Things don’t sound that bad here so far - not like some other places anyway, in the news. But there *have* been cases. Nobody seems to be taking it seriously; the supermarket’s traffic and supply situation seemed normal enough. Well, except for my own two carts filled to the brim. Cashier didn’t say a word, of course, but her eyes clearly said “look at this crazy woman, look how paranoid she is about what’s gonna turn out to be just a whole lot of noise and fuss for nothing”. Well, check-out lady, I can’t afford to take any chances. Not with my lupus. Which is why what you’re seeing is, in fact, only a small portion of my preparations - vegetables, eggs, juice, mostly stuff that goes bad faster, and couldn’t have been bought in bulk when the first wave of deaths started hitting the news. Because, yes, I’m in this for the long haul. Nothing’s closed yet, and the government isn’t really mandating anything other than “wash your hands”, but I’m not waiting for them. And if my job won’t let me home-office, I’m taking all the three months I’ve racked up. Don’t know if that’s enough - I’m set up to go on a lot longer than that - but, if it gets to that, I suspect losing my job will be the least of my problems. **Day 2 of quarantine.** House cleaning is tough work. Gotta do it more often. Used up almost a whole bottle of bleach - it’s alright though, I’ve got six more. Besides, I don’t expect any more contact with the outside until it’s all over; better err on the side of caution early on and make my space safe. It was hell on my skin, of course, which isn’t helped by my condition, but I’ve got several months’ worth of cream, so I should be fine. **Day 3 of quarantine.** If I keep going through my cream at this rate, I’m running out within 9 weeks. Is it really just the bleach? I’d rather avoid corticoids as long as possible, but who knows. There *shouldn’t* be any other allergens or toxins around. What have I forgotten? Wait… do you disinfect groceries? I’ll look it up. *Shit.* **Day 4 of quarantine.** Wow… I *did* buy a whole lot of stuff. Good news is, the guidelines I’ve found about home sanitizing call for a much lower concentration of bleach than I’d been using. Cleaned a lot more than the other day, with barely half a bottle. The bad news, of course, is that it’s all over my food and personal effects. Don’t know whether or not it clears out over time, or what that’s doing to me, but at least I’m not getting the bug. Allergies I can manage, I’ve got a bunch of corticoids. Oh yeah, first local death. With so many places going on lockdown, people are starting to grumble about it here. Who’s the paranoid one now, huh? **Day 5 of quarantine.** Rashes still bad, started on corticoids. Well, that’s life, I guess. Wonder how Mom’s doing. Almost starting to wish we were on speaking terms. *Almost.* Oh, yeah… there’s one problem I hadn’t anticipated. How am I taking out the trash? I mean, I gotta do it, but then the perimeter gets breached. Well, I guess it’s fine if I follow the script when I get back - clothes straight into the washing machine, my own ass straight into the shower, and bleach up everything I’ve touched on the way in. **Day 6 of quarantine.** Went outside to take out the trash. People *really* aren’t getting it, are they? Street’s a little quieter, sure, but there are still *way* too many people around. I’m sweating bullets right now, but I guess that’s just the stress. Even after the whole decontamination routine, I don’t really *feel* clean. Irrational, I know. Thank God for YouTube. Can you imagine, managing just on books and stuff? I’d go nuts in a day. **Day 7 of quarantine.** Do I have a fever? I thought it was just cold, but my shirt’s soaked. I’m not coughing. That means I haven’t caught it, right? No, it’s the lupus. It’s gotta be. Otherwise… no, I’m just being paranoid. Of course that’s it. **Day 8 of quarantine.** Who knew Netflix’s inventory of true-crime shows was so vast? I’m set for *life* here. Fever isn’t letting up. Anti-inflammatories help, but not completely. Trying real hard not to think about it. **Day 9 of quarantine.** I’ve been avoiding the news for the most part, but I can’t help it. Local cases are exploding. Measures are finally being put in place. Too little, too late, and too many selfish economic interests getting in the way. I get that your business takes a hit if you shut down everything non-essential that can’t be done from home, but is that worth risking your life for? Risking everyone *else’s* lives? Do you really wanna go down in history as the guy who sued to keep your factory running, and making auto parts at that, rather than filter masks or patient respirators? Are you sticking a carburetor into your mouth when you come down with it and can’t breathe? Speaking of which, my breathing is thin. It still fits with the lupus, and it’s not like I haven’t been like this before, but it’s also hard to ignore. That’s two symptoms now. Should I get tested? I mean, that means going out again, and we really don’t want that. And they also say hospitals are getting swamped soon, so you shouldn’t bother them until it’s real bad. But how bad is bad? **Day 10 of quarantine.** My God, the floor. I washed it on the first day, but when I took out the trash, I only disinfected what I touched with my *hands*. I’m so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, STUUUUUPID. Spread it all over my house by now too. That’s it. Gotta be, it’s obvious. *Fuck.* **Day 11 of quarantine.** Welp, not getting any cleaner than this. Did the whole house over again, another half bottle of bleach down too. Everything I’ve worn since it all started is washing too, for good measure. And the fever’s subsiding. Dunno if it’s the workout, or if it’s going to relapse, or what. **Day 12 of quarantine.** Fever’s really gone, it seems. Not that it necessarily means anything… several people have relapsed from the disease by now. Probably shouldn’t have looked that up, but, y’know. And since we’re on that topic, things are really serious out there. Roads getting closed, supermarket shelves empty, people being fined for milling about on the streets. Finally. **Day 13 of quarantine.** It’s silly, but I almost didn’t write this. But ah, what the hell, who’s gonna read it? I’m writing this mostly to stay sane. So yeah… the big news today is, I finally managed to masturbate for the first time since I locked myself up. Thinking back on… well, pretty much any day I’ve had to myself before, it’s hard to believe I couldn’t do it up to now, between the stress, fever and everything. That’s a good sign, right? Things are looking up. **Day 14 of quarantine.** Trash’s starting to smell real bad. I think I’m going out again. I know what I have to do now. This is going to be completely air-tight. **Day 15 of quarantine.** THAT FUCKING SON OF A BITCH! How can people be so fucking SELFISH?! I thought 6 am would be completely dead - hell, it is *normally* \- but no, that asshole had to be out jogging. JOGGING! What the FUCK was he thinking? And he SNEEZED! I’m pretty sure I heard that! This is actually fucking *criminal*. I hope the bastard ends up in jail. I’ve done a full, really thorough clean-up, of course, but who knows. And, between the bleach and all the extra scrubbing in the shower, my rashes are killing me. Fuck it, I’m doing corticoids, not gonna wait around on that one. **Day 16 of quarantine.** Finally caved and reached out to Mom. Well… tried to. Turns out all her contacts are out of date. I could start asking around, but with things the way they are, people could take it the wrong way and think there’s something wrong. Last thing I need is them panicking over me again. For all the good they’d do, the useless bastards. Thank God for social media… I could never face this alone. Not *ever*. **Day 17 of quarantine.** Breathing is tough again. I’m getting chills, but like *hell* I’m taking my temperature. I can’t handle this right now. If I’ve got it, what the hell can I do? I’m laying down on the couch, cold pizza on my lap, big bottle of soda by my side, true crime on TV, and I’m not budging my ass from here until tomorrow at the earliest. **Day 18 of quarantine.** I’m cleaning the house again. Aside from the basic hygiene, what if I brought the bug back with me? Not in my clothes or on my skin, but inside me? I’d have contaminated the whole damn house right back. But if that was the case, then what’s the point? If I’ve got it, I’ve got it, and no cleaning is changing that. If I don’t, shouldn’t the clean-up I did be enough? Or did I miss something? What did I miss? Eh, chalk it up to hygiene, if you will. I’m cleaning the *fuck* out of my house. **Day 19 of quarantine.** Just noticed how fat I’ve been getting. Is it the stress-eating? The lack of exercise? The corticoids? Girl, get a grip on yourself. You’ve stocked up on a lot of stuff, but that doesn’t include plus-size clothing. And speaking of corticoids, those rashes ain’t going away. Gotta use up that cream, girl. Also, just noticed I’ve started talking to the mirror. Eh, it’s normal, really. People aren’t built for this sort of lack of human contact, I suppose it’s a perfectly normal coping mechanism. But maybe I should start doing some classes on Zoom or something. I mean, I talk to people, but I don’t *talk* talk to people. What else am I supposed to do, call ‘em on the phone? Who even *does* that anymore? **Day 20 of quarantine.** I’m starting to worry about the trash. It never stops piling up, of course, but I wonder if it’s really a good idea to take it out. Last time was a fucking disaster. What’s worse, run-of-the-mill infection from keeping garbage indoors, or catching that thing out there? And besides, I keep thinking about those hoarders from TV. I could never forgive myself if I got like that. Although… it would be just temporary, of course, just until this all blows over. Well, I guess I still have a couple days before I really need to decide what to do about this. **Day 21 of quarantine.** There’s been looting out there. I’m starting to get really worried. Well, I was before, but this is something else. I mean, they *know* it’s a terrible idea to go outdoors. Took them long enough, but I think people get it by now. So, if they get out there to do that, that means they’re desperate. And who knows what desperate people can do? And, on a globally less bad but personally worse note, my internet’s out. How the hell am I supposed to pass time now? I don’t have regular TV anymore, it’s all Netflix and YouTube. I’ve been calling my provider, of course, but can’t get anyone human on the line. I suppose they’ve got the barest skeleton crew running now, if at all, what with the lockdown measures, but they *have* to have people out there taking calls. Internet’s an essential service - even if it wasn’t for all those people at home right now, the information has to flow, especially at a time like this, right? So I’ll keep trying. **Day 22 of quarantine.** Still no dice with the internet. I’m not back in the Stone Age, of course - I’ve still got cellular data to back me up until I get this figured out. I’m trying to avoid using it up with stuff like videos, which really eat up the bandwidth, if only to save my cell for any emergency, but it’s hard to resist the temptation. I mean, we’re home all day long, what are we supposed to do? Mobile games only get me so far. **Day 23 of quarantine.** Today I’ve yelled at the mirror. It’s not her fault, of course, but I’m feeling really, really frustrated. I think I just needed a human face to yell at, to express my anger and desperation to. Am I desperate? You do look desperate. You’ve got bags under your eyes, your rashes are out of control, your clothes are a mess, your hair’s all over the place. You need to get it together, girl. Get it the fuck together, for our sake. **Day 24 of quarantine.** It’s been a few hours’ work, digging around technical forums and chatting with the nerdiest nerds out there, but I’ve come to a verdict. My modem is officially on the fritz. They’re guessing it was a power surge. Don’t we have, like, surge protectors on everything these days? I didn’t know this kind of thing still even happened. I looked it up, and yeah, there was a storm the day it went out, maybe we got hit by lightning. How the fuck could we not have noticed that? I mean, I’ve been keeping all my windows shut of course, but I should be able to hear a thunderstorm, or at least a fucking thunder strike. Still, I gotta get this shit fixed *stat*. This means someone from the company at least walking in with the replacement, or even doing the install, but it’s getting hard to survive like this. Momma need her Netflix. I’ll just bleach it all the fuck to Hell afterwards. Why doesn’t *anyone* respond? **Day 25 of quarantine.** It was getting impossible to move around in the kitchen from all the trash, so I’ve had to move it to the laundry room. It’s not like I was using it anyway, not for a long time. And my joints hurt like a motherfucker. You look like hell, lady. Just a walking pile of garbage. Why don’t you do something? Do something, damn you! **Day 26 of quarantine.** Between my joints and the fever coming back, I’ve spent all day in bed today. Only remembered to call the internet people a couple times though, been putzing on the internet on my phone all day. Whole world’s going to Hell, it seems. There’s news of rioting. Can you imagine that? Rioting? Getting a bunch of people out there together, with the disease going around? They’re actually getting crazy - like, really, literally insane. **Day 27 of quarantine.** I can’t fucking believe it. No FUCKING way. Now I’ve lost my cell phone too? I mean, not literally lost it, not that I’ve really gone anywhere - it’s been another day in bed. But it not only has got no internet, it can’t even call?! I mean, with the internet, I get it, and I should’ve seen it coming. I’ve always known my data plan wouldn’t last long this way, but I somehow pretended not to see it. But calling? Is it tied to the data plan? How the fuck do they actually get away with that? I’d look my phone contract up, if I had, I don’t know, ANY means of communication to do it with. I mean, I’ve always made fun of those old people who still had landlines, but who’s the idiot now, huh? **Day 28 of quarantine.** I finally made it out of bed. I’m cleaning the house again. It stinks to high heaven. Well, I stink to high heaven too, come to think of it. I really need a shower. A really, really long shower. **Day 29 of quarantine.** I still can’t believe there’s no phone at all. Tried turning it off and back on, battery out and in again, anything I could think of, and still nothing. Is it just my plan, or are phones down, like, in general? I mean, could I call emergency services? You can always do that, right? Without a plan or anything? I’m not sure I wanna try it, though. They’re probably really busy right now, a lot of bad stuff going down, last thing they need is some paranoid girl just making sure she has *some* connection to the rest of the world. Besides… what if I find out I can’t even do that? **Day 30 of quarantine.** Had a really good laugh today, and a really good cry too. Like, really doubled over, doing… either. Don’t even remember when did one stop and the other start. Thing is, the other day, I didn’t want to call around asking about Mom. Now that I can’t… I really, really wish I could. I need her a lot right now. A whole lot. I mean, I guess I need *anyone*, but Mom… even with all the bad blood, I can’t stop thinking about her. **Day 31 of quarantine.** Been looking out the front window a lot lately, wondering what’s out there. Street’s all cleared up… guess people *did* get the hint after all. But it’s not *completely* empty though, and that’s the problem. Right now, there’s an old woman slowly dragging a bag of groceries. Don’t even want to wonder where or how she got that at this point. What’s she doing out? I mean, she looks at the top of the risk spectrum. Isn’t there anyone who can do that for her? She stopped to look at me. You know what… I’m not even mad. It’s gotta be really, really lonely out there. Especially for her, if she’s got nobody to get her those supplies. I can’t even… Oh, my God. She *coughed*. I’m outta here. Bye, lady! **Day 32 of quarantine.** Joints are especially bad today. On the other hand, the fever’s clearing up. I think. I’m not taking my temperature… haven’t done that in a long time, actually. I feel better off not knowing. And the windows are all sealed now. I don’t even care how that looks or what. I’ve got a lot more garbage bags than I need, so I’m using those and tape to seal everything up. Under the doors too, and the mail slot, just to be sure. All my air can come in through the AC, at least that’s got a filter. Not taking any chances here. I really, *really* can’t afford to get infected, not with my condition. **Day 33 of quarantine.** I moved my tall mirror from the bedroom to the living room, by the couch. That’s where I’ve been spending most of my time, and I could really use the company. I mean, I hate the way she looks at me, but that’s better than being alone. Getting real hard to stand the loneliness. **Day 34 of quarantine.** Something just occurred to me… how do I get to know when it’s safe to come out? I keep telling myself - and *her* \- what I’m going to do when it’s over… but when *is* that? If I can’t read or watch any news, if I’m completely cut off from the outside world, if there’s no information… how do I know? Then again, *if* it’s actually still not safe out there… I couldn’t take that risk, could I? There are models that see this pandemic going on for three, four, five months. There are waves, it could come back. Can I afford to take my chances? Do… do I have a choice? I think I’ll just hang tight for as long as I can. I think, if it clears up, people will reach out to me somehow. They’ll, I dunno, come here, do something. I’ll hear something. I don’t know how, but I’ll know. Until I do… I’m stuck here. **Day 35 of quarantine.** Been showering a lot lately… just had my second shower today, and it’s not even noon. Which reminds me… the water’s safe, right? I mean, it’s supposedly an airborne virus, it doesn’t come in the water. Or could it? How long would it survive in a water stream? I’d look it up, if only I could. God, I miss reading about this disease online. It was stressful, yeah, but the information was *there*. Still is, of course, I just can’t get to it. And there you have it - never imagined I’d miss freaking out about it online, but I do. But yeah… water. It’s gotta be safe, right? They kept telling us to wash our hands, they wouldn’t if it made it worse. It’s fluoridated and whatnot. Right? What do you think? Say, something, dammit, don’t just look at me like that! **Day 36 of quarantine.** Getting harder and harder to exercise. Not that I’d done a lot of that, but at least I’ve been trying to keep myself active. But it’s hard to ignore the siren’s call of the couch. And the mirror, of course. **Day 37 of quarantine.** She’s such a good listener. I haven’t opened up like this in *years*. About Mom, my condition, my so-called friends, sex, I dunno, *everything*. Not with therapists, not with anyone. Wish I’d met her sooner. I mean, she was there all the time, just watching in silence, waiting for me to reach out… could’ve done that sooner. She’s been always there for me. **Day 38 of quarantine.** Why do I even have a book about the history of typographics around? This must’ve been Dad’s, he was weird enough for that. Anyway, I’m now officially all out of books. Not that I’ve been able to focus on them, really, I mostly leafed through them. **Day 39 of quarantine.** Heard some people outside today. Seemed really loud too, like they were yelling. Couldn’t make out what they were saying - this house’s soundproofing is really good, I guess. Are they looters? They sounded crazed. You know how people get when they’re desperate… I’m really scared here. **Day 40 of quarantine.** Why won’t she talk back to me? I’m feeling so lost here. So… alone, I wanna say, even though I’m really not. But it does feel that way. Why does she have to be so cold? **Day 41 of quarantine.** I worry about my soap supply. I bought what I thought would be enough to last several months, but I’m not so sure about that now. It’s never clean enough, and these rashes… there’s gotta be something in them, something *bad*. I know, cream, but still. I need to be clean. **Day 42 of quarantine.** Looters outside again. I think they’re getting closer. Triple-checked all my locks, of course, and barred the doors with chairs for good measure. This is really frightening. Girl, I need you. I really do. I really, really, really, *really* need you. **Day 43 of quarantine.** The girl in the mirror started to talk back. This feels a bit weird, but I’m relieved. I *knew* I could count on her. She makes so much sense. How could I not get it? It’s all so clear now. I’m so, *so* glad I have her. **Day 44 of quarantine.** Finished shaving everything off. It was hard to let go of my hair… I’ve always been proud of my full-bodied, leonine mane, but it’s what needed to be done. My arms, legs and armpits, of course, I’d been slacking on that because who the hell’s going to see me? The *disease*, that’s who. Gone. Pubic too, smooth like a baby. And my eyebrows… eyes are a vulnerable entry point for infection, right? And they’re right there! I was so irresponsible… but that’s all better now. Everything gone, all the hair gathered up and burnt. My rashes hurt like hell, and I look like a ghost now from all the cream, but I haven’t felt this clean in my whole life. **Day 45 of quarantine.** Looters are finally at my door. They tried knocking to get my attention, to see if I could be lured out there. And I wanted to. God knows I wanted to. I just wanted this all to be over. Thank God I’ve got her here with me to help me stay strong. She whispered to me about their danger, about the violence they would inflict on me, about the infection they wanted to bring into the house. She whispered for me to stay strong and be absolutely quiet. Now that they’re gone, I feel like I can finally breathe. **Day 46 of quarantine.** She looks at me sadly. I’m still not completely clean, I can feel it, and she agrees. But she won’t tell me what do I need to do to be finally clean. I’m afraid I’m not ready, and she knows that. But I’m getting there. **Day 47 of quarantine.** I asked her about the bleach. She merely smiled. Sometimes, she can say so much with so little! I thanked God for putting her in my life, soaked a washcloth in bleach, and gave myself a thorough cleaning. It stings, sure, a *lot*, and my rashes look like my skin’s been flayed, but I’m clean. Even cleaner than before. Is it enough, though? She just smiles, sadly. **Day 48 of quarantine.** I finally understand it now. Looking back at this log here, I can see I clued in to it a while ago, but it escaped my mind somehow. Thing is, I’m clean on the *outside*. My insides, though? I can feel that *thing* bubbling, writhing in there. It makes me sick to my stomach, now that I notice it. It’s so obvious now… how come I’ve never seen it before? And it’s simple, so simple to solve it. So, I guess I’m prepared. Another full, really close shave for good measure, a long shower to wash it all off, and one more bleach scrubbing to be sure. I feel like I’m literally on fire right now, burning from head to toe. This must’ve been how the witches who were burned at the stake back in the day felt. She assured me it’s good - after all, there’s nothing more cleansing than fire, right? And the fire I feel all over my skin, even though invisible, is still burning all the infection away. On the outside, though. There’s still the inside to clean. With my last scrubbing, there’s little more than half a bottle of bleach left. I checked with her, and she said that’s enough. With it, my cleansing will be complete, and I’ll finally be free. This will all be behind me. A new, pure life awaits. So, I’m ending this journal here. I don’t think I’ll need it anymore. Once I’ve chugged this bottle, I will finally be clean enough to leave the quarantine.


He was a frail, dying man, lying in a hospital bed in a hospice. He was half the man he used to be, his body was withering and shrinking. Cancer had ravaged him. He has been in the hospice for two days. He checked himself in wearing only silk pajamas and carrying a briefcase. Never speaking, except to ask the nurse not to speak to him. Nobody comes to see him nor does anyone call to check on him. On day three as the nurse comes in to check on him, he finally speaks, two words, “a priest.” The nurse, knowingly nods, finishes her business in the room, and leaves. She tells the head nurse the patient has requested a priest. Without a word the head nurse calls and requests a priest to visit the patient. The priest arrives at the hospice. He is young and it’s obvious he is inexperienced and nervous. The head nurse greets him and explains that the man is dying and during his three days at the hospice has not spoken a word, other than requesting a priest. The priest enters the man’s room. The man is lying in bed, a glazed look in his eyes, clutching a pillow to his chest. “Good afternoon sir, my name is Father William. I understand that you called for a priest. How can I help you?” Father William asked in the most soothing tone he can muster. “Father William, I called you here, because I must confess my sins and try to right at least one of my wrongs.” The dying man stated.” Father William pulled up a chair, sat down, and pulled out his bible. “Please my son, tell me your confession.” Father William said. “Father forgive me for I have sinned. I do not have much time left on this earth and even less strength to tell you my sins. I ask that you leave me uninterrupted, so that I may get them all out, while I am still alive to do so.” The man requested in a weak and raspy voice. Father William gave the man a nod. “Father I have broken the ten commandments. I have lied, I have stolen, I have killed. When I was a younger man, full of rage from my tortuous upbringing, I fell in with the wrong crowd. I began robbing shops, then people, then using guns to help in my thieving ways. I met a man who took me under his wing. He did not go by his birthname, instead choosing to be known only by his professional handle of “mort noire”. I called him M for short. He taught me various foreign languages, how to protect myself, how to use weapons, and how to kill. It wasn’t until after I learned French that I realized his name was Black Death.” “M told me that he was a professional assassin. He is the man that killed Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janice Joplin, and quite a few others. M was trained by the man who had killed Hank Williams, Vernon Isley, Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, The Big Bopper, Eddie Cochran, Dorothy Dandridge, and Jayne Mansfield, to name a few. He was paid extra for Mansfield as she was also a movie star. He was trained, and so trained me, to kill, but to make it look like an accident. A car accident, a plane crash, accidental drowning, suicide, a drug overdose, alcohol poisoning, you name it, we did it. Nothing and no one were sacred to us. I myself am responsible for the deaths of many rock stars. When M retired in the mid-seventies, it was my turn to take the helm.” “My first kill had to be big to ensure I would get future contracts. I didn’t want to kill him, but I had to or the contract would have gone to someone else and I would never work again. I killed Elvis. My first kill, but not necessarily my worst. After Elvis, I killed Marc Bolan, caused the plane crash that took the lives of Ronnie Van Zant, Steve Gaines, and Cassie Gaines of Lynyrd Skynyrd. I was gaining a lot of notoriety in my field and the contracts kept coming. I killed Keith Moon, and I finished off the seventies with Sid Vicious.” “Father, I have killed many, I remember all the names and how I did each one. I know this is long, but I feel for true forgiveness and to truly repent, I must name each and every one, they deserve that much at least. Nineteen Eighty would be just another decade of work for me. I took the lives of Bon Scott, Ian Curtis, Malcolm Owens, and John Bonham in 1980 alone. John Lennon, however, was not supposed to die. That damn Mark David Chapman just wanted to make a name for himself. He was being trained by our group and went rogue. Our group only kills by means that look accidental, we never use guns on rock stars. While we do take in contracts to kill this crime boss or that head of state, we always make sure that the deaths of rock stars are handled inconspicuously.” “I murdered Harry Chapin, Randy Rhodes, James Honeyman Scott, Dennis Wilson, Candy Givens, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and Steve Clark. He was a courtesy kill. I have only failed once in my attempts, once. In 1984 I was hired to kill Rick Allen. He is the drummer of Def Leppard. I taunted him on the road with my vehicle. He became enraged and tried to pass me. I very gently tapped his car in a pit maneuver. If it hadn’t been for that nurse that showed up, he would have died. He is one lucky fellow. As a result, I still owed the holder of the contract a kill. I bided my time and when I felt it was time, Mr. Clark’s life was mine.” Father William, color drained from his face, palms sweaty, was unable to wrap his head around what he was hearing. He continued to listen quietly, all the while praying to God, could there be any forgiveness for this man? The dying man continued his list. “I had the contract to kill Kurt Cobain, but unfortunately, someone close to him, got the job done first. After that, I waited for the next contract and murdered John Denver, Johan Holzel a/k/a Falco, Aaliyah, Layne Staley, Lisa Lopes, Dee Dee Ramone, Robbin Crosby, Paul Hester, Michael Jackson, Paul Gray, Mike Starr, Amy Winehouse, Jani Lane, Whitney Houston, Chris Kelly, Wayne Static, Scott Weiland, and Prince. Maybe it’s because I, myself, am so close to death that I finally understand the precious gift that life is. The more I feel it slipping away, the more anguish I feel over the choices and deeds in my life. I took the lives of all of these people and not for some greater good, but for money. I robbed families of their loved ones and I robbed the world of the music they had yet to make.” With tears creeping down his cheeks, he continued “Why you may ask, did I kill all these people? Why were there contracts out on rock stars? Who put out these contracts? I’ll tell you. It was the greedy corporate record company executives. Some of my targets were ordered killed, because my client or clients, depending on the target, believed record sales would skyrocket upon that target’s death. Others were killed because the record company executives had life insurance policies out on that target and they were eager to collect. I was making exorbitant fees on each kill. While I might have had objections, regarding certain targets I did not wish to see dead, the money was too good to turn down.” “Is it too late? Can I be forgiven for all these deaths? Can the blood on my hands ever be cleansed? Is it too late to repent? I do not know. I will face whatever punishment the lord has for me and will not deny my misdeeds, my crimes, my grievous sins. The only thing I can do is try to prevent my last kill.” “In retrospect, I see now that I had been ill for the bulk of the last year. I told myself it was just age and continued to ignore all of my symptoms. Last week I received what would be the final contract of my career, although I did not know that at the time. My new target is a young, beautiful, up and coming super star. Her first album is set to release next week. She is not your typical musician. She is intelligent, modest, and very religious. She does not drink, do drugs, or even smoke. She is also a health nut. She takes care of her body and is careful of what she puts into it. She exercises and works out just about every day. She is only twenty years old, yet she has a plan for her future, is sure in who she is, and cannot be tempted. The studio execs cannot control her and this is the problem.” “They, the execs, prefer their clients to be easy to sway, control, and use. This young lady is none of those. She refuses to dress sexy in skimpy outfits. She refuses to use sex to sell her voice. In fact, she believes the strength of her voice is all she needs to promote her music. Her lifestyle and moral character make it impossible to make her death look like a drug overdose. However, I decided that since she does work out so much and takes so many vitamins, the only way to kill her that would look plausible, would be to drug her vitamins with a chemical that would cause her to have a heart attack and would be untraceable in autopsy.” “Last week I covertly broke into her house and replaced her new bottle of vitamins with a bottle laced with this chemical. Tomorrow she will open that new bottle having used up her last bottle and she will take one and die. My plan in place I sat back ready to see my target die. I was taken out of my self-boasting by a deep cough. I coughed so hard there was blood all over my hands. I knew this was bad and went to the doctor the following day. The news, of course, was cancer, stage four. It has spread to all my major organs and it was too late to treat. I was given one week to live. I wish the doctor was being over pessimistic, but each day since that diagnosis, I have been going downhill at an exceedingly fast pace. Which is why I checked into the hospice on Monday. My body is telling me that by Friday morning I will be gone.” The man’s hands started shaking as he dropped his head into them. “With my life quickly coming to end I realized the value of life, all life. I knew I could not leave this world knowing I had taken yet another life. Father, I am too weak to stop this myself. This young lady cannot die! She has too much music in her to be silenced before she has even started. As I’ve told you, she is deeply religious. I believe that you can enter her house under the guise of wishing to discuss spiritual needs. Once in her home, ask for a glass of water, follow her to the kitchen, and once she hands you the glass of water, drop it. Let the glass shatter, profusely apologize as you attempt to pick up the shattered pieces. Cut your finger on one of the shards and ask for a band-aid. While she is in the bathroom getting your band-aid, you will have your opportunity to switch the vitamin bottles out. If you would please hand me my briefcase from the floor there.” The man asked while pointing at the briefcase. Father William obliged and picked up the briefcase and handed it to the man. “Thank you” the man said as he opened the case. From the case the man pulled out a new bottle of vitamins and a slip of paper. “Father, this is the bottle I stole from her home and this is her address.” He said as he handed both the priest. “She keeps her vitamins on the counter next to the refrigerator. While she is in the bathroom, just grab the poisoned bottle and put it in your pocket and place her bottle back on the counter. When she returns with the band-aid, let her help you put it on, and then help her clean up the floor. Stay and speak with her as only a priest can. Take solace in the knowledge that you will have saved this young lady’s life.” “Will you do this Father? I have no one else to ask. The life of an assassin is a lonely one. The only people I know are also assassins and it is not in their nature to save a life.” The priest sat quietly contemplating the bottle of vitamins. As a priest, he has been taught to forgive and forget, nonetheless, he finds himself on one hand hating this man for killing so many talented musicians, while on the other hand feels for the man. The man is dying and in doing so has realized the sacred gift that life is. He is trying to rectify what he has done. Will God forgive this man? He doesn’t know. He feels a rage growing inside him. The priest is a music lover. This man has killed many of the musicians the priest loves. He loves Elvis’ music, especially his gospel songs. He is also very fond of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s music. He truly appreciated the guitar prowess of Randy Rhodes, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and Steve Clark. In truth, Steve Clark was his favorite guitar player. He could feel so many emotions when he listened to Steve Clark play. Emotions that would draw him into another world, one where only music existed. This man’s deeds had curtailed the future music he would have loved to hear from a great many bands and musicians. He thought of God and Jesus. He felt in his heart that they would forgive him and above all would want the priest to save this young lady. “Yes, I will do it, my son. I will go right now. I will come back tomorrow to visit you again to let you know how I did and to give you your last rites.” The priest said as he gently held his hand on the dying man’s shoulder. “Thank you, Father William, you are saving the life of a truly beautiful person.” The man said as the priest got up to leave. The priest left the room and stopped at the nurse’s station. “I will be back to see him tomorrow.” The priest informed the nurse, who was seated behind the desk. He nodded his head at the nurse and left. He put the address listed on the piece of paper he was given into the GPS in his phone. When the directions came up, he hit the road off to do what priests are supposed to do, save lives and save souls. He put in a Def Leppard CD and clicked through the songs until he reached Switch 625 and listened to the instrumental as he headed to the young lady’s home. As he arrived at his destination, the priest inhaled a long, deep breath. He could feel a knot develop in the pit on his stomach as he approached the front door. He reminded himself that he is trying to save her life and found the nerve to push the doorbell. As he waited for the door to open, he reflected on his love of music. He chuckled to himself when he thought about the circumstances that led him to become a priest instead of a musician. He had no talent, only a profound love of God. The door opened and a beautiful, young blonde, with mesmerizing blue eyes said “Can I help you Father?” For a moment, he was so nervous, he forgot what he should say. He gathered himself and said “Good afternoon young lady, I have been going door to door throughout the neighborhood to discuss any spiritual needs people may have. May I come in and speak with you?” He asked. “Oh, do come in Father and get out of the heat. Can I get you something to drink?” She asked. “Yes, please, I would love a glass of water, if it’s not too much.” He replied. “Not at all.” She quipped. The priest followed her to the kitchen and quietly watched as she filled a glass with water for him. “You don’t mind tap water, do you?” She asked. “Not at all, thank you so much.” He replied as she handed him the glass. He very lightly took the glass and let it slip from his fingers crashing to the floor. “I am so sorry my hands are so sweaty from being out in the heat all day.” He stated as he kneeled down to pick up the broken pieces of glass. He made sure to cut a finger on a particularly sharp piece. “Oh my, I believe I’ve cut myself, do you happen to have a band-aid?” He asked. “Yes, let me run to the bathroom and get you one, please, leave the glass, I will clean it up when I return.” She said as she headed to the bathroom. No sooner had she turned the corner out of the kitchen did the priest pull out the bottle of vitamins from his pocket. He placed the bottle on the counter next to the poisoned bottle of vitamins, picked up the poisoned bottle, and slipped it into his pocket. He bent back down to the floor, and carefully this time, picked up the broken shards. As he was grabbing a towel off another counter, the young lady returned to the kitchen. “Let me see that finger.” She said as she opened the packaging of the band-aid. While she applied the bandage, he apologized for making a mess and breaking her glass. “It’s no problem, Father, it happens to everyone.” She soothed as she bent over to finish cleaning the floor. Once finished, she prepared him another glass of water and invited him to sit down in the living room. They spent the better part of an hour discussing God, the bible, and her spirituality. The priest was very impressed with her obvious knowledge of the bible and her love for God. He knew the dying man was right. This woman deserved to live. She was truly one of God’s creatures, as God had imagined them to be. He thanked her for her time and left her with his card should she have need of his services in the future. She thanked him and indicated she would love to see his service this Sunday. They shook hands and he left. When the priest got into his car, he let out a very long sigh of relief. He tapped the bottle in his pocket and thanked God for using him as a tool to save this woman’s life. He turned the music back on and drove back to the church. There were inquiries about why he was gone so long today and he insisted it was for a confession and it was a very long one. He had dinner and turned to his bible for a nice study prior to going to bed. He had a long day, emotionally draining, and spiritually fruitful. In the morning, the priest rolled out of bed, and dressed in his attire. He went to his computer, as he liked to read the news before breakfast, and read the story of the death of a young woman. The article indicated that the young woman had a heart attack. The article stated she was releasing a record album next week, and how terribly sad it was. The priest ran to the bathroom and threw up. As he hugged the toilet bowl, he asked himself “how could this be possible? I switched out the bottles. I put the clean bottle on the right and picked up the poisoned bottle from the left. I put it in my pocket!” He ran to his bedroom and searched through the pockets of his clothes. He found the bottle and opened it. The safety label was intact. There were no holes of any sort whatsoever that he could see. He wracked his brain. Did I switch the bottles right? He was sure he had, but looking at this bottle, he was sure he had not. He had failed. He had to let the man know of his failure. He also had to give the man absolution through his last rites. As he drove to the hospice the scenario played over and over in his head. How had he messed up? Did he try to do it too fast? Did he worry too much about cleaning up the glass and in the process missed the switch and just put the bottle back in his pocket? He prayed, no pleaded with God. He begged for forgiveness for his mistake. He begged God to not hold this death again the dying man, the man who tried to right at least one of his wrongs. He asked God to take care of the young woman. She had a good soul and she deserved entry to Heaven. He was so lost in his thoughts and failure that he almost passed the hospice. He found a parking spot and headed to the dying man’s room. As he threw the door open, the first thing to greet him, was an empty bed. “Oh God, no, the man has died already and without his last rites. Please God forgive him.” He thought to himself. He turned around to go to the nurse’s station to ask the nurse when the man passed only to see the nurse standing behind him. “He got up and left last night. He left his briefcase on the bed with a note on it saying to give it to you. You know, we never even knew his name.” The nurse said as she handed him the briefcase. Confused, the priest wandered over to the nurse’s station and placed the briefcase on the desk and opened it. The priest was shocked by the contents. In the briefcase, the priest saw a huge sum of cash and a note. “Thank you, priest, without your help, my plan would have failed.


Also this is a very rough draft so excuse spelling mistakes or the overuse of contractions. There were always rumors of a serial killer so evil, so demented, so monstrous, so gruesome, and so evil that he was looked at as more of the hypothetical monster under humanities bed than a real psychopath that needs to be hunted down and exposed. In this short story I am going to describe the infamous and horrible tale of what can be only called as “the monstrosity.” The monstrosity was born in 1945, his exact date of birth is unknown, he was born in Midwestern America; most likely Kansas. His father was a hulk of a man who conceived him when he brutally raped his own daughter, the violence in the monster’s life began before he was even born. His mother lets call her Lesly was only seventeen years old when she gave birth to the monstrosity, who was born about three weeks premature. Lesly almost died in childbirth because the monster’s father (lets call him Larry) continued to beat her during the pregnancy which led to the premature and extremely painful birth. The doctors predicted the monstrosity would not live through the night...oh how wrong they were; looking back if the doctors knew of the evil they allowed to enter the world, they may have had no problem suffocating that small innocent child right there and then. The monstrosity had no serious health problems from the violent birth, except for the fact that he would never grow taller than 5'5 even as a grown man; this monster’s height comes into play later and can be looked at as a curse or a blessing depending on how you read this evil’s story. The monster’s father Larry remarried shortly after he was born, he lied to all about the real mother of the monster. Being a minor still Lesly was forced to continue to live with Larry and his new wife Marie even after all the abuse and pain he had caused her, she wouldn't run away because she felt her son deserved a real mother not a life of lies. So, for the next three-years she worked hard at her job as a waitress to save enough money to move out of the abusive home with her son and get her own place. The abuse of Lesly continued throughout these years but Larry didn’t touch his son the monster because he respected the fact that his son had a keen likeness to himself, and resented the fact that his own daughter Lesly wanted to turn his own child against him. Larry wasn't a sociopath but he was a monster by his own merit, he didn't understand why his daughter hated him and thought he was a useless excuse for a men let alone a father; even though he sexually and physically abused her after her mother passed away from cancer when Lesly was about nine-years old. Larry tried to turn the monster who was about four years old by this point against his true mother Lesly and make him love his wife Marie and him as parents. Now, for a moment let us observe what know about Larry’s second wife Marie...she was about twenty-six years old married to Larry a much older man and little is known about her background or early-life. What we do know however straight from the words of our little monster is that she was an extremely beautiful woman; about 5’9, luscious blond hair, long legs, a nice curvy midsection, and most of all her skin according to the monster was softer than any other woman he ever met. But that all comes in to play later in this story of true evil. I will set the scene for the beginnings of our little monster’s first look at death and real cruelty. Of course the monster was exposed to the beatings of his real mother Lesly from time to time, but Marie did her best to keep the monster away from such things. You may be thinking why would a woman as beautiful as I described Marie as be with a violent man like Larry and allow him to abuse his adult daughter? Well, since little is known about Marie’s personality (at this point in time) I guess we can just say love works in mysterious ways and in this case ends up intertwined with death and unknowingly creating pure evil. Anyway, back to the story...Lesly finally saved up enough money to take the monster away from this hateful environment and get her own nice place. But Larry and Marie didn’t like that idea, they didn’t believe that Lesly really worked for that money and accused her of prostituting herself to make the money. They called her all sorts of names, not knowing that our little monster was hiding under the bed in his mother’s room just taking all this in. Like I said he had witnessed violence before, but never had he witnessed such abuse in a verbal sense they broke his mother down. Lesly wasn't the most emotionally sound woman due to her father’s abuse and it didn't take much to break her, and by the end of the verbal abuse from Marie and Larry which went on for almost an hour she just sat in the corner wet with her own tears and ashamed that she allowed them to do that to her. Then something happened to Lesly as she set there wallowing in her own pain and self-hate...she snapped. This young woman who received awful abuse by her own father her whole life finally snapped. She hated him with such passion, who was he to abuse her and then coddle her son like he was a decent human being when he was the one who raped her and almost killed her from beatings during her pregnancy! Lesly was not a small woman, her father Larry was about 6’6 and 250-pounds and he passed those genes onto his daughter; she was 6’3 but her weight was unknown. She grabbed Larry’s baseball bat that he used to occasionally use to beat her when he wasn't playing on the local softball team with it, and she waited in the room until she heard Marie go into her room and fall asleep. She left her room, and shortly after the monster (without her knowledge) followed her into the hallway and watched her. She saw that Larry was passed out on the couch and she snuck up behind him, only his head was exposed from under the covers. Lesly raised the bat above her head and slammed it back down with all the might and power she had within her body. The sound of Larry’s skull cracking was sickening to the soul of a normal person...you could hear the skull break apart into small fragments and slice through the brain matter. You could taste the blood in the air and feel the lack of Larry’s existence within it. Even though our monster was only four or five years old, he describes the event with such vivid remembrance as if it was his first memory. And maybe it was, because in my opinion this moment and what happened next is what creates our little monster as he really is or will be for the rest of his so called life. Larry was near dead after the first blow, but Lesly didn't know that and probably felt more powerful and in control than she ever had before in her entire life. She kept hitting him over and over, she destroyed his face so completely that it would take a ton of work for the cops to identify his body without just assuming. The monster describes hearing the life leave Larry’s body but instead of like it is in film he described it as just a silence within the room as if Larry’s soul or whatever made him alive had just been removed from the area. The silence as he described it was quieter than anything he would experience for a long time after. Than the silence was broken by Lesly yelling at the monster “go to your room, you shouldn't see this baby.” Her voice wasn't the same though it sounded different than the mother the monster though he knew, it sounded emptier as if the love Lesly held for him had exited her. And even at five years old the monster says that he felt the difference.


Danny Beresford woke up in a good mood, as he did every morning after Penny’s abrupt departure. It was a relief to start the day without her cold shoulder and frosty words. Even before their divorce was completed, she’d earmarked her possessions; family heirlooms, souvenirs from foreign holidays, and all those silly knick-knacks with limited sentimental value. Danny hadn’t contested her choices; he’d always thought the place was far too cluttered.

‘I suppose it’s less to dust,’ his mother had said. ‘But it’s a damn nerve, dear.’

‘Never mind,’ his father had said. ‘You can’t take it all with you, son.’ In the event, Danny’s father was correct, but only because Penny had seized everything whilst he was at work. Millman, his boss at the bank, was a man of the world. He’d heard about Danny’s troubles and insisted he took time off.

‘Get yourself a sharp lawyer and come back fighting in two weeks,’ he’d said. ‘I don’t want you moping about and upsetting the clients.’

Danny smiled and accepted the offer, not that he could refuse. However, he didn’t get round to contacting his solicitor. He couldn’t be bothered with all the fuss. Penny was welcome to anything. Good riddance to the lot.

# It was six a.m. when the alarm’s insistent bleep disturbed Danny’s deep slumber. His two-week reverie had ended and it was time to get back into work mode. Danny snorted air into his lungs, swung his legs from underneath the duvet, and padded across an acre of sanded floorboards between the mahogany bed and matching wardrobe. Without soft furnishings to muffle the sound, his foot slaps echoed around the bare bedroom and pinged off the four sliding glass doors overlooking the back garden. The couple’s detached suburban property was modest in size when they’d purchased it fifteen years ago, however it appeared twice as big in Penny’s absence. While Danny had pursued his daily ritual of sorting out his former wife’s remaining effects, he’d discovered rooms he didn’t know existed. There were parts of his house he didn’t recognise at all. It was as if the entire structure was expanding brick by brick. # Danny selected the suit he’d collected from the dry-cleaners at the start of his sick leave. He removed the flimsy protective plastic and, flicking through his collection of ties, chose his favourite; the navy blue one with thin white stripes. It reminded him of his old school tie. Not that he was inclined to reminiscing; his life had changed a lot since those formative years. Danny had resisted joining the old boy network and wasn’t in close contact with his peer group. All his old classmates had moved on too; they’d all travelled far and wide in pursuit of their careers. # Downstairs, he checked his Rolex as the percolator gurgled away beside him like a choking cat; spitting and coughing for all it was worth. Danny digested the morning’s headlines on his smart phone while he wolfed down steaming porridge and gulped fresh black coffee. Licking his lips, he added the dirty crockery to yesterday’s breakfast debris and headed for the front door. He grabbed his briefcase and overcoat, pausing in the glazed vestibule to witness the morning sunlight glint on the icy morning dew. The garden’s manicured lawn was a field of twinkling diamonds. His face tingled as the sun’s first rays bombarded his pale skin and he closed his eyes. Danny imagined being on holiday; somewhere warm and welcoming, a Greek island perhaps. That’d be just the ticket. His eyelids blinked open to see a golden host of dusty particles swirling on invisible air currents. The cloud of specks cavorted in sunlight that had travelled millions of miles to greet him. They fluttered with joyful abandon until the breeze diminished and the moment passed. The spontaneous congregation dispersed without an encore. It was as if their unique performance had never happened.

The reverse thrust of a descending Airbus A320 bound for Gatwick Airport reminded Danny of the time, and it occurred to him he’d never paused on his doorstop before. He took a deep breath and, after a slow exhalation, lowered his briefcase onto the hardwood threshold. Danny marched past the driveway’s neat borders towards his gleaming Mercedes, clicking an electronic key fob as he approached. There was a sharp honk, and the headlights flashed in response. Danny opened the driver’s door, and leaning inside, turned the key in the ignition. It started the first time. The reliable German engine continued to purr like a pampered feline as the solid door clicked shut and Danny ambled back up his flagstone pathway. When he reached the entrance, he hoofed his briefcase past the mound of unopened letters in the hallway and closed the front door behind him. # It was about one o’clock in the afternoon when the phone’s persistent ringing woke him up. Danny tottered downstairs as more mail spilled through the letterbox onto the doormat. In the silent kitchen he tinkered with the landline’s receiver to discover six new messages. He replaced the handset in its cradle without listening to them. # Danny answered the phone at three o’clock whilst peering at his car from behind his living room window shutters. ‘Mister Beresford?’ a woman’s voice asked. ‘I called earlier but--- ’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘everything’s fine, Joan.’

A fluffy cloud of vapour rose from the car’s exhaust pipe and Joan continued.

‘You have a full page of appointments for Tuesday, Mister Beresford…’ Surely there couldn’t be much more fuel in the tank?

‘… and Mister Beresford,’ she said, pausing for breath. ‘Please call Mister Millman.’

‘Millman wants me?’ ‘He’s blowing a fuse here.’

‘Is that so, Joan?’ A jogger halted next to Danny’s spluttering vehicle. Joan detailed the latest changes in bank personnel and listed new clients that required Danny’s immediate attention.

‘Sure thing, Joan,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow will be fine…’ Half-listening to his secretary, he avoided eye contact with the lycra-clad neighbour examining the exhaust pipe. ‘… so we’ll see you first thing, sir?’ she asked.

‘Of course, Joan,’ he said, smiling as the jogger shook her head and continued down the road. # The six o’clock television news had just finished its round up of the day’s horror stories when Danny noticed the car’s engine falter and stop. That was when he decided to remain in the house and only answer the door to anyone who had a legitimate reason for visiting the property. He could solve all his difficulties by merely staying here and disappearing into the fabric of the property. Still in his business suit and tie, he resolved to vanish. He padded his pockets and retrieved his wallet, driving licence and work I.D. card. If he destroyed everything that could identify him, he’d be able to slip away undetected. No one would miss him; not really. Danny had got to that age when he knew there were always ten young men chasing after his job. Penny wouldn’t miss him, and he wouldn’t miss her either.

Danny gathered all the unopened letters and correspondence from the hallway and built a pyramid in the fire grate in the living room. He lit the tapering edges of the pyre and warmed his outstretched palms when the paper caught alight. As the flames crackled, he added one piece of I.D. at a time and cremated all his bank notes too until all he had left was an empty wallet. Danny staggered as he stood up and grabbed the mantelpiece for balance, enveloped by a certain lightheadedness. It was as if he’d removed a colossal weight from his shoulders and now he could breathe freely again. # Danny was practical by nature, and his next instinct was to create an inventory of all the food in his pantry, fridge, and garage freezer. He’d visited the supermarket recently and probably had enough produce to last five or six days; maybe ten days if he cut back and fifteen if he was frugal. After that, he’d have to consider shoe leather or broth from boiled cardboard. He’d let providence dictate his future. He couldn’t be any worse off than living with Penny in their marriage from hell. Danny was now free to explore his estate and looked forward to discovering new horizons within his ever-expanding dwelling. # The landline woke Danny the next morning at eleven o’clock. It screamed at him from downstairs. He wrapped the duvet around his shoulders and dragged himself down to the kitchen to attend to it. The ringing stopped as he approached, and he lifted the handset to discover ten new messages. The handset vibrated in his hand and shrieked into his face. Grimacing, he rejected the call and rammed the handset onto its cradle. Danny followed the phone unit’s twisted cable to the wall, grabbed hold of the tangled wire and yanked it out of its socket. That would be the last time the landline would disturb him. # A week passed by and there were no more calls, which wasn’t a surprise. Danny whiled away the hours, jettisoning his executive trappings. He detached the sixty-inch HDTV from its wall mount and bumped it down the stairs and out into the back garden. This was a giant step to take, but not the first item he’d ejected on his journey to rid himself of his lifestyle. He’d had enough of the limitless channels packed with ocular chewing gum and disposable eye candy. No more streaming services and next day deliveries for him. He would downsize and lose all the baggage and fully explore the elaborate terrain of his ever-distending home. # During the second week, Danny piled up the last of Penny’s possessions in the back yard and smashed up the household furniture for firewood. He had no means to pay for the electricity and if he made it to winter, he’d need fuel to keep warm. The only intrusion was a policeman who knocked at the door enquiring about Mister Beresford’s whereabouts. Danny answered the door, still in his suit. ‘Mister Beresford?’ he asked. ‘Are you the householder?’ ‘How can I help you?’ ‘We had reports of a break in.’ ‘No, constable,’ Danny said, frowning. ‘I’ve been here all the time.’ The officer explained he was investigating reports from neighbours who said the upper windows were permanently open and they’d heard bangs and crashes coming from inside. ‘We were told there’d been a break in at this address.’ ‘I’ve been engaged in home improvements, constable.’  The officer shrugged and said he had no reason to pursue the matter, as the legal occupant was present and a law-abiding suburbanite. To that end, Danny closed all the windows facing the road and resolved to maintain a tidy appearance for the sake of his sanity. In many ways, his neighbours had been observant. A forced entry had occurred, of course, a most unusual break in.

# A month passed by in the twinkling of an eye. Danny had a few awkward exchanges with an immediate neighbour who’d interrupted his work outside. She’d wanted to know why he wasn’t at work and wondered why the gardener had ceased attending. Danny made polite excuses and disappeared into the undergrowth to continue mapping the topography of his ever-expanding kingdom. Every day, the number and size of his rooms increased. The upper floors had taken on the dimensions of several large aircraft hangers, and the land at the rear was now comparable to Kew Botanic Gardens. With nothing to prevent the ingress of natural daylight, the house’s dimensions became exaggerated further until it took Danny all day to travel from one side of the estate to the other. # The outside world still bombarded Danny with irrelevant messages; junk mail, free newspapers, and letters from Mister Millman at the bank. He collected all the detritus from the doormat and incinerated it in the fire grate. Danny smiled during the daily ceremony and imagined the solemn letters pertaining to his contract, accompanied by Millman’s hideous threats and warnings.

# Two days ago, Danny heard a knock at the door and saw a slim silhouette behind the frosted vestibule glass. He answered the door to find a smartly dressed woman in a two-piece wool suit and collar length hair. ‘Yes, can I help you?’ ‘Mister Beresford?’ she said, her mouth aghast. ‘It’s me, sir, Joan…’ ‘Ah, Joan,’ Danny said, leaning on the upright for support. ‘Yes, I’m fine and I’ve been meaning to call.’ ‘I’ve been reassigned, sir.’ ‘You’re still employed?’ ‘Yes, but--- ’ ‘That’s good news. I was worried that--- ’ ‘But they’ve cleaned out your office and destroyed all your files, sir.’ ‘That’s great news, Joan.’ ‘Do you need help, sir?’ ‘I’ve never been better, Joan, and slowly achieving my dreams.’ # On the last day of Danny’s exhaustive explorations, he discovered the outer edge of his vast empire in the unmapped region formerly known as garage. At its centre, was an enormous abandoned crater containing ice and glittering gemstones that beckoned him forth. With the last of his rations consumed two weeks before, he had no choice but to enter the icy world to forage for scraps. Danny recalled his history lessons from long ago and Captain Oates’ infamous line as he walked to certain death in a polar blizzard. What was it he said? Oh, yes, “I’m just going outside and may be some time.” His tortured mind repeated those prophetic words as he succumbed to the beguiling ice crystals twinkling on the walls of the cavernous interior. With every movement Danny’s lungs strained for air and his heart struggled to supply blood to aching limbs. A final trembling breath stung his blackened lips and at last Danny’s arms collapsed under the weight of the descending ice-shelf, trapping him inside his abandoned chest freezer forever. The End


Once upon a time in a far away land deprived of roads, walked a lone Nomad wandering far and wide when he came upon an old man. 'Morning' said the Nomad to the old man who seemed to him weary and weak. 'Morning' said back the old man, 'say could you pherhaps spare me some food and water?' he asked the Nomad. To his luck the Nomad was charitable and gave him an apple and water and continued on his way. It was near evening when the Nomad started feeling lonley and wished for some company he then thought of the old man in the middle of the road. He decided to go back and find him where they met, when he finally arrived the Nomad found the old man's soul left the earthly realm, after choking on an apple...


“Hey honey, can you drive for a bit?” James touched Liz’s knee and she jerked to attention. “I have a bit of a headache coming on and I’d like to close my eyes.” “Of course.” Liz closed the laptop she had perched on her crossed legs as he pulled the blue Chevy Trax into the gas station just outside Childress, Texas. She was so focused on the story she was typing that she didn’t hear his request until she felt this hand on her knee. He stepped out and moved to the back of the Trax to refuel while 		Liz headed for the bathroom. She returned with a bag of Skittles dangling from her right hand. She opened the driver’s side door, climbed into the wide-open space, and began to readjust the seat and mirrors to fit her 5-foot frame. Liz set the Skittles in the center console as the buzz of the seat sliding forward vibrated the stirring wheel. She released the telescoping mechanism and pushed the stirring wheel to the dashboard. She triple-checked the mirrors one last time before she buckled her seatbelt and restarted the engine. James reclined in the passenger seat beside her, head back and eyes closed. She pulled back onto the main road running between towns and headed north toward Childress. With her favorite holiday playlist on the radio, she tapped the stirring wheel and sang along to all her favorite tunes alternating handfuls of Skittles between songs. She savored the sweet chewy delicacy, and it helped keep her awake for the long journey ahead. James shifted in his seat, so she lowered the radio volume. Several minutes passed. “Thank God” by Kane & Katelyn Brown played on the radio. She couldn’t help but sing along. Playing air guitar on the stirring wheel, she noticed the Childress city limit sign. She didn’t get more than the first verse out when she breathed in, and a piece of Skittles lodged in her throat. James sat up in his chair. His eyes locked on her. Several seconds passed, “Are you breathing?” She raised her right hand as tears streamed down her face. She shook her head and pulled the Trax into the middle turn lane, never making a sound. His stare bore into her soul. “Are you okay?” His voice was on the edge of panic. She shook her head. Still no sound. He pointed to the left. She followed his finger and saw a gas station and no oncoming traffic. She pulled into the station and placed the Chevy Trax into park next to pump#4. “Thank God, Thank God, Thank God for giving me you. “Kane continued his ballad to his beautiful wife. Liz pressed the power button to off. “Are you breathing, do I need to perform the Heimlich?” Panic was pushing James to the edge of his seat. Tears clouded her vision and snot fell like snow off the roof. Thud. Thud . Splashing off the stirring wheel and onto her jeans. Liz remained calm. She couldn’t breathe. In or out. Nothing. No sound. “Is this it, God? Am I coming home? It this how You’re taking me, death by Skittles?” She glanced in James’s direction and could see his lips were moving but she could no longer hear sound. She tightened her eyelids and felt more tears escape down her cheeks. They hit her jeans like water balloons dropped from the Empire State Building. Splat. Kerplat . Everything was heightened and done in slow motion. 2 seconds passed. She could feel her heartbeat. Boom Boom It’s so quite here, God. 4 seconds passed . Boom Boom How peaceful…this feeling. Her thoughts trailed off before she could finish her thought. Boom Boom. 6 seconds passed. She looked at James, still moving his lips without sound. Boom Boom . She had a perspective shift. Was she moving away from James? 8 seconds. More tears streamed down her face. God, will James be okay? She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 10 seconds passed. Was the dash getting further away? Boom Boom She closed her eyes again. More tears crashed to her jeans. More snot dripped to her lap.

Boom Boom . She saw movement on her right and watched James lift his right hand. She squinted through the tears and noticed 12 seconds passed. Boom Boom . Liz moved her hands to the stirring wheel fearing she may lose consciousness. 14 seconds passed. 16 seconds passed. Everything was moving fast forward. A blur of memories whizzed past her head. She placed her forehead on the top of the stirring wheel. Before James reached for the door handle, Liz wheezed.  	He froze. She wheezed again. This time Panic threatened Liz. She clasped the stirring wheel and tried to breathe again. Like breathing through a flattened straw, she took shallow breaths until the minute Skittles piece finally freed its death grip on her windpipe. James slowly released the breath he didn’t even know he was holding and leaned back in his seat. His head pounded even more than before they switched seats. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. He massaged his temples, eyes closed. Cough. Wheeze. Cough. Wheeze. Liz couldn’t speak, but the sheer fact she was making noise was music to his ears. Cough. Wheeze. Cough. Wheeze. “Thank God, I didn’t lose you.” Cough. Wheeze. Cough. Wheeze. Thank God . Liz thought about those words between coughs and wheezes. “Thank God” was playing on the radio and the story those lyrics tell. She reached over and grabbed James’s hand. She shook her head in agreement with his spoken words. Cough. Wheeze. Cough. Wheeze… …Several miles down the road, they pulled up behind a line of cars on Interstate 40. Debris decorated the highway for several 100 feet. They saw chrome fenders, red plastic taillights, glass, and tire shreds scattered down the road. Over an hour they crawled along Interstate 40 at a snail’s pace. Liz looked up to heaven as they passed the wreckage, “Thank God.” She whispered as a tiny tear ran down her cheek. James reached for her hand, “Thank God.” They finished their journey in silence.


“You nervous?” “A little. You know… I’ll be okay.” “I’m sure you will. I’ll be at the café. Text me when you’re ready.” Corey, fifteen-and-a-half-years-old, repeated ‘ You got this ,’ to himself. If only he believed it. He’d driven hundreds of miles practicing over the last few months. But until he passed this test, to the world, he knew squat. First tests… firsts of anything are mysterious to the uninitiated. Rites of passage used to mean something. Crossing that line meant leaving childhood forever. He’d take on the mantel of adulthood and everything that meant. Driving legally was about the only rite of passage remaining. Yes, it’s an important step, but a step down from facing enemy fire on a battlefield. Parked in the DMV lot, Corey and his father sat in Corey’s vintage Plymouth Valiant convertible. They got out and shook hands. Corey’s father said, “You know your stuff. Stay focused. You’ll do great.” “I’ll knock this out and then I can take that job.” Corey headed toward the building. Because of his appointment, he wasn’t worried about the line of people waiting. He’d heard horrible things about the DMV. But this might be okay. A lanky man with a DMV badge intercepted him. He carried a clip board. “Looking for a tester? Have a driver’s test scheduled?” Corey nodded. “You’re up. I’m Ziggy. Let’s see your paperwork…” Ziggy looked at Corey’s permit. “Oh, you’re a Pisces…” “What?” “Don’t know if you’re coming or going. Always swim against the current. You know how it goes… Can’t ‘go with the flow,’ as they say.” “This is for my driver’s test, right?” “Of course. DMV at your service… We’ll discover what drives you.” “Me?” “Yeah… you, I, everyone goes ‘round wearing these chassis.” He slapped his chest and arm. “Are you the vehicle to greater understanding? Or will you merely tick off the miles ‘til you get hauled, creaking and groaning, to the scrap heap?” “Uhm, my car’s over there.” “The convertible?” “Yeah.” “Nice. You like the top up or down?” “Down.” Ziggy snickered. Corey gave him a curious look. “Nothing… A private joke. You consider yourself convertible? Or already converted?” “I don’t get it…” Already on edge, Corey began doubting his grasp of reality. They got in and fastened their seat belts. Corey started the car and revved gently. Ziggy said, “So, is this an automatic or manual transmission?” “Automatic.” Ziggy sighed. “Isn’t that like life? So often, we act without thinking. Let ‘the Man’ do it. You know, ‘the Man,’ the government, the internet. No personal initiative anymore.” The word ‘mystified,’ popped into Corey’s brain. Ziggy continued. “You feel in control, Corey? Admit it. There’s so little we control.” Corey tried to focus. “Where are we going?” “Ah, age-old questions. Where am I? And, where are we going? Where are you going, Corey?” “I meant for the driving test. You want me to drive?” Ziggy laughed. “If you don’t know where you’re going, how do you know if you got there? Right?” “Right…” Corey wondered how he could pass this. ‘ What would passing look like? ’ “Tell you what… take the wheel, pull out of the lot. Just drive.” Corey idled to the exit. He flicked the signal and checked for oncoming traffic before turning. Waxing philosophical, Ziggy talked nonstop. “Ahhh, the great wheel of life… You know, the great mandala? ‘Round and ‘round it goes. Where it stops… Where are you on that wheel, Corey? Do you know?” “Hands at three and nine o’clock, sir.” “Very good. Not what I asked but, good to know.” Needing to concentrate, Corey wanted to tune him out, but couldn’t. He slowed for traffic and entered the freeway onramp. “Yes, merging is always a good idea. But with what do we merge? With the universe? The void? Traffic? What do you think, Grasshopper? I mean, Corey?” Corey accelerated and entered the main flow of traffic. He wondered, ‘ Focus… How do I get through this?’ Ziggy said, “How does it feel to travel at the speed of life? So much happens. All at once. Time is such a blessing.” Ziggy rambled on. “All these people hurtling toward their respective destinations. Oblivious to the sea of humanity in which they are immersed…” He laughed. “Who thinks of the other drivers’ problems? Or even as people? Where the hell is everyone going?” He looked at Corey to see if he got the point. Corey nodded. “Corey, you ever hear the one about the fish getting asked, ‘How’s the water?’ Hilarious.” Corey signaled his lane change. He watched his speed. ‘ Hang in there. Just drive…’ “Ever wondered what it would be like to live without limits…? That would be fun, right?” Corey said, “I like speed limits. Those and stop signs are great inventions. Living without limits might be great until a giant tree decides to grow in your path.” Ziggy nodded, “Yielding is great skill too… Yielding to the greater reality barely out of reach. Take this exit.” “You mean the one I just passed?” Ziggy nodded. “I missed my turn.” Ziggy shrugged. “Relax. The brass ring always comes ‘round again.” “Meaning…?” “Take the next exit.” Corey signaled to change lanes. The other driver wouldn’t let him in. “It all comes down to passing, doesn’t it? Pass the test. Pass the car. Pass the time. Pass the potatoes. Is there no end to it?” A driver flashed his lights and let Corey into the lane. Ziggy offered, “Right of way. Who’s really right? More rights than responsibilities... Two wrongs don’t…” Corey fumed as the next exit proved impossible to access. ‘ Oh well, not trying to get anywhere special. Keep moving forward. Focus on safety…’ “No detours, friend. All roads lead to enlightenment.” Corey rolled his eyes as he got into the exit lane, coasted and slowed for the light. Ziggy said, “Of course, enlightenment demands caution. Or discernment. Is the light red or green? And who decides?” Corey snapped. “What are you talking about? Is this a driver’s test?” “Keep your eyes on the road, Sport. You learn to drive playing video games?” “Yeah… did you see that wall ride Chastain pulled off in the NASCAR playoffs?” “Careful. This ain’t NASCAR. You don’t want to get towed away with a toe tag.” Corey pulled to the curb and shifted into park. He turned to Ziggy. “Are you a pod person? What does any of this have to do with anything?” Ziggy made a note on his clip board. “Signal and, when safe, re-enter traffic flow. Head back to the DMV. This test is over.” “But…” “You failed.” “But how…? I did everything…” “It’s in the stars, my Pisces friend… When the student is ready, the teacher appears. I assure you, you’re not ready.” Corey drove back in silence. He felt lost. ‘ How was this a driver’s test? More of a seminar on New Age claptrap.’ He pulled into the lot and parked. He focused on his breathing. ‘I drove perfectly. No errors. Arbitrarily failed by this DMV guru. Kiss that job good-bye. Re-schedule. Will I have to wait weeks?’ Ziggy exited and leaned in. “Better luck next time, fish boy…” He slammed the door and walked toward the main building. Corey watched Ziggy go through the door. He needed to chill and then re-schedule his test. He set the brake, stepped into the morning air and stretched. He entered the building and watched for an open window. “Hi. I need to reschedule. I failed my driver’s test.” Corey passed the clerk his permit. The clerk searched his monitor. “I can fit you in for 10am tomorrow. That work for you?” Corey nodded. “Let’s see, Egbert’s free. But he can be a bit slow.” The clerk leaned in. “Except when he’s behind the wheel… Then there’s Miranda. She’s never failed anyone. You’re not married, are you?” Corey said, “No.” “Okay. You're in. Who was your tester today?” “Uhm, Ziggy…?” “Oh, you mean Otto. I’ve heard about him…” “That’s okay. I learned something.” “Really? From Otto?” At peace, Corey felt inspired. “...Whether I’m the water or the wave.” “Wow… That’s some driver’s license test… What did you decide?” Corey smiled. “I'm both.”


(WP) Simple Courtesy I got engaged to be married to a wyvern by holding the door for him. I didn’t think anything of it; I was only being polite. We both worked at the same bookstore, and we happened to both be returning from our break, and he was behind me, so I just held the door open. He beamed at me; his eyes dewy with something that I couldn’t understand. “Patrick, you’re too kind! We’ll have to tell our parents, you know. Wyvern-human marriage is generally frowned upon in my culture.” I stared at him, frowning. “Marriage? What are you talking about, Dalton?” “You held the door for me, Patrick!” He answered as if this was obvious. “In my culture, showing someone specific kindness, such as you just did for me, shows the other person that you wish to be married!” There was that word, again. Marriage. I didn’t even know if I wanted to get married, and now here I was, engaged to a wyvern. For opening the door. “Uh, that’s not what I meant,” I said hurriedly, damning the bright flush that was climbing up my neck and flooding my cheeks. “I was only being polite!” But it was too late to backpedal, and I found myself making a date to have dinner with Dalton and his parents. My stomach had quickly tightened into knots, and nausea was quickly roiling my stomach. How had this happened? \*\* When I returned home, I told my parents the situation, feeling embarrassed all over again. My dad, who’d been folding laundry in the living room, looked at me, brow furrowed. But his eyes crinkled up at the corners, the corners of his mouth turned upward as if fighting a laugh. My mother was sitting with a cup of coffee on the couch, frowning thoughtfully. “But surely you can say that this is all a misunderstanding,” She said, taking a sip of her drink. “I’m sure once you explain, it’ll be a laugh, and then we can move on with our lives. Besides, we’ve been long overdue for a night out. We need to make a good impression on our future in-laws.” She dropped a wink, and my embarrassed “Mom!” was drowned out by my parents’ laughter. \*\* We met with Dalton and his parents in a fancy restaurant on the outside of town. We were all dressed nicely: I wore my finest suit, though it was too small and parts of my wrists showed; Mom had donned a silk gray sheath dress and a little tiny bag to match, with heels, and my dad wore the tux he’d worn to his own wedding to my mother, fifteen years before. But no matter how nice we looked, my heart wouldn’t stop pounding, and sweat formed on the back of my neck, my forehead, the small of my back. The restaurant wasn’t even warm, but I couldn’t stay still. I had to get out of this, or I was going to be married to a wyvern.


‘Come on, let’s go!’ Momma hurries me, waving absently at the luggage I’m still packing. ‘I know Momma, hang on.’ I tuck my favorite Teddy from when I was younger in with the clothes. I don’t remember when when Dad gave it to me. I know I always loved it since. I zip the suitcase shut, before slipping into a warmer hoodie. Momma is already downstairs, preparing to go. She’s got a gun on the table. I haven’t seen our gun in a while, since Dad taught me to shoot it. ‘Momma?’ I ask, with uncertainty. ‘It’ll be alright, hon. Let’s go.’ We take our paltry supplies to the car. Water for a few days, the rest of our food. Our medical kit, and sanitary supplies. As we get into the car, I notice the sun seems different. Colder. Maybe I just hadn’t looked at it enough. ‘Where are we going first momma?’ ‘The school I think. He is a teacher, hopefully he’s still there. We’ve been here.’ Momma looks like she doesn’t know. I don’t blame her. She turns onto the highway, and with no traffic in sight, she presses the pedal to the floor. I notice her knuckles on the steering wheel are white. We pass the time in silence. Momma watches the road while I watch everything else. I open the car door, taking in the empty surroundings. School should still be in session, but there’s nothing here. No lights or voices, or people. But we have to find Dad. I step out of the car, before pausing and leaning back in. Momma is making to get out too. ‘Momma –‘ my throat catches. ‘Ma, I got this. It’s okay. Just give me the knife. I’ll be alright. I gotta.’ She grimaces at me, not wanting to leave me alone here. I don’t blame her. ‘You still have the gun right?’ Momma pulls it from under her seat, and makes to hand it to me. ‘No ma, you need it more than I do.’ She settles back into the car. Unhappy. But it’s safer out here, at least, I think. I clutch the knife to me, feeling it rattle in its sheath. It’s the first sound I hear outside the car. There’s just a short path between the car and the doors. I push open the door on the left, and it swings itself closed behind me, awkwardly groaning before it latches into place. There are stairs to the right, and the office to the left. There are no lights there, and the door is closed. There’s no light downstairs at all. The light from the door gives way to black too soon. I decide not to go that way. The stairs are dusty, the railing cold, the concrete cracked. The air is old and unmoving. I reach the top of the stairs, and something is already wrong. There’s a child sitting in a seat in front of me, watching lines on a screen embedded in the wall. He isn’t moving, so I ask who he is. He doesn’t answer. I reach out with the knife still in its sheath, and tap him on the shoulder. Nothing. I go to his side, and to my relief he still has a face. A right face. He’s just not all there. To the right, barely two steps away is another door, solid wood. No light emanates from the crack beneath it. The boy will be no help, so I leave him. To the left is a normal classroom, the stairs might have been where the door was. A single light from what looks like a kitchen counter dimly projects into the room. I see two rows of chairs, and tablets at each desk. The windows along the wall are blacked out. I look up and realize the overhead fan still spins. It’s still spinning. That thought catches in my throat as I realize there’s no sound. I can’t hear my breathing. I can’t hear my single footstep back. All I feel is the pounding of my heart, as fear creeps into my vision. I turn to run, hoping I am not too late. The child looks at me quizzically as I turn, but I barely see him. Not four steps into the room, as I make to race down the steps back to the safety of the light I slam into nothing. I lose myself for a moment, staggering backwards into the wall of screens. Only the one is still on. But the child isn’t looking at it anymore. He’s looking at me. But his head hasn’t turned. Just his face. Surprised, I look back to the stairs. The door opens again. It shouldn’t have opened. Why is it opening? And there’s my mother. She closes it behind her, softly. The gun is in her hand. She makes the same short decision I did. I try to call out to her, but no sound will come from my anguished lips. She begins climbing the steps, and I know she must not make it to the top. He’s just looking at me. Only looking at me. I throw myself at the stairs, feeling my head thud against concrete, seeing nothing. I slam the knife against it, harder, and harder, until I feel something give way. Numbly I realize it is my hand. Momma is just a few steps away now. She stops at the last step. The gun is still in her hand. The last vestige of safety she has. Momma stops. I don’t know why. She stares at the wall, past me, at something else. She turns a pale white, and stumbles backwards down the stairs, gripping the railing. She nearly falls before turning and running down the stairs. She makes it outside, the door slowly creeping back into place. The light from outside fades into the black of the foyer. I am relieved. I sag into the invisible wall, feeling its uncapitulating smoothness. It’s hard to hold the knife. I settle with my back to the wall now, the child still looking at me. His eyes don’t move. When I look at him, nothing moves. He shouldn’t be able to look at me without turning his head. Then I hear an impossibly loud cracking as if reality had split itself open again. I fall backwards down the stairs. The last thing I see is a mirthless smile, before I manage to scramble to my feet, dropping the knife down the other side of the stairs in the process. Old dust clings to my pants, my shirt, and gets into my lungs. I hear myself cough as I scramble down the stairs. Adrenaline surges as I seek to be let out of my prison. I crash through the doors, throwing them open. My hand throbs. I take a few more steps before I am stopped again. This time it isn’t a wall. An ancient primal grief awakens inside me, and I scream. My mother sits slumped at the wheel, the gun awkwardly lopsided on the dashboard. Viscera clings to the windshield. I rush to the car, murmuring. ‘No.’ over and over. I yank the door open, hoping its another trick. It isn’t. I fall to my knees, feeling reality close in around me, my vision blurs. Tears fall on the concrete. I feel empty. A void grows inside me, and at the center of that void a white-hot rage builds against the tides. I scream upwards into the sky again, into the cold orange rays dying against the black of space. I bury her there. It takes me a while, though the sun no longer moves so I don’t know how long. The gun sits, holstered on my hip. I put a blanket on the car seat, and wipe away what I can on the windshield. I have to look for Dad.


“Where am I and what’s been going on, I appear to be in a hospital ward that just seems ‘so wrong”! “I’m in here with ‘old aged pensioners’ but I’m only ‘twenty four’, I’m easily the youngest in here but I don’t know what it’s for”? “I was very dumbfounded by the situation and I really had to think, ‘I remembered collapsing whilst I stood at the bathroom sink”! “That’s right’, there was a fall and soon an ambulance appeared and then I was in hospital and rapidly felt quite weird”! “I was suddenly rushed outside and then I heard the helicopter blades, and I heard my fiancée say ‘see you up there’ as my daylight slowly fades”! I was in an unusual position in an unusual and unfamiliar environment because I was now sitting upright in a hospital bed, which apparently, was a positive improvement because for many weeks all I could recall was lying in the foetal position! I would later be both reminded and updated on the cause of my collapse and my prognosis, which was, that my initial collapse was because I had had a brain haemorrhage and I had been in a coma for many weeks after the initial life saving operation and then I continued being ‘in and out’ of consciousness for a further frustrating period of time afterwards, which explained why I was now seeing Easter eggs on bedside tables next to other patients because I last recalled looking forward to celebrating the New Year with my Fiancée and friends! My tediously slow, frustrating and upsetting recuperation began in a horizontal position for months afterwards and I only saw nurses, doctors and visitors looking down at me and they had a ‘one way’ conversation with me because, much to my surprise, I had a thick tube inserted into my throat and my unfamiliar voice was ineligible anyway! As I looked around this ward I could see no familiar faces but they were friendly faces that recognised a similarity with my condition and therefore I received acceptance and compassion, which made my personal situation only ‘very slightly’ bearable but it was very depressing and mentally frustrating and upsetting! This ward accommodated, including me, about fourteen patients and it was a pleasingly light and bright ward with about six or seven large windows welcoming ‘natural light’ which had previously seemed a very rare but precious ‘gift’ that we sometimes take for granted! One of these very large windows would neatly frame my daily visual activity and this mental stimulation would be beneficial for exercising my brain and imagination! The window that was opposite to me framed, rather symmetrically, a tree on a grassy hill and clouds would either slowly drift past this tree, rush high above it or just linger over the tree as though it was behaving in a suspicious way! The clouds’ movement and direction would depict and intrigue both my thoughts and imagination ‘as well as’ encourage my poor geographical knowledge with regards to their appearance here, there direction and destination and from where they could have possibly arrived! If they were moving fast I knew that it must be windy outside, or if they moved slowly past I could tell that there was a breeze ‘in the air’ or if they just lingered idly above I could tell that there was little wind today ‘if any’ and the colour of the sky would be an indication of the warmth and the season! Today I estimated that we were in the month of March or ‘very early’ April but I could also see that it was a very pleasant day! On this particular morning the clouds were already there as soon as the long and heavy curtains were quickly ripped open and these clouds were low and conveniently lingered because they were awaiting my presence so that they could take me out of here on a  ‘mystery tour’ and my destination, at a guess, appeared to be on the South Coast of Wales? “Roll-up’, roll-up’, come and get your hot-dogs, burgers or chips or if you prefer we have ice-cream or other ices and freshly made doughnuts to offer you ‘as well” said the colourful and smartly dressed man and our surprisingly quick journey had ended and we now appeared to be at the seaside and ‘as I’ dismounted the cloud that brought me here I soon realised that I was in a ‘Fun-Fair’ at the seaside and it was a very popular place today and so was the golden sand of the beach that was adjacent to it! Where would I go first? The warm fresh air and the vastness and the freedom of the great expanse of the adjacent beach was very appealing but before I could wander-off a ‘rather loud and irate voice’ was heard from behind and then this voice was followed with the accelerating sound of footsteps - ‘oh dear’ I thought ‘somebody’s in trouble’! The footsteps became louder and this accelerating sound seemed to be right behind me and as I turned around I was immediately confronted by an extremely large and tall man who hastily grabbed my wrist and pulled me towards this very large marquee that occupied the central area of the FunFair and he continued scolding me with his very deep and loud voice- “where have you been, I’ve been looking ‘all over the place’ for you and as he was literally dragging me towards this large grey canvas marquee I noticed that there was a photograph of me outside and apparently I was ‘great’ and ‘amazingly acrobatic’! He continued with his ranting “If you don’t perform then we have no act and if we have no act then we have no show and if we have no show then you don’t get employed or paid” and I soon approached the marquee’s entrance and the promotional poster outside that boasted my amazing skills and were the ‘apparent highlight’ of this show and I was both baffled and bemused with this idea that I was talented with both athleticism and daredevilry! “Now I want you to perform particularly well tonight because we have a ‘full house’ and I don’t want to refund any money again…… ‘do you hear”? ‘As if’ the pressure of performing any unknown athletic act, that was worthy of payment, wasn’t daunting enough but he had to add the threat of doing it well and to be entertaining and I didn’t have a clue ‘as to’ my routine or responsibilities but my first dramatic act, after I had ‘warmed up’, was to successfully perform on the very high and daunting trapeze! I didn’t particularly like heights and even the thought of climbing up the very tall ladder that was attached to the side of one of the tall uprights frightened me but I was ‘forcibly encouraged’ to perform well tonight and I really didn’t know how! I started the climb very nervously and showed no signs of confidence, bravery or athleticism and I could hear the predictable angry shouts for refunds now! I had succeeded in climbing the very tall ladder and expected to be applauded for that but I just heard a few sighs and comments of  ‘about bleeding time’! I suddenly felt very dizzy and started to wobble at being so high with no safety precautions ‘in place’ but my time to surprise even myself had to soon begin and I very nervously placed my right foot onto the thin and taught wire that was my thin and high pathway to success and safety would await me on the other side! I was automatically given a balancing rod to aid my actual walk across the wire but a ‘jet-pack’ would have received a  ‘much more’ grateful response! I nervously began with this ‘suicidal walk’ and very cautiously placed my trembling right leg onto the thin wire that awaited my disastrous crossing and my left leg briefly joined my right leg on this wire but my stability instantly failed and I very tragically fell off but ‘as I’ began to fall the soft and fluffy cloud that brought me here appeared ‘just in time’ to dramatically shorten my fall and its gratefully sudden appearance would also rescue me from any angry verbal disappointment from either the ‘paying public’ or my ‘already irate’ boss because its appearance here was a thankfully short one and it moved swiftly towards the exit and the open air outside and it continued on its return journey. The weather had remained refreshingly fine and there were no other clouds to distract or redirect ‘my cloud’ and I continued on this journey with relaxing calmness and we would soon return to the hospital and to my hospital bed. The afternoon might not have been a totally positive one but it had excitement, travel and fresh air with the probable ending of both my life and career! Any negativity was soon ended when I was given assistance from a nurse to be seated in an upright position in my bed ‘as though’ she expected my arrival which was conveniently in time for both tea and visitors! My fiancée was my first regular and prompt visitor whose visits were looked upon very very favourably and finally I would have some exciting news to tell her when she automatically asked the question “what have you been doing today”? ‘As soon as’ she asked that predictable question I could ‘at last’ gain her genuine interest with my exciting reply and she listened to my story with both sympathy and despair as her eyes looked upwards and she ‘tutted’ loudly with frustration before quickly concluding “so, you’ve been in bed asleep this afternoon have you, whilst I’ve been working hard”? “Dreamer”!