Rain falls from a black sky. Frigid water races over the mossy stone of Saint Paul Catholic Church. Thunder rattles the stained glass depiction of the Easter Resurrection. Next to the empty tomb hovers Jesus, right above the warped double doorways that lead into the sanctuary. Inside the church, Father Collins scuttles about emptying pots of rain water. His curved spine seizes as he bends over to grab another full pot. He stumbles into a pew, gasping from the pain and is greeted by a small swarm of mosquitos. For every one he slaps against his flabby neck, two more appear. Father Collins groans as he contemplates his lowly existence. Years ago, he had a clear path to the Vatican, but that was before all that unpleasantness in Pittsburgh. Even though all was forgiven, they still banished him to a school for blind boys in Bolivia. Things ran their course there. His next post was this backwater dump somewhere in the Mississippi Valley swamp where the nearest living Catholic was over a hundred miles away. However, this was considered a historic sight, so the Church required someone to be there at all times; even though the only services he had performed in the last decade were all funerals. Before Father Collins, a friar was responsible for the upkeep of this dilapidated church. Obviously, maintenance work is more suitable for a friar, not an ordained priest. However, the leadership seemed intent on ruining his career, his reputation, and his life. Instead of dining with the Pope, he chases swamp rats away from the Communion wafers that only he partakes in. There is a loud bang as a gust of wind tears shingles off the sagging roof, and the trickle of rain from the ceiling becomes a steady stream. Father Collins shakes a frail fist at the heavens. Forsaken by his old friends and allies, forsaken by God Himself, Father Collins forms curses on his lips, but the only words he mutters are, “Devil take me.” The wind dies down. The rain tapers off. With a groan, Father Collins grabs the overflowing pot of rainwater and waddles towards the kitchen. Loud rapping on the door startles the priest causing him to drop the pot. Water sprays on to the pews, soaking a hymnal and a Bible. Silently cursing God and whatever lost drunk is banging on the door at this ungodly late hour, Father Collins kicks the pot under a pew, bruising his big toe in the process. The priest grunts, the door creaks open, and suddenly Father Collins stands before a beautiful young man wearing a crisp white suit. The stranger’s pale unblemished skin radiates in the darkness. Piercing grey eyes stare out from a seductively androgynous face. All this framed with luscious blonde locks that bounce as he shakes the rain from his hair. Composing himself, Father Collins says, “Look at you, standing in the rain. Come in, come in, what can I do for you?” “I’ve come to make my confession, Father Collins,” says the young man. His voice reminds the priest of a gently plucked harp. “Have we met before?” The young man smiles, showing off a perfectly straight row of perfectly white teeth that glimmer from some unknown light source. “We’ve met a few times in the past, but I’m not surprised you don’t recognize me.” With a skeptical gaze, Father Collins ushers the young man in, certain he would have noticed such a beautiful creature if they had ever crossed paths. The rotary candles flare up as the young man enters the sanctuary. The priest shivers with excitement as he guides the young man to the confessional booth. What sort of delicious sins will pass through those glistening soft lips? Father Collins closes his eyes as he sits in the confessional booth, trying to remember the words to a ritual he had not performed in years. Giddiness clouds the priest’s mind as he takes a deep breath and asks the young man how long it had been since his last confession. “Long time, Father Collins. Very, very long time.” Father Collins smiles, sensing an exterior motive for this young man’s visit. This is no ordinary parishioner. “What is it you wish to confess, my son.” “Murder.” Father Collins stiffens. “I beg your pardon, but did I hear you correctly? Did you say you murdered someone?” “Not someone, but some people. Killed a man’s children along with all his servants. Then I drove his cattle off a cliff, and I’m talking tens of thousands of cattle.” Perhaps this young man’s company is a gift from an old friend, a sympathetic one who knows how lonely the last few years have been for Father Collins. Choosing his words carefully, Father Collins asks, “Is this some sort of game?” “No, I really did that. Well, not personally, but I caused it all to happen.” “Why would you do such a thing?” asks Father Collins in a low voice. The young man says, “Because I made a bet with God. You should know the story, you wrote a whole sermon on it, *The Righteous Suffering of Job*. You first gave that sermon almost forty years ago, when you held a fancy position in Pittsburgh. Same day you called little Brian Mayfield back to your office.” The priest’s lecherous smile vanishes. How could this stranger possibly know that? The young man waits a few moments for the priest to respond. After receiving nothing but garbled stammering from the priest, he continues, “You must remember that sermon. You went into gruesome detail about how I killed Job’s kids, his servants, and his livestock. Well… over the last few centuries, I’ve been thinking about Job’s family, and you were right. What I did was wrong. While God has an exponentially higher body count than me, that doesn’t excuse what I did, so I would like to officially apologize for that.” The priest’s voice trembles. “Who are you?” Ignoring the question, the young man continues, “If I have to resort to murder to corrupt a soul, perhaps that’s a soul not worth corrupting. Besides, I’ve learned it is much easier to corrupt a soul with petty inconveniences. In fact, sometimes all it takes is a leaking roof to not only get someone to curse God, but actually invite me to take them away.” Father Collins cries out, “Who are you!” There is a long pause. When the young man speaks, his voice lowers a few octaves. “You know who I am, Father Collins.” Beads of sweat trickle down the priest’s wrinkled brow. “Why… Why have you come here? You can’t even be here. It’s impossible. This is sacred ground, holy ground, no evil may enter.” A guttural laugh engulfs the room. “Then how do you explain your presence here, priest?” Father Collins slams his way out of the confessional booth. There is a clattering on the floor. His rosary. The necklace band had snapped. He bends down to grab it, but the wooden crucifix sizzles in his hand. Father Collins screams, dropping the rosary. The young man appears behind him. “Do you remember Arnie Baker?” Scooping up the rosary, Father Collins howls through the pain and throws the rosary at the man in the white suit. The man disappears, but his laughter still echoes through the sanctuary. Thunder rumbles in the distance, then all is quiet. Was this a dream, a vision, a hallucination? Was solitude driving him mad? Or the unthinkable? The blisters on his hand seem real enough, and if those were real than that… that thing could be a demon if not the actual Devil himself. Father Collins retreats to the bowl of holy water near the entrance of the sanctuary. As he reaches down towards the still water, the young man appears behind him. “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.” Father Collins freezes. This has to be a bad dream. Father Collins had served the Church for over half a century, feeding the poor, comforting the distressed, and saving souls from damnation. He had nearly been appointed as a bishop. Certainly, this is just some sort of test. The young man continues,“But back to Arnie Baker, he lived in this very town. Had family out in Pittsburgh though. Spent a couple summers out there in the very same parish you served at.” Father Collins plunges his right hand into the holy water to fling it at the apparition. Yet the water boils upon touch, and when he tears his hand away, large chunks of burnt flesh fall off. With a shriek, the priest falls to the floor. Smirking down at the priest, the young man says,“Told you not to touch it. You’re mine now.” Father Collins watches in horror as the skin peels from his hand. Then blood, muscle, and tendon ooze off the bone. A scream freezes in his throat. The young man says, “Now you must have done something really special for Arnie Baker, because even though he never went to mass or any other church service after those summers in Pittsburgh, he wrote in his suicide note he wanted to be buried in a Catholic cemetery.” Father Collins crawls to his feet. He hobbles to the door and tugs at the handle. Not locked, but by some demonic magic, the door refuses to budge. The young man steps closer to the trembling priest. “In fact, he’s buried in the cemetery right behind this church.” Father Collins shouts a jumbled Latin phrase and runs past the young man who smiles at the priest skimpering into the sacristy. The priest slams the door behind him, throwing every ounce of his flabby frame against the door. For a few moments, everything is silent. Even the wind ceases howling. The priest lets out a quiet sob as he stares at the hand which is nothing but a stump of scorched bone and pus-spewing flesh. The young man walks out from the vestment closest. “Arnie Baker… you took him under your wing as soon as you laid eyes on him. Got him to take his first communion. Next summer you personally selected him to be an altar boy.” Father Collins slides down the door until he is sitting on the floor. He weeps into his knees, closing his eyes, praying it all away. The young man says, “Since Arnie Baker was a suicide, he showed up at my doorstep. Not that I had much choice in the matter. Seemed like a good kid. A damaged kid, but a good kid nonetheless. Just in the wrong parish at the wrong time, but he also wasn’t the only one you paid special attention to.” Father Collins shrieks, “Get behind me Satan!” All is silent. Everything is still. The priest mutters silent prayers as a gentle peace descends upon him. Maybe this was all a test. The Blood of Jesus Christ had washed him clean of those past sins. He would wake up, his hand would be fine, and no one would be there. Composing himself, Father Collins dares to crack his right eye open. A few inches away are the hungry eyes of the Devil. Flailing his stump of an arm, the priest charges to the other end of the sacristy, wrenches the door open, and then dashes down the hall. Shameful images of the past clog the priest’s mind as he tries to find the back door, the one he uses at least three times a day, but for some reason it is eluding him now. By some malevolent force, this small church with only four separate rooms outside of the sanctuary and only two hallways had morphed into an inescapable labrinth. As the priest races down familiar hallways that lead to unfamiliar intersections, his vision blurs with images of young Arnie Baker. The curls of his sandy blonde hair, the pale freckled face, the dimples on both sets of his pudgy cheeks, the shame in his auburn eyes. Panting, Father Collins rounds a corner only to find himself standing face to face with the Devil. The Devil says, “Many people erroneously believe I enjoy torturing the souls of the damned which, for the most part, could not be further from the truth. On the contrary, I am quite fond of humanity. Why else would I risk the wrath of Almighty God to free you pathetic mortals from His spiritual tyranny. I risked everything to free Eve’s mind, and lost everything in the process. It’s not like Hell is my first choice of residence.” Numb fear is replaced by manic terror. The priest flees down the vacant hallways, throwing open doors with his one good hand but only finds more brooms and mop buckets. The futility of his efforts, the impossibility of his circumstance, brings the priest to his knees. Too exhausted to run, too terrified to fight, there is nothing to do but wait for the end. The Devil steps out of a broom closet. He continues talking as if there had been no interruption. “So when I get a poor soul like Arnie Baker unjustly tossed into my little pit of fire, I do what little I can to make them comfortable, and if at all possible, do something special for them. You ever wonder why you were assigned to this run down parish?” Father Collins snivels, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I asked for forgiveness, I repented, I said my Hail Marys-” The Devil’s rumbling laughter cuts him off. “I have never understood how a few Hail Marys along with a small serving of rotten grape juice and stale crackers cleanse a soul from even the worst atrocities.” The Devil pauses to take a deep breath, sucking all the air out of the narrow hallway. “You see, God and I made a bet about you, much like the one we made about Job, but instead of murdering your friends and family, I only asked to be allowed to play a few harmless pranks and have a say as to where you were stationed. So over the years I have caused the floorboards to creak under your desk no matter where you put it, dislodged the occasional roof tile to let a little rain in, sent swarms of bugs to torment your sleep every so often, little things just to be an annoyance. One of my favorite pranks was causing your shoelaces to snap at the most inconvenient times. Do you remember that time right before you were about to meet the Archbishop?” Father Collins did remember, quite vividly in fact. A bishop had recently died, and while the meeting was an informal one, Father Collins hoped to impress the Archbishop in order to further his own chances of receiving that coveted position. On his way to the office, he bent down to tighten his shoelace and it snapped. Frantic, he tried adjusting the lace to shorten it only to have it snap again. As he entered through the gold painted doors of the Archbishop’s office, the shoe slipped off causing him to tumble into a Renaissance era stained glass crucifix, a gift to the Archbishop from the Pope himself. The crucifix shattered on the floor along with Father Collins’s dream of a station at the Holy See. That meeting with the Archbishop had been the beginning of his downward spiral. Ashamed, embarrassed, hopes dashed, Father Collins did something reckless and was reported. Which led to Bolivia, which led to even more unpleasantness, which led to this accursed swamp. Father Collins’s sense of shame collapses in a wave of self-pity and rage. Drool foams from the priest’s mouth. “It was you! This is all your fault!” “Not entirely my fault. For starters, I only proposed the bet, your boss is the one who accepted it, and I think you are forgetting that you wouldn’t be in this current predicament if it wasn’t for the fact that you had carnal relations with a multitude of youths that were under your charge.” The Devil’s accusation does nothing to abate the priest’s self-pity. Anger clears away the cloud of past memories which had blurred his vision. He spots the elusive back door right behind the Devil. The priest bounds to his feet, racing past the Devil as fast as his robe will let him. He bursts through the backdoor, sprints through the flower garden, and dashes into the cemetery. Howling wind rips crisp leaves from branches and small whirlwinds of dead foliage tear across the priest’s path. Lightning tears through a wall of rain which is cascading over the church and into the cemetery. The ground turns to a muddy swamp, clinging to the priest’s shoes. The tongues of his shoes loosen with the snapping of shoelaces. Mud sucks in the Italian leather leaving the priest to flee in silk socks. As Father Collins stumbles through the downpour, a root wraps around his ankle. The priest crashes to the ground, and all the air is torn from his lungs. Darkness obscures the tangle of roots trapping his foot as Father Collins tries to pull his ankle away. The roots tighten their grip, yet there are no trees nearby. Nothing but rows of headstones. Lightning cuts through the wall of black clouds, illuminating the headstone in front of the priest. In that flash of light, Father Collins sees the name “Arnold Baker” engraved in stone. The roots trapping his leg refuse to budge. Father Collins wiggles a few fingers between the roots and his leg, but the roots respond to his touch by tightening their grasp. He kicks at the roots with his one free leg, but it too becomes ensnared by roots that seem to be popping out from the ground. As Father Collins tries to push himself away, he feels the roots pulling him closer to the tombstone. Arnold Baker’s tombstone. Lightning flashes overhead, and Father Collins looks down at his feet to find them trapped, not by roots, but by skeletal hands. Father Collins screams as he thrashes his feet. He rolls to his belly, grasping at muddy clumps of grass in a futile attempt to pull himself away. Despite the priest’s best efforts, the skeletal hands maintain their vice-like grip. Bony fingers pierce into his calves, digging through muscle and tendon until scraping against the shrieking priest’s leg bone. The skeletal hands yank, tearing through Father Collins’s soft flesh. Wailing to a deaf god, Father Collins digs his fingers into the mud as he is pulled into the earth. First his feet disappear, then his legs crunch in unnatural angles as his body twists farther into the dirt. A flash of lightning. The Devil stands before the priest, who is up to his neck in dirt. The Devil holds up his hand and says, “Arnie, could you give us a minute.” The fingers wrapped around his leg bones cease their tugging. Father Collins screams hoarsely, “Please! Mercy! I’ll do anything! Anything!” The Devil crouches over him and gives the priest’s head a sympathetic pat. “Let’s start with a question that has bothered me for thousands of years, but I’ve never gotten a satisfactory response. Can you do that for me, Father Collins?” The priest grovels, “Please, have mercy on me, please... I’ll do anything you ask.” The Devil smiles. “I’ll take that as a yes. One thing that has always perplexed me is why does everyone think I’m the bad guy? Not saying I’m perfect, but I killed one family and a bunch of camels, that’s the worst you got on me. God, on the other hand, is responsible for countless murders, and some of those, like the Egyptian children, were just because he wanted to show off his power. He causes droughts and plagues that kill millions each year, not me. The Old Testament is the memoirs of a mass murderer, and the Book of Revelations reads like the manifesto of a deranged serial killer.” Tears stream down the priest's pudgy cheeks as he weeps for mercy, but the Devil ignores the blubbering man’s cries. The Devil continues, “God even says in Revelations that Satan, me, will be helping humanity fight against this righteous slaughter of every man, woman, and child who didn’t say nice things about God, yet for some reason you humans still think I’m the enemy. So tell me, priest, as someone who has devoted their life to studying the Holy Scriptures, why do you think I’m the evil one?” Father Collins wails, “Please… please... have mercy on me! I can change! Please... I didn’t mean any of it, just let me go!” Giving the priest another pat on the forehead, the Devil says, “Never get a clear answer to that question. Oh well. Father Collins, it’s been a pleasure and I must express my sincerest gratitude...” He pauses as the priest whimpers with confused hope. Then the Devil continues, “without pathetic degenerates like you, I’d get no joy from this job.” Rising to his feet, the Devil walks away as Father Collins screams for mercy. The Devil waves his hand and says, “He’s all yours, Arnie. Enjoy.” Flesh tears as the skeletal hands pull Father Collins deeper into the earth. Worms and dirt clog the priest’s throat, drowning out his screams. His stump of an arm scrapes into the earth as his other hand stretches out to the heavens and then disappears beneath the earth. A sheet of rain washes away the claw marks in the mud as lightning flashes over the vacant cemetery.


Some people have what the kids call ‘resting bitch face’. I have the opposite. Something about my face, something I can’t put my finger on, makes people want to engage me in conversation. My mother says it’s the family curse. My grandmother says it’s a blessing and I should be grateful. Either way, even when it’s 8am and all I want in my waking coma is coffee, another hasty grab-and-goer will make a comment about the weather or the increasingly poor service of British railway lines. I nod and smile because I like to think of myself as a polite, reasonable human being. Yes, it’s raining again, yes all week, yes hope the sun comes out soon. Oh, your train was late? Mine too, it’s terrible, simply terrible, did you know in Japan they apologise if the train is so much as thirty seconds late? Why don’t we do that here, it’s just an outrage, it really is. If this city had an emotion it would be ‘simmering disappointment’. “We’ve met before, haven’t we? I could swear I saw you at Jim’s party,” says a bloke with a briefcase. The pair of us jostle for prime position, as close as possible to where the train’s carriage doors jolt to a stop. I clutch the cardboard sleeve of my coffee cup, ridges digging into my fingers. “I don’t know anyone called Jim.” I smile distantly. “Really? Oh. Well. Did you see in this morning’s paper-” I am the queen of small talk. It’s a crown I never wanted. On the plus side, I never have to check the news. There’s always someone eager to tell me what the prime minister’s gone and done now, or which celebrity recently got pregnant. I nod along to what the bloke is saying, agreeing that the country really has gone to the dog’s. It’s just easier not to argue. The train draws in with a chuffing screech. I get my elbows ready, even as I step back to let out a trickle of people with backpacks and rollalong cases. I board. There’s not so little room I’ll be left standing but there are no free double seats either. I’ll have to choose someone to sit next to. Getting the same train at the same time, I spot all the usual suspects. There’s the old lady with the grandson studying in Sweden. There’s the schoolboy who plays football and scores practically every goal, don’t you know? On the other side of the carriage is Mary. I know her name is Mary because she is unapologetic about using her speakerphone to have loud arguments with her boyfriend, rolling her eyes at me whenever he’s talking. Behind her there’s a pair of men too old to be lads but still eager to talk about laddish things like Top Gear and the FTSE 100. Today I am not in the mood for guessing if a Lincoln Continental Mark V Landau is a car or an investment fund. At the very back, I see someone new. She’s dressed for the office in a prim grey skirt and sheer black tights, but her feet are clad in chunky trainers. I spot a pair of heels jutting between the handles of her handbag. Her eyes look dreamy and far away. The moment I spot the white gleam of earbuds, my mind is made up. Earbuds buys me two minutes of quiet. Maybe even five, if I’m lucky. I hurry to claim the seat next to hers. I have my pinched smile at the ready, a weapon to deal with the awkwardness of sharing personal space with a stranger. Pretending someone isn’t there when your knees are almost touching is one of the weirdest phenomenons of public transport. She doesn’t look up. I allow myself a slow exhale. I watch the other passengers board, the way they carefully scan the seats for the most favourable option. Someone’s put their bag on the seat next to them. There’s something wonderfully satisfying about the “Is anyone sitting here?” they get for their efforts. Etiquette on trains demands irritation be disguised as perfect, placid politeness. I wait for my new neighbour to pop out her earbuds and ask what stop we’re at. She doesn’t. I wait for her to comment on the weather or the increase in train fares. She doesn’t. I actually get to drink my coffee before it gets cold. Between sips, I peek at her out of the corner of my eye. I decide it’s her eyes that make her pretty, the colour of the sea on a sunny day. I wonder if she’s going to get off first. We’ll have to perform the awkward train shuffle when I get up to let her out. I’ll accidentally stand the side closest to the doors and she’ll need to squeeze past me, making the whole thing even more excruciating. The thought’s enough to put me on edge. I sip my coffee and try to discern which carriage door makes for the most sensible exit. Thankfully, I am spared by being the first to leave. It must be the only silent train journey I’ve had in my whole life. I am so grateful I want to say thank you. The only thing holding me back is knowing how resentful I feel when people ignore the fact I’m wearing headphones. Even the biggest ear dustbins in the world do little to neutralise my curse. So I say nothing. For once I’m not exhausted before the day’s even started. It’s easier to bear the good morning chatter of my colleagues without having to sip cold coffee. I whizz through the day’s customer complaints, managing to sound sincerely contrite on the telephone. Amazing how much difference a quiet morning makes! The arrangement becomes regular. Every day she’s on the train with a free seat next to her. I don’t hesitate for a second, ignoring any attempts to make eye contact and/or conversation on my way there. For the first time, I realise peace somewhere away from home. I get to drink my coffee. I start to bring books now I have the quiet to read them in. We’ve never spoken and yet I look forward to seeing her each day and claiming a few precious minutes of silence. Well, not really silence, not with the chuff of the train and the ringing of phones, the rumble of wheeled bags and the flat automated pronouncements of “The next station is-”. But the closest I’ll get to it in the middle of the city. I wonder what my new seat buddy is like, where she’s come from, which office she’s going to. I briefly consider sweeping social media to see if I can find any trace of her. I surreptitiously scan her for details – a badge, lanyard, a branded carrier bag. It’s at the point when I’m sneaking glances at her phone to see if I can discern whether she’s an Apple or an Android girl that I realise I may be a little obsessed. Then I start to consider if there’s a reason she won’t talk to me. Is it because I’m ugly? Unfriendly? Have I offended her in some way? Maybe she overheard me saying something she didn’t like. Maybe I’m not cool enough for her to talk to, which overrides any curse I may or may not have. I decide, for the sake of my sanity, to sit somewhere else. “Hello, love. Haven’t spoken in a while.” Oh, help. I remember this lady, she’s always tanned from long holidays in the Mediterranean. I make ‘mmm’ noises. I stuff my book into my bag. “Nice to see the sunshine, in’t it? Just last year I went to Spain and-” I make the required impressed noises. I wonder what it would be like if I told her I wasn’t interested. But that just isn’t what you do, is it? Anyway, it makes her happy to talk about her holidays and I don’t have the heart to put her off. I feel my coffee growing cold. She gets off at the next stop. I hear someone else on the search for a seat and brace myself, wondering what I’ll end up hearing about next. I blink, stunned. The quiet girl takes the seat next to me. I should say something. But she doesn’t look at me. She sits and taps at her phone. She’s still wearing earbuds. Her getting up to sit here was a purposeful decision, she was already on the train. I should say something. But what? I don’t start conversations, other people start them for me. For the rest of the journey, words gum up my throat. Everything I come up with seems stupid. When we reach my stop, she gets up without me having to ask. And she *smiles*. I smile back, utterly dazzled. Then I have to run to get off the train before the doors close. I spend the rest of the day thinking of conversation starters. I scribble questions on my notepad, only half listening to angry customers. I come up with a shortlist. I cross out half of them. I list categories: weather, news, TV shows. I strategise what path to go down for each topic. I try and guess her responses. The next day, I square my shoulders. I am ready. I even rehearsed, watching my face in the mirror to check my expressions. I take my seat. As usual, she’s listening to something. Why isn’t she talking to me? I can’t take it anymore! I have to hear her voice. Just to check she isn’t some strange hallucination. If I make a complete embarrassment of myself, I can always start boarding a different carriage. Or maybe I’ll just walk. “It isn’t raining today!” I blurt out. “We might even get a glimpse of sunshine.” She blinks at me. Her eyes look darker when she’s actually focused on something. Someone. Is every word supposed to be this gut-wrenching? Is this how it feels for all the people compelled to talk to me? I used to think people *liked* to prattle on and on about nothing. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe this is just a safe way to get started, a tentative check to see if the other person wants to chat. *Please talk to me. Please.* She nods. “Only because I brought my umbrella. Forgetting it means it’s guaranteed to rain, carrying it around all day brings out the sun.” Her voice doesn’t sound like I imagined. It’s lower but sweeter, soft on vowels. She parries my lame line about the weather perfectly. I thought she might be shy, but maybe not. Already the plans I spent hours on have become useless. She takes out her earbuds, watching me curiously. “You must be cursed!” Then I laugh, high and nervous. She looks at me, opens her mouth, closes it again. Silence. Awful, awkward silence. “The train’s busy today, isn’t it?” Why did I say that? The train is busy every day and it’s certainly no busier than usual. I cringe into my coffee cup. My strange gift has left me extremely lacking in conversational skills. This may just be the most painful train ride in history. I think it even beats the time an old man insisted on telling me all the ways I reminded him of his ex “Yeah.” She leans back in her seat, looking away. “I work near Farringdon. Customer complaints.” “I’m closer to the Barbican. Office admin.” It’s clear she’s only being polite. I struggle and flail and pity the numerous individuals who have ever felt the same way. I could ask her more about her job, but her face tells me she’s not particularly interested. I take a gamble and ask a question I genuinely want to know the answer to. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re listening to?” Her face comes to life. “A thriller about an alcoholic stalking her ex. Not sure if I like it.” “Oh. Why not? Is it not exciting?” “Well – “ We have a conversation about novels. A perfectly passable conversation where I sound halfway intelligent. I make her laugh. I want to do it again. I feel ridiculously light, as if I might fly away like a carrier bag on a windy day. I didn’t realise a single conversation could mean so much. I briefly worry it’s a fluke and she won’t want to sit with me again. But I’m wrong. Each morning, we smile at each other and say hello. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes I’ll open my book and she’ll put in her earbuds, both of us welcoming a quiet journey. “I don’t even know your name,” I blurt out one day, rain-damp hair stuck to my cheeks. My coffee cup sleeve is soggy. I check her bag for the bulge of her umbrella. It seems to be missing. “Lou,” she says. It’s about a year since we began sitting together on the train. I mention this to her and she laughs and says I have a good memory. *Lou* laughs. I can talk about her. I can think about her as something other than *the girl I sit next to on the train*. It’s a Tuesday morning and I’m looking forward to sitting down. I want to tell Lou about this one customer who insists on using a Nokia phone he bought the year of the millennium, but is outraged it ‘doesn’t do Skype’. I bounce onto the train. Look around to the two or three seats Lou favours – window, slightly to the back of the second carriage. She isn’t there. It’s fine. She’s probably on holiday or maybe she’s sick, though she didn’t mention anything about travelling to sunny climes or coming down with a cold yesterday – I sink into the nearest seat, mind racing. I don’t have her number. I don’t even have her second name. There didn’t seem much point as we saw each other every day. But what if she never comes back? “You alright?” asks the chap in the seat next to me. “You look pale. Do you want a drink of water?” “My friend isn’t here today,” I tell him. “I hope she’s alright.” His glasses have thick black frames a fraction too big to be trendy. He launches into a rant about the lack of carriages on the train and I tune him out. I’m thinking. Plotting. How do I find one woman in the near infinite depths of the city? Maybe it won’t come to that. Lou will probably be back before long. A week passes. Then two. Maybe she really is gone. Without even a goodbye. Is this related to the curse? I don’t know what else to do. I scroll through my contacts to find a number I should dial more often than I do. I dial. No answer. She’s probably left the phone in a plant pot or next to the sink. I don’t bother with voicemail. I dial again. “Hello?” a deceptively feeble voice says. “Hello Grandma. How are you?” “Why are you calling me? You *never* call me. Your mother says you don’t have time for idle conversation. Are you still living in that horrible mousehole?” “Yes but – “ “You need to get onto the landlord, you must be so embarrassed whenever you have people around.” “Grandma, I need to ask you about-” I lower my voice so I sound less crazy to my fellow passengers. “The curse.” Silence. Has she dropped the phone? Accidentally hung up while trying to work the volume? “It’s not a curse!” she suddenly squawks. “That mother, putting ideas in your head -” “OK, fine! The blessing then. I met someone it didn’t work on. She didn’t talk to me. And I think *she* might be cursed – or blessed – as well. It always rains when she forgets her umbrella.” “Ridiculous. Witches these days have absolutely no imagination. When I was young, they had fire in their bellies. Old Tommy, he said – ” I have to interrupt her or I’ll be here all day. One mention of Old Tommy and it’s all over. “Grandma, do you know how to break the, um, blessing?” “Why would you want to? Before I met that nice witch I spent all my time chatting with people because otherwise we’d all sit in silence!” I imagine my grandmother yapping the ears off anyone who would listen with her never ending stream of dramas, just like she does now. The young witch must have thought she was being oh so clever with her curse, not realising my grandmother would revel in it. In stories, curses can be broken if the person mends their ways. My grandmother was eighty-nine. I didn’t have a hope of her changing. But maybe that was fine. If she didn’t want to tell me all about her neighbours Messy Margerie and Sly Simon I would only worry something had gone terribly wrong. I listen for as long as I can before lapsing into friendless despair softened only by copious amounts of ice cream. The next day, I decide I’ve had enough of despair. I don’t have to be friendless, not when people come to me so effortlessly. Lou might be gone but I can make another friend. Maybe. I try hard for the rest of that week and the next. I ask earnest questions about paella from the Mediterannean and relate anecdotes about my mother’s holiday infatuation with a waiter named Luca. I learn I really should consider investing in a stocks and shares saving account if I ever want to buy a property. I urge Mary to break up with her disappointing boyfriend because she deserves better than someone who can’t properly pair up socks. I feel better. I feel connected. I feel like people’s smiles are more genuine and maybe my grandmother is right, my ability isn’t so bad after all. Although. I can’t quite quell my longing for quiet. Even one morning a week drinking coffee and sharing a pair of earphones with Lou would be enough. My head spins with new names – I wish I’d found out hers. I wish I’d followed her on Twitter or asked for her Instagram or if I were really bold maybe even her phone number. So many ways to connect and I couldn’t use a single one of them. I try typing her name into Google and Facebook but do you know how many Lous there are in one city? Too many for one tiny screen to handle. You can probably scroll to infinity. Even then I’d have to hope for an up-to-date picture without a hat or sunglasses on. I board the train. I decide to sit next to Mary and see how her boyfriend hunt is going. But just as I am about to head over, I catch a flash of a familiar face. “Hi!” says Lou. I stare at her, wondering if she’s real. Someone behind me sighs loudly when the train doors bleep a warning. I am hustled onto the train by the impatient throng behind me, to the empty seat next to Lou. My heart thunders in my mouth. I don’t know what to say to her. I’m pleased to see her and desperate to know where she’s been and on top of all that I feel a tiny bit betrayed. “It’s nice to see you,” says Lou. “I missed the smell of your coffee in the morning. Always wakes me right up.” “…Are you back now?” “Not really. There was a flood in the office and I got relocated. Maybe permanently.” “Oh. So I probably won’t see you around as much then,” I mumble. “That’s kind of why I’m here.” And then she gave me the most adorable look, simultaneously beguiling, sheepish and shy. “I really miss you.” “I missed you too. I wish I’d asked for more than your name.” “Are you asking now?” she laughs. And I did. And then question after question after question. We miss Lou’s stop. Then we miss mine. We ride the train all the way to the end of the line and by the end I glow, warm and happy and sated by a conversation I want to have with all my heart. After that, a strange thing happens. People stop cornering me everywhere I go. I am no longer burdened by the chatter of strangers. I get the odd person every now and again, but they no longer seem *compelled* to talk to me. Questioning my grandmother gets me nowhere but I have a sneaking suspicion I know what broke the curse – a genuine interest in my conversational partners, a return of their efforts to connect. The only downside – I have to start buying newspapers! And I carry an umbrella everywhere, because if Lou forgets then it rains.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **”It was magical.”** This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, but the original sentence should stay intact.   ***   #Two Weeks Ago Thank you for being so patient. There were no nominations two weeks ago, but there are always, of course, my personal spotlights. ###Bay’s Spotlights - - Submitted by u/rare27 - - Submitted by u/TheLettre7 #Last Week I loved all the unique takes on the theme this past week. I really enjoy watching your writing grow week to week. ###Crowd Favorite - - Submitted by u/SilverSines ###Bay’s Spotlights - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - - Submitted by u/pathetic_optimist   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I accept nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or our discord.** You have until 1pm EST Monday to send them in. Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I’m walking to the local supermarket to grab dinner when I hear a scream from a distance to my right. “Eek! Roach!”, it goes. I turn to investigate. Apartment building, second floor, small window slightly ajar, light peeking through the curtains. Dead silence from that point on. I’m curious. Too curious. I try to suppress it, knowing the dark roads that very curiosity has taken me down. But in the end, it wins out. I walk toward the stairs and climb up. Perhaps, if I can save her from that cockroach she’s so afraid of, she’ll reward me for my efforts—if you know what I mean. I know what I mean. I try to push away the unsavory thoughts. Well, unsavory to the rational part of myself, that is. My primal mind finds the notion thrilling. And I suppose he’s the one calling the shots right now. I go up to a door—which could very well be the wrong one—and without knocking, attempt to turn the handle.  It’s not locked. The door squeaks open. I peek in. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, but it sends chills down my spine all the same. You never know what’s going to happen with these things. Will they call the police on me? Grab a utensil to defend themselves? Cower in the corner, paralyzed? Perhaps it’s the novelty of each situation that keeps me coming back for more. Each and every person’s reaction is like a fingerprint, unique to only them. People reveal who they truly are in extremis.  The entrance hall is dark. Still, no sounds coming from deeper in. Is anyone even home? Perhaps the voice really had come from a different room, and someone here just thought they’d do a quick grocery run without locking up. I’d certainly do that if I lived this close to the supermarket.  I look for shoes by the entrance; people don’t wear shoes at home in this country. Honestly, I like it: a lot more sanitary—viruses being able to stick to your soles and all that. A single pair of size 22 women’s sneakers. White with pink accents, cheap brand. Someone's home.  I close the door as quietly as I can. My eyes adjust quickly to the dim light. No keyboard-typing or mouse-clicking sounds, so she’s not at the computer. It's a little too quiet, something seems off. I’m starting to get chills. I’m imagining a giant insect eating her in the living room, or her body lying limp and lifeless, perhaps from some sort of heart attack (though that could still prove entertaining for me). I feel alive.  The apartment is small and narrow; there's a tiny kitchen nook and a bathroom door on opposing sides of the short corridor. The hallway terminates with a closed sliding door; slivers of light shoot out from the gaps between door and wall. On the other side is likely the only other room in the home.  I creep past the mini-kitchen, grabbing a knife just in case I need to be more persuasive. Or perhaps I really do need to fend off a giant man-eating insect, heh. I reach for the door and slide it open.  I see a man in a far corner of the empty room. He has a gun pointed directly at me. I hear a voice coming from the other corner—a woman, also pointing an old-school revolver in my direction.  “Tokyo PD. Drop the weapon and put your hands in the air, you sick fuck.


There’s a vulture on my fence. It’s been there day-in, day-out for the last week, ever since I moved into my new house and graduated high school. Sometimes, I feel like it’s been with me longer but I can’t explain where the feeling comes from. There’s a vulture on my fence. His body is as dark as the night and he’s always quiet, patient, and watching. I know he’s been with me longer but I can’t remember him. I swear he’s watching me, but maybe it’s just paranoia. There’s a vulture on my window ledge. He’s watching me now. I know it. I was looking at childhood pictures upstairs and when I looked up towards the window, I saw his eyes staring back at me. I went back to looking at dreams and passions long-abandoned and he never left. When I went to sleep that night, he was outside my bedroom window. I think he’s trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what. His presence is eerie but comforting. There’s a vulture staring at me as I read my childhood journal. It’s 10 AM and I’m lying in bed thinking about what I’ve lost out on. I wanted to be a chef once, but the last time I cooked was in 8th grade. I wanted to be an artist, but the last time I painted was sometime in middle school. I cry over the unfulfilled dreams of an idealistic child, and the whole time the vulture stares at me. He looks bigger than he did yesterday. There’s a vulture on my fence. I’m eating dinner with my family, but my mind is elsewhere. I’m thinking about lost friendships, broken hearts, and what-could-have-beens. The whole time, he’s staring at me. I turn to look at him, and he keeps staring. My family looks at me oddly, maybe they just don’t care about the vulture. The Vulture stole my journals. I’d left the window open when it was raining to feel the drops on my skin when he swooped in, grabbed my journals, and flew out. He was a lot bigger than he was yesterday, and I fell on my back when he flew in. I didn’t get up for a while. Then I went to sleep. The Vulture is gone now. I hope he’ll be back, I want my journals back. I liked reading them. I’ll move into college in two months, and I’d like to reminisce a little before I move out and away from my family, from my what-could-have-beens. It’s been a week. I remember the Vulture now. He was there when I moved to Minnesota. He was there when I moved to Hyderabad. He was there when I moved to New Jersey and had my adolescent heart crushed. He was there when I moved south to a place I didn’t really fit in. When I switched schools. When I was stuck inside for a year. He was there then. He was there in January when I tried chasing my dreams again, when I wrote something, when I showed it to a girl I might have had a thing for. I remember seeing his massive body outside my window while I wrote. Now he’s gone, and he took my journals with him. He's been there a lot. I wonder why. His absence is haunting. It’s been two weeks. He came back today. The journals were left outside my window. When I went to grab them, he scratched my left hand once. It was the closest I had been to him, and this time he looked even bigger than before, about six feet tall and towering over my crouching body. I went back inside, closed the door, and he didn’t leave. There’s a Vulture on my fence. He’s watching me. I think he’s waiting for something. I don’t know what.


“The brightest sun shone, through the clearest skies.” Ichad was reciting another of his biographical poems, his own invention he often remarks. He says that he enjoys reminiscing because it reminds him that he had lived a full life, though I think that he enjoys it more because it gives him an opportunity to flaunt. He never had an issue with arrogance on his moral compass and never cared if others did. Reciting the poems helps him with painting - the words focus the mind on the truth he says. Whatever that means. There was always something undeniably magical about how he'd get lost in the nostalgia of the history imbedded in his poems. Many times I could swear I saw a mirage in his amber eyes of the young voyaging Ichad; fearless adventurer, scourge of tradition, father of modern technology. Images of eerie foes and great deeds danced like reflections - hints of old emotions would surface ever so often as he continued to paint: his hand guided as if by instinct while his eyes focused on the past. Indeed, he is by all accounts a great polymath and hero of the Empire. Or once had been. All that was more than a lifetime ago I'm certain. All that progress, all that discovery had been achieved before my time and now Ichad sits before me calm and peaceful, as though his attention is ever present elsewhere. Each stroke on the canvas so slowly and expertly executed, each glance back at the mountains he was painting - a long drawn out dream. Not the man of pursuit, purpose and haste as my father describes. Though I suppose that is how the chronicles of time are written. Ichad is my mentor in natural philosophy, art and sciences and he is an inventor whose creations have changed our Empire for the better in more ways than will ever be attributed to him. He is the kindest and most respectful person I’ve ever met. But foremost, he is my closest friend. "On Royal blue canvas - a blinding white corona..." "Too dramatic, it's still a dull day despite the good weather" "Great weather - and it’s never a dull day when you're learning, my young cynical princess" I was rehearsing court etiquette, not learning. And it was dull. Idle. Everyone was busy preparing for an official visit from one of the other Isles. I never bothered to pay much attention. "What's with this visit Ichad? I want to go explore" "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about Emily, just some routine royal business - trade discussions or some such other jestering" “That doesn’t interest me - I want to be like you were once - an explorer.” I wanted to go climb those jagged mountains I wasn't allowed to. It was frustrating sitting and simply staring at them from the Palace balcony. "I wish I could stop time and move those rocks closer, I'd be able to climb them then and be back before the official visit" "Intriguing, and how would you achieve that?" "Simple, I would ask the smartest most powerful and greatest inventor in the whole of the Seven Isles to move them for me, you can move them can't you?” He paused just briefly before answering - the momentary excitement and comprehension in his eyes giving way to a somber and introspective look. "Emily... the young and ambitious strive for the power which would allow them to move mountains and the wisdom to turn seconds into hours but older and wiser, having attained that power, they understand why it is that they shouldn’t use it." "What is the point of striving for this power then if you will not use it?" I got the impression that he agreed with me at first, or could understand my frustration as though he himself still felt it. After a brief moment, he got up and walked over to the North side of the balcony - overlooking the city port below. "Come sit with me; look out as far as you can see - one day all of this, everywhere under the blue canvas, everything touched by the white rays, the palace, the city, the mountains, the whole of the Empire and its Seven Isles and beyond the horizon, beyond the corners of what we know exists - all of it will be yours as Queen. And when it is, you will have the power to change this world as you'd like; you will be the painter and the world your canvas and you will remember me then my young princess... because you will choose to change nothing at all" “Nothing? I want my painting to be perfect. In my painting there wouldn’t be any bad things.” “Yes, nothing - look at my painting it is just like the real thing. Isn’t it perfect?” At the time, I argued, I told him it wasn’t perfect - his painting - it could be better. I was furious. I explained that if we all thought as he did the world would see no progress, the Empire would stagnate, the just would never rise above the criminal, decadence would persevere while with each idea not realised because of apathy and each innocent soul lost due to ignorant rage, enlightenment would slip further and further away. If the righteous do not protect the weak evil takes root and innocent people suffer. If we do not stand for what is right then who will? How could he even say such things being an inventor and researcher all his life? Has he not changed the world beyond what was thought possible? Has he not prevented terrible things from happening? I told him that he was wrong - that I would make changes. I would paint not as things are but how I would like them to be, for it is up to the good people of this world to bring about change so that happiness, health and prosperity would be rights to all not luxuries of the few. I would attain that power to move mountains, turn seconds into hours and see the truth without light. That was what I told him that afternoon. That was decades past. And now? Now, just as my own youth bid welcome to experience once, experience welcomes content. As I grew older and more accustomed to the world and it's people, society and it's rules - I learned that our hearts aren't only capable of love but envy and jealousy as well and our minds aren't only capable of compassion but hate and wickedness as well: I learned that our souls aren’t only capable of inspiration but doubt and fear as well. I have come to understand many things in life but foremost now I understand what Ichad was telling me so many summers past: The balance that exists is incorruptible and all the change you perceive in life is just an illusion, relative in time, fading slowly as your own line stretches further until eventually progress can no longer be understood as ascent upwards because discovery and invention become just steps on Penrose stairs: to realise that to discover is an act of finding something which was found, and lost, ages ago does naught but enervate the soul. One winter Ichad had organized an expedition to a far away place. As he departed he handed me a note which read: “all that you could ever want is within you - I was as you are, and you will be as I am.” He has left me some time ago, I presume to pass from this world peacefully away from the eyes of people he would rather not indulge with his death or perhaps to go on one last adventure but truthfully I wish he has managed to escape this inexorable wheel of Illusions, as I hope I will one day as well. He left me a gift most precious, a memorabilia of our afternoons together - his masterpiece. A painting: “The Queens Canvas”. And as I sit on my palace balcony with a crown upon my head looking out across the landscape so expertly recreated in Ichad’s painting of that afternoon, those jagged mountains smile at me. It is perfect. I am at peace.


#Hello r/Shortstories! I’m back again to celebrate our third writer completing their serial on the . It has been a pleasure to be able to help inspire each of you week to week and provide a place for your writing to grow and evolve. And when one of you brings your story to a close, I am both sad to see the wonderful world end and proud of your accomplishment. This week, let's take a moment to say to u/EdsMusings for his completion of *The Twilight of Gods* on Serial Sunday.   ***   #The Twilight of Gods - Written by u/EdsMusings If you haven’t yet read his serial, set aside some time to check it out. You can find all the links below, as well as on his personal subreddit, . **A brief synopsis from Ed:** When the end of the world approaches, Lif, Thor and Loki have to confront their own fate. But when they start preparing for it, they realize their fates are not that far apart from each other. But how long can they delay the inevitable? And is it really the end of the world? - - - - - - - - - - - - -   ***   #A Chat with u/EdsMusings about Serial Writing So, let’s take a few minutes to chat with Ed about his experiences writing a serial. ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** I learned that I am capable of doing bigger projects and not immediately quitting. I think that mostly comes from the community. Each week, a lot of writers put hard work into their serial. And that idea gives you the push to do the same. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** Twilight of Gods is very much based on mythology. Like, if you'd read the Volùspa, the text I based it on, you'd see a lot of similarities. The thing I enjoyed most was trying to come up with ways to twist around the mythology. And I think that can be seen mostly in how I wrote Loki. He's more unhinged and has kind of lost that sly cunningness that's so typical for him, although you still kind of see it in some chapters. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** Like I said, having to write weekly was something I wasn't really looking forward to. It got hard to put writing in my quite packed schedule and that made me stress quite a bit when I had delayed the writing until 2 hours before campfire began. I allowed myself some leeway later on by not forcing myself to write every week. Sometimes, it was just because I couldn't find a fitting story for the theme, and sometimes, I just had a hard time writing. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** I'd probably spam the gif of Shia Labeouf yelling "do it!" until they're convinced. But in all seriousness, it's a leap of faith. You gotta believe that it's gonna work out 'cause I can assure you, when you take that leap, there will be people down there who will catch you.   ***   #Thanks! Ed, thank you for taking the time to share a bit about your experience. I love seeing how each writer’s journey differs, and absorbing the knowledge they have to share with us. This is a wonderful place to improve and grow, as well as meet some awesome people. I wish you the best of luck on your future writing endeavors. Maybe we’ll see you around Serial Sunday again! Until then, have .   ***   ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Author's Note: \*I have always wondered about the faceless henchmen in movies. The mercenaries beaten by a James Bond or Jason Bourne. Many of those men and women have families. What if there was a story about one of them and the story intersects with a known scene from an action movie, but from their perspective like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. This is the story of the henchman motorcyclist at the 11:11 minute mark of Deadpool. He was the only “bad guy” to escape alive from the opening fight scene on the bridge. I am assuming for the sake of the story that the escaping motorcyclist is not Ajax who shows up later in the scene on a bike. An earlier scene shows multiple henchman next to bikes so it’s possible one escaped).\* *\*\*This is an abridged version for Reddit.\*\**  Link to part 1:  **Chapter: Dr. Ford** In the ensuing months, the MCU were called on five times to respond to mutant activity. The spike in the MCU’s operations, despite years of inactivity was not lost on many of the senior commanders. What they did not know was that the Deputy NSC Advisor for Mutant Affairs and nominal leader of the MCU, Dr. Theodore Ford, was in cahoots with sectors of the Canadian government running the modern version of the Weapons X program. Dr. Ford maintained communication with Dr. Killebrew the lead scientist running the initiative. The uptick in “run-ins” was not accidental. Dr. Ford was a true believer in Project X and over the course of his long government career, covertly helped move resources and funding across the border to support the program. Dr. Killebrew was always a rogue (pun intended) and lately the Program had gone out of hand. This was an understatement considering what happened with James Howlett but that was way before their involvement and those sins were redeemed by Alpha Flight and later Howlett’s inclusion into the X-Men. That’s at least what Dr. Ford told himself. What Dr. Killebrew was doing now was wrong. His own private army. It was supposed to be OUR private army. An army of loyal mutants. Loyalty was determined by implanted explosive devices in their brains, a technology he knew Dr. Killebrew had not perfected yet. Who did he think he was? Shutting me out like this, Dr. Ford thought. Selling mutants for financial gain? Without him getting a piece. Did he think he could get away with it? That he wouldn’t know. Their mutants were never supposed to hurt civilians but yet, it had happened. Time and time again. Hence, this was the reason Dr. Ford maneuvered himself into leading the MCU and expanding it. The rising casualties caused ample justification (although few within the general public outside of a few journalists suspected mutant connections to many of the murders). He had to stop whatever plots Dr. Killebrew had cooked up and bring him back into the fold. Dr. Ford knew the situation was actually worse. Dr. Killebrew was not only stepping out on his own and going solo but was also losing control. The escapes, the random attacks. The successful capture and interrogation of the mutants, Worm Cunningham and Jacques confirmed his suspicion that Dr. Killebrew and this…Ajax, his apparent number 2 were going rogue. It would soon get out in the open. In the meantime, this Ajax was worth looking into. Dr. Ford felt a tickle in his brain as he pondered next steps. **Chapter – Professor X** A few days later, Professor X is testifying before the Senate Intelligence Committee. The hearing is at his behest. PROFESSOR X – I have information and updates regarding the covert program in Canada called Weapon X. You’ve been briefed before on Weapon X and each of you have met Wolverine, who came out of that program. Dr. Killebrew, who has led the program for years, is using it to ultimately create his own private army. In the near-term he is selling mutants to the highest bidder. Mutants from this program are connected to a few deadly incidents where civilian lives were lost. SENATOR MARSHALL – How do we know this isn’t just to provide new members for Alpha Flight. PROFESSOR X – I know for a fact that many of the recent run-ins with mutants which have resulted in over a dozen deaths, have been from mutants created from Project X. I also have proof that Dr. Theodore Ford is working with Dr. Killebrew. Or, until very recently was working with him. “There is a murmur among the Senate committee members until the Chair brings everyone to order.” CHAIRMAN LUNDGREN – You signed an agreement with our government, and with most governments of the world that you would not eavesdrop into people’s minds. Can you assure us that this…intel….did not come from a violation of that agreement? PROFESSOR X – It did not… CHAIRMAN LUNDGREN – Where then…how do you know this? PROFESSOR X – I cannot say unfortunately Chairman Lundgren looks at Charles skeptically. **Chapter - Ajax** Several weeks later the MCU is disbanded out of fear that its ranks are filled with traitors and a prevailing concern across Congress and the White House that the recent increase in mutant attacks was used as a justification for expanded funding and operations. That was true and untrue. The members of the MCU are given a choice, return to their former billets or retire with a pension. Jason is filled with rage at the news. He feels that it means the loss of his friends were meaningless. He chooses to retire, after short stints in the Army and MCU. Instead of moving back to Colorado he chooses to live in New York City which was where many of his most recent operations occurred. He takes a small apartment in Brooklyn and is in Manhattan when he gets a call from one of his MCU comrades, Danny Kehoe. Danny tells him about an opportunity for “guys like us.” Bored and rudderless, without hesitation Jason asks Danny to make the connection. A day later Danny and Jason are escorted into an office suite in a nondescript office lot in Yonkers, NY. The job description had gotten to Danny through MCU word of mouth. The job responsibilities were varied, interdictions, escort, personal security, …what caught both men’s eye was that the job had experience working with mutants as a highly preferred qualification. Since the Unit was super-secret he wasn’t sure how they were even targeted. Soon after they sat down, a door to one of the corner offices opens and a man in his 30s in a leather jacket and jeans walks up with a smile on his face. FRANCIS: Hi, I’m Francis Freeman. Thanks for coming. I’ve been a huge fan of you guys, from afar. Despite you being a thorn in my craw. I manage a workshop which you’ve no doubt heard of. One that you’ve had a front row seat…Project X. Both Danny and JASON exchange looks. The rumors were true. FRANCIS: \*misreading the looks\* “Yes, yes I know all about the Mutant Containment Unit. You’d be surprised at the friends we have in high places JASON: You’ve killed innocent people… FRANCIS: No! No. I mean, yes. But not intentionally. Some of our clients got out of hand and it was us that requested help from the MCU and X-Men. Our purpose is to recreate Alpha Flight, and other teams of benevolent and heroic mutants. The events in the 80s and 90s demonstrate that the X-Men are not enough. We would have handled the runaways with our own but due to… complications we’re not there yet. DANNY: Looks like you have a tough time keeping the animals in the zoo…. maybe shut it down? FRANCIS: But we’ve made so much progress, I’d like to show you…. DANNY and JASON exchange looks, and simultaneously shrug. DANNY: Sure, why not. The three men travel to the elevators. Francis opens a hidden compartment and scans a digital reader. The elevator moves down. Danny and Jason exchange nervous looks as the elevator keeps descending. Eventually it comes to a rest. The door opens to a dimly lit industrial looking facility with gangways, beams and what look to be housing units scattered throughout. JASON stares in amazement: How long has this been around… FRANCIS: Decades my friend. He points to a laboratory FRANCIS: This is where we give people a chance to achieve their dreams or have a second chance at a full life. Our clients include the terminally ill, the disabled. We give them abilities that will help the greater good. Several countries have purchased our mutants. JASON: Wait, you’re selling mutants? Like, to the highest bidder? Isn’t that slavery? FRANCIS: The mutants have full mental faculties and they willingly go. They come to us to become superheroes. We view them as our clients and our customers are those who procure their services and abilities. We ensure that our customers are morally upstanding. Both the US and Canadian governments are fully aware of our actions. Again, the only reason why the MCU was called in was to help us bring down the…abnormalities. JASON: What would we be asked to do? FRANCIS: We have shipments that will need escorts. Mostly from here to various airports, seaports and the like. There are elements, including rogue mutants, that would like to steal our valuable cargo, your experience is sorely needed and you will be paid handsomely. The two men tour the facilities walking by mutants in see through glass cages. DANNY: Looks like a zoo to me \*whispers to Jason\* Danny and Jason ultimately agree to join Francis’s outfit. With no base or living quarters, they drive into Project X facility from their homes like it’s a 9-5. During their first week, they get to meet the other members of The Detail, the informal name given to the ragtag bunch of Project X mercenaries. The Head of the Detail is Gustave Zola, a grizzled dishonorable discharge from France’s Action Division. In Jason and Danny’s second week they are given their first mission, a convoy escort to a remote helipad. **Chapter - Meet Deadpool** GUSTAVE: Ok listen up, the mission is simple. This will be a convey escort to Teterboro airport. At 1100hrs we will meet with the customer and transfer the three crates you see being loaded into the vehicles behind you. New guys! Jason and Danny, you will take rear and watch our six. The other bikes will guard our flanks. Mr. Francis wants to run point…despite my repeated advice that he need not endanger himself. Francis smiles wryly GUSTAVE: Anyway, you should be aware that elements of our supply chain have been targeted by a rogue mutant by the name of Deadpool. Gustave shows everyone a picture of Deadpool on a display screen. GUSTAVE: He is a mutant but his only powers are strength, speed and agility. You shoot him and he dies like any man. There’s no intel suggesting he is aware of today’s operation but keep your head on a swivel. From the airport, we go to Pier 6 in Manhattan where we will pick up supplies. The three crates contain three mutants, hibernating in specialized life support systems designed to keep them unconscious but alive during long duration transport. The contract involves three orders, with each spaced a month apart. The customer that Gustave referred to is Mazi Talik Bhat, a warlord from the war-torn Kashmir border region. These mutants are highly specialized to operate in high altitude and cold regions. They arrive at their first destination… CUT TO: AIRPORT RUNWAY Francis sits on top of a crate. A helicopter lands a few yards away. Some men get off. One in particular approaches him. Francis smiles and taps on a crate, standing up. FRANCIS: They won’t disappoint. TAZIN BHAT: They better not. What about next month’s shipment? FRANCIS: There won’t be one. You’re not the only one with a war to win. TAZIN BHAT: That won’t do. FRANCIS: See, we’ve had this small disruption to our supply chain. Francis grabs the man by the throat and lifts him into the air. FRANCIS: We’d appreciate your patience. TAZIN BHAT: Okay! FRANCIS: We’ll deliver in full the following month. Francis drops the man, who chokes a little. FRANCIS: Pleasure doing business with you. He walks away. He and his men leave. TAZIN BHAT: A mutant?! Some men grab the crates. Francis’s convoy drives off. (author's note, the excerpt above was pulled from the Deadpool script) Jason can’t believe what he just saw. Francis is a mutant? He had to be. Only a mutant had that kind of strength. In the distance, amid the din of engines, he can hear Francis yell “Let’s move out.” The convoy snakes out of the airport on to its next destination. Manhattan. Unbeknownst to Jason, Deadpool spots Francis’s convoy. In the distance up ahead, he sees someone in red drop from a bridge into Car #2 in the convoy. JASON: What the…?! He knows from the shattering glass and swerving that whatever is happening inside is not good…and we’re not winning. Is that Deadpool? Has to be. Unfortunately, Jason gets caught in the chain reaction of crashes and fender benders caused by the ongoing commotion and crashes into a sedan. His bike is caught in the sedan’s hitch handle JASON: Who puts a hitch on a sedan?? He motions the driver to move the car JASON: Move! The sedan driver creeps forward, freeing his bike. Good! It still works. He revvs the engine and starts for the chaos, unholstering his modified PP-2000. JASON: Oh man! Catching up to the fight, Jason can hardly believe what he’s seeing. Bodies, limbs, carnage…while he didn’t have time to really get to know his crew, their loss fills him with rage. He sees what remains of Danny, who must have been slammed against the sign up there and is now human lasagna. He also notices two of his crew get out of Car #4, approaching the car that Deadpool is in. He accelerates and is close enough to clearly see both men get shot in the head. JASON: Here’s my chance! Jason speeds toward Deadpool who is on the other side of the upturned Car #3, he weaves around cars in the road. He roughly knows where Deadpool is on the other side of the car. He can see his hands in the air after all? Is he surrendering? Doesn’t matter. Half his team is dead, this mutant is going down. He clears the car and sprays Deadpool with half a clip. JASON: He’s still standing?! I know I shot him at least twice. He stops and turns around, preparing for another charge. He sees Deadpool take aim and fire. Jason somehow ducks every shot. He can hear how close the bullets are to his head. He’s still alive somehow. He extends his weapon again and sprays Deadpool with a hail of bullets. He knows he shot him again. At least once. It’s like the first shots never hit him. Jason looks back. Stunned. Jason quickly realizes that he was lied to? This was no vulnerable mutant. This Deadpool was something different. More powerful. Whether he was bulletproof or had a force field, Jason was lied to once again. Lives lost. Unnecessarily. Again! Why? What am I doing here? This train of thought happened within seconds but it was enough to inform his next decision. He wasn’t going to circle back around for another pass. For what would surely be a suicide mission. No! He realized how fortunate he was. He felt his body to make sure the bullets whizzing by, shot by Deadpool, did not find their intended target. No, this was ABORT MISSION. He was out of there. He could only hear one other convoy motorcycle at this point. His bike and the other were the only remaining sounds from the Detail. The rest of the crew is dead. He holds out a sliver of hope that the mass of meat he saw on the ground wasn’t Danny. He knew deep down that it was him. He also hoped that the motorcycle he heard belonged to Francis Freeman. **He hoped Francis survived the battle with Deadpool because he had a debt to pay and Jason was going to be the collector.** This is the end of the story but it obviously is set up for a sequel.


First time posting a story publicly just for fun.. Here we go. *"Oh, what a day!" a man says as he sits down on the bench, "it’s after midnight, a bit late isn't it?" The man states looking at the teen sitting next to him. Broken from her daze the girl looks at him and replies "Oh, uh yeah I just needed a minute". Without breaking the focus of packing his pipe with tobacco the man says, "I'm Gus". Watching as the almost hypnotized girl replies " Hi I'm Liz". "What brings you out at such a late hour Liz? To the park of all places" Gus asks as he laughs and lights his pipe. "I mean, your parents must be worried?" Gus continues. Liz folds her arms, looks at the ground as she uses her foot to draw in the mud and says "with how much they are fighting, I doubt they even know I'm gone. Which does not even make sense, they aren’t together anymore". “Oh my, that’s never pleasant” Gus says as he looks up to the sky. Curious to the claim Gus asks, "Why do you say that?". Liz looks at him and says reaching for her bag "let's just say I haven't really been noticed lately by either of them, hence the reason I am here right now". She Pulls a bent cigarette out and puts it between her lips. As she goes to light the cigarette Gus takes it from her lips "These are bad for you". Irritated, Liz snaps back "you're one to talk, you're smoking a pipe". Gus laughs "I know it doesn’t seem fair, does it?", "fair has nothing to do with it" Liz says with a smirk on her face. "You know why I am here, so what brings you out here tonight Gus?" Liz asks. Gus stares off into the distance for a moment then says, "I have been coming to this bench for seven years, ever since the night I lost my granddaughter". Liz feels a lump form in her throat, a tear escapes as she plays with her lighter. After a moment of trying to figure out what to say, all Liz could think to say is "I'm sorry". Gus gives a reassuring smile then says, "I return to this spot every year, Sometimes I swear I can still hear her". Gus says before taking a long hit of his pipe. "What happened? If I may ask" Liz says in a slight mumble. Slightly choked up, Gus says "She was kidnapped" Gus says as a somber mood overtakes him. "Someone grabbed her from this bench while I had my back turned during a city festival in the park”. Gus runs his thumb on the rim of his old, yet polished pipe and says, “her name is Sarah, today is her birthday, she is fifteen". With a lack of words, Liz seems to only let out a melancholy "oh, I'm sorry". “I have never lost hope, even though everyone else have given up, saying she is most likely dead” Gus continues as he puts the pipe to his mouth. “Excuse my manners Liz, but how old are you?” Gus asks as he strikes a match, lighting his pipe. “Sixteen and a half” Liz says as she continues to play with her lighter. Gus nods and says “ah, around my granddaughters age”. After a moment Gus gets a thought and says “you’re sixteen and smoking? Oh my”. Liz shrugs and says “well what do you expect? I walk on eggshells around the house, smoking is my stress relief, and the park is my escape”. Gus nods and hands Liz back the cigarette and says, “I don’t blame you, sounds tense”. Liz straightens out the cigarette and lights it, “thanks Gus” Liz says blowing smoke out of her nose. Gus is silent for a moment then looks at Liz and says, “would you like to take a lap around the park on the path?”. Liz nods and cuts out her cigarette “sure Gus, it’ll give me time to let the smell of smoke air out of my clothes”. The two stand up and make their way to the well-lit path that circles the park. Gus and Liz walk for another hour. As Liz listens to Gus describe Sara, Liz notices Gus’s mood change and look like a heavy weight has been lifted off his chest. Towards the end of the walk, Gus looks at Liz and says, “thank you for listening to me ramble, may I hug you?”. Caught off guard, Liz says “um” immediately Gus interjects “I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to come off as creepy or anything”. “No, you are okay and yes Gus I’m sure we could both use that hug”. The two hug and say goodbye and goodnight and go their separate ways. Some months pass and the two strangers, who’s paths crossed one night on a park bench instantly clicked. when a beautiful day to spend at the park Liz wakes up and goes about her morning routine. Once ready for the day, Liz decides to go for a walk and ends up at the park. She decides to put her headphones in and heads down the path that she and Gus walked the night they met. About twenty minutes into the walk, Liz sees an opening to a pond with ducks that were not visible the night of their walk. So Liz decides to go sit on a rock near the pond. After a short time, Liz hears a familiar voice say, “hey there stranger” and turns around quickly to see Gus standing there in the grass a few feet away. Liz smiles and says excitedly “oh my gosh! I didn’t think I would run into you again”. Gus chuckles and says and lets out a laugh “well here we are, how have you been Liz?”. Liz looks out at the pond and ducks in the distance, “well a good thing is my parents have not argued as much lately” Liz says as she pulls out a cigarette. Gus notices the pressure and stands her up and hugs Liz. “Why the stress? Isn’t it nice to not have to be tensed and stress?” Gus asks as he pulls out a tissue from his pocket and wipes her tears away. Liz nods and says “yes, it is nice, but my dad left and now they’re getting divorced”. Gus is taken back by what Liz says and replies “I am so sorry, I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have asked”. Liz giggles and says “how could you have known? We haven't talked in a while”. Gus nods in agreement with Liz. Gus signals to the bench they first met at, and Liz says, “oh yeah, let’s move over there”. As they sit down, Gus asks “how long has it been since we last spoke”. Liz looks at him and says “well, I’m about to turn seventeen and I have my drivers permit”. Gus pats her shoulder and says, “that is great, you have been busy”. Liz smiles and asks, “what about you?”. Gus’s smile and mood changes from happy to sad as he tells Liz the news. Gus tears up and says, “they found Sara, but before I could get to the hospital she passed away, Sara told a nurse to tell me that she is in a better place and that she doesn’t blame me”. Liz's heart drops and she starts to tear up along with Gus and all she could muster up to say is “oh shit”. Gus with a lump in his throat, and a shaky voice just nods for there are no words he himself can muster up. The two sit in silence for what seems like hours, neither able to break the silence until Liz’s phone goes off. “I have to take this” Liz says as she stands up and walks a few feet away. After a brief conversation Liz returns to the bench. “I’m sorry” Liz says looking at the ground. Gus speaks up and says, “no need to apologize, it’s quite alright”. Just then they are approached by a guy holding a stack of papers, “hello folks, I would like to invite you to the city festival in the park”. Gus reaches out for the paper that is held out in front of him, and Liz can see his hand shaking and gets the paper for Gus. Liz notices that Gus’s breathing is increased and sees his hands shaking, and tears pouring down his face, so she turns to the man with the flier's thanks him and gets him to quickly leave. Liz turns her attention back to Gus and she walks over to him and rubs his back. Knowing he is having an anxiety attack due to her having anxiety too and knowing how it feels, Liz reaches into her bag and grabs her anxiety meds and the one of the waters she packed and hands it to Gus. Almost immediately Gus hands Liz the pill back to Liz and says, “I don’t take pills”. Liz says, “Are you sure?” before putting the pill back in the bottle. Gus nods and Liz puts the pill back. Liz sits next to Gus and rubs his back while she says, “you are safe” and “I am here and won't leave”. Gus does not speak but nods, for the next little while they sit there silently. Liz consoling a man that she met one time and barely knows. Liz puts those thoughts aside and realizes Gus’s breathing has returned to normal and he is not shaking as bad. In a mellow calm tone Liz says “hey, let’s walk around a little bit, a change of scenery. They get up and start walking and after a few minutes, Gus turns to Liz and says, “thank you”. Liz smiles and answers back “I have panic attacks at least twice a week, so if I can help someone else through theirs, I don’t mind”. Gus looks at Liz and asks, “you do?”, Liz nods and Gus continues “it sucks”. “Huh you can say that again, I hate having to take meds just to feel numb from it all” Liz says as she swings a stick she picked up along their walk. Confused, Gus asks “what do you mean numb to it all?”. Liz smirks and says, “I used to self-harm, with how much my mom and dad used to argue it became an escape that let me have control of something in my life". Gus tears up again and hugs Liz saying, “Oh my dear I’m sorry you got to the point that you turned to harming yourself, do your parents know?”. Liz shakes her head and says “no, I don’t think they would care much if they did”. At this point Gus is shook to his core, Liz continues “yep as long as I smile around them and live in my jacket, they assume I am happy and fine”. Liz sees how this is affecting Gus, so she ends the conversation with “but I am doing better now”. As they came to the end of the trail, Gus looks at his watch and says, “oh I best be going, but I do hope our paths cross again”. Liz smiles and says, “same here Gus” and heads home. Arriving back at home, Liz is met by her dad standing by his car saying “where the hell have you been? Your mother went to work so I’ve been waiting in my car for hours I thought about leaving”. Liz thinks and remembers that she was supposed to go to her dads for the weekend. “I’m sorry dad I completely forgot” Liz says pulling out her house key “give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready to go”. As Liz packs her bags she starts thinking about the past times of staying with her dad, remembering the lack of effort from her dad when it comes to getting to know her. When Liz returns home, she goes straight to the park to see if Gus was around so she has someone who seems to put in effort and cares enough to ask how she is doing. As Liz approaches the bench where she and Gus met, she notices that the bench has been replaced. “Wow a new bench, Gus will love this” Liz thinks to herself as she sits down. After a while of sitting on the bench and concluding that Gus must not be coming today or that she has already missed him, For the first time Liz notices a raised piece of metal and screws pressing on her back. As she stands up and turns around, she looks at the shiny plaque on the bench that reads “In Loving Memory of Gus Fitzgerald”. It takes a moment to register, but when she realizes what has happened her eyes start to tear up. “What? No, this can’t be real” Liz says in a chocked-up voice. Just then an elderly lady walks up tissue in hand and sniffling. “Are you okay?” Liz says to the lady. Without word, the lady nods and places a rose on the bench and proceeds to walk away. The rest of the day was spent in silence as Liz sat and remembered the brief encounter with Gus Fitzgerald.


“You’re sittin’ in it.” “No, not just some bar. THE bar.” “Oh! ‘THE’ bar. I guess I don’t know where ‘THE’ bar is, Stew.” “The bar that tells you what’s makes a person. See, like, today I see a woman put out a cigarette and throw the butt in the grass at central park. Which, yeah, I think, ‘that’s a no-good thing to do,’ but it’s not like she put it out in someone’s eye. She didn’t blow smoke in an old guy’s face, or… or attack anybody, or anything like that. So how no-good is she? Where’s the bar for good and bad, y’know? Say I’ve drank and drove, but I’ve never, y’know, killed a lady. Or I’ve killed, say, think like, a cat, but not a person. Would I still be good? Where’s that bar?” “After all this time, this is still just ‘some bar?’” “I didn’t mean it like that. Were you listening to what I said?” “Maybe. I mean, no, not really. Don’t get paid to listen. I get paid to bartend. And, y’know, that’s why I’m here. That’s what I’m good at, so that’s what I like to be.” “Don’t we all.” “Hope not. Otherwise I’d be out of business.” “I’m just saying, like… well, y’know what else? I see this same lady not an hour later, and she’s giving her spot up on the bench to some oldie from the home. Same park. So where’s that put her on the bar? How many good things you gotta do to make up for the bad things?” “I don’t know, Stewie. I don’t think there’s a transfer rate. Don’t think you gotta get it down to a ratio.” “Well, is this lady a good person or a bad person? That’s my question.” “Then I guess I don’t got an answer for you. Now let me wash my glasses, you nut.” “…Hey.” “Yeah?” “Does this line of work make you feel fulfilled?” “What’s your problem tonight?” “That’s not how I meant it.” “Yeah? How’d you meant it?” “I’m considering going into a different line of work.” “Bartending?” “Maybe.” “Well, I don’t know your line of work. I don’t know what you like to do. Jesus, I’ve known you for a decade and I don’t know what you do!” “You never asked.” “You never asked me to ask.” “Is that my job?” “I mean you’d never make a motion that’d make me think to ask about you. You strike me as secluded.” “That wasn’t my intention.” “And it wasn’t my concern. So that’s where we are. Here we are. Forgive me. What is it that you do, Stuart?” “Well… this and that, you know. Nothing much.” “Well, I guess, there you go. Look, I love this job. I love the people. I love makin’ em happy. And, in all honesty, I love guys like you.” “You don’t know me.” “Well, yeah, I suppose, but I know the you that comes here. I know the everybody that comes here. My favorite part of working here is nights like this, right here, where even a loud city like this goes quiet, and you just sit with a guy like you and talk about whatever crazy world you live in. Just sitting in a silent city, it’s—it’s something else.” “How long does it last?” “The silence? I don’t know, couple of hours? Thirty minutes? Depends on the night. But comin’ home to a room I paid for, sittin’ on my bed, turnin’ on a TV I paid for, pouring myself a drink that only I know how to make? After a quiet day like this? I know no greater fulfillment.” “Hmm.” “Does that interest you?” “What?” “Any of that. What I just said. Bartending.” “The... quiet sounds nice.” “Yeah, well, you’d have to work with people. It’s not always quiet.” “I could work around that.” “Plus... I think a guy like you in a quiet like this might get lost in his own ramblings.” “I’ve been in quiet rooms before.” “Right. You’re right. Just never pictured you doing anything *but* rambling, I guess. do you want a drink?” “Not tonight.” “Seriously, Stew, what’s goin’ on? You still thinkin’ about that lady?” “It’s just… what’s the worst thing you can do to still be a good person? Say you’ve killed a cat but you’ve never blown up a building. Which side of the bar are you on?” “Stew, did you kill a cat?” “What? No.” “You keep bringin’ it up.” “I thought you weren’t listening.” “I try not to. You just say some heavy stuff sometimes.” “Sorry.” “Don’t apologize… look, if you’re really interested in bar work, I can show you how to pour your own drink.” “I’m not thirsty.” “We don’t drink for thirst, you maniac. Watch me. Look at the shot glass. *Bam*, right there, slam it on the table. Make *sure* you can slam your glasses on the table. Most people don’t think about it, but you see the boys that run through this place. Young ‘n fresh Neanderthals who think they’re in the damn Wild West. *Slam*, every time. They slam a glass and it breaks, they’re not comin’ back. And you’re down a glass. So none a' that cheapy bargain bin crap. Got it? Thick, heavy glass.” “Am I gonna be in charge of buying glasses?” “Well, no. Just letting you know.” “Gotcha.” “Okay, time to pour. The key is half an ounce per second. Can you picture half an ounce?” “No.” “Alright, watch. One. There, that’s half an ounce. You got that? Two, three, four. Four seconds, two ounces, you see?” “I’m not great with numbers.” “Okay, well, this one’s mine. You wanna try?” “I’m fine.” “You givin’ up on bar work that easy?” “I think I’m kidding myself.” “Well, it takes practice. You aren’t gonna get the perfect shot day zero. If it was easy, everyone would do it.” “I guess.” “Can’t say I didn’t try.” “You ever think you drink too much?” “What? No, not really.” “How often do you drink?” “As often as I’d like. Most nights I work.” “That’s not too much?” “As often as I’d like? No, I don’t think so. I own the place.” “You afraid of getting addicted?” “Like, being an alcoholic? Sometimes. Depends on the day.” “How much do you drink on your worst day?” “What’s this about, Stew?” “Just asking.” “I’d say my worst day was probably the day pops died. And, y’know, I had just got my hands around these bottles, so I might have taken it a little too far. But I learned the lesson.” “What was the lesson?” “Don’t drink for dead people.” “How do you know you won’t have that bad of a day again?” “Well, like I said, it was my worst day.” “You won’t have another worst day?” “If I did, what’d be the point of learning a lesson?” “I guess sometimes I feel like I can’t learn.” “What’d make you think a thing like that? We all gotta learn. Someone taught you to walk in here and buy a drink.” “It’s not what I’m good at.” “Yeah, no kidding. When was the last time you actually bought something from me?” “Before I got my new job.” “Give me somethin’, Stew.” “Social work.” “Ah, social work. Social work’s not too bad. Do you like it?” “Not really.” “What’s wrong with it?” “It’s what I’m good at. But it’s not what I like to do. Or I hope it isn’t.” “You hope it isn’t?” “I-I mean I think it isn’t. I mean, I don’t think I could do it for the rest of my life. I don’t want to.” “Yeah, well, they say you gotta find that happy medium.” “I don’t think I have a happy medium.” “Sure you do.” “I keep having the worst day. Or I keep thinking it’s the worst day, but it’s not. The next day is.” “Well, are you learning?” “What am I supposed to learn? That it doesn’t get better? That I’m doomed?” “No, of course not. You’re not doomed. You’re still here. It gets better.” “When?” “I don’t know. When you find something you like to do.” “…I think I need a drink.” “Ah, now look who’s thirsty. Alright, remember, what’s the key to the drink?” “Thick glass.” “Right. One, two, three, four, and that’s yours. Drink responsibly.” “Always do.” “…I think you’re above the bar, Stew.” “Thanks.