered serious injury, but he has been trained by his father ever since he was old enough to hold a stick. “Very good my son. You are shaping up to be quite the swordsman,” he steps closer and gingerly puts a hand on the young Samurai’s shoulder. “I’m ready to fight for our Lord, father. I am ready to bring honor to our family,” the Samurai proudly declares. His father’s brows arch up. “Oh, you think you’re ready? Being a samurai is about more than just flashy swordsmanship. Are you ready to follow orders?” He gazes deeply through his son’s eyes and into his soul. “Yes,” the Samurai says without skipping a beat. His father slowly looks away, drops his hand and begins to meander the courtyard at a steady pace with his hands clasped behind his back. “You will have to follow our Lord’s every command without question. You owe undying fealty to him once you’ve taken your oath. Do you understand my words?” He pauses and turns back to look at the young Samurai. The Samurai responds, “Of course, father. As I have already claimed. I will bring honor to this family,” He brings his right fist to his heart. His father slowly steps up in front of the Samurai. After taking a long hard look into his son’s eyes he asks, “What if he ordered you to kill your fellow samurai, your friends?” “I’m sure it would only be for valid reasons. Maybe they betrayed our lord and country. Yes, that’s it, there is no place for traitors.” His father then asks, “And what if he ordered you to kill me? Hm? Would you still follow his orders?” The Samurai hesitates, he lets his right hand fall back to his side, then says, “That would never happen. You would never do anything to deserve that.” “Are you sure? You would question an order from your lord?” The Samurai’s face tightens as he realizes the contradiction he made. “It’s not a question of whether or not I deserve it. It’s a matter of serving the will of your Lord in the name of honor and duty for your fief. You see? One must be ready to do their duty regardless of their own feelings in the matter. Your fealty to your lord is to be undying. Honor above all else.” The young Samurai stands there for a moment and contemplates the gravity of this lesson. A smile graces his father’s face, then he reassures the Samurai, “Do not worry, my son. I am sure that when the time comes you will honor our family and uphold your duties.” The Samurai’s eyes snapped open to the tolling of the castle bells. It is time for him to report to Lord Zankoku and the war council. He bowed before the shrine and clapped his hands once. Carefully he stood up. Then prepared himself mentally for the meeting ahead and takes his leave from the shrine. The Samurai entered the war room. He saw several other samurai have already seated themselves on the ground. Between them there is a short round table. The table is covered with a map and several crudely carved figures have been placed on top of it in various locations. The carvings of the figures reminded the Samurai of the grotesque creatures from the yokai stories kids used to tell each other on stormy nights. Stories about demons that come out at night and consume entire villages. The Samurai takes his seat and waited for the last few stragglers to shuffle in. Everyone waited quietly at attention. Then Lord Zankoku entered the room. He wore a suit of light armor composed of rectangular metal plates linked together with chain mail and painted black. A golden half-moon shaped metal plate adorns the front of his helmet. Everyone immediately bowed in his pressence. “Rise, my warriors. Tonight we shall deal a mortal blow to our enemies. For we have enemies everywhere as we trudge deeper into this war,” says Lord Zankoku as he scans the room. “Our spies have reported traitors within our borders. It is said that one of our own villages has been sharing food and supplies with the enemy!” One of the samurai seated speaks up, “Sir, I know the spies you’re speaking of. That information is unreliable. They may even be working with— “ “Who said you could speak?” roars Zankoku. His face contorts into a livid visage. “Get this insubordinate fool out of my sight! Lock him up, I will deal with him later.” Two guards shuffled in and yanked the man up by the shoulders. They griped tightly around his wrists and hurried him out of the room. “Now,” continued Zankoku. “We will deal with the traitors accordingly. Tonight we shall march into the village, slay every last traitor, and burn the village to the ground. This shall serve as a message to anyone else that might be contemplating defying my will.” All of the samurai cheered their agreement. All except one. The Samurai sits frozen to the ground. The order he dreaded had finally been delivered. What was he going to do? I know people that live in that village. They are not traitors. This is outrageous! He had to follow his orders, but at what cost. Where is the honor in murdering the innocent? This has gone too far. I will not partake in this for another minute... That’s it then. I must warn that village. With his mind focused on the present moment, he leaped into action. He was on his feet and before he even realized it, he had drawn his sword out into an arcing motion practiced thousands of times. With one move he severed Lord Zankoku’s right hand. Everyone in the room stared at the gushing bloody stump in awe. Lord Zankoku looked at the place where he used to have a hand, then looked at the hand on the floor. He began to shake violently, a guttural sound building up in the back of his throat. “Kill that bastard! I want his head! Bring it to me! Now!” The Samurai had already departed while everyone was still staring at Zankoku in shock, buying him a bit of a lead. The other samurai started pouring out of the war room, swords drawn. They charged out of the building and began to scour the woods outside the castle. The Samurai was running through the woods. He could hear the others; they were far behind him. It is unlikely they will find him; the woods are pitch dark. He ran through puddles from the recent rain and tumbled his way through thick brush that clawed at his kimono. I must make it to the village. Suddenly he heard a man shout out into the night, “Stop right there!” The Samurai turned to see his old friend and comrade, Haji, with his sword drawn and pointed at him. “Can’t you see this is wrong? Everyone knows those reports are a farce. Those people don’t deserve to be butchered,” proclaimed the Samurai in sharp hushed tones. “I will not have my family name besmirched. Our duty is absolute. You have shamed your family,” Haji said defiantly. The two of them locked eyes and settled into their stances. Their faces were drawn up with great great intensity, but within their minds there was only the calm focus of a warrior. A cool gentle breezed caressed them and as the chorus of nighttime insects chirped on into the night. Suddenly, Haji’s left foot started to slide in the mud ever so slightly. Taking advantage of this development, the Samurai leaped toward Haji and cut him across the midsection like a farmer scything wheat. Haji’s eyes went wide, his hands reached for his stomach in a futile effort to stop the blood. He fell to the ground, dead in matter of seconds. The Samurai realized what he had down. He murdered his own friend. A gyre of shame encompassed his heart. No time to mourn. He turned and continued running. Suddenly his feet dropped out from under him. He tripped over a deep ditch formed by a large wisteria tree that had fallen the previous summer. As he fell, he slammed his head against a rock—knocking him out cold. He woke to the sounds of birds cheerily chirping, making their way about their morning business. As he was coming too, he noticed the scent of smoke drifted upon air. His eyes burst wide open as he realized he is too late. He got to his feet and hurried to the edge of the woods. The village was in sight way off on the horizon. A pillar of smoke rose up from the village, trailing off into the sunrise. He failed. Was it really worth it, he thought to himself. The Samurai limped his way to the road. He no longer cares where he is going. He has nowhere to go. What life is there for him now? His family name will be stricken from the records. All that is left is for him is the shameful life of the wandering Ronin. Focusing with all his might, he walks. One foot in front of the other.


I had it all planned out. I bought flowers, I made her a drawing, I even went as far as making her a cake. I still remember it like it was yesterday. I put on a nice outfit, I had even taken a shower that morning so I could ensure that I smelt okay. I still remember that feeling of overwhelming joy as I was setting it all up. I had put a large banner above the window in her room and I remember spreading the bouquets of flowers I bought her on random shelves scattered around the place filled with all of her memories. I placed the cake on her desk and opened my computer so I could play the music playlist I had worked on for hours perfecting for her. I remember envisioning her smile and imagining how happy we would be together once she agreed to be my girlfriend. It was agony waiting for her to get home from hanging out with her friends but her mom kept me company. I still recall the sound of her door knob opening and the sound of her voice as she greeted her mother. I could hear her walking up the stairs and I felt my heart speed up. Gosh i was so happy and so excited. I could see the door knob turn and I felt like I was going to pass out. I got in position beside her bed and as she opened the door I said,

“Would you do me the honor of being my beautiful girlfriend?” She looked around the room with a smile that could light up the whole world, then she met eyes with me and all of a sudden her smile faded and it seemed as if the world had gone dark again. She looked at me confused, almost scared as if she didn't know who I was. That was the moment where I physically felt everything fall apart. When I felt the world shift from underneath my feet.

“I’m sorry, but are you sure i know you?”

I smiled for a minute, waiting for her to laugh and come and hug me. But she never did. She stood there with the same confused look on her face. As if she truly had no idea who I was.

“You're kidding right?”

My voice shook as I spoke. I tried my hardest to act calm and put together. Surely she had to be kidding. I mean we've been friends since the first grade. She shook her head slowly and she had a look of sympathy written on her face.

“ Kayla, come on. We've grown up together. We've been friends since like the beginning of time. If you don't like me then say so but there isn't a need to go so far as pretending like we've never met.”

“ I don't think you have the right girl dude. I genuinely don't know who you are. I mean you look familiar but i don't think you're at the right house. The Kayla this is for though must be pretty lucky.”

I sat down on her bed and ran my fingers through my hair as she sat next to me.

“Look it's nothing to be embarrassed about. I've shown up to the wrong house before it's not a huge deal.” “You seriously don't know who I am? You're not pretending just to get me to leave you alone.”

She smiled a little and a part of me felt a bit better. She lightly bumped her shoulder with mine as she spoke.

“What kind of awful person would do that to you? You seem sweet. Besides, if you really knew me you would know that I am not that kind of person. What's your name lover boy?” It hurt to hear her ask. As if all those years of wonderful memories had somehow escaped her mind overnight.

“ I'm Phoenix, You're Kayla I can safely presume.”

“ Oh so you admit you're at the wrong house?” No. i knew for a fact this wasn't the wrong house. I knew that the teenage girl sitting next to me was the same girl that I learned to ride a bike with when I was seven years old. I knew she was the same girl that I had fallen in love with. She laughed a little as she waited for my response and i decided to save myself from the embarrassment.

“ I guess it's a possibility that this is not the correct address”

She laughed and shook her head and after a second or two I found myself laughing with her. Although at that moment I was still confused as to how in the world she could just forget about me and all of the moments that we had shared, I figured that was a problem for tomorrow. I was going to spend tonight getting to re know this beautiful girl that was laughing in front of me. Although i didn't mind. I always loved listening to her talk. The sound of her voice was always one of my favorite sounds. And that's exactly what I did that night. We stayed up talking until the sun came up. We laughed and I told her stories about us, not that she would know. Everytime i told her a story of something that we had previously experienced together she would always laugh. Almost as if she remembered it. I still remember walking home the next day with the feeling of happiness and sorrow sitting on my shoulders. It was nice getting to talk to her that night but i still struggled to comprehend that it was possible for her to forget all about me. I didn't want to believe I was that forgettable. We didn't talk much after that night. Maybe it was because she thought it was weird that i had claimed to know her or maybe it was because it hurt me a little too much to be around her now. Whatever the reason we still don't talk. I still think about her sometimes. I'm still not really sure whether or not she forgot about me or if she was just pretending. I guess now it doesn't matter. I hope she's doing well. I would ask her but with my luck she wouldn't even remember my name.