I let Alessia lead the way along the shorefront. Crowds milled around. The residents walked in hurried paces, arms swaying with momentum as they walked. “Out the way!” I turned around to see a man pulling a cart. He walked towards me, showing no sign of slowing down. I managed to take a step back just in time as he flew past me, the sea of people parting as he went. I found myself tucking in my arms close to my body, trying to remain as thin as possible as we continued to weave our way through the town. I looked at the buildings as we passed. Wide windows gave a perfect view of the insides. I could see the electric bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Not a single room had a lantern for light. The desks inside the offices were made from polished wood and welded metal. Men and women sat in neat rows, their faces buried in their work. Many were still working with pens and paper, but in the background I could see people pushing buttons on a machine, printed paper emerging from the top. As we continued, the glass windows gave way to a thick stone wall. High above, painted on the side of the building was a wide mural overlooking the main thoroughfare. The image stretched the width of the structure. It was a painting of a woman. She had long, brown curly hair tied in a ponytail at the back, with round cheeks and olive skin. The painting had a soft, caring smile, but her arms were crossed and her eyes narrowed. Underneath read a caption “Tima Voreef thanks you for all you do.” Underneath that was a signature. “Joan Moreno, President.” As people walked by the mural, their eyes would glance up at the painting. As they stared upon the president, her firm but encouraging smile bestowed upon them, they seemed to gain a moment’s energy. Tired backs straightened, the pace of their footsteps increased by a beat, as they continued about their resolute task I turned my attention back to Alessia, beginning to fear I might lose her in the throng. “Where are we heading then?” “Main trading hall. It’s where you’d go to buy what they had.” “Won’t there be a hundred different sellers there?” I replied, my arms and legs glancing off people. I found myself persistently raising my hands in apology. “Every sale made in that place gets approved and recorded centrally. The stuff they sell ain’t exactly fruit and bread.” Alessia turned a corner and headed to the large doors of the trading hall. As soon as we walked in, we were greeted by two tall men. They wore black waistcoats and loose white shirts. Their tall frames acted as a solid wall, blocking our passage. “What’s your purpose?” one of them said. “Inquiring about a previous sale,” Alessia replied. “Are you a resident of Ruthogrey Landfall?” “No.” “Have you ever lived on Ruthogrey Landfall?” “No.” Have you ever traded or had any business activity with any associates of Ruthogrey Landfall?” “No,” Alessia replied a third time, a hint of irritation in her voice. The man grunted. “Can you confirm you are not currently carrying any weapons or explosive materials on your person?” “Correct,” Alessia nodded. “Fine. Sign in here.” The man pointed to a book. We filled in our names and islands of birth and headed down the corridor into the trading hall. As we opened the doors, the large market sprawled out before us. The support columns marked individual selling areas. A series of rows stretched out in each direction across the cavernous space. Some were shops with shelves of merchandise. Others were open areas where you could get up close and inspect the items on offer. Some were a mere kiosk with a person behind waiting to take your order. Though there were many styles of presentation, none of them seemed unkempt or hastily put together. The market at Ringatoy Shires was a chaotic web, a thousand sellers acting independently to accidentally form a beast bigger than any one individual had conceived. But here, everything felt controlled. Some greater power made sure that no store encroached on the aisles, that the signage was consistent, and that each seller spoke at the same volume. Of course, the other key difference between here and Ringatoy was the products. Ringatoy sold knowledge. Tima Voreef sold death. I walked past an open space with large mortar shells standing on tables, the domed roofs pointing to the ceiling. People walked around them, leaning in, inspecting the metal container and the small placard of information beside it. Next to that people inspected racks of pistols. Buyers picked them up, feeling the weight of them in their hand, lifting them to eye level so they could stare down the sight. The market didn’t just sell arms. Boats, engines, electrics and an array of other innovations and inventions were all for sale. They were by-products of the coming war. Ideas that extended beyond their primary purpose of being bigger and faster than the enemy. We continued through the hall, passing the bazaar of bombs, machines, ammo and guns until we reached a large snaking queue near the northern exit. There was a long row of desks, numbers hanging over them ranging from one to fifteen. Behind each, sat a worker, their eyes buried in books in front of them, pouring over documents handed to them by the customers. One-by-one, people would walk up and present their receipts for inspection. Then, their details would be taken, and their goods delivered directly to their ship for safe travel. We waited in line for over an hour as the queue slowly cleared. As we approached the man behind the kiosk he was still scribbling down notes on the previous sale. The book in front of him was a wide ledger. A series of columns ran across the top: buyer, items purchased, quantity, island of origin, and buyer’s ship. The man held out his hand without looking up. “Receipts,” he said with an already irritated tone. “We don’t have any. We’re not buying,” Alessia replied. “We’re here to inquire about a previous purchase.” The man looked up with an arched brow, closing the book in front of him. “Do you know when you made the purchase? I’ll have to get the correct records.” “We didn’t,” Alessia said. She had a large smile on her face, one that showed teeth, where the corners of her mouth were pulled unnaturally upwards. It was a smile I had not seen from her before. An ingenuine emotion. “We were hoping to find out about a sale made to someone else, would have been approximately three months ago. It would’ve been a very large sale, large quantities of ammunition and explosives, maybe even some ships...” “If you aren’t the buyer I can’t give you that information,” the man replied flatly. “We don’t need to know the full itinerary of what was sold. We just need names and an island. That’s all.” “We don’t give out information on our customers. Confidentiality is important to our buyers,” the man’s voice did not waver. Alessia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The smile wavered slightly before she wrenched the corners of her lips up once more. “Look, the people who you sold those items to are dangerous, they aren’t using them for protection but to hurt innocent people. We need to find out who they are. Then we can be on our way.” “I’m not able to give you that information. It’s policy.” The simper cracked. The corners of the lips falling to a flat line. Alessia leaned in and spoke with a whispered rage. “Listen. I know you have your policies and your nonsense, shit reasons for not telling me, ‘cause you’re worried I’m gonna use it to hurt you or your business in some way. But the people you sold these weapons to went and wiped out an entire island. They need to be stopped.” The man leant back in his chair. “I know you may feel we’re responsible for whatever happened, but in war there are casualties on both sides…” “Oh, this wasn’t a war. It was a massacre. A whole island, not a single weapon between the whole lot of them. Then your customers rock up and kill them all, murdering the livestock, burning the crops, shooting kids as they run away. This isn’t about revenge for some war, it’s about stopping some killers who are wiping out islands with your weapons.” I looked up. At the far wall I could see a thin man. He leant back, one leg raised so that the sole of his shoe met the wall. His arms were crossed, and his head tilted back so that he inspected the world by staring down his nose. I could see his eyes turning, catching us in his peripheral vision. “You will have to leave I’m afraid,” the man behind the desk said. “I’m not going to give you that information.” “This is…” Alessia cut herself off. “Can’t you see that this is more important than whatever rules you have in place?” I stepped forward, trying to give Alessia time to breathe. “Isn’t there someone else we can talk to? Someone else who would have the necessary authority?” The man held up his hands. “As I say. You will have to leave. If you want to talk to anyone else, you can try talking to people at the headquarters. They have the same records as we do here. But I’m certain you will have no luck. The policy is what it is.” “No one here I can talk to?” Alessia said, her face red. “No.” I tapped Alessia’s shoulder. “Come on. We’ll find another way.” Alessia peeled herself away from the desk, refusing to give up eye contact with the man until we were well away from the booth. We sulked to the exit and stepped outside into the early afternoon. I couldn’t help but notice how far the sun had transitioned while we were in line waiting for useless answers. “What now?” I asked. Alessia rocked her head. “We can go see the other people, but I don’t fancy our chances.” She looked back to the building, gritting her teeth. “How do you feel about theft?” I took a step back. “Surely we should exhaust our other options first. Let’s go to the headquarters, see what they say…” I was interrupted by a voice behind me. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but overhear your discussion inside.” I turned around to see the man who had been leaning against the wall behind the kiosk. No longer slouching, I could make out his tall, stick-like frame. His skin was so pale it seemed almost translucent in the bright light, and except for long gray hair at the back of his neck, he was otherwise bald. “We were after information about a purchase a while back.” “Yes. We don’t normally share that kind of information…” the man said slowly. “Uh huh. Your friend inside made that pretty clear.” Alessia folded her arms. “*Normally*,” the man added. “Certain exceptions can be made for cooperative individuals.” “Cooperative individuals?” Alessia repeated with a raised eyebrow. “Yes. I would be able to procure that information for you.” “And you are…?” Alessia asked. The man smiled with teeth less white than his skin. “My name’s Runar. I work with the government here on Tima Voreef. I’m not in the cabinet, you won’t see my name on any documents, but I have the ear of the president herself if needs be.” “If you can get the president to allow us to see who made that purchase...” I said. “Oh. There’s no need to bother the president herself with this. She would have no problem with me giving the information to you. Especially after you are willing to do us a favour.” Alessia let out a cackle. “Yeah, I assumed that was coming. What do you need?” “I assume you came on a ship?” “Uh huh.” “What type?” “Small trading vessel. B class,” Alessia said, taking a step forward. “Ah, perfect. Perhaps you could walk me to it. So I can see.” Runar pointed behind us down the quay. “This way?” He began walking along the promenade slowly. Alessia and I followed him through the crowds. “And what do you want with my ship?” Alessia asked. “Oh, I don’t think we should discuss that here. Too many ears.” Runar waved a hand at the crowds around us. “Let’s see your ship first.” I looked at Alessia, uncertain what she wanted to do. She shrugged and turned back to the man, following him. After a few minutes’ walk, Alessia pointed to her ship and we walked over. I expected the man to merely stand on the edge and peer down. However, he turned around instead and climbed down the ladder to the boat, unencumbered by his age or formal-fitted clothes. Alessia opened her mouth to protest, but by the time she could muster words, he was already descending towards the boat. “Yes. This is a lovely ship you have,” he said stepping on board. Alessia arrived a couple of seconds after him. “Well it’s not for sale,” she said through slitted lips. “Oh no. I don’t need this boat. We have plenty.” He pointed to the giant ship I had seen when we first landed. “No. I want you to make a delivery for us.” “There are a lot of merchants here. You could pay anyone to make that trip,” I said. “Indeed. But sometimes there are better currencies than mere money. A favour for money doesn’t feel right. A favour for a favour seems like a much better trade.” “So what? You want us to deliver cargo you can’t get a normal merchant ship to send. This is all unofficial?” Alessia said. “Correct.” “And why’s that?” “Because you’ll be making a delivery to Ruthogrey Landfall.” Alessia burst out laughing. “Fuck off. There are more guns and cannons pointing across that stretch of ocean than anywhere else in the world. I’m not crossing that.” “Oh. I can assure you that no one from either island will harm you. You will have documentation to pass any checkpoints on both islands.” I cocked my head. “But why is Tima Voreef sending a delivery to Ruthogrey Landfall anyway?” “Sometimes, in order to stave off war, you must make certain compromises. We return to them something they want so that we may avoid conflict.” I waited for Alessia to respond, but she was still chuckling in disbelief. I shook my head. “You could be sending anything. It could be a bomb. You let us get there and then blow them and us up.” “You’ll be able to see very clearly it’s not a bomb.” “So what is it then?” Alessia interrupted. “What is it we’re taking for you to your sworn enemy?” Runar looked around, ensuring no one had stopped by on the promenade to listen in. Satisfied, he leaned closer. “You’ll be returning a prisoner.” \ Next chapter released August 19th.


Warning - If you accept your invitation to this tea party, there will be mentions of poison and murder. It starts at 3.30pm GMT. Don’t be late. Why had Hazel invited the taxman to tea? Was he the next to suffer, like they had? Last month she’d asked the planning officer who’d refused to let her build a conservatory, the month before that, it had been the headmistress who’d given Billy a detention. There was a pattern, but only Jude could see it. The other friends (or were they victims?) thought Hazel was a darling to invite such a range of people. “So sweet,” they said. “So generous,” they said. “So suspicious,” Jude murmured. The thing was - someone was always ill after tea. Amber had had palpitations after eating a caraway bun, even though it was so small. Jude had listened to her repeating that she was tired and hungry, and her heart was racing. Surely those were symptoms of an insulin overdose? But Amber was always tired and hungry, or so she said, and the only difference was the speed of her heart. Jude, still by Amber’s side, had thought how much of an improvement it might be to Amber’s life if her heart did beat a little faster. She might be better at tennis for a start, and she’d be able to beat Hazel. Then Mary had been sick after her yellow French Fancy. Jude had helped her to clean the driftwood-white laminate flooring in the bathroom. Mary had been sobbing, mortified that the floor had been stained a luminous yellow. Jude hadn’t the heart to tell Mary that her new white fillings were now the same shade as the floor. Jude had to admit, Mary’s bright smile had been annoying, but now, it would make Jude smile too. They were right, smiling was contagious. Right there, on the bathroom floor, Jude had known that Hazel was up to something; she’d watched enough forensic dramas to know that rat poison could make your vomit bright yellow. But why would Hazel do this? What was she trying to gain? Was she practising, trying to get the doses right? Would there be a more dramatic event soon, an imminent death perhaps? Would Jude have the chance to save a life at last? She’d love to do that; she’d be a hero and people would want to talk to her all the time. Jude had started training as a paramedic once, before her mother’s accident. She’d learnt for real after that, she’d watched medical videos, read medical blogs, and loved her mother until she was gone. Without her, Jude missed the contact with the health service. She needed people to know that she cared, and that she was there for people – if only they reached out to her. When Hazel first invited Jude to tea, they were in the pharmacy in Fordingbridge. They’d started chatting beside the paracetamol – well, Hazel had chatted, Jude just listened and encouraged her. Then Hazel invited her to tea – just like that, and Jude managed to be there, despite her tonsillitis. That was last year, before people were getting ill. Now, Jude was considering refusing to go, but she visualised the empty teatimes in her flat, along with the empty lunchtimes and evenings. She couldn’t bear it; it was better to go than to be alone. Jude liked to be invited to things, that was the truth of it. She wanted to be included and that was important to her. Jude had been lucky so far, anyway; she hadn’t been ill. She’d watch Hazel carefully, she had a duty to keep herself well, since she would be needed to look after the others when the time came. Besides, Jude realised, she was fascinated. What condition did Hazel suffer from that made her do this? Perhaps it was Hazel that needed her help, not the others. It was 3.14pm. Jude decided to walk to the tea party since there was plenty of time. The house wasn’t far, and it would give her a chance to wear the kitten heels she’d bought last year and never worn. Picking up her handbag and her flowery biscuit tin, she left the flat. Outside, she turned to go up Romsey Street because she liked the bustle of it; the houses were built for families and overseas students. Jude waved at a group of women and prams, and at a window cleaner whose ladder wobbled as she brushed past. She didn’t know them of course, but if she waved, her dress floated around, and she’d be looking flushed and happy when she knocked on Hazel’s door. She’d have to hope the dread that she was feeling didn’t creep into her eyes and give her away. Hazel’s house was pretty. There were fluffy net curtains at the windows and Hazel in her effervescent tea-dress at the door. What would the taxman think? Was the poor man there already? Jude took a deep breath and crossed the road. “Hazel!” said Jude, handing her the tin of homemade shortbread, using it like a shield so that she wouldn’t be hugged, or air kissed. “Come in, Jude. Roxy and Tomas are here already. Everyone’s a little early, ” said Hazel, wiping her hands on her pinny. Tomas? Was that the taxman? She’d pronounced it Toe-maz, as if she knew him well. Was there a way you could pronounce her own name to show she was known well too? Ju-ood or Jood? No, probably not - she was just Jude. That’s what they’d called her at school. Just Jude. “Oh,” they’d say in disappointment, “It’s Just Jude.” At least Hazel hadn’t done that, and Jude smiled slightly as they walked down the narrow hall into the bright kitchen. The retro-styled units and red gingham curtains seemed to make everyone happy. Hazel mixed retro eras with distressed kitsch, with factory shop bargains, and Jude wondered how anything ever looked good. But it did, somehow, and the kitchen was welcoming, like a little pat on the head from your uncle. Jude saw Roxy standing by the window, looking into the garden. She’d be imagining a fishpond, more than likely. Roxy worked for a fish charity in Africa and could answer any trivia question about fish in the Zambezi. But she didn’t have her own fish, not even a goldfish. Jude had bought her a Nemo bath toy last Christmas and she hoped that was helping. It was 3.30pm. Hazel appeared to be incredibly pleased with her guests. Well, not Jude, Roxy or Tomas to be fair, but the others. They were on time. They’d made Hazel’s day by ringing the doorbell at exactly the right moment. And now she was able to reveal her new three-tiered cake stand, stuffed with potentially hazardous teatime treats. “Beautiful!” said Amber, looking for caraway buns. “Um,” said the taxman because he needed to join in. “Just like Claridge’s!” said Hazel, twirling the stand around so that her guests could see the full wonder of her baking skills. Jude looked on in horror. She didn’t know how she was going to protect everyone this time. There were so many choices, even little sandwiches, she noticed - it was usually just cakes - and savoury things added to the problem. Jude’s responsibility was huge, Hazel might have used fish paste and that was great for disguising poison. In fact, Jude could smell the sardine and tomato paste from here. She held on to a chair for support. There were goat’s cheese and rocket sandwiches on brown bread – Hazel was even telling them brown bread was better for their health – but the salad leaves weren’t rocket at all. Jude stared. Was that - hemlock ? “We’ll go in the garden,” called Hazel from the back door and they all followed each other into the sun. Hazel took the teapot; Roxy carried the cups and saucers and Jude lost out to Tomas in the rush to carry the resplendent cake stand. He brushed her away, as if she were incapable. Jude nearly swore at him - her frustration had escalated - he’d ruined her plan of dropping the thing on the way out. It was 3.53pm. Jude grabbed a goat’s cheese sandwich and took it behind a large hydrangea bush. She pulled the bread apart and examined the contents. Her hands were so sweaty, they were beginning to melt the cheese. She couldn’t be sure about the leaves, but they weren’t rocket, she knew that. Should she try a bit? Take the risk for her tea-friends. Was it worth it? As Jude crept back to the patio, trying not to gag, Hazel bent forward to Mary, offering her a sandwich from the stand. Mary, thankfully, chose a macaroon and Hazel turned to Jude. “Did you see my husband?” she asked. “Pardon?” Jude was taken aback, there hadn’t been anyone behind the bush with her. Besides, she’d never met Hazel’s husband, she hadn’t even been aware that Hazel was married. “Hazel – “warned Tomas, while Mary sniggered. They were looking at Jude, every one of them. She had a feeling they knew what she’d been doing, but she’d been so diplomatic, how could they? But Hazel’s husband - what had he got to do with it? Jude was getting flustered. She didn’t understand. She looked at them again. Tomas’ hand rested lightly on Hazel’s arm, an informal gesture that you did when you knew someone well. Amber was grinning widely, she knew what this was about, that much was obvious. They all did, Jude sensed from looking around. Embarrassed, she flushed. She’d never understood jokes, they made her feel uncomfortable, like she wasn’t clever enough, like she wasn’t allowed to understand, excluded from the laughing. Jude remembered how it had felt, all those times in the past, when she wasn’t welcome, not invited into the laughing circle. The memories stabbed her, as if they were serrated knives. It was 4.09pm. And then Hazel giggled. “Jude, I forget that you don’t really know any of us! I’m sorry – Jerry’s buried there – well, his ashes anyway.” She laughed, high, like a piccolo. Not a tra-la-la piccolo, but a pointy, pokey, nasty piccolo, like a seagull’s beak. “Hazel, you’re cruel,” said Amber, trying to make things less awkward for Jude. Amber glanced at her, but Jude looked away. She hated them for knowing each other for so long. And to think, she’d been willing to risk her life to protect them. She sat on the edge of the walled flowerbed. She couldn’t join them anymore; she was still the new girl, always the new girl. But she did have a job to do. Real heroes didn’t help people just so that they could have tea, they helped because it was the right thing to do. And what about the martyrs? No one included them, did they? Joan of Arc hadn’t been on anyone’s guest list, Jude was sure. She straightened her shoulders and monitored the situation. It was 4.24pm. All was well. At 4.39pm, the lower two tiers of the cake stand were empty, and still no one had been taken ill. Maybe Jude had been wrong all along. She’d spitefully let them eat the goat’s cheese sandwiches, without warning them, and then remorse had begun to bite at her. What if one of them had been ill? Would that have been her fault, when she’d known, when she’d kept quiet, deliberately? Did that make her an accomplice? Roxy and Mary were at the top of the garden now, in the shade. They were chatting about charity work no doubt. Jude had moved to the fold-up chair, which had the only mismatched cushion, and was listening to Hazel explain the art of violin playing to Tomas and the others. She wondered if anyone’s tax was going to be paid this quarter, Tomas had that goofy expression of the easy-to-bribe, and she could just see him turning a blind eye. “Does anyone mind if I have the Cherry Bakewell?” he asked, reaching towards the top tier of the stand. “NO!” shouted Jude, her overly loud voice springing out of her. She’d scared them, she could tell. She’d scared herself; she was shaky and jumpy, and her heart was flapping like an old kite stuck in a tree. Jude made a huge effort to recover herself. “No,” she said again, more calmly, “go ahead, I’m full.” But Jude stayed alert. At 4.55pm, everyone had survived. The conversation began to slow down. Amber was the first to leave, followed by Mary, whose children had just come home from school. Jude began to feel her responsibilities lifting, and she needed the walk home to clear her head. When she saw Hazel and Tomas having a furtive kiss, she knew it was time to go. She felt deflated. The taxman hadn’t needed rescuing after all, nor had anyone, come to that. She let herself quietly out of the front door. She was so wrong, and so stupid; nobody had needed her, there hadn’t been any danger or mystery, just – what? Just - nothing. Just - Jude. She stomped home in her ridiculous kitten heels and threw herself on her sofa, turning on the TV. It was her favourite, but she couldn’t watch, not today. Celebrity Cakes would have to wait, just like her. Waiting, for ages, just to hear when the next tea party was. And who Hazel had invited. Someone must need Jude’s help next time, and then they’d find out what a good friend she could be. Three weeks after the tea party, when Jude had fully recovered from the gastroenteritis that had laid her low for so long, she received the invitation. It came through the post this time; thick and formal, in an envelope. She saw the black edge of the card as she put her finger in the flap and pulled up. Jude continued, trying to keep her breathing slow. Her brain was skipping ahead of her fingers, trying to tangle them up. What was this? The invitation was in her hands. Her eyes had read it, but her brain couldn’t make sense of it. It was to a memorial service, not a tea party. Jude read the words aloud in the hope that she would understand. “We wanted to let you know the sad news that Tomas McBride died unexpectedly at home on Saturday 25 th May 2019 and his memorial service will be held at …” Jude read it aloud again. The taxman? Her respiratory rate doubled. Toe-maz? It couldn’t be. Jude reached for her mobile, stubbing her fingers on the screen. “Hazel?” she said when the phone was answered. “What happened?” “He died, Jude. Poor Tomas,” Jude heard some sniffling. “How?” Jude was beginning to feel faint. She sat on the floor, putting her head between her knees. “It was quick, he went into shock,” Hazel whimpered impressively. “Why?” There was silence. Then a whisper. “I didn’t know , Jude, I didn’t know… ” Hazel sounded as though she was being strangled, “I gave him the shortbread to take home, and he was allergic.” Jude let her mobile slip from her hand. She poked the red phone icon and shut Hazel up. Jude raised her eyes and stared at the wall, waiting for something to happen to her. Fire bolts from hell? Blue flashing lights? A knock at the door? But there was nothing, nothing at all. That was the shortbread that she'd made. She’d left it with Hazel, to teach her a lesson, just a little lesson, to protect the others, to stop Hazel making people ill. Jude had been protecting everyone, she was doing her job - like she’d trained herself to do. She did what others needed her to do because, unlike her, they couldn’t take the risk. She’d been helping Hazel, getting her to see that what she was doing was wrong. But Hazel had given away Jude’s gift, the one she’d been so careful with. And now the taxman was dead. And Hazel shouldn’t have killed him.


Context: Cat/housesat for a coworker, wrote this when they returned from their vacation to let them know all that’s happened. Posted it on facebook as my status and got positive feedback, so I’m sharing it here too. My name is Boris Kuslitskiy. Please don’t steal this. Thursday. You leave, the cats are plunged into the unexpected onset of Feast 2012, gorging on dry cat food. Friday. Ryan leaves us, the going away party includes alcohol, as does the bar I attend after. Arriving home at 5AM, I decided not to grace the cats with my presence again just yet. Saturday Evening. I arrive to feed and water the cats. Simon is friendly, Lionel chooses to ignore my presence. Sunday. The cats starve and dry out, reduced to only helping themselves to endless amounts of dry cat food. They operate with a different definition of starve than we do. Monday Evening. I stop by on my way from the movies with a friend, Sasha. Simon is distant, and fat, while Lionel is nearby, and fatter. Sasha confirms my analysis. Tuesday Night. I arrive late, commence furtending, continue furtending, and, finally, complete furtending. Having nowhere else to hang my work clothes for the next day, I prop open the bedroom door and hang them off the top. This lets Simon sit on the living room table and stare into the bedroom, into my eyes, and into my soul, were I to have one. He does this without fail, slowly falling asleep and staring at me through drooping eyelids as the minutes pass. I have broken his sense of order and he is no longer nice to me. Without shifting his gaze, Simon invents a time machine, locking me in his unrelenting stare for approximately 2.6 eternities. This is unsettling, but eventually the time machine falters and I sleep. Wednesday Morning. The first thing I see upon leaving the bedroom is Lionel rolling over to expose his belly. This is irresistible and just about cancels out having a shorter commute to work. Soon after, I scratch the underside of his cheek, and Lionel pushes his not unremarkably soft and fat face into my hand until it’s pressed down firmly against the ground. Noting the unforgiveable interruption in scratches, he graciously lifts his head, allows my hand to rise up to meet his cheek, and proceeds to push it down to the ground again. This repeats. Wednesday Evening. I arrive, Sasha joining me soon after I finish the furtendings. Beer, wine, and scratches flow furily. Sasha titles Simon Flat-Face. In response, his face is emotionless, flat, and furry. Lionel adopts the name Fat-Face, and my hand. I will file to reclaim custody shortly. Sasha sleeps over, being offered the bedroom while I claim the couch as my own. Night between Wednesday and Thursday. Sasha wakes up to see Simon inches away from her face, staring at her. I have the vaguest inkling of a feeling that Simon does not particularly like it when anybody else sleeps in that bed. Thursday Morning. Lionel is adorable. Simon is a cat. Thursday Evening. A different friend comes over. Lionel remains fat while Simon remains a cat. Together, they mostly are fat, and hide, their hides being fat, and hidden. Friday Morning. Reclined on the couch with my hand scratching the nearby Lionel, I conceive of an experiment, utterly moronic in hindsight. What if, just once, I choose to not spend every free moment scratching Lionel? Still purring like a tractor with a megaphone, Lionel jumps up onto the couch, wanders across my body and then, first gently, then heavily, struts his way across my neck, leaning his side against my face and forcing his furriness into every crevice, his fat molding itself to my face, leaving no respite and much hair. Sunday Evening. I stop by to pick up my things and scratch Lionel. He seems to have acquired a better invisible megaphone, as he purrs even more loudly. Monday. I miss them. Tuesday. I miss them. Wednesday. I fondly recall the fat smothering my face as Lionel saunters across my neck. I can almost taste the fur now.


It had a black plastic handle, there was no grip along the handle, along it, it ran smooth. It had a serrated edge that was used for cutting and with a small curve it ran along for about four inches where it came to a point. That was it, the knife. How I had come into possession of the knife remained a mystery, a further mystery was how I had come into the hospital ward itself. Everything had been a haze, the last few days that is. I had been doped up on valium and every moment seemed to pass from one to the next. I remembered talking to a few people. Visitors. Family and friends that cared about me. The knife couldn’t have come from one of the other patients. It had to come from one of them. Why had they given me the knife? What were they expecting me to do with the knife? To those who knew me, they all knew the reason for my admission into the psychiatric ward. I had found myself in a deep roll of depression and in amongst that depression had begun to cut myself. It wasn’t noticed at first. But over time, for each day, I would chalk up a new strike up along my forearm. The cuts weren’t that deep. Nothing that required urgent medical attention. But they were enough to let myself bleed. Somebody had reported the incident, or rather incidents, to a psychiatric evaluation team. They had come to see me in my home and then it had been decided that I should be taken to this place for treatment. I had acted out, screaming and throwing furniture around my apartment when they had decided to do that. And then had to be sedated and dragged to the hospital. My arms had been a long list of cuts up along my forearm before anybody had decided to do anything about it. It seemed that the world had grown weary of this sort of behaviour. I had now been in the hospital for several days. I had been sedated for the majority of it. And now I was in possession of a knife. Not the one from my home, but someone, someone had given it to me. They seemed to be delivering the message for me to finish the job. To end it, to slash my wrists and get it over and done with. It seemed that the world was like that now. It hadn’t always been like that. But it seemed that the world and the people in it were growing weary of these sorts of things. I was in one of the rooms on the ward, locked up with another inpatient and they had just turned the lights out. I could hear the other inpatient mumbling to himself. Something that I couldn’t make out. It was indecipherable at first and holding the knife I looked from out under the bed sheets across the room to where he sat. He sat on the side of his bed, in his boxer shorts and wearing a white singlet. He had a lighter in his hand and was lighting a cigarette. “They don’t bloody well let you smoke in these places anymore, this is about the only chance I get to have a cigarette.” He looked over at me with the tip of his cigarette blazing in the darkness. “I saw him give you the knife.” “Saw who give me what?” “It was the security guard, none of the nurses were present when he did it. You were drugged up and half out of it. I guess it’s payback for punching him in the head when you were admitted.” I held on to the knife, using my thumb to feel its sharp tip. The other inpatient blew smoke out of his mouth after inhaling his cigarette, the smoke was lit up briefly by the moonlight that shone in through the window and then dispersed, disappearing into the darkness. For a while there was silence. Neither one of us said anything. He just kept on smoking his cigarette there in the cover of darkness as I watched, gripping onto the knife more tightly like a comfort toy. “I’ll explain something to you. In case you haven’t figured it out already,” the other patient explained, “You’re the scapegoat of society now. Because you have a mental illness, everyone that you talk to, everyone you find yourself in contact with… They will all blame you for all of their problems. Anything that happens. It will be your fault. Because everyone else is perfect and there’s something wrong with you. The doctors and psychiatrists have confirmed the fact, so there’s no point in arguing with it anymore. Whenever something goes wrong and it always will, it will be your fault.” “I’m in here because I’m depressed and because I cut myself…” “Yes, there was probably a reason why you were depressed. You were probably bullied or never socially integrated well. Anybody who comes in here has some sort of problem, because the truth of it is that nobody’s perfect and everybody has something wrong with them. You will either be isolated from the rest of society and nobody will have anything to do with you. Either that, or if you attempt to rejoin society in any meaningful way people will blame you for even the smallest thing that goes wrong in a situation, regardless of whether or not it is your fault or not. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes you will make errors and it will be your fault. But because this institution, the mental health system, has declared that you have a mental illness. It will always be your fault. People will blame you and ignore their own duty of responsibility. Nobody will take anything you say or do seriously. You have been marked out as a scapegoat of society. People need you so they can keep on ignoring their own faults, so they can tell themselves that they are perfect.” I held the knife now, clutching the plastic grip in both hands like a teddy bear. He kept on smoking his cigarette, blowing out smoke into the moonlight. What he was saying… It didn’t help. I was already depressed and now he was forcing me to confront the stigma of mental illness. “How do I get around it?” “You can’t.” He blew out some more smoke and finished his cigarette. Stubbing it out on the window sill and hiding the cigarette butt in his pocket. “But what you have to deal with is that knife. The guy who gave you that knife is one of society’s perfect people. I mean, you punched him in the head. He has a right to be angry. But you have to deal with the fact with how he and the rest of society now view you.” “How do they view me?” “As a burden on the rest of society. To them you’re not the scapegoat, society has been using people like you and me in this way for so long now that they are fully convinced that you are the problem. In the past, they’ve attempted to sterilize people like you and I so that we couldn’t breed. They would cut our skulls open while we were still alive so that they could examine our brains. To people like you and me who understand it, you’re the scapegoat or the whipping boy that people blame for their problems. To other people, you are the problem. Do you understand?” “Are you saying that there’s nothing wrong with me?” “Of course, there’s something wrong with you. Normal people don’t cut themselves. But you, cutting yourself is a symptom of your accumulated life experience. People bullying you, women rejecting you, people shifting the blame onto you, using you as a figure of ridicule or objectification so they don’t have to confront their own internal problems. For one reason or another, you didn’t blend in, didn’t integrate. It all has its pressures. And those pressures culminated in the act of you cutting yourself.” “Well, what can I do about it?” I asked. “There’s nothing you can do about it.” The other man, the other patient then lay down and pulled the blankets of his bed around him and rested his head. “Get rid of the knife and try and get some sleep.” I went to the bathroom to relieve myself, taking the knife with me. My head was full of thoughts of what the other patient had said to me. The sheer weight and magnitude of it. It was a life sentence. I thought about it, even if I didn’t have a mental illness. The stigma that was associated with the mental illness would be a problem in itself. I relieved myself in the toilet and then flushed it. The white ceramic walls and the light that bounced off them gave everything a look of sterility. The smell of the bathroom that had been cleaned every day, smelling of bleach, everything in the vicinity looking so sterile and clean. I took the knife with me to the wash basin to wash my hands. The knife dropped down the sink and clattered up against the ceramics, making the sound of steel against its surface. I looked into the mirror, above the basin, to stare at my own reflection. My eyes were red and I had stubble from a few days without shaving. In those moments, staring at my own reflection, I looked at the events of my life for what they really were. A series of mistakes and errors that were never forgiven. A boy who had never been popular enough, who others viewed as worthless and having nothing to offer the world. Who was denied the rites of passage into adulthood because of how others viewed him. Who escaped into drug abuse, seeking the solace and companionship of others like him, those rejected and scorned. I saw it all. Society needed people like me, so that they could secure their own position in the social hierarchy of society. There was the upper class, the middle class, the lower class and somewhere below that existed the mentally ill. Those who were forced into extreme isolation as a result of the constant competition that was the human race. And those who were mentally ill would always be replaced by a new generation as a symptom of society’s functioning as a whole. Mentally ill people committing suicide or death by overdose, being consistently replaced by each successive generation by a society filled with individuals who had a deep seeded need to feel superior to those around them. It all accumulated in a pit in my stomach, this feeling. This feeling that I could not wash away. And internally I heard the voice of the other patient, repeated over and over again, ‘There’s nothing you can do about it.’ And then I grabbed the knife and in one swift motion stabbed at the corners of my eye. Getting right behind the eyeball and then plucked it out. My eye was bleeding and my eyeball, hanging on by the optic nerve, dangled above my face. And then I began to scream and howl. Dropping the knife onto the floor that clattered, but could not be heard above my screams.


I felt the little shafts of light making their way passed the trees, and through the window doing their best to greet me. The warmth goes unappreciated as I try my best to collect myself. I’m still being pulled to go back to whatever dream I just woke up from. Wherever I was it has to be better enough than waking up, or maybe just so I could stay just a little bit longer. Every morning is this same little ritual, confused as to why I’m here just long enough to be disappointed. Little reminders of things I knew, but didn’t think about it long enough to remember. I don’t remember things like everyone else does, or at least mostly everyone. Tempus Syndrome is what it’s been explained to me as. I can only hold so much in my head before my mind decides what’s important, and what can be left out. Not being able to remember phone numbers, not being able to remember names of people I met at parties a month ago, what shirt I wore a week ago, and even what I had to eat for lunch three days ago. I can try and sift through it all, recall little notes and flags in my head to get back there. Sometimes I can do it, other times I just get frustrated. There’s at least a few things I can remember for good, my name, my family, how old I am, how tall I am, what my home looks like. Little things that keep me here, at least I know who I am. Other things I know is I can’t work, I’m a burden on my family, and I’m going to die someday. I wouldn’t be able to write everything I remember, because even then I’d forget things while I was writing it. I was asked to write this out to help explain what Tempus Syndrome feels like. It’s fucking awful. I feel like I’m floating in my own head living moment to moment. Everything around me is permanent, this little story will have more permanence than my entire life. You just have to read it once, and it’s with you forever. I have to reread something, write it down, and read it again later to remember it longer than a couple weeks at best. It’s only going to get worse, already most of my life is just blurry. More of my life is forgotten than remembered. At least I have that one grace, I sometimes forget what my life has been. I’ve had conversations over the years where people tell me I acted a certain way, said things from years ago. I can piece it together enough to know I was there, but honestly I just agree with whatever anyone tells me. I’m waiting for them to fix me, maybe I won’t be able to recall everything from my life, but at least being able to remember my dreams. Remember if they really are worth not waking up from, or if I should just appreciate the morning light.


Ah, I guess I died. It wasn’t a fantastic death, but that’s all I know. I find myself in a small wooden boat. The sky is a bright blue and the water is glass smooth. I feel the rock of the boat as I look up into the ever expanding atmosphere. There aren't any clouds. There isn’t a sun, but it is very bright. Not so bright to hurt my eyes or- whatever I’m using to see right now. As I give it a second thought, I’m not really seeing anything at the moment. It’s more the idea of these concepts. I can see the idea of water, sky and a boat. I ran my fingers over the water and I can feel that it’s cold. I’ve just noticed something; there is another person in the boat with me. It’s a cloaked figure. Well, the idea of a cloaked figure I mean. It’s a brown cloak, or a blue cloak? I can see it if I focus hard enough. The figure turns to me and I can feel a warm smile behind the shadows of its form. The boat slowly sinks into the water. I can feel the metal like cold rush up my body as we sink deeper. I hold my breath out of instinct, but I don’t have any lungs to breathe with. It feels very strange to want to take a deep breath with nowhere for the air to go. As we drift deeper, I can see the light filter through the still water. It looks dusty and soft. I want to reach out and touch it, like a cobweb. But how does one touch light? Regardless, I reach out and the light clings to my fingers. It’s slick and so soft. I rub the light between my fingers and it dissolves into nothing. We have been sinking for such a long time. I haven’t seen a single fish or anything that is supposed to be in the ocean. I can assume that I am indeed a spirit of myself, or something similar. It has gotten very cold in the depths, and I shiver. The cloaked figure turns to me and scooches closer, wrapping me in its fabric. It is so warm and soft, I dig my forehead deep into the folds and find a great deal of comfort. It seems we have reached the bottom of this ocean. It’s very dark, even my non-eyes can’t see anything. The dark figure leads me off the boat. I can feel the soft sand under my feet. There is a beating current around me. I can feel my being sway back and forth, like the gentle pull of the waves lapping on shore. The rocking sensation is very soothing and I feel a deep peace within my core. Ever so slowly, I start to see light manifesting. At first, it was a thin line of silver thread. This thread thickened and soon spread out like a funnel. I can now see the outlines of things flowing down in a spiral. As I focus harder, I can see that it is- a bunch of animals? Cows, foxes, rats and bunnies. Large ox and their babies. All spiraling down in a rhythmic swirl. They seem to be dancing down into a large chasm. I tip my toes next to the opening of this hole. It goes down and down, for as far as I can conceive infinity. All of these animals are dancing down into a large, unending gap in the ocean floor. I can sense that these are the spirits of animals, just like me. I see vultures circling above the hole as they too drift deeper and deeper. It seems that even in death, the hardwiring of these animals is too strong for them to ignore. I can see many other boats dropping off what seems like other people. I watch in awe as these small, warm spirits hug their ferrymen and jump into the pit. They, too, dance into the spiral slipstream of animals. Dipping and bobbing with the beat of an unheard drum. I can feel their hopes and dreams unstitch from their souls as they slip down. I look back at my own ferryman, and he sits there in the boat patiently. I can sense that he is giving me the chance to be ready to jump, but I’m not ready. I’m not ready to move on. I have so much more in my life that I can do. I have so much more love to spill into the world. I have so much more to give of myself. I never worried myself with these thoughts when I was alive, and maybe I should have. But is this what it’s all about? Are we supposed to worry about everything our whole lives only to find out it’s never enough? I am a bit overwhelmed by all of these other people’s emotions. It’s freeing and crushing and so sad and hopeful and loving and hateful. It’s painful. And It’s so beautiful. I want to be beautiful and free of my worries now. I look over again to my ferryman and nod. He walks over slowly and hugs me deeply. I fall backwards into the tornado of the aftermath of life. Nobody else can see us share our burden. Inside this deep pit together, we are all swaying to the music of death. I can hear the drums and my spirit dances. I can feel my death wash over all my mistakes. The warming spiral gives room for my memories to fall apart. In this world or in the next, there is nowhere else I can be. I can feel the weaving of my soul join the others in the great cosmos of light. The last thought I have in this agonizing moment Is…. A̸u̸i̴ ̴a̶a̶ ̸u̵h̴m̸,̶ ̵a̸r̵u̶ ̶a̵ ̶a̷r̸q̴….


Everything was good, I recite. It wasn’t, but as I feel the gazes linger on my skin, piercing through my clothes, the humid air almost drowning me in heat, I knew I couldn’t faint.

Not here, Not in front of all these people.

I feel light-headed. “Asian.” They whisper, lips curving into small upside-down crescents, feet scampering away, like a mouse avoiding a cat, hands clutching at their possessions. I look down at my plain dress. My hair slides down like a black snake, spreading itself onto my white dress, yellowish brownish skin giving the typical Asian look, finished with thin, split eyes. People stare point, whisper. “Asian, Chinese, go back to your own country.” I walk, faking, acting, putting on a mask of nonchalance.

A woman approaches me—skin white, designer handbag at her arms, eyes filled with sickeningly fake worry. Her bag is made of snakeskin, decorated with sand-like specks of gold. She smiles, stretching out her lips. It looks unnatural. “Are you lost?” She asks.

I try to reply, my own lips curving into a small smile. But my smiling lips refuse to turn into shapes that make sounds and talk, so I just shake my head. She leaves, muttering about my rudeness, blissfully unaware of my condition. I leave her be.

After the nineteenth turn down from a company, I felt like I was dreaming. People had said it would be hard for a foreigner to get a job in another country, and I had thought differently. I was wrong.  It wasn’t just ‘hard’ for a foreigner to get a job, it was as possible as finding water in the Sahara desert-just not going to happen.

I looked at the buildings towering over the people, like an empire made of glass and iron looking down at their fleshy slaves. Stumbling over nothing, I wondered mindlessly through a light-saturated scene: the sunlight berated down on the hundreds of people, like an invisible whip slashing across work ants, cafés and small shops spilling out into the pavement. I sighed. My feet were aching, dress stained with sweat; I looked a mess. Shaking off waves of confusing emotion, I started toward a bench when a man abruptly came into my path, spilling his papers and drenching my dress with his water. “ I’m so sorry, Miss. Are you ok?” Afraid my voice would reveal my fatigue and discomfort, I nodded, not speaking a word. The man looked genuinely worried-a rare emotion for me to come across, at this period of time. I was confused.  Another wave of unknown emotions threatened to crash across my mind, a tsunami of dangerous emotions, and I panicked. The sky seemed to swim as I  stumbled backwards,  trying to escape from the man’s eyes.

The air was like honey melting in water, and I felt like a fly that had dived in, hypnotised by the fake, deceiving, sweet scent. My heels half taken off from my feet, the blindingly white light reflecting from the buildings started to look like blindingly white snakes, tangling in with my black hair. I didn’t fit in, I reminded myself. But if so,

where do I fit in?

Nowhere. I would always be a misfit. Stranger. Monster. Weirdo. Asian. Foreign. I felt the strength slip out of my body. Anticipating the fall, I closed my eyes, and let black cloud my mind. I was too tired to fight anymore.

——————————————— When I opened my eyes, it was to a scent of stale medicine, a stench of death and life mixed together in one building. A hospital. I sigh, regretting letting my body fade into unconsciousness. Sitting up, my hands clutched the white sheets as a brush of pain painted my body, briefly colouring my vision white. Lips cracked and dry, I started testing my voice. “Hello?” I watched a doctor come to me, dressed in white, carrying a clipboard and a pen that looked like a passage straight to Hell. I knew what he was going to say.  “ Miss Donia?” He spoke with a slight accent, I  realised. He spoke naturally, confidently, unlike how I would ever speak. “Miss Donia?” My heart thumped rapidly. I had to speak, I knew I was being rude. But I couldn’t. My mouth wouldn’t move, lips pressed stubbornly shut.

Resigned, I nodded, eyes refusing to meet his. “Miss Donia, thank you for responding. Your records say that you have been to several mental hospitals for a cure to your strange condition…being unable to speak at all in front of people…am I right?”

Again, I nodded. I let his bold, confident voice wash over me like a wave washing over the golden shore, calming me down. “Miss Donia, you fainted today because of severe stress and sleep deprivation. I will prescribe you some sleep pills and stronger anxiety medication to help you with your current condition. You may stay here for an hour or so.”  I closed my eyes. Darkness was familiar to me, as I often spent the hours together while laying on my bed silently listening to the sounds of the city, rumbling of cars and the soft murmur of people entertaining my mind. Here I heard nurses shouting, metal wheels rolling against the floor, people crying and laughing. While this lulled my ears, I dreamed of my childhood, thousands of days and nights wishing, desiring and dreaming about speaking freely, with confidence and standing up for myself. Then came the thousands of days and nights of immense, indescribable disappointment as the realisation that my superpower, speaking with confidence, would never come. It would be as unattainable as flying, or becoming invisible—just a fantasy of my mind.

While I slip in and out of consciousness, I hear the news announcer speak from the TV. “….Asian discrimination as been increasing rapidly during these days…Everybody just calm down as Asians are not the one to blame for this virus…” Her monotone voice pierces my mind. I wake up.

Recalling my dream, I smile lightly as I think carefully about super powers. While pondering, my body automatically proceeded to pat myself down, make myself look presentable. The once cold looking pasty white hospital walls now helped find my things, and I picked up my phone. While scrolling down on the small white screen, I gasped out a laugh, my face stretching to accustom to the unfamiliar expression.

A small text had come from my twentieth company, saying they would consider employing me. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no, and I was happy to receive a proper response. Hands still and emotions calm, I pushed myself up, ready to start my life again. Silently, I replied to my past self, who longed for a superpower that could allow her to talk. I knew I already had a super power. I always had, though it took some time to realise it. My superpower was the ability to live. It was a unique, special superpower, created from the days and nights I had cried and bled, never giving up on myself. It gave me a barrier, not a perfect barrier, sure, it disappeared when things were harsh,  but it was

there.

I walked out of the hospital, lips still stubborn and unable to speak, clothes still slightly wet, but my eyes were different. The humid, honey-like air still clung on to my frame, and people still whispered, gazes looking at me as if I was a sculpture in a museum, unabashed and bold. But I had regained my barrier, my fatigue and stress resided for the being. Everything was good. Actually good.


- “What does it say?” Mia asked. James turned the newspaper around so it faced his girlfriend. “Cracks Emerge In Alibi, Nick Cave single reaches number one in The States,” James replied. “Who?” “You haven’t heard it? It goes like this.” James started to sing. ♫ *Cracks emerge in alibi,* *The just find what the guilty can’t hide,* *Cocked the revolver in ninety-five,* *cracks emerge in alibi… ♫* “No… and who the fuck is Nick Cave?” James shifted to the front of his seat to confront Mia face-to-face. “Nick Cave. Are you kidding me? He is an Australian icon!” “Sorry. I only listen to good music.” “Jesus…” James rolled his eyes and sat deep into his chair. Struggling to hold it with both hands, Mia took her second bite of the house’s ‘famous’ hamburger. Large fries and an extra large coke completed her meal. James’ plate had but a few fries left. He had already finished his burger and shake. “You eat so slow,” James said. “I’m not really hungry.” “Why? Are you nervous?” “Mm.” “You always order too much food anyway.” James glanced at his watch. “What time is he supposed to show up?” Mia asked. “He was meant to be here at quarter to.” “What’s the time now?” “Quarter past. The bastard is always late” Ring of Fire echoed through the poor speakers in the almost empty bowling alley. Tony’s Bowling Alley, it was called. ♫ *I fell into a burning ring of fire,* *I went down, down, down as the flames went higher* *And it burns, burns, burns,* *The ring of fire, the ring of fire…* ♫ Tony owned the alley and worked in the restaurant as the chef. The alley featured only two lanes, and had remained largely unchanged since it’s opening in fifty four. Tony renamed the alley after his name when he took over from the previous owners. In the back corner was a small dining area with off-white tables and cold red-leather seats. A large red neon sign displaying Drink Coca Cola flickered on and off and lit the dim corner of the room. This is where James and Mia sat. Their matching outfits – black leather jackets with white tees and denim jeans fitted the restaurant’s look. The table over from James and Mia sat a man alone. “This guy looks sketchy. How old do you think he is?” James asked. Mia looked over to the man. “I don’t know, forty. Maybe fifty.” The man had slicked-back greying hair and long sideburns like Elvis. He wore shiny red bowling shoes, blue denim jeans and a deep green bowling jacket with the team name Tugun Tigers printed across the back in thick white letters. He was also eating the house’s ‘famous’ hamburger, but his eyes instead were focused on the teenage waitress… and her short, red and white striped dress. The girl’s outfit looked like it came with the restaurant when it was built in fifty four. Wiping down the tables, the girl’s tired eyes made it obvious she did not want to be working the Friday night. Every so often she would glance outside the joint to see the waves crashing onto the beach. Rain poured down hard on the windows. She was also paying attention to a teenage boy bowling by himself. He wore blue denim jeans and a purple jacket with the team name Currumbin Crooks on the back. It was just the four of them in the room. Tony waddled his fat body out of the kitchen and slapped the young waitress on the ass. “Alright lass, you can head off now, come in and I’ll give ya’ the pay check.” The waitress looked disturbed. “Don’t be.” James said. “Huh?” Mia asked. “Nervous.” “Oh.” Mia sipped her coke. “You’ll be fine.” “How much was supposed to be here?” Mia asked. “Fifty five thousand.” “Why is there so much? This place is a dump.” “I told you. It’s a money laundering business.” “And what do we do when Travis finally turns up?” James sighed. “We went over this last night. Look, when Travis enters through those doors – and hopefully he does so bloody soon – that’s our signal. You then get up, pull your gun on old mate checking out the waitress, the waitress, and the boy over there bowling. Make sure they sit tight. I’ll enter the kitchen and demand the money from Tony. Travis has the entrance sorted out.” “What if he doesn’t hand over the money?” Mia asked. “I’m pretty sure he will be scared shitless when he feels my gun pressing against his seventy-five-year-old face. Shit, he’ll probably have a heart attack. You don’t have to worry about him putting up a fight.” “But would you actually hurt him?” “No. I won’t need to. Though I’ll shoot a round into the ceiling so he knows what’s up.” Nick Cave’s Cracks Emerge In Alibi started to play over the speakers. ♫ *Cracks emerge in alibi,* *Redemption is the girl’s ally,* *If it’s just, is it a crime?* *Cracks emerge in alibi…* ♫ “Here it is! This is the song,” James said, “Can’t believe you don’t know who Nick Cave is.” James turned to the man in the green jacket. “Hey mate, you’ve heard this song, right?” “What song?” The man in the green jacket replied. “The one being played right now,” James pointed to the speakers and continued; “It’s by Nick Cave.” “Who the fuck is Nick Cave?” “Seriously?” The doors of the alley swung open as Travis arrived. Rain and a cool wind followed him in. He wore a black windbreaker and his long black hair was held back by a black beanie. His hand rested on the gun resting in his jeans. He stood at the doorway and nodded to James. “Let’s move.” James said as he got up out of his seat. “Where is the waitress?” Mia asked as she got up too. “She must be in the kitchen.” James pointed to the boy bowling. “Oi mate, this is a robbery, get the fuck over there and sit down.” “What?” The boy asked. James pulled out and pointed his gun at the bowler. “A fucking robbery. Get over there and sit next to the old man.” The bowler sat next to the man in green. Mia stood a metre away and had her gun pointed at both of them. “Alright.” James said, “Don’t let ‘em move.” *Bang.* James shot a round into the ceiling. He then walked over to the kitchen, out of Mia’s view. “Where are you? Hand over the fucking money! I know it’s here!” Mia heard James say as he walked into the kitchen. The door swung closed behind him. “Why th-“ Mia cut the boy off; “Be quiet.” ♫ *Cracks emerge in alibi,* *Rain mixes with blood tonight,* *Death’s hands take hold of his life,* *Cracks emerge in alibi…* ♫ The sound of the waves, the rain and the music filled the room. There was no sound coming from the kitchen. After a few minutes Travis yelled over to Mia. “Is he almost done?” he asked. “I don’t know? I’ve been sitting here the whole time.” “Well go see what the fuck he’s doing! He shouldn’t be taking so long.” “I have to watch-” Travis cut her off; “I’ll watch them. Go.” Mia got up and started to walk towards the kitchen. As she pushed the doors open, she was struck by a blast of cool wind, coming from the open back door. At her feat was a pool of blood, with Tony resting in it, face down. “What the fuck?” A kitchen knife and a bra lay in the pool of blood with him. Two bloody footprints trailed away from the body to the back door and outside onto the beach. Red and blue lights flashed. “Shit.” *Bang.* “Shit!” Mia followed the footprints and ran outside. -- ◆◇◆ -- *Bang.* James shot a round into the ceiling. He then walked over to the kitchen, out of Mia’s view. “Where are you? Hand over the fucking money. I know it’s here,” he said as he walked in. The door swung closed behind him. ♫ *Cracks emerge in alibi,* *Waves wash over in the moonlight,* *Did he believe in afterlife?* *Cracks emerge in alibi…* ♫ James was met with the waitress staring back at him. “What are you doing back here?” she snapped at him. “What the fuck are you doing back here?” he replied. Her red and white striped dress was torn into pieces, only just holding onto her body. Her bra was ripped off completely and lay on the floor next to the knife. The dress was more red than before, as it was painted by Tony’s blood. His body lay on the floor in front of her. She ran outside and James followed. “Stop. I’ll shoot,” he said, while chasing after her towards the water. When he caught up, he held the hot barrel of his gun against the waitress’s forehead. His finger hovered over the trigger. Waves washed over their shoes as they sunk into the wet sand, the moonlight illuminated the rain running down their faces. James, with one hand on his gun, pulled the hood of his leather jacket over his head with the other. “Why did you kill him?” The waitress remained silent. “Tell me why or I’ll shoot you.” Ten seconds passed. “I’ll fucking shoot you!” *Bang.* The body dropped and hit the sand. Rain mixed with the escaping blood as waves washed over the corpse. -- ◆◇◆ -- *Bang.* “Shit!” Mia followed the footprints and ran outside onto the beach. She saw the waitress standing on the sand. She saw James’ motionless body. She saw the policeman standing over James’ motionless body with his revolver in hand. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what to think. Her tears were lost in the rain as they tried to trickle down her face. Death’s hands had taken hold of James’s life. -- ◆◇◆ -- *Redemption is the girl’s ally, If it’s just, is it a crime?* *The just find what the guilty can’t hide, Cocked the revolver in ninety-five.* *Rain mixes with blood tonight, Death’s hands take hold of his life.* *Waves wash over in the moonlight, Did he believe in afterlife?* *The waitress killed, she struck her knife,* *For the man had raped her that same night.* *Cracks emerge in alibi.


It was worth it. I repeat the mantra over and over in my head as I ascend from the cave. My breath comes in gasps. My fingernails are dirty and caked in blood. My muscles shake, my head pounds with exhaustion, and my ankle throbs. Across my back I carry a weight that drags me down like an anchor, threatening to trap me in this cave forever. It was worth it. My brother and I were on an archaeological excavation in the Yucatán when we discovered an unknown temple. As we ecstatically began to explore its depths, we found a painting of an idol. An idol with glowing blue eyes and a black, sinewy form. So eerie, and yet so intriguing and beautiful it defied comprehension. We became obsessed with finding it. At first we believed it would be at the site, but it quickly became evident that this wasn’t the case. After days spent scouring the ruins we abandoned our prestigious dig, including the new temple, and made for the city. It was worth it. We scoured the market. We talked to gurus, shamans, con men, and señoras selling fruit on the ground. We begged every person we talked to for any rumor, myth, or legend they knew about the idol. We spent every penny we had until we were beggars, dependent on the charity of those around us for food and shelter. It was worth it. Finally, we got our break deep within the recesses of a souvenir shop. The owner led us past rows of cheap clothing and knick knacks to her private office, where she pulled a book from a dusty shelf. The book showed the way to an island shrouded in pink clouds, an island with a cave protecting an idol with bright blue eyes and a dark body. The shop owner insisted we abandon our search. She spoke of the corruptive powers of the idol, and the potential harm its bearer could bring on themselves and others. We didn’t listen. When it became clear we intended to take the book, the shop owner tried to grab it and run. She fell and broke her leg in the ensuing struggle. It was worth it. It took another month of menial labor to save the money for supplies for our expedition. We barely ate, surviving mainly on trampled, moldy scraps from the market. We sheltered in alleys at night, fending off so many rats, fleas, and stray dogs that we barely slept. It was worth it. Finally we set off at a feverish pace toward our island. We walked, we rode in the backs of trucks, we stole bicycles, and we finally forced a frightened man at gunpoint to take us to the island in his boat. We jumped overboard as soon as it was within sight and swam the rest of the way. It was worth it. The cave was predictably treacherous. We fell enough times that soon we were bleeding on every limb. I sprained my ankle so badly I almost passed out, and my brother snapped both of the bones in his left forearm. But we continued on, stumbling through tunnel after tunnel. It was worth it. The idol rested in the center of a cavernous room, settled on a stone altar. Surrounding it was a lake of magma, the heat so intense it singed our faces. There was no voice, no writing, nothing to indicate our next step. But we knew anyway. The idol demanded a life in return for its possession. Something snapped inside my brother. For the first time in our quest, fear and doubt filled his expression. He grabbed my arm, face pleading, “No! It isn’t worth it!” I gazed at him for a long moment. My playmate, my lifelong companion, my best friend. And then in one motion I shoved him into the magma. He only screamed for a moment before he was enveloped. It was worth it. The magma vanished in an instant, and I found myself before the idol. It was small enough to fit into the palm of my hand, small enough to fit in my satchel. But power tingled through it, and through me. I took it and returned the way we’d come. I finally collapse outside the cave. My life, my career, and my beloved brother are gone. I am marooned on an island with no hope of escape. I take the idol from my satchel and lock my gaze with its blue eyes. They begin to glow more fiercely, and the power thrumming through it grows. I feel a presence shift from the idol to reside in me, whispering to me of kingdoms, power, glory, bloodshed. I stagger to my feet, a being remade. It was worth it.


"Dave? It's time to wake up, darling." Dave reluctantly opened his eyes. It was early morning, the sun just beginning to hint that it was rising. He was tired, yet satisfied. The lovely beauty beside him had been there all evening and night, and she had been the cause of both symptoms. *It was worth it.* They had met in the many meetings their group had held in the months before. He was immediately drawn to her, even to the point of distraction. That was uncharacteristic of him. He had always prided himself on his dedication and focus on his work. She undid him, and he couldn't have been happier about it. He had been pondering a life of solitude, especially since his "options", as it were, were about to be cut dramatically. "Do you want some eggs? Or maybe a waffle with bacon?" She asked with sweet eyes and a playful smile. "Why not both? I'll help you." We struggled to disentangle from the sheets and get to our feet. It took a great deal of effort to get his mind off of what he was seeing, but he finally did. As they putted about in the small yet fully equipped kitchen, the events of the last few weeks played back in his mind. They were, quite literally, life changing for him. Since the discovery of the wormhole phenomenon, dozens of habitable planets had been identified and colonized. Some were vast desert planets with the occasional oasis and massive mineral deposits, others were lush rainforests with enough arable land to feed multiple planets. Most, however, were something in between. Almost all were monoclimatic - a new term used to describe the planets that were composed of a single climate across the entire world. The laws of statistical probability indicated that while one of these planets was possible, having so many within technological reach was nigh impossible. That was a problem for other people though. His job was to build things. Houses, tables, barns, etc. He was to use as much of the local material as feasible. To that end Mars furnished him with a fully automated lumber mill. He had landed on a forest planet. He built this house first, to shelter himself and his smiling bride. There were ten thousand other colonists, so he was busy. The prefabricated homes the colony ship transported were sturdy, but not meant to last longer than ten years. He had that long to build a city. He wasn't the only carpenter, but he was the most motivated. It certainly beat his last job. Making widgets on Earth was monotonous and thankless. If those at the top of society only knew how much their life would suffer if not for the Unseen……… Who am I kidding? Even if they knew, they still wouldn't care. That's why I left. A life where you didnt matter compared to being a tamer of a new world? There isn't any real comparison. "Here, darling, I got your coffee the way you like it." "Thank you, my sweet." As I drank the dark, slightly sweet liquid, I reflected on the different lives we had lived, and how they brought us to the same place at the same time. She was born on the Martian plains, her parents were terrafarmers. They planted genetically modified plants that would, in turn, modify the atmosphere into a breathable oxygen and nitrogen mix. They planted vast portions of the planet. Just by themselves they increased the oxygen levels across the whole planet by 5%. They were well respected and financially stable. She had her pick of the best universities, only held back by her own ambitions. She was a free woman, in every respect of the phrase. She chose to study traditional economics. One of our elderly colonists called it "home economics", whatever that means. In practice it meant that she focused on cooking, making clothes, being a support to whomever she chose to commit to. She chose me. My path was a rougher one. I was born on Earth. My birth date and given name lost to the vast archives of the Health and Human Resources Department. No parents either. I assumed they didn't want me. I wouldn't want me either. I was always in trouble. The schools kept me only as long as they had to. The factories kept me as long as I was useful. I gained, then lost, too many promotions to count. My life was gray and monotone. Then one day, I looked up. I happened to catch a shuttle launching into the night sky. It captured my imagination. The next morning I immediately applied for any and every job that would take me off that rock. Every application was rejected. My carelessness at the factory was my undoing. I fell into a pit of despair. I stopped showing up to work. Then I stopped carrying my Identification Papers. I was becoming one of the Unseen. I had to get out. Through some morally questionable means, I secured transport aboard a cargo ship heading to Luna. From there, getting a seat to Mars was child's play, if that child had to bribe his way onto the playground. The captain of that ship had an old AI that he was using to regulate his plasma generator. Needless to say, that AI was as lonely as the guy sweeping the generator room. We talked. She told me of the wormholes. Of the colonies. Of the chance to escape from the drudgery that was persistently defining my life. The thought awoke something in me. A feeling of purpose, of adventure. I smiled. "What is that smile for?" Snapped back to the present, I could only look at her and say, "It's a beautiful day.


Her unexpected smile—from a bank teller, no less—was like a spell. Wanting my traveler's cheques cashed—in Vienna, I was charmed, vulnerable to her whims, colored cheeks, and rosy lips… This international language of twenty-somethings overcomes everything. Smiles are the start, followed by delicious looks and touching what has been touched. You know, papers pass between us. Then her halting English trumps my abysmal German so that we’re transcendent together, dreaming. Until she hands me too much money. Uh, what? I fumble for my phrase book. “ Er ist ein Kanadier.” She cocks her head, a frown crashing my mood. So then I panic. I'm a kid again, and the corner store proprietor's daughter has just given me quarters for change instead of nickels. While the ornate chandeliers cast a benign glow over the crowd, I could hear footsteps marking time on the marble floors of this grand old Viennese bank. I hurriedly counted the bills again, just to make sure, mindful of the restive lineup of muttering Austrians behind me. This was long before cell phones did the talking. Long before, every European wanted to take English as a second language. Sighing, I threw that wretched phrase book in my bag and slid everything through the bank wicket back to her. Her face crimsoned so attractively. She offered me chocolates. How often have I replayed this hero script I pulled on myself, especially since I never got to ask her out? My traveler's cheques were Canadian, but she assumed I had given her American cheques, dispensing too many Austrian schillings. If I hadn't alerted her, she would have gotten in trouble when her till didn't balance, but at least I would have her number! I could have spent the bank's money on drinks and seen that slow smile at the end of a romantic evening. But here I am, so heroically honest, the ideal customer, a charming addition to anyone’s life, any time or place, an honest... dolt? Doing the right thing is overrated. Is that why everyone shies away from being that sort of person? For instance, who wants to be the designated driver? Or worse, at eleven or so, one who announces that it's been fun, but they need to hit the sack? Is that why when someone rescues a family of five from a five-alarm fire at five in the morning for the five o’clock news, they’ll five and dime what they did? “Aw, shucks, anyone could do it!” they'll sheepishly say, as if embarrassed. I must have a gene that predisposes me to heroic gestures. So when that cyclist, gliding off the sidewalk, where he shouldn’t be, is out in front to run a stop sign or red light, God help him! Except it’s me he’s cutting off, me not driving a big black truck, not getting from A to B in the shortest time possible, watching everything, the sniveling preschooler with his helicopter mother, the teenager on their big cell phone, the jogger, not looking, paying attention to their headphones…it’s a workout let me tell you. I don't hit anyone, but I'm always a designated driver . So if someone asks, yeah, sure, I'm a hero—an everyday one! # They say that when you are stuck with lemons, make lemonade. So, if I'm an everyday hero, I might as well be a flush-with-cash one. You know how people do things these days. I’m so different, so divine . I’m up for the time of my life anytime. Want to ride along with me? Here’s my formula, my snake oil for sale—an app! What else could I think of? It's an app for two kinds of people: the heroes and the unwashed. How does it work? I'm glad you asked. It's just like how everything works these days. Ai powered, Internet-connected, server-tethered, privacy-busting individual monitoring. You get these little blasts sounding off in your ear, micro-dot-inspired graphics where you stare, or pixelated emojis to make you aware… That you messed up! Or not. It depends because it's like Mom talking. She blows hot or cold, depending on the circumstances. There are no hurt feelings, no recriminations. You're not mad forever, as if she was there. It's only five bucks a month, or what? By the year? # The following day, muscle memory worked on my cell phone. Half awake, I poked at my financial app, rolled over, and nearly choked on my bank account. It was the biggest steal ever—by me. “Thanks for not listening to me all my life!” says my wife when she sees those round figures. “Now, we’re rich?” I looked at her, and then my hero app started up: She feels left out—a classic! Men who make sacrifices and work until midnight to score big financially typically get super angry because they feel unappreciated. Forget about it. It's not personal. Now, you will be supportive. Include her in your plans. Make her feel like she was there from the beginning. Yes, my invention, my app, working even for me? I get her to do the math. I get her involved and part of it. "One hundred thousand people downloaded my app in twenty-four hours," I started. "Freeloading basic tier aside, how many who paid five bucks?" “One hundred thousand dollars, from twenty thousand,” my wife chimes in—math wiz in high school. "Less Google/Apple percentage, server rental, AI charge, and what?” I say. “Software maintenance, employee wages, taxes, and aggravation?” She says. “Miscellaneous queries, nonsense requests, computer glitches?” I reply. “We’re speaking in tongues,” she sighs, sitting down. I sit with her. We cry. # After that cry fest, I got down to business. What more could I do or not do? Thinking back to that Viennese teller, I tell her that how we react to things matters, not so much what happens. “What?” my wife says. “Sure, as shooting!” I say. “What happens isn’t nearly as interesting as the human angle! Take that teller in Vienna. Was the mistake she made as important as my reaction?” “And?” she says. “And that is it! There are other ways to monetize this, but data is the gold pot at the end of everything. “And?” she says again. "The more people sweat the minutia, the more data points we have! It's not the pot but what fills it. It's not the gold but the gold digger!" “I get it,” she says. "People love stories, and we'll have millions of them. The more people sweat the details, the more stories there will be." "Break even on the subscriptions and sell the data!" I say. We high-five it, and my wife turns it up a notch: "People are so lonely these days. What if the app automatically connected with strangers who would welcome a chat or a friendly nod?" "Chatting without texting?" "Real. Like Mom and apple pie!" she added. "So, are you receiving?" Her eyes had me, like that teller in Vienna. "Hmm, I had no idea," I say. We both toss our cell phones aside. "Apps are so overrated," I say. "Especially when you're my hero," she says. I wink at her then notice our of the corner of my eye, her app, and what I could read there: Male egos, tread lightly. But I didn't care.


"Mermaids "reproduce" by turning human women into their own. A female pirate captain has a run-in with a mermaid who intends to transform her." **Story synopsis:** The Story: Eleanor is the captain of a pirate ship with a well-run crew. That is until she meets an unlikely creature on the open water. *** *** #Chapter 3.1 The brightness of the sun changed the world around the ship. The water was translucent, the life below it visible upon inspection. The light blue seemed to change perspectives from dark to optimistic. For Eleanor, it seemed a double-edged sword. It was a new day, separated from the monstrosity that she had encountered last night. But it was also time for her to wake the crew and formulate a plan. She had moved away from the creature, yet towards what was coming. There was no doubt in her mind that Isabelle was coming when the moon peaked later that night. She turned away from the water and moved toward the places her men slept. She had spent very little time resting the night before. She wrote down her experience and moved on, back to the wheel. Real sleep was not an option. Before she reached the door, it swung open. Eleanor and Nathaniel had a near miss, almost colliding with each other. "Good. You are awake. Please get the rest of the men. I want all of you out here," she commanded. She was expecting a round of questions. To her pleasant surprise, he raised a single wide eyebrow and turned back around. When he came back up again, the men were single file behind him. "Good morning," Eleanor said after they were all on deck. She stood in front of the entire crew, arms crossed against her chest. Her feet stood on the spot where Isabelle's tail had been the night before. "I know this is unexpected," she continued. "We had talked of one more day of leisure, and I'm not one for formal meetings. But things have changed. We have very limited time, and I have something important..." she hesitated, shifting her weight. "…and strange to tell you," she continued. "While you all indulged last night, I stood on deck, as Nathaniel can attest. I saw something where I stand that has threatened to come back for me and threatened every man who fights it." "What do you mean by 'something,' captain? There were no other ships last night." one of the men in the back spoke. "That is the issue, John," Eleanor shifted her weight onto the other hip, arms still crossed. "I need your trust. Trust that I was awake. Trust that I was sober. After all, the barrels were down below with you." "Elle was up here when I rounded up the game dice. I attest," Nathaniel's voice boomed. His small testimony was all she had to back up her claim. She did not know how much value it would hold in their minds. He was the first mate but also close to her. It could sway them in either direction, but Eleanor saw it as better than nothing at all. To her surprise, Nathaniel continued. "The air felt different on deck when I came up and saw her. It smelled saltier and made my skin prickle. Believe our captain, all of you." Eleanor took a deep breath, giving the rest of them a moment to ask any questions before she dove into the story. With no objections or remarks, she began. "I am just going to get on with it. While alone up here last night, a creature of the sea made her way onto the ship. She had a long blue tail like that of a fish and a body and face of a human. On the surface, she looked like the mermaids you see on ships' masts and in old texts. This would be hard enough to see and share with you all had she not dark eyes and dangerous teeth. She was not a maiden. She was a monster curled in front of me, breathing our air." She stretched out her arms and shifted her weight back to both hips. The lack of sleep and adrenaline had her jitters coursing through her. "A mermaid, captain?" a voice asked, accompanied by a snort. "That's not a creature. That's a myth. Are you sure you didn't fall asleep standing up? For a moment?" "I thought I had fallen asleep at first, Isaac. I thought it over all night long," she said. She knew her men would obey her, but they had every right to question her sanity at a time like this. She needed them to push through it, though, and fast. "But it kept going," Eleanor continued, "and if it was a dream, then I am still dreaming. Yet, I cleaned up a sticky pool of ocean water from our ship after she had gone. "I know this is not easy, but it does not get any easier. You have all followed me onto this boat. You have followed me onto enemy boats and foreign shores. Now you must choose again. The mermaid who came last night, the creature that landed on the wood of my ship, told me she would return. She called me by name and gave us 24 hours' notice. "She told me her name was Isabelle as if it were appropriate that such an abomination had a human name." "A mermaid named Isabelle is coming back to our ship?" Isaac asked. The doubt rang clear in his voice. He was not digesting the story easily. He likely spoke for more of the men, even though there were not even murmurs among them. "Yes, Isaac. She sat on this spot I stand on and threatened to slay us all if we fought her to keep me above the water. This is the decision you all must make. If you choose not to believe me and mutiny instead, I will stand on deck at the full moon and keep you all safe. If the creature is true to her word, she will leave you alone if you stay away. If you choose to believe me and choose to keep me, she will fight. If she fights, then we all must fight. And that means preparing, and fast." Eleanor walked back over to the helm of the ship as she finished her speech. "I will give you all a moment. Send Nathaniel when you have decided. It's all or nothing, men. We all fight, or none of you do," She said and took the spokes of the wheel. She dared not look back. If they decided not to believe her and questioned her sanity — she wanted them to at least know she wasn't desperate at the end.