My head pounds to the rhythm of my pulse and I see dark stars creeping in at the edges of my vision. I try to steady my breathing so that I don’t pass out. My clothes cling to cold sweat. Bile is finding its way up into my throat but I can’t swallow it down because of all the cotton inside of my mouth; I swear it’s lined with cobwebs. I feel the sticky strands pulling my throat closed. I don’t want to die like this…not now. The tangled ball of upturned legs laying in the middle of the bedroom appears motionless. I feel like I’ve been watching it for hours, waiting for it to twitch; but it never does. It’s the third one I’ve killed this week and my nerves won’t be able to survive another one. I stare at it through my tunnel vision haze as I sit on the cold terrazzo floor, my back against the wall. God, I hate those things—the fangs, the unblinking eyes, the plump hairy bodies—but most of all, I hate the legs. I hate the way they splay out across the wall or the ceiling, just before pouncing. Sometimes I can hear the big ones scurry across the floor during the silence between television commercials. That’s when I simply call it a night and go hyperventilate through a paper bag until I pass out, asleep. Tonight might be one of those nights. My ravaged nerves plead for me to close my eyes, just for a moment. But I know that if I do, that ball of legs will somehow untangle itself and scuttle off into a dark corner, to torment me another day. The tingling sensation in my hand reminds me that I still have my shoe in a vice grip. I let go and flex my stiff fingers. After a few more deep breaths I gather the courage to move. I stand up and back out of the bedroom, making sure I don’t look away from the mass of spindly legs, because if I do, it’ll crawl away. I leave the light on and the door wide open for the same reason. I’ll try to deal with it in the morning. Tonight I’ll be on the couch. I round the corner to the bathroom and put my mouth to the sink faucet. The tepid tap water tastes like heaven. I look up at my pimpled face in the mirror. The yellow speckles on the glass make me look like I have reversed freckles. My face always breaks out after a panic attack, and picking at it calms me down. I focus on a mass of acne that erupted next to my nose last week and I pinch off the top layer of scab. It’s definitely getting bigger—probably infected. The sharp sting distracts my thoughts from wandering back into the bedroom—to the ball of legs. A yellow head forms at the tip and I squeeze it with my forefingers, releasing a discharge of fresh spackle at the mirror. I push hard on both sides of the purple cyst until sticky yellow custard percolates into the sink. Pain shoots into my sinus and I grip the edges of the sink. My eyes shut so hard I see a kaleidoscope of lights beneath my lids. The whole side of my cheek throbs and there’s an ache deep inside my face— definitely infected. I press a wad of toilet paper onto the angry sore and contemplate driving to a clinic in the morning. I actually feel the inflammation pushing against my fingers—man, this is really bad. I pull the paper away to assess the damage and the tip of an ingrown hair comes out with it. Weird place for a hair, but then I recall hearing stories of teeth and fingernails growing inside people’s bodies. Must be why it hasn’t healed after a week. I pinch the end of the stiff black hair and take a deep breath. I close my eyes and prepare for pain. It’s just like pulling off a bandaid, right? I grit my teeth, and yank. The pain is unreal. I squint through watery eyes to see how much flesh got pulled out with it; but the hair is still protruding there—about an inch longer now—but still there. I feel spasms deep in my sinus and the hair begins to slowly draw itself back into the swollen pimple. I quickly grab the end of it and it pulls against me. I feel it bend at an angle under my fingertips. Gotta stay calm. With my free hand, I fumble through the medicine cabinet for tweezers. I pinch them at the base of the hair and pull two more inches out. The base of it is thicker and courser than any hair I’ve ever seen. Another part of it bends and the whole length of the strand twitches wildly like a tiny black skeleton finger. No no no no no this can’t be real! I push my thumb into my mouth, against the underside of the cyst, and the flesh there moves. Whatever’s in there has to come out, so I press hard with my thumb while pulling with the tweezers. Another thick hair works its way out of the wound, then two more. Then, I see something wet and black deep inside, with tiny unblinking orbs that seem to look at me from the mirror. It’s a… it’s one of them! My tweezers are trembling so badly that they lose their grip, and the thing begins slipping back into the hole in my face. No no no no no! I plunge the tweezers into the cyst and scrape at the insides. The pain is making me woozy but I keep digging. The tweezers drop from my sweaty fingers, so I continue digging with my fingernails. The thing is so slick and sticky that I can’t grab ahold of it. I feel it clawing further into my sinus. I can’t let it go deeper! I keep pressing my thumb against the inside of my mouth until it tears through the outer layer of the cyst. A tangle of black legs pushes out with my thumb. The spider unfolds from the raw cavity in my face. The legs splay across the side of my head as its black body slides from the crevice, and all I can do is tremble as the nightmare unfolds in the mirror. Do something…I’m going to die! I grip the sides of the sink and heave myself into the mirror. The spider is faster, and it scurries up into my hair. I’m dizzy and I see stars. The spider continues down the back of my head and I feel its awful legs clamp onto my neck. I can’t move; I can only brace myself with the sides of the sink and stare down at the kaleidoscope of glass and gore. I still can’t move as the pulsating mass of sticky yellow custard splits into a thousand tiny legs—each one scampering from its egg sac and up my arms. I’m jolted away from the horrible sight by a sharp sting at the back of my neck, and I gasp for breath. The spider loosens its grip and crawls under my shirt where its dark and moist with sweat. The searing venom burns its way down my spine. My body becomes weak and rigid. I only make it a couple of steps into the hallway before collapsing. I lay on my stomach, paralyzed, with my head turned toward the bedroom. I watch with unblinking eyes as the ball of upturned legs laying in the middle of the floor untangles itself and crawls toward me. I hear the legs scuttling across the tile in the silence between my heartbeats.


The woman grunted and folded her hands on her laps. Then, she leaned in and she gave her piece of advice. "On the subject of love matters, stay away. No one of those men is good." The other woman smiled and shook her head. "I don't think so, Nora." Nora snorted and raised her hands. The group leader was still talking but Nora would not drop her hands. It was against the rules to talk when the leader was still by the window giving her speech but they knew Nora and they knew she would not give up. "Nora?" the leader closed her eyes for a moment. Nora tried not to smile but she could not help it. It was funny to be the nuisance in the writing groups mostly because they couldn't push her away. She was as much a writer as all of them. "Do you want to add something to what I was saying?" Nora could tell sarcasm from truthfulness but this night was not the sort of night to get involved in awkward fights. Nora stood up and stretched her hands. It was problematic sitting in her chair and listening to quiet old music filtering through from the living room like something forgotten. She'd asked, on her second visit, why they couldn't shift the music to the main room but she'd been turned down. It was a wonder she was still among them, laughing when it was time to, and reading when it was. They were eight of them in the group; eight females who left their homes to sit and drink and talk about books. They would meet at Suzan's because her house was the loveliest. And because her husband was hardly ever home. Sometimes, Nora doubted if she was married at all but there were pictures on the wall; pictures of Suzan in a white dress, hands wrapped around a man, lips wide apart in a smile that could break hearts.

It was the house Nora liked most. Outside, the walls were painted white like in a museum. It was so white Nora thought she could see through, into the hallways and the rooms and the unspoken secrets laced in the building. Red bricks lined the outside, towards the rose garden. Often, it bled into the white roses so that they turned partly yellow, partly brown, like rust.

"They withered," somebody said, once.

But, Nora was not like them, being confined in a box. She liked to think they bled and so that was how they were: bleeding and cold and dying. On the porch, there were a wild display of neon lights

"My husband likes them," she told the group. Not all of them were whites. Nora would stand at a corner and count them. She knew they were eight, knew that soon, somebody else would join and be introduced, but still, she would count. It was how she knew she was sane. Susan, as expected, was blonde. It was expected. Nora had never had a particularly horrid experience with blondes but she knew that they liked being in control. Susan was tall but she wore heels doing the meetings. Her clothes were always too tight, pressing into her skin like maps. She wore her red lipstick too obviously and when she stood by the window, always by the window, it was as though she was screaming: notice me, please! Then, there was Patty with her green hair. She lied once, said she'd been born with it but everyone knows people don't come into the world with green hair. None of that mattered anyway. They were friends only in the big house. Outside, they were strangers, each soaking up the sun, living in the cold, dancing in the rain in their ways. On the subway, when they passed, she would wave with a smile that looked pale, but Nora would not wave back. In the group, five were whites. Nora included. One was brown, her skin so smooth Nora was almost tempted to run her hands through. Nora envied her sometimes when she was trapped in her chair and she was thinking about her childhood and heartbreaks and setting suns.

Of course, Nora was the conservative type. She was the only one in the group who still had the decency to shun romance.

"No use," she would tell herself. Tonight was not the kind of night to get caught up in the drama. But Nora was not a stickler for rules. She stepped gingerly to the front, by the window and she smiled. "Thank you, Suzan." Susan grunted. And moved away to her seat. Music was still playing, softly, from the other room. "I don't have much to say," Nora chuckled when somebody rolled her eyes. She'd forgotten what her name was. It was hardly something to remember. The woman had the most forgetful face. Her face was probably too normal, like something a child would mold in painful quietness. "I just want us to take a moment to appreciate books and stars." "Unrelated stuff, Nora," the green-haired lady said. Her voice was the loudest. Nora scowled. This night was not the night to get messy. "The stars are out. We should go outside. See it. Feel it." Susan stood up and clapped her hands. Sarcasm dripped from the gesture. "Perhaps some other time, Nora." Nora nodded and sighed. "Probably." On her seat, her only friend leaned in. "Don't let it get to you, Nora." She'd told Nora that she'd been raised in a small town in Arkansas. But her father was Kenyan and her mother was English. She was the only friend Nora talked to even though, occasionally, she wondered why her friend had so many different roots. "I know, Fey." Susan tapped her foot on the rug. It was something she did on nights when she was anxious. Like she was waiting for something.

"Tonight we'll have someone joining us," she said. "She's a dear friend." When Nora had been introduced, Susan had called her a dear friend. But they were not friends, would never be dear friends. Nora already knew what to expect: the night would be long and boring. "She's a mystery lover. Gwen is her name. You'll all love her." Love was a gigantic word. It was not as easy as running down a hill or laughing into the wind. It was a deliberate pull into an abyss with no way out. Love was a treacherous game and one Nora was not ready for. Still, she relaxed and she waited for Gwen. When Gwen finally arrived in flowing skirts and a woolen shirt, Nora sat up.

On her first visit, Nora said, "I love a good ol' mystery story myself but it's a genre I don't see myself writing anytime soon." Now, though, Nora ached to put pen to paper and to discuss the mystery behind Gwen's eyes. She would write that her eyes —grey and comely—sparked a fire in the room. That her eyes made everyone feel so small and dirty and substandard. That her eyes were like the sun that washed over her when her mother died. She would write that her eyes captured all the mystery the world had to offer and she ached to know. "Hi, everyone. My name is Gwen." But Nora was more concerned with the way her hands shook as she talked. Nora was in a movie, letting it unwrap itself in front of her, gliding gently along with the quiet symphony of her voice. Gwen came to sit in the empty seat beside Nora. It was always empty because no one wanted that seat and no one wanted to hear what Nora had to say. Fey was her friend only because they were almost alike in the way they viewed life. Almost. Because Fey had a husband and a son. She was a mom, the kind that drove minivans and stuffed herself full with coffee and bacon. At the end of the meeting, Gwen turned to her. "Hi. You're Nora, right? I've heard so much about you." Nora rolled her eyes. If Gwen had truly heard about her, then there was not much to talk about. Nora took her bag. Then she walked out. Just like how she'd been walking out of things recently. Because walking out was so much easier than staying. With staying, she became vulnerable, so vulnerable that when he left her, she had not known it would happen. She'd come to realize that those sorts of heartbreaks were the worst. Walking out, on the other hand, was alright for people like her. It was expected. It was not a circle or a roller coaster of twisting trees. It was the slow fall of snow and the soft smell of autumn. She heard footsteps behind her. She stopped. She sighed. She clutched her handbag by her side and she swallowed. Then, she turned around sharply. Gwen stood there, hands raised, unarmed.

"Sorry I startled you," she said. "But Suzan asked me to hand this to you." Nora took the box. She'd forgotten. At the end of every Friday meeting, Suzan would each hand them a box of chocolates. "It's stupid," she told Gwen. Gwen laughed. Nora listened. She sounded like the sea, the kind that had surrounded her childhood home. When she was younger, she thought it was the sound of laughing children, running down a hill. Now that she was all grown up, she knew what it was: the pained scream of a young man.

Gwen felt like that too. "May I walk with you?" Nora said no as politely as she could. "Susan told me you lived at Limit road." Nora started walking knowing that Gwen would follow. Then she answered, "Yes. Just after the bookshop." "Well, I just moved to the house opposite," she said. "They tell me it's been empty for a while." Nora paused. "How much did Susan tell you?" She laughed. "Just enough." They rounded a corner. The path was relatively empty. Nora was used to walking it alone. With Gwen by her side, it felt strange. Like she was walking a path she'd never crossed before.

"We are neighbors, then," Nora told her.

"We are," she agreed. "Then you must know I don't want friends." "I'm not asking to be one." "Good." By the bookshop, she crossed to the other side. Nora slipped her key in and turned back to look at Gwen. She waved but Nora did not return the grand gesture. She called it grand because it was that: waving someone felt like exchanging burdens for just a moment. It was grand. And Nora did no such thing. It became clear they were neighbors in the morning. Nora found Gwen outside, stuffing her thrash in a can. She waved. This time, involuntarily, Nora found herself waving back. "It's a beautiful day, right?" Gwen called. Her voice was almost muffled by the space but Nora caught it. "It is," she replied. Gwen crossed the street to her. And Nora let her into her home. She would tell herself, later, it was because of the peaceful way Gwen had crossed the street that had led to that point. The house was bright and warm. Nothing like Suzan's. But it was hers. Gwen followed her into the living room where she found books scattered on the floor and the shelves. "You have a pretty place," she said, pointing to the books. Nora held her breath in, holding it until it felt like she would burst from the intensity. Then, she released it. She was falling suddenly, from rooftops and pine trees and chimneys and she was falling into something so dark, so intense and so astonishingly beautiful. But she would be careful. "Thank you," she said. "I was just making breakfast. Join me." As they ate —bacon and eggs and coffee—Gwen said, "I love mystery. I write about it. It's what fuels my daily existence." Nora talked. "Sounds logical." "What about you?" Nora did not need to think hard. She already knew. "I like anything sad." "That's...good. A way to express yourself, I think." The next Friday when they walked together to Suzan's, Gwen said, "I'm unstable." Nora did not know what she meant but she nodded and let her walk beside her. The meeting came and went like it usually did. But, for the first time, Nora waited for Gwen so they could walk home together. They followed the same path home, said the same thing, laughed the same way. But, at the bookshop, Gwen did something else, something different from what Nora was used to. She picked up a stone and threw it against the window of the store. It cracked, lines spreading like angry vines along the glass. "Why'd you do that?" Nora struggled to understand.

"I told you I was unstable." Nora watched her cross the road again to her home. She stood there, by the bookshop with the cracked window, watching as Gwen got into her house. Alone, she turned to face the window. Gently, she trailed her fingers along the lines, like she was touching something delicate. Like she was stroking her broken heart. Tomorrow they would replace the window. Tomorrow it would be as good as new. Nora's heart gave in and she knelt there and she cried. The moon was high in the sky, bright and adventurous. And she was alone. She cried because she understood, finally, that she was cracked but she would heal.

In the morning, Gwen brought homemade pie. They sat on the floor in the kitchen and ate and talked about books and broken windows.


(TW … mention of assassination, hanging) (Note, can be read on its own or as a continuation of previous story “Essy 37 Head of State” submitted in contest #224) The assassination went off without a hitch, shocking the world and those closest to him who did not see it coming. After years of oppression and cruelty, the freed citizens fled in droves, leaving Washington DC abandoned by all. All except Jane.

Jane wandered the empty halls fighting the urge to continue her job which was null and void. The offices sat silently, the phones not ringing, the keyboards not clicking. The only sound was Jane’s soft footsteps as she walked the halls alone. The staff was long gone in pursuit of better lives. All except Jane. For Jane was not part of the general staff, she was not the run of the mill employee. She was, in fact, the personal assistant to the dictator. *** Waking past the desks he had his usual men surrounding him, their clacking shoes making that awful announcement of their approach, instilling fear into the environment. Jane worked quietly, keeping her head down, entering the data with both speed and accuracy, saying a silent prayer for no errors. Punishment for errors came quickly.

She kept her eyes glued to the forms on her desk, her face expressionless. “You.” The footsteps stopped at her desk. “Follow me.” It took a moment to register. He had routinely made similar demands, picking out girls to summon into his office. The beautiful girls, they went in hesitantly, came out broken. Jane, with her scars from long ago, had a shield keeping her safe from his desires. “Yes, sir.” She stood and followed him into his office, his surrounding men now surrounding her. “What is your name?” “Francesca, sir.”  “Have her name changed to Jane,” he instructed the man on his left. “Yes, sir.” Turning his attention to the next man in his entourage, he commanded, “Arrange her office and uniform.” “Yes, sir.” Turning on his heel, he barked, “Follow me.” Once again, she followed silently into the unknown. Looking around the office she had been led into, she asked, “What is happening?” “Your new position, Jane. You are now his personal assistant.” *** How many years ago was that? Too many to count. Before that, life with a cruel father and spineless mother was what she called her childhood. Unknown at the time, that cruelty saved her from the wicked world she found herself thrown into, prepared her for life with the dictator. The scars she carried both internally and on her face became a barrier no one would cross, not even him. She entered the clerical room, her soft footsteps in stark contrast to theirs, the memory tightening her chest in fear. Walking through the deserted aisles she stopped at her desk from years ago, reliving the sheer terror of the moment she was commanded to follow him, receiving her assignment. Looking at the papers strewn about, she wondered where her replacement admin had gone. The new government had appeared overnight in perfect coordination with the assassination. Fifty Heads of State, unknown before the takeover, took charge of the country, each needing a staff of their own. The girls fled to their new positions, free to choose from the many opportunities, finding their freedom. Months later Jane still wandered the empty halls, slept in her tiny room in the basement of the White House and prepared her meals in the massive commercial kitchen. Free to leave had left her frozen in place. Feeling a sudden chill flow through the massive and abandoned room she was startled. How long had it been since she ventured outside? Swept along with the mob to watch the public hanging had been brutal, seeing the lithe body swinging was both unbearable and awe inspiring. Such an act of courage setting the country free while giving up her own life. For he had made the rule an eye for an eye, and she had knowingly agreed when pulling the trigger. Having seen enough of the macabre celebration she had raced back inside, quickly seeking solace in her office, knowing that without her boss she reported there based solely on the familiarity of routine. Lost in thought, she walked down the marble staircase to the lobby. Opening the grand double doors, she gasped to see the snow falling on the empty lawn. The bleak scene of destruction became secondary to the beauty of the white blanket. Although temporary, it was long enough to give Jane some relief. Images floated through her mind. Were they something she had read or saw online before the signal was blocked? Perhaps memories from those few fleeting years when her father had left her and her mother penniless and abandoned in their dilapidated home? All these years later, as fate would have its twisted way with her, she once again stood penniless and abandoned, this time on the steps of what had been the grandest home in the country.

Pulling the black woolen coat tighter around herself she took a step out, tilting her head back, an unnatural position for her. The cool flakes fell on her, soothing her, not discriminating one side of her face from the other.

Following that long ago whisp of a memory she stepped onto the lawn and lay down.

“That’s it, Francesca, there you go! See your angel, sweetheart?” Mama had said after they swept the snow with their arms and legs. Her mother had come back to life in their abandonment. A short burst of light had shone in the time between her abusive father leaving and the president turned dictator bringing darkness over the country. She stood, looking back at the angel in the snow in front of the White House, null and void. What was to become of her? *** Tiptoeing into his office she looked around, went to his desk, and sat down. Quickly nauseated she stood and ran out. Fleeing past the rows of desks she recalled her early days while she still had her own thoughts, her own voice. Finding the hollow space under her desk she had taped a folder there, imitating the silent action of her coworkers. Her papers. Did he ever find them? Surely not, for the punishment would have been swift and severe, displayed for all to see.

Falling to the floor she placed her hand under the cold metal desk. Her heart racing, she pulled down the folder, tape stuck to all four edges. Startled to discover unfamiliar pages in a handwriting not her own, she sat and read the detailed instructions left behind for her to find. *** “Who shall I say is calling?” “Jane.” A pause. “No. Francesca.” Jane was null and void. *** Searching the supply room, she organized a pile of uniforms in her size to take with her. Pulling on warm black boots and layers of clothing including a woolen coat and scarf she felt prepared for the journey.

S37 had offered to send her a car but the roads of the abandoned capital had not been plowed and the snow was thick and heavy. Preferring to walk out on her own, she agreed to meet on the road traveling north to State 37. After an extensive and comforting conversation with the closest Head of State, she looked forward to meeting her new boss. She silently thanked whoever had left those instructions for her in the hiding spot known only by the clerical staff, for she had saved her life. One last look around. One deep breath. She walked through the double doors and closed them tightly behind her. The angel from earlier was snowed over, no trace to be seen, but Francesca saw it perfectly in her mind’s eye as she walked across the great lawn to her new life.


"Do you like it? It's so cute, and it's like $5 on Etsy! I have to give you the store name sometime!" Avery's smile glinted in the candlelight as she let me hold the tiny pendant. It looked like a spider was wrapped around the cork of a bottle, a dark red liquid swirling around to catch the light. The liquid almost seemed like a witch's potion, a glittery substance reflecting the orange light in my face. "Does it come in other colors?" I asked. She looked a little upset at the thought, but the smile was back in a moment. God, I could get lost in those white teeth, even more than the field of green that made up her eyes. "Nah, not yet anyway. But I'm sure if you ask the seller, they'd be more than happy to try out a different color for you! Maybe you'd be her first beta wearer for a new design!" Avery's enthusiasm was what helped me relax when we first met in person an hour ago. Her Bumble profile was what introduced me to her infectious smile, but her bio got me even more curious. She mentioned her love for historical figures, especially those that weren't as well known, so I messaged her about it. We got into a rabbit hole, and she wanted to meet me in person. Me! I felt like a businesswoman about to make a major presentation when putting on my dark blue dress, and there she was, dressed to party in her green dress. But those curls, the way her red hair turned to fire under the restaurant's dim fluorescent lights, the smile that drew you in; I knew it was her even before she greeted me at the door. By the time we saw the front waiter, any worries I had about meeting a practical stranger had melted away. "Anyway, would you like me to get you something to drink?" I felt like I was back in middle school, pretending to be an adult to someone several years my junior. Her smile somehow grew even bigger, and I worried her lips would reach her ears soon enough. "Oh! How about a Seven Oaks Cabernet? It's super fruity, but it'll go well with some fish!" Avery mentioned she was a pescatarian, of course she'd know good wines for the job. Almost like magic, our waiter arrived. She had to be carded, but not me; my hair must've given away my age long before my anti-aging cream. But she'd wanted to see me without my dyed hair from my profile picture, so I let the roots return to their natural color. "So, who're some folks you wanted to know about? Or was there something else you wanted to talk about?" Her faux-silver spider glared at me from her bare chest, but I tried to return my gaze to her smile. "Well, I hoped to know more about you, but you can start wherever." Her eyes turned coy as she rested her chin against the backs of her hands. "It just so happens I finished a podcast about a fascinating woman back in the early 1900s. She had quite a spell of lovers, though that was after she married two men prior. But, I'm not gonna say the name until the end!" The wine glasses were set before us, the wine almost black against the candlelight. "You worried I'll Google the name first?" Avery laughed, and I swore I could see bubble float from her lips into the air above us. I wish I could figure out the spell she cast to keep my attention on her. "A little, but don't worry! I'm sure you've heard of it, so I want it to be a surprise!" She cleared her throat, took a sip of wine, and then let her voice dance as she began. "In the early 1900s, it's easy to start a new life without worrying about the people around you. All you had to do was jump countries, and bam! No one knew who you were, and quite frankly, no one really gave a damn so long as you were a hard worker. This woman was one of those who wanted a fresh start, and came to America to make it big. But, after an unhappy marriage, she decided she'd had enough of being poor and went to work concocting the means to get rich quick. As it happens, insurance was quite new with a lot less regulation than we have now. So--" "--did she kill her husband?!" Avery looked like I'd slapped her, but only for a moment. She laughed and winked at me over her glass. "You got it! They'd been married a few years, and hey, he had a larger heart than normal, so really was it a surprise that he keeled over without warning? Anyway, she got her wish, and in fact it was her lucky day as he had two active plans going at once. But of course, that money doesn't last very long, so what's a widower to do?" She looked to me to answer, though I almost choked on my wine before I could respond. "Would...would she try to get with someone else?" The smile was back again, though this time her teeth turned a strange orange color. "Multiple someones, in fact. She was considered a Black Widow in her day, but not the Marvel kind. She would allegedly lure men into her secluded farming home and then they'd mysteriously vanish." The black wine suddenly churned in my stomach; I wasn't prepared for this just yet. I quietly excused myself to the bathroom to give myself a moment to compose myself. Younger people seemed a lot more apt to jump into these murder tales than I was. A brief splash of cold water to the face later and I was back at the table. Avery looked at me with her signature smile as I returned, but I was a lot more prepared now than I was. I took a few gulps of wine before I realized it, and she mentioned that she'd ordered our food for me. "I hope you don't mind having some salmon!" "I don't, thank you!" I lied. Avery's smile stayed on her face as we advanced into a different conversation. A few minutes later, I felt like I wasn't as calm as I was before. It was like my legs were permanently tensed up, though I couldn't figure out why. "Did you know Belle had children too?" I looked back at her, her smile looking a lot more manic than it had when we first met each other. "Yep, several kids. Of those, she killed about three or four the same way. Can you guess how?" I didn't want to answer the question, as a slow realization dawned on me. Why did her spider seem to mock me from the woman before me? The last thing I remember seeing was the spider leaping from her bottle and crawling towards me and me jerking away from it. I don't remember hitting the floor, but I remember how cold it was when my eyes closed.


Forest Creatures  I’m frustrated looking at an empty sheet of A-4 its white virgin rectangle taunting me to write. Was my life always so inane and predictable? The page's luminosity of unblemished parchment pulls my mind back to a bedsheet blowing during a wonderful August summer school holiday. This mundane occurrence of mother washing, over time, has become a sorely missed distant place and time of simplicity.  Within moments, I have sat again on my James Captain Motorcycle in the early seventies. The old maroon machines familiar aroma of petrol and oil permeates making me breathe quicker and twitch the throttle of an inactive engine. A faint whine from the neighbor’s dog pulls my attention to her, she looks longingly at me over our adjoining fence, her soft eyes begging me to stroke her and perhaps take her for a walk. I make a subtle click to her with good-girl appeasement. She slinks back to her kennel realizing that today’s adventure will not include a dog walk.  A gust of wind flaps my mother’s clean washing, resulting in wafting and billowing sheets flooding the ambiance of our rear garden with fresh smelling artificial tones. This scene of domestication makes me desperate to leave this pocket of boredom to begin my ride bathed in sun, flicking the ignition with a gloved hand; followed by a quick kick of a chrome leaver brings a snappy two-stroke to life. Shoving it of its stand, I maneuver her past the kitchen window and under our house gable onto a pale concrete drive, excitement builds like a drug high, as my anticipation heightens, I look out both ways for cars and police, then excitedly scoot illegally across our public road, entering through a hedge-gap to an adjoining field. Within minutes, I’m speeding along a field track to Far-Wood, breathing deeply, the wind blowing my hair on a bright summer’s morning, serenaded by a two-stroke hum and its gas mixture stimulating all my senses, spreading a smile across an exuberant face. Mile’s flash-by and too soon I’m closing the throttle to enter the forest, cutting my speed to almost a walk helps me negotiate a thin sliver of a woodland track, dotted with stones and fallen branches. As the track widens and becomes uncluttered, a thirst for speed made me open up the throttle releasing a snappy two-stroke engine growl. Heavily laden trees flash by, as dirt shoots from the motorcycle back-wheel, these visual cues trigger adrenaline. Instinctively, I Stand on my foot-rests tensing all my muscles as the bike takes off over a bump, it lands smoothly before a steep hill, winding open the taps, digs the rear tire into the soft earth, my machine scales the incline easily! Eventually, opaque woodland clears, answering to an open field paralleling a strip of forest. Before me, a dirt track meanders and undulates between forest edge and muddy field.  Regretfully my throttle has to close as the bike weaves and skips pulling my arms and shoulders. The angry two-stroke engine spits and complains as I wrestle the steering through loose dirt and thick mud. Crawling along with my eyes scouring for a good track, allows me to see and smell the open field and the greenery of a substantial forest. Eventually, a slow arching bend pulls away from the plowed loamy field through a lush green arch that leads to a hidden Dell.  Without warning, my stomach turns and my heart races as a previously flat path descend sharply into an area full of hillocks littered with yellow and green hawthorn bushes, I pull the brakes sharply stopping with a skid, then I maneuver the bike behind a small hill; a deft flick of a silver key kills a strumming engine. As the engine dies all that can be heard in this eerily quiet place are cooling machine clicks.  I’ve never stopped for any time in the Fairy Dell before as locals warn against it! However, being a rebel, warnings act as a siren. Moreover, what can be frightening about an ancient Dell, that local villager’s walkthrough? Encouraged by the heat I laid against lush grass, to enjoy the day's sun and balmy ambiance, I am convinced that this Dell being haunted by Fairies seems like a fanciful tale? Silence causes me to check my senses again; I can only hear a droning sound of long-distance traffic and an occasional metallic click of a still cooling motorcycle engine. Noticeably, sounds of wild-life and birds remain absent. Curiosity, makes me get up to begin a reconnoiter. I notice animal tracks go through the Dell, strangely non-lead to underground dwellings? Following, tiny footpaths cut into turf, leads to a deep shrubbed mini-gorge, its strangeness beckons further examination. I Eclipse its edge, the bank sides collapse! Falling, whilst scrambling, sliding, scrouging through bushes lands me on a grassy plateau, I look up to see how far was my descent, staring up from the gloom shows me the main path has disappeared, stretching before me, a well-trodden tiny path zig-zagging through scattered copses demands to be followed. I scour the narrow path for prints and droppings, seeing nothing doesn't worry me! Common sense dictates weathering can remove any trace of animal activity. However, I follow it deeper into a dense copse full of undergrowth and darkness. A flap and a scurry, of what sounds like small fluttering wings jolts my head to look upwards, a thud follows as my head hits a thick branch.  A young woman’s laugh rings, turning towards its direction a beautiful girl is sat on an old tree stump, stroking my head to relieve the pain. I also rub my eyes checking this girl is not a fanciful wish, despite my attempts to correct my vision, she still appears to be sat and smiling at me. Before I can speak,  “Hello, John.” Greeted me! I look at her every one of my hormones races. She was beautiful with blond-haired dressed with wildflowers in barrettes, complimented with a figure-hugging bottle green skirt, strangely she wore no shoes? Moreover, I didn’t recognize this person! As I stood raking every memory of village and school girls, I knew, her soft voice whispered. “Are you scared of me John? Come over here.”

I walked over desperately trying to remember where I’d met this strange beauty. As I approached a fragrance of fresh forest after rain exuded from her. She Moved across the impromptu stump seat; her hand playfully tapped the wood beckoning me to sit next to her. I sat down nervously not knowing where to put my eyes, many questions concerning this young woman puzzled and embarrassed me, as I could not remember her! Her eyes sparkled green as she looked at me and smiled in a cheeky elfin way, despite my aversion to prolixity, I had to ask an obvious question. “How do you know me? I don’t believe I’ve ever met you before?” She laughed uncontrollably kicking her legs in delight. “I see you every day John on your way to school, sometimes at school, always in the woods near your home. Exasperation flooded me! Why don’t you introduce yourself? She followed this question by giggling uncontrollably, seemingly enjoying my disadvantage of her presence in my life. Stopping suddenly, she declared. “That’s what I’m doing now John, introducing myself!” May I ask your name?” Her eyes flashed with devilment! “Guess!” “I cannot guess, there are simply too many girl names. However, in my school, all the girls are called Bridget, Maria, or Mary.” She giggled again obviously enjoying her ability to remain a mystery. Slightly frustrated I proposed a solution. “Ok, I think I will call you elf. You look elfin, and certainly dress like one!”  She retorted! I’m certainly not an elf!”

Seeing the lady was upset I tried to justify my assumption with a voice that was a little higher through nerves.

“I think elves are quite cute, at least the ones I’ve seen in paintings and prints.”  A pair of green eyes steadily stared back arousing carnal interest. Swinging her legs around to face me I braced myself for some kind of rebuff. “I can assure you John Elves may look cute, however, in my experience of those trouble-making irksome creatures. Cute is the last word I would associate with them!

“Sorry?” I replied with a deliberate tone that mirrored the Australian speaking pattern of a question-initiative. This rouse did not work as only a muted reply supported by sparkling eyes returned. Frustrated, I tried another ploy to make her reveal her name. “So…” No name prompt returned from her, just an air of enjoyment, it was at this stage I decided to fain no interest in whatever name she used, hence a spiel of small talk erupted. “Do you often come here? I mean what’s of interest at the bottom of a Dell surrounded by thick bushes?  She stood up quickly, in a releve like a ballerina, again a waft of fresh forest filled the air. She held out her finger, a Jenny-Wren, flew to it perched and began twittering to her. Without looking at me a loud dialog between her and the bird ensued. “Jenny, he’s asking why I come here? Obviously to be with my friends, and of all my friends, you are the wisest little bird.” Excited fluttering and chirping from the little bird followed she and her feathered companion seemed to be talking the same language, then both looked at me. “Jenny does not like your motorcycle. It frightens her! What do you say, John?” In reality, what I’ve just seen astounds me Manny thoughts hatch with the ferocity of fireworks! Nevertheless, my reaction is mixed; a part of me believes this apparent bond of a girl, and a bird may be an elaborate trick? Therefore, I try to ascertain a way to qualify my position of doubt, ignoring her question I ask. “Can you tell the bird to fly to my right shoulder and kiss my ear?” She stroked her bird’s tummy while saying something, immediately the creature flew to my shoulder and lightly kissed me, and returned. Astonishment took any words of comment away; they truly had some kind of bond! Enwrapped, I kept repeating amazing, fantastic, and other expressive adjectives, which will remain unprintable.  Releasing her bird into a nearby tree and sitting down on her stump again, her green eyes fell on mine.

“I can speak to any animal; would you like to see my rabbit friends?” This was an opportunity I did not want to miss, yes! Spilled from my lips with childish wanting. From her mouth came a shrill whistle, within a moment's glance dozens of rabbits filled the grass plateau, all of them running around both of us, many talking to the mysterious girl. I was wide-eyed and smiling profusely having never seen such a command over wild animal! A part of me was witnessing something that seemed impossible, the other desperately looked for a sleight of hand. However, whatever this phenomenon was? It was happening before my eyes! After a few moments, she dismissed her rabbit friends, leaving just the two of us and a chirping Wren. After all the excitement my stomach began feeling empty, looking at my watch to check the time revealed an empty wrist. However, instinct told me it was near lunchtime. Before I left, I tried one more time to extract her name. “Excuse me, (With a long pause)

She did not say her name but, as usual, smiled with delight! “I have to go, it's near my lunch; it's been great fun hanging out with you?” She smiled seeing another failed attempt at retrieving her name. Then her head fell like a little girl, a tear rolled down her cheek as she whispered sorry. Bemused, I blurted-  "Why did you whisper sorry? I’ve had a great time!"  Her eyes fell on mine. “I’m sorry for making you late; however, like you, I have to go!” I blurted out. “Will I see you again?” With an enchanting giggle, she waved and disappeared behind a bush. I ran to the spot, not a trace of her remained; my scramble to the path mirrored my mind scrambling in earnest, trying to make sense of my encounter! Was she a fairy? This erratic thought kept circulating in my head.  Eventually, I cleared the steep top and began walking to where I had hidden my motorcycle. It was missing! It then inexplicably it went dark! Dismayed and confused I started my long walk home, puzzled and exasperated by all that had happened. Trying to find some logic to my present situation, thoughts of practical jokers, and perhaps the darkness falling indicated an eclipse had just occurred? In reality, I was flummoxed. After about two hours of stumbling through dirt tracks and dark forest, the street lights adjacent to my house came into view, then I noticed all the house was dark? It must be later than I thought. Nervous feet walked quietly to the door, afraid my parents would be angry, gathering my keys, I tried the lock. They didn’t fit! Trying them again resulted in them failing. No option was left, apart from wrapping loudly on the door. Anxious as to how my parents would react my first knocks were quiet; no one stirred; my next volley shook the glass. I heard a movement upstairs, above me a light illuminated, seconds later a large man opened the door wearing a blue dressing gown, gruffly asking. “What do you want!”

I stood vacantly scanning around for signs of my parents, searching for an answer, I could only say the words. “I live here.” He looked quizzically at me. “You’ve got the wrong address.” He began shutting the door I screamed. “I’m John Paver and I live here!” He paused closing his door. “No one lives here called Paver. You have the wrong address!” His wife started coming down the stairs, asking what was wrong? “Some kid says he’s lives here, probably drunk; you know what kids are.” She came to the door in a white dressing gown and piled up dark hair; she smiled kindly. “Who are you?” With a stressed voice, I repeated John Paver. Her mouth dropped. “You can’t be! John paver disappeared forty years ago!”  I screamed back at her. “I am John Paver!” The man reached for a black rectangle that lit-up, his fingers started whipping and scrawling over it. “We will soon find out who you are son!” His mouth fell open, he showed his wife something he’d found. Both stared in disbelief. “Impossible! I can check, what year is it son?” Astonished I replied- “1974!” Jesus, this is impossible, do you have any money on you? I raked through my pockets. “Yeah, I’ve Ten-shillings.” He looked at me checking my appearance, after which he turned to face his wife holding an expression full of disbelief, his now shaken voice proposed. “We’d better ring the station!”


I was not a happy woman,

my friend Penny had brought me here to this cold and damp castle.

All because it was haunted.

“We might see a ghost, “ I’d been told It’s not that I didn’t believe in ghosts, it's just I had no desire to see one.

And this castle was too cold despite having a warm sweater on.

There was no television, so it meant reading.

The only thing I liked about the castle was it’s library.

I found one on the history of the place.

I don’t know why I picked it up,

it’s just when looking through the shelves of books it fell onto the floor.

I was going to put t back, however there was something that made me want to read it. I climbed under the blankets and opened the book.

I started to read.

It was built in the 1600s, by Lord Robert Campbell.

He brought his bride Lady Elizabeth to live there.

She died in childbirth.

The child was found drowned in the pond a year after its birth.

Lord Robert remarried, Lady Anne.

They had three children. Percy, Mary and Alice.

Lady Anne died six weeks after the youngest was born.

She had jumped from the castles second floor.

There was no reason why she took her own life.

She fell into a deep melancholy before the child was born. The house remained in the family.

Today it was owned by Leonard and Darcy Campbell.

Fortunately the death of Lady Elizabeth, her child and Lady Anne was the last of the tragedy to fall upon this family.

Penny had said there was a ghost, I wondered if it was Elizabeth or Anne?

As if hearing my thoughts I heard and saw a shaking of the chair. I shuttered.

I wanted to get out of the room.

I tried to convince myself that it was nothing.

The light then started to flicker and I jumped out of the bed and out the door.

I banged on Penny’s door and before she could even answer I opened the door.

Penny was reading a book and looked startled.

I was shaking.

“What?” she asked. “I want to leave,” I told her. “Oh my god you saw a ghost?

What was it like?” “I didn’t see anything, now let’s go.” Penny was so excited.

“I’m going into your room,” she announced. Jumping out of bed she quickly made it to the room I was staying in.

I sat alone on her bed waiting for her to come back.

I don’t know how much time had gone by however it seem like an incredible amount.

I nervously made my way to my room.

The door was open and there was no sign of Penny.

“Penny,” I called out No response.

“Penny,” I called out again. Still no response.

I thought she might have gone down to the kitchen and I scurried there.

There was a light on in the kitchen and when I opened the door I saw Jane sitting at the table.

Jane was the manager of the castle.

“Sorry,

I’m looking for my friend Penny.

She went into my room and isn’t there anymore,” I explained. “What room are you in? Jane questioned. She had a beautiful Scottish brogue to her voice.

Which made me feel warm and inviting. “I’m not sure,

it doesn’t have a number on it.

It’s three doors down from the bathroom” Jane sighed.

“Not another one. I looked and felt alarmed.

“Don’t worry Lassie.

She’s most likely found the door and can’t get out.” We made our way to my room and she told me, “This room was meant to be Lady Elizabeth’s room.

The secret door as rumour had it Elizabeth’s secret lover would hide.

It doesn’t go anywhere, there is no passage.” I loved a scandalest tale.

She went on to explain, “her lover worked on building the castle and was going to make it a passage out. Before he could start on the passage he hid in there from Lord Robert.

He got stuck and Lady Elizabeth was moved to another room and forced to stay there during her confinement.” I looked puzzled,

“She was with child.Lord Robert knew the child was not his and locked her away.” “She died in childbirth,” I added “That was the official story.

Some say she was murdered by Lord Robert.

Some say she took her own life.

I think she was murdered as was her child.” My heart sank, I couldn’t believe someone would murder a child.

“That’s so sad.” We continued to look for Penny to no avail.

I was getting more concerned as time ticked by.

We decided to try outside, however when Jane opened the door we could see and feel a strong wind had gushed up,

Jane now looked just as concerned as me.

“We won’t get far in this wind,” she explained, slamming the door shut.

“I’ll call the police.” I went into the living area,

I realised I was very cold.

I look at the fireplace trying to work out how to turn it on.

Suddenly the flame sprung up, creating a fire.

I jumped back.

I looked around the room and at first I saw nothing.

I then saw a woman in the doorway.

She was wearing a long yellow gown in the style of yesteryear.

My heart was pounding.

I wanted to scream, however I could feel I was unable to make a sound. The figure stood staring at me.

Suddenly she was right in front of me.

I let out a loud piercing scream.

Jane came racing in, my scream did not scare the figure instead she stood silently in front of me.

“Lady Anne,” Jane called out. The figure moved toward Jane.

I raced to hide behind a chair.

I had no idea if this would help, however instinct told me to do this.

The figure turned her attention back to me.

Then as quickly as she appeared she disappeared. “I’m leaving,” I announced, coming out behind the chair. Suddenly loud laughter rang out.

Walking into the living room was Penny.

“It’s not funny.

I’m leaving.

And where have you been?” Penny continued laughing,

I rolled my eye and was about to storm out.

Leonard the owner appeared?

“I’m sorry,” he said to me.

“Your friend here said you’d like to see a ghost.

We do this for our guests.” “Some friend you are Penny.

What makes you think I wanted to see a ghost?

So was that really a ghost?” I questioned. “Hologram,” Leonard said.

“I’m sorry, I would never have done it if your friend here didn’t say you would get a kick out of it.” I then stormed up to my room and packed my bag.

Penny came in looking very sorry, “Don’t talk to me,” I snapped.

“I’m taking the car and going to stay at a pub.” Before Penny could say anything I walked out.

Penny started to follow me When

suddenly a loud scream came out of our mouth. Leonard and Jane ran up the stairs and looked at me.

Before they could get near me I disappeared.

They wanted a ghost, I was one.

I was Lady Elizabeth and until I was reunited with my lover, I was going to take my anger out on the guests intruding in my home.


THE GINIE AND THE LAMP Utsav lived with his mother and newly wedded wife , Zoe , in Mumbai . His father had passed away a few years back . Utsav completed his MD and was working in a reputed hospital as a cardiologist . Zoe and Utsav were school time classmates . Friendship blossomed into love and soon they decided to get married . He was leading a contented life with his family . His elder brother was living separately with his friend.     One day , while having dinner, Utsav told his mother and Zoe that he wished to go to USA for further studies , but financial crunch was holding him back .

"Why don't you go to Balu ? , " suggested his mother . " He once told me that that his friend is a magician . He has a magic lamp which has the power to fulfill all the wishes of the person who possesses it . You can ask him to lend you the lamp . "    " Mom , it will be very embarrassing for me to do that . "

      One day, Utsav's mother went to Balu's house on her way back home from her boutique . She told him that Utsav wished to go to USA for further studies , but he didn't have enough money to pursue his dreams. "Balu please lend Utsav your magic lamp ." ," Are you joking , mom ? , asked Balu , surprised. " The lamp isn't mine . It's Anum's . He will never agree to part with it ." " Atleast try . Maybe he'll agree ," she pleaded . "I'll try but can't promise." " It's my birthday tomorrow . I'm throwing a party at home for my very close friends . Please come  over to my place at 7 pm sharp" , messaged Balu to Utsav .

    Next day when Utsav reached Balu's house ,he was shocked to see a palatial house. Balu welcomed him and took him inside. The party went on till the wee hours of the morning.      After all the guests had left , Utsav reminded Balu of the lamp . Balu introduced him to a stocky middle aged man . " He is Anum , my friend, from whom I have learnt magic . You can talk to him about it. "

     After the party was over and all the guests had left , Balu and Anum took Utsav to a dark room . Anum asked him to sit down in the rocking chair . Anum took out

a lamp from the cupboard . "Abracadabra" , chanted Anum , rubbing a golden lamp " .

   A huge figure appeared from nowhere . " What can I do for you my master ", he blared .

   " I am the ginie of this lamp . Tell me your wish . I will fulfill it .

" Give Utsav whatever he wants " , ordered Anum to the ginie .

" Here Utsav take this lamp and ask what you want ." Utsav felt dizzy . With shivering hands he rubbed the lamp .

  "What can I do for you ?"

" I want money , he stuttered . His throat was dry and hands were clumpy and sweaty .

The Ginie handed him a brown package and vanished. Utsav opened the package with shaking hands . There was a bundle of crisp currency notes in it . Utsav was in daze . He just couldn't fathom what was happening .     This now became a regular feature . Everytime Utsav went to Balu's house the Ginie appeared before him and gave him money . Utsav became greedy for more . He wanted the lamp . He felt that it could solve all his problems .    Balu refused to sell his lamp , but seeing that Utsav was adamant , he agreed to sell the lamp for ten lakhs . Excitedly Utsav was about to rub the lamp to try its magic. Balu stopped him. " No no , don't do that . It will take about two to three months to get activated . If you touch the lamp before that , some mishap may befall you and your family ", warned Anum . " Don't even open the package before time . It will turn to useless paper if you do that. "

     Utsav signed the agreement papers and took the lamp home . He showed the lamp to his mother and Zoe . " Let's try it ", said his mother excitedly.. Utsav told her about  Anum's warning. Zoe felt that something was amiss. She looked at the lamp suspiciously.      About a couple of months passed . Utsav's application  came through . He had got admission in a reputed university in USA. He had to pay the fees  within a fortnight . Due to the lockdown, the banks were closed . He was in a fix . " Why don't you try the lamp ?" , suggested his mother again .  After hesitating for sometime, Utsav took out the lamp  from his briefcase . He rubbed the lamp . No Ginie appeared . He rubbed it harder and chanted the magic words , 'Abracadabra'. Again nothing happened. Zoe tore open the sealed package only to find fake currency notes .

." Your brother has cheated you " , said Zoe sarcastically .

" I have myself seen the Ginie" , said Utsav emphatically . He himself gave me the package. I think I should have waited for a few more months as advised by Anum uncle . Hope no mishap  befalls us . "

 Zoe picked up the lamp and examined it closely . " It's just an ordinary gold plated lamp . You got befooled by its glitter and fell into their trap . "

  Zoe barged into Balu:s house along with the police . She dragged Balu by the collar and ordered him to give the real lamp and all the money he had taken from her husband . " What lamp are you talking about ?" , asked Balu .

" Don't try to act smart . I am a black belt in judo and karate . I am a CBI officer ."  Zoe threw a few hard punches at him and snatched the lamp from Balu's hand . She rubbed it hard. There was a flash of light.

" My name is Greed . " I am actually a fairy who got trapped in the lamp due to a curse

 " Thank you for freeing my master and me ."  Zoe listened to the story with wide eyes as the ginie continued , " My master

 belonged to the Sultan . After his death , his queen sold off his house and settled abroad. My master was sent to the museum . A thief stole him from there .He accidentally dropped him in a cave while running from the police . Balu and Anum found him  when they had gone there for a picnic . By his knowledge of magic, Anum came to know of our powers . He took us to his house . He began to misuse our powers  . Balu became his partner in crime . They showed computer generated ginies to trap innocent and unsuspecting people like Utsav . "

Anum and Balu were arrested .

 Zoe returned the lamp to the museum .The ginie bid good bye and went back to her parents . Utsav took a loan from the bank to pursue his dreams.


You can’t choose your family, and I lost the family lottery big time. I doubt anyone ever wins big, not unless they are gifted a very limited number of family members who have mastered the art of not inflicting themselves upon family members. There is supposed to be a compensating strategy to make up for family and it has something to do with friends. Apparently, you can choose your friends, but that all falls down because it’s not like you can form a cadre of friends who you take with you wherever you go to protect you from family and the occasional crafty mugger.

You certainly can’t take your friends to the annual assault course which is Thanksgiving. That’s one of the unwritten family rules. The Thanksgiving rules seem to be that you have to be present at all times and you have to take anything and everything that is thrown at you. It seems that my role is as the family punchbag, and punchbags can never hit back.

Funny isn’t it? You know how some things will go so you don’t even try them. If I was to defend myself from the insults and injuries that I receive during Thanksgiving, then this would be seen as the worst kind of attack and everyone would suddenly find a way of uniting and pulling together in order to put me back in my place. That’s the only way I could unite my family, a temporary set of uneasy alliances formed to secure my demise. Now, I could endure and survive Thanksgiving if it was atypical of the way my family is for the rest of the year. The truth is that each and every member of my family is broken and the sad truth of it is that the family broke all of them. The Clark Clan has been doing this for a very long time now and they’ve got really good at it. This family is a sausage factory. They mince their young up and squeeze them painfully into the straightjacket of their skin. There’s no defence against something like that, and there’s no stopping it. There’s no stopping it because you don’t know it’s happening to you until it’s already happened and by then it’s too late. The fascinating thing is that my family looks like all the other families. This broken and spiteful set of warring peoples somehow manage to look like a unit. They seem to conform and never do they set any alarms off, nor do red flags get hoisted up the flag pole in the front garden.

People see what they want to see though and they keep themselves to themselves. Even the really nosey people. That lot are on the hunt for juicy snippets that accord with their world view and for some strange reason they skip over my family. We’re not invisible, but we are unremarkable.

And yet, we’re all weird and we do stand out. I know we do. I can see the reaction we provoke, but somehow we’re passed by each and every time. I watch people you see. I’ve watched them for a long time. Studied them. I think I wanted to know them a little more so I could figure out how to fit in, but somewhere along the path that all changed. Change has happened to me all along the path I have stumbled and hobbled along. It’s happened so relentlessly that I now loathe it. I loathe a lot of things. If I wrote a list I would run out of ink and then I’d run out of paper. Right now, I loathe the prospect of Thanksgiving, and Thanksgiving is already happening to me. Again. This time I have a different plan. I’ve always had plans, but they never work out. You see, there’s only one me and there are seven of them. The odds have never been in my favour. But this time I’m going to approach it in an entirely different way. “You’re quiet George.”

This is my gran and this is her opening gambit. It seems innocuous enough, but to engage gran in any sort of conversation is to open yourself up for a spot of verbal flogging. Her tongue is so sharp that she could flay someone alive in the space of five minutes. To say she is not pleasant is the closest you can get to being complimentary about her. I whisper my reply, “I’m being overwhelmed with the wonderful company at the table.” “Pardon?” she says archly. “I’m sad that Betty couldn’t make it,” I tell her at normal volume. “Yes,” says gran, turning on my father, “where is Betty?” “Dunno,” he says, “she said she was going to come.” And of course she did. We’d all rather remove our eyeballs with rusty spoons than come to gran’s for Thanksgiving, but the consequences of non-attendance don’t bear thinking about, so no one has ever defied gran and not turned up.

Until now. “She better have a good excuse,” gran growls. I whisper again, “oh she does.” “You what?” gran growls again, “what is it with you and your whispering you rude girl!” I’m twenty eight and don’t consider myself to be a girl anymore. I doubt I ever was thanks to this awful matriarch, “I’m sure she’s here in spirit, gran.” Gran is not placated. Gran would never allow herself to be placated by another human being. That cannot happen because she is at the top of the pecking order and that is all there is to it. “How’s the new job, George?” this is Aunt Francis. She’s alright on the face of it and that has always bugged me. I don’t see how she can be alright in this toxic environment and so I harbour suspicions that she is the worst of us all.

If I have any doubt about Aunt Francis’s bad credentials, all I have to do is look at her two children. They are about as shitty as shitty can be. Spoiled, but in the same way that food spoils when it is not eaten in time. They fizz and they smell and I can’t bear to look at them.

“It pays the bills,” I tell her. I hate my job and even saying those four words about it boils my urine and makes me hate her just a little more. “You’re still existing in that backward town then?” asks gran. “Surviving,” I nod. There’s no point in pushing back. She’s looking for that. Anything that will give her more ammunition to wound me with. I glance across at granddad. I think I saw him react to her question, but cannot be sure. I’m never sure when it comes to him. Granddad has been on death’s door for all of my formative life. He barely says a word. Barely does a thing other than breathe. Some of his food will disappear from his plate, but I won’t see him eat it and it’s never enough to fuel a human being.

There was a time when I thought gran was poisoning him. The husbands and wives that marry into our family don’t last long. Long enough to make the next generation of losers and then they’re off, ignorant of what they have actually done. Too busy licking their wounds and wondering what the hell happened back there. They never once think about the abandonment of their children. Somehow they don’t see it like that. People see what they want to see. We make our way through the main course, slings and arrows thrown my way, mostly by gran, but father joins in too. Francis’s kids smirk at me, adding to the hostile ambience. I take it. I take it all, just as I always have and I watch them as they eat. A tradition of our Thanksgiving is that we all bring at least one dish. This year, I brought the pigs in blankets. Gran was derogatory as soon as she saw them, but I see she has polished them all off. In fact, my side dish has been quite the hit. The plate is now empty. The empty plate is my cue. “I see you enjoyed the Betty in blankets,” I say to gran. I’ve stopped eating and have my elbows on the table. I make a cradle with my fingers and rest my chin on it. This is guaranteed to rile the old bag. On my plate are all the bacon wrapped sausages I took from the serving plate. I haven’t eaten a single one. Their presence there makes a point. “What did you say?” gran hisses. I hear Francis gasp. “That’s not funny,” father says. I never take my eyes from gran, but in my peripheral vision I can see Francis’s kids and they are not grinning. I don’t think they’ll ever grin again. “I find it amusing,” I say in a dull monotone, “Betty was always a bit of a pig.” “You’re a horrid little girl,” growls gran, “always have been, always will be.” I smile in reply. Then the tension of the present interaction is broken by a far too loud ringtone. Francis blushes bright red as she reaches into her bag for her phone. The ringtone louder as she retrieves it. The tune catchy, but not recognisable. “Hello?” she says into the phone. When her red face goes very pale I know what the call is about. I’d hoped it would play out like this. I smile as an optional part of my plan comes into play. She isn’t on the phone for long, but it’s long enough to see her transformed. Her transformation will not stop there though. Not by a long chalk. “What is it girl?” gran asks bluntly as Francis ends the call. Francis does her best not to cry. Crying in front of gran would not go well, “my house. It’s on fire…” Gran tuts. She tuts like Francis’s house being on fire is an avoidable inconvenience. That tut makes it clear that Francis is misbehaving and that this is not acceptable. Not here and now during Thanksgiving. Francis gets up. “Where do you think you’re going!?” barks gran. “Home!” shouts Francis. And just for a moment, I think I might have got Francis wrong. That moment passes though. They all do. In the face of gran’s chagrin, Francis leaves. She leaves under the darkest of clouds and she takes her two grown up but still childish children with her. They scowl at me as they leave.

I also get up. “What do you think you’re doing,

girl? ” asks gran. I smile my smile, “seeing them off.” “Sit down right now!” she screams as I turn my back on her and leave the room. I am in time to see Francis reverse at speed from the driveway and I wince at the sight of it. Composing myself, I return to a dispassionate state as Francis accelerates away and disappears down the hill. She didn’t see me in the doorway, but her two smarmy offspring did. They turned to look at me and gave me the bird in a well-choreographed move.

Drawing a deep breath in I savour the crisp smell of the approaching Winter. Some smells enliven a person. This is one of them and I am smiling in an approximation of happiness. I flinch just once as I hear the car crash. Francis was driving far too fast. There was no way she was going to stop in time. Not without any brakes she wasn’t. The sight of the fireball warms and emboldens me. I sniff once again at the air and fancy I catch a whiff of an unseasonal barbeque. Smiling once more, I walk back inside, leaving the door open. Another small victory that will annoy gran.

My coat is hanging in the hall and from my coat pocket I pull gloves. I am putting them on as I return to the dining room. Gran shakes her head at me, “gloves? You are as odd as they come. A constant disappointment to me and your weak father. It’s his fault. Far too weak. Let you get away with far too much…” No one asks me about the noise of a car crash and explosion. They don’t care. She’s still talking as I pick up the carving knife and carve a second mouth into my father’s neck. The knife is nice and sharp, I sharpened the blade earlier.

I can’t help but ignore gran and inspect my handiwork. Father’s eyes are dumb with surprise. He just sits there, but there is a moment of inexplicable beauty as his new mouth gapes open and for the first time ever, he smiles at me. Then the blood comes. I had read about this part, but never experienced it. I had toyed with practicing with Betty, but instead I despatched her in a far less theatrical manner. The Thanksgiving dinner table is painted red, but somehow gran remains her usual granite-like self. I note only three small and disrespectful spots of blood. I grin at the thought of father remaining so scared of his mother that even in his death throes he avoided getting any of his life blood on her. But I’m grinning. I can’t help but grin.

This has to be the best Thanksgiving ever! “You bitch!” gran snarls at me, “how dare you ruin Thanksgiving!” That’s what she says to me. They are her words in the aftermath of the slaying of her son, and the death of her daughter and grandchildren. They are her words after I’ve told her that she’s just eaten some of her granddaughter. These are her words as I walk around the table and place the carving knife in her bony little hand. A hand that seems birdlike and too small for such an evil woman and such a huge, dominating presence in all of our lives. She looks at the knife and then at me and for one magical moment, I think she is going to stab me in the guts. I can picture it and almost feel the knife entering my midriff. She would twist it and disembowel me. That is what she would do. That is how she is built. “You’ve made your point love,” granddad is nodding at me, then his eyes go to the door telling me in no uncertain terms that I should leave now. Not wanting gran to end me with that life.

Get out. Get out while you can! Why didn’t he say this earlier? Why didn’t he say something when it would have counted? Too little. Too late. “Oh shut up you ridiculous man!” My gran spits these words out even as she turns on him and plunges the point of the wickedly sharp knife through the old and helpless man’s eye. Such is the force of the thrust that the knife goes almost all the way to the handle.

I laugh. I can’t help myself but laugh.

I’ve just heard the punchline for this year’s Thanksgiving and it’s a humdinger. “Why are you laughing!?” my gran screams. Why are you laughing?! Why are you laughing?! Why are you laughing?! I tell her once I have gotten over my fit of the giggles. I lean in and whisper it in her ear. Then I step back and in a loud voice I pronounce, “Oh gran! What have you done!?” As she looks at me with a contorted expression of shock and rage, I call the police and I play the part of innocent and traumatised granddaughter very well. I play it better than anyone ever could, and I find myself looking forward to being there at gran’s trial. I’ll be there every day and I’ll look her in the eye as she faces the music. I’ll relish the summing up. That part will be delicious. As the judge name calls and she winces with every word that lands. They won’t see it of course. None of them will. Gran will be wearing her very best mask. But I’ll see it. And I’ll know, and that will be enough. That and the prospect of no more Thanksgiving Dinners with that bunch of broken and messed up assholes.

Good riddance to bad rubbish as far as I’m concerned.


The scuffing, thudding boots echo up the corridor, then stop at my cell door. That sound is the only sense of time I have in solitary. 15 days down, 350 more to go. With a creaking clank, the rusty serving hatch is forced open, and the breakfast tray is slapped down with even more gusto and disdain than usual. Patting rough hemp blankets and the cold metal bed frame, I feel my way into position before the cell door, then reach out with my good arm and find the little shelf. I whip the tray away as best I can one-handed. Then the hatch is shut with a violent metal clang that rings around the room and reverberates through my forehead, making me wince in pain. That obnoxious din is getting ever more unbearable as my hearing sharpens in the otherwise endless silence. No-one says a word, as usual. Neither the shitty food nor service deserves a “hello” or “thank you”. My crew have shunned and betrayed me, so the thought of being further rejected or bullied by my silent jailer is too much to bear. I pace five equal steps straight back from the hatch then stop. The smell of the watery gruel-like porridge makes my famished stomach grumble, though from experience, my taste buds are not so enthusiastic. Turning ninety degrees to my left, I walk two careful paces backwards until my increasingly skinny arse just nudges the back of the chair. I learned early into my sentence that walking forwards results in knocking my knees and spilling the contents of the tray. Licking spilt water and gruel off a lunarcrete floor is not the best way to start anyone’s day. Even days as monumentally hopeless and despairing as mine. Turning around one-eighty, I lean over and place the tray on the small steel table in front of me. Relieved, I sit down to eat. The water tastes of iron and chlorine, but it’s good for washing down the unidentifiable lumpy bits that make me gag. I dream of oranges. The vibrant citrus colour, the deep green leaves and clear blue skies of my early years fill my mind. I can almost smell the zesty tang as I imagine splitting open a freshly picked fruit from our tree. That was when southern England was the “New Mediterranean”, because the old Mediterranean was the new Sahara desert. Greedily gulping down my first grim mouthful, the heavy boots interrupt my meal again, accompanied by the high-pitched clip-clapping of Dr Ross’s headmaster shoes. He’s early, or maybe breakfast is late. With a slight pneumatic hiss, the cell door slides open. “Good morning Harper, how are you today?” asks Dr Ross. The door shuts, those infernal boots fade away, and we are alone. “Hungry.” He scraps a spare chair up to my table. “Yes, I’m sorry to disturb your breakfast. But I’m needed up top today, on a special visit to the drill site.” “Right,” I say, noting the excitement in his voice. He sounds in his late sixties and was born on Earth for sure, his melting pot accent ranging anywhere between Glasgow and California. This could be his first time on an EVA outside of the lunar colony, and its artificial Earth-like gravity. In normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have begrudged his eager tone at all. “Wouldn’t you like to know why?” he asks. There’s only one scenario which requires Dr Ross’s medical expertise down the mines, and it’s not good. After a few moments’ silence, he gets the hint. “How are you bearing up?” I just shrug my one good shoulder and play with the porridge, letting it drip off the spoon and plop back into the bowl with a satisfying splat. “Turn to face me, Harper,” says the doctor. “Yes, your cheekbone is healing nicely and your lip is almost back to normal. Can you eat okay?” “Once you bugger off I can.” “Good, sense of humour still intact, that’s good! Go on, take a few mouthfuls.” He doesn’t need to ask twice. I put a spoonful to my lips, then wretch at the inexplicable smell of rotten cabbage. Gulping hard, the reconstituted oat-water slides down my throat. “You must be starving on these meagre rations. I will complain, again! ” says Dr Ross, raising his voice for the benefit of my jailor, or whoever’s listening to the video feed. “So there’s still considerable bruising around your right eye socket, but it’s on the mend. Now, let’s have a look at how that shoulder’s doing.” He gently unties my sling and bandages and my dead arm rests on my lap. His breathing is faster than normal and he reeks of body odour, which is unusual for him. “Okay, good. Raise your arm for me, as high as you can now.” Straining, I lift the unwilling limb two inches, before crying out in agony as severe pain shoots through my upper arm and collarbone. “Okay Harper, please rest,” says Dr Ross. Then he slips something small and square into my sling. My back masks his actions from the video camera angle. “Shush.”

“What’s that?” I whisper back. “Chocolate.”

A single tear streams down my battered left cheek. Cocoa beans and sugar are amongst the most lucrative export crops from the lunar farms. But both these plants require plenty of precious water daily, constant heat and during the long lunar nights, fourteen days of synthetic light. So chocolate remains an expensive and luxury item. “Sorry I couldn’t sneak in more,” says Dr Ross in a hushed, breathless tone, whilst pretending to continue working on the dressings. Without further ado, I reach inside the sling with my good hand and carefully unwrap the toilet paper surrounding the contraband. Shaking, I lift the treat to my bruised lips, flooding my senses with its rich caramel aroma. “Suck it slowly, so they can’t hear you chew, and keep your back to the camera.” “You risk too much, doctor. Thank you.” As he rises to gather his things, I pop the precious prize in whole. The velvety dark chocolate melts in my mouth, flooding my mind with endorphins. A pleasure hit to lift both body and soul. “Right, almost done here, back in three days,” he says, placing something sounding like a pile of paperwork on the table. “Here’s something to keep that brilliant mind of yours occupied in the meantime.” “What about my sight?” I ask.

He sighs. “I have only the same answer as yesterday, and the days before that. I’m sorry.” I nod my head in solemn acceptance and a heavy feeling comes over me. “Don’t go in, doctor. The tunnel. Do not go in .” He places a hand on my good shoulder, and gently squeezes it for just a moment, then walks away. The sudden sound of him banging a fist on the cell door makes me gasp. “Ready!” he calls to the jailor, then softens as his voice turns back in my direction. “Sorry, too loud?” “Just a bit,” I say. “I could hear a mouse fart these days.” The good doctor chuckles. “Hang in there kiddo, and enjoy the book.” Then he’s gone and I’m alone again. Pushing my foul meal aside, I pick up the thick wodge of paper. It’s ring-bound and almost twice the height and width of a regular paperback book. I run my fingers over the first page, tracing some mesh of tiny embossed bumps. The bumps are convex on the front side of the page, and concave on the reverse. Then it hits me – Braille, the doctor wants me to learn to read Braille! I can’t imagine how I’m meant to do this without some form of a guide. I should focus on my limited exercise routine and then get back to thinking up an escape plan. But I just can’t put the papers down. A gut instinct, a sixth sense almost, tells me that this is important somehow. I place the papers to my nose and breathe in deep. The paper smells new, synthetic. Not like the musty, old Earth books in the little crew zone library. Like all of them, the first page is full of bumps – no dots. Somehow I know that dots is the right term. Guessing the first line is the book title and the short second line is the author’s name, I have to know what they are now. I’ve always loved puzzles. It will be a challenge to decipher the Braille alphabet. I’ll just work out the book title and author, then stop. Assuming the book’s language is English, and you read Braille left-to-right, I run my fingers over the first line. There are smaller spaces between some of the dot clusters, to distinguish different words, and a thinner separation between each… cell, they’re called cells, representing different letters or symbols. I touch more cells and find that each one has zero to six dots arranged on a two-by-three matrix. Each dot space has only two possibilities: either flat or raised, so two to the power of six means the Braille alphabet has 64 characters max. By feeling the whole page, it’s clear from the line breaks when each new paragraph starts, and each one begins with the same character – a single lower-right raised dot. Each line wouldn’t start with the same letter, so this symbol either indicates a new sentence, or capitalisation of the first letter. Then it’s simple to work out the symbol for full stop. Next I find the letter ‘a’, which can be the only single character word commonly found in the middle of a sentence, then learn both capital ‘I’ and lowercase ‘i’. Now I look for the common two-letter words beginning with ‘a’ or ‘i’. Then I work out ‘if’, which leads me to ‘of’ and the letter ‘o’. A minute later, I can also recognise the letters ‘r’, ‘h’, ‘n’, ‘s’ and ‘t’. Then, by applying my known letters to the three-character words, I have now learnt all the vowels and common consonants. I retrace the first two lines: To -ill a Moc-ingbird. Harper Lee. Harper – that can’t be a coincidence — it’s a message for me. But what is it and why? Now I’m hooked. I consider the title of the book. ‘Kill’ seems relevant these days for sure, as the authorities have blamed me for the murder of those two poor miners. The memory of the actual culprit, in the depths of that mineshaft, sends a chilling shudder through my entire body. Or does it mean someone’s coming to kill me? Perhaps Dr Ross is an unwitting postman, and the message and its sender are not friendly. ‘Mockingbird’ doesn’t seem to fit with my situation. Canaries perhaps, as an antiquated mining reference, but not mockingbirds. I imagine all species are extinct by now. Most birds who could not live and breed year-round in the polar regions where the air was still breathable, had perished several years ago in the methane smog. I studied this classic novel in school. The key themes of prejudice and miscarriage of justice each carry some relevance to lesser and greater extents. But I can’t see a clear, direct message. Perhaps I’ll find it within the text... By the end of the first chapter, I can interpret all the Braille characters, even the shorthand symbols representing compound sounds and common words, with enough fluency to make reading a pleasurable experience. For the first time since my incarceration, I smile. I’m loving both the logical efficiency of the Braille system, and the story itself. This new skill gives me some hope, and a welcome break from bleak thoughts. My darkness is now lit up with imaginary characters and settings. Halfway through the book, I find a typo, an extra random letter in the middle of a word. A printing or editing error, perhaps? There’s another one! An extra space a few lines below. Is there a coded message in these typos? I read on. There are hundreds of these extra characters in total, found across nine chapters. Memorising the characters in order of appearance, I read them both forwards and backwards, and they make no sense in either direction. So I try various classical substitution and transposition cipher methods. Decoding these methods relies on finding the right pattern or keyword in order to either replace the letters or read them in the correct sequence. But these known methods are no good. I’m definitely dealing with a custom cipher here. There must be some logic in the particular characters chosen, and perhaps their position in each line. The additional spaces appear at random in the text. But the extra letters only come from the first thirteen of the alphabet, A to M. And they only appear in the first thirteen characters of each new line. If I add – no multiply, there’s no possibility of equalling 1 for ‘A’ with addition. If I multiply the position number of each extra letter in the alphabet by its line position number, then at a glance, it looks like I’ll never get more than the 26 letters in the alphabet. My heart pounds in my chest and I shake a fist. Yes, I’ve cracked it! Okay, so first extra letter is ‘a’ at line position 9, so that makes ‘i’. Then a space. Then ‘a’, ’m’, space, ‘j’, ... Then I have it, the first sentence, and I know who sent the message. Bloody hell! I can’t believe who it is. I calm my nerves and decipher the next page. Okay, so each new page represents the start of a new sentence. I decode the entire message without delay: “I am jailor. Sorry no more food. Being watched. People know truth. You are still child. Not without innocence. But innocent of murder. Our loved ones work mines. Stop your machines. Seal up horror below. Now follow instructions…” An escape plan, an escape plan! I jump up from the chair with excitement and fist bump the air. Then my numb legs give way, knocking my knee against the metal table edge, and I hit the deck hard.

Dazed, I find myself crumpled face first against one wall of my tiny cell. I reach for my knee and howl in pain. Stupid girl! I’d sat in the same spot, in my poor condition, for hours. At least I was lucky enough to not land on my broken shoulder. Oh Harper, what were you thinking, getting your hopes up like that? I can’t do this. I’m blind, broken, and starving. I can’t escape a prison, in an alien city on the Moon. Even with help, they’ll catch me, won’t they? They’ll catch me, and then they’ll… Curled up on the floor, I sob into my knees. And stay like this for a long, long time. Then those echoing, thudding boots approach again. The jailor, he’s coming to rescue me! Oh no, I’m not ready, I’m not ready. But something inside of me overrides both logic and emotion. So I get up, and dive into bed. Clank! The hatch is open. Smack! Dinner is served. I cover my ringing ears with the rough bed sheets and wait. Nothing. Be patient. I count sixty seconds, but it feels like an hour passes. “Come get your food,” says a grizzled male voice with a thick colony accent. The stench of stale cigarette smoke seeps in through the hatch. As instructed, I say nothing, yet. My blanket quivers. What if this is a test? What if he hurts me? He grunts. “You gone deaf too?” My throat is in my mouth. I can’t breathe. Then there’s the hiss, and the cell door slides open. The boots approach the bed, then swivel, and the jailor places the tray down on my table. That’s my cue. Here goes nothing… “No, p-please, please b-bring it here,” I say, shaking to my core. “Bloody butler am I?” says the jailor, but he picks my meal off the table anyway. I find the strength to sit up, and he places the tray in my lap. The scent of brown rice and beans wafts towards me, same as every other dinner in this place. But I won’t miss this meal. I launch the tray’s hot contents up towards where I imagine the jailor’s face to be, then lash out with my new plastic weapon. The jailor shouts and swears at me, but somehow I launch to my feet and push him away with every last ounce of strength I have. There’s crashing and cursing as he trips over the chair, and I leap towards the door. It’s gone to plan so far. Feeling the frame, I step out into the corridor then turn left towards where the sound of the boots begins each mealtime. Towards where my next rescuer awaits, I hope. The brave jailor groans back in the cell. My heart’s galloping like a hundred horses and I’m drenched in cold sweat. I gasp and wince as piercing alarms scream all around. So I run! I crash into one wall and then spin into the other, but suck up the pain and just keep running. Not because it’s fair or makes sense, but because I must. It’s do or die, innocent or not. I’m Tom Robinson now. I am the mockingbird.


Francoch Ratta, a 27-year-old New Yorker of Irish-Italian descent, woke up one morning to find he had a peculiar sensation. It was as if someone, or something, was watching him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it was a feeling that wouldn't go away, no matter how hard he tried to shake it off. He went about his day as usual, working at the pub that served beer and pizza, exercising, drinking, and even dating girls. But the feeling persisted, and it was starting to affect his daily life. Especially his secret love of rodents. A.K.A. Mouses and rats. Francoch's love for rodents had always been a secret passion of his, something he indulged in during his lonely nights working at the pub. He would often sneak out back and leave scraps of pizza for the rats, enjoying the way they scurried up to him, their little noses twitching in excitement. But as his paranoia began to take hold, Francoch's love turned to fear. He couldn't shake the feeling that the rats were watching him, judging him. He started having nightmares about hordes of rats swarming over the city, devouring everything in their path. He began to see rats everywhere, lurking in the shadows and scurrying along the streets. Francoch's fear became so all-consuming that he couldn't even stand to be in the same room as a rodent. He stopped leaving scraps of pizza out for the rats, and instead started trapping them and releasing them far away from the city. He even went so far as to install a rat trap in his apartment, convinced that they were trying to invade his home. But despite all his efforts, Francoch couldn't shake the feeling that the rats were closing in, and he was the only one who could stop them. Francoch's paranoia began to manifest in some truly peculiar ways. For example, he started insisting that his coworkers wear mouse ears while they worked, claiming that it would throw off any potential rodent spies. He also began sneaking around the pub at night, armed with a broom and a can of Raid, convinced that the rats were plotting against him. But perhaps the strangest behavior of all was Francoch's sudden obsession with cheese. He would hoard chunks of cheddar and gouda in his locker, convinced that they were the key to winning over the rodent overlords. He even went so far as to start experimenting with different types of pizzas, convinced that he could create the perfect cheese-based offering to appease the rats. Of course, his coworkers and friends thought he had lost his mind, and they started to distance themselves from him. But Francoch was convinced that he was the only one who could save humanity from the rodent uprising. Little did he know, the true twist of his story was yet to come... As the days went by, Francoch's paranoia grew, and people started to avoid him. He didn't know what to do. Francoch never considered therapy as an option for his increasing paranoia and fear. For one, he didn't want to admit to anyone, not even a therapist, that he had a secret love for rodents. He was afraid of being judged or labeled as weird or crazy. He believed that he could handle his fear and paranoia on his own and didn't want to expose himself to strangers. Additionally, Francoch didn't believe that therapy would be effective for him. He thought that therapy was just for people with serious mental illnesses and that his fear of rodents was just a quirk that he could eventually overcome. He also believed that therapy would be a waste of time and money, and he didn't want to spend his hard-earned cash on something that he felt wouldn't help him. Francoch had just finished up his shift at the pub and was headed home, still feeling that eerie sense of being watched. As he walked down the dark alley behind the pub, he heard a scurrying sound and quickly turned around, only to be met with the cold, hard surface of an iron pan to the head. He blacked out, falling to the ground with a thud. As Francoch lay unconscious, he heard one of his assailants saying "Well, that's one way to make a pizza delivery". That night, before he could leave for the institution, Francoch was knocked unconscious. As Francoch slowly came, he found himself in a strange underground chamber, surrounded by glowing lights and strange machinery. His head was pounding and his vision was blurry, but he could make out the silhouette of a small mouse standing in front of him. "What the... where am I?" Francoch mumbled, trying to sit up. "You're in our underground laboratory, my friend," a mouse said in a surprisingly deep and serious voice. "We've been keeping an eye on you, and we knew that your increasing paranoia was putting you in danger. So, we decided to intervene." Francoch's eyes widened in shock. "What. The. Fu...?" "Calm down my boy. No need to go crazy for you are not crazy. Yes, what you are seeing before you is none other than a member of the Mus musculus species, a mouse. Yours truly, Dr. Mauso Mousinsky, at your service. My apologies for the rough treatment but we had to act fast. We couldn't let you continue down that dangerous path with your paranoia." The mouse said solemnly. When he woke up, he was greeted by a cute little mouse doctor and a big bodyguard rat at the side of the doctor. They were still the size of normal rodents. The reason for all this madness was something right out of an absurdist comedy. There was a colony of super-intelligent rats and mice living underground in New York, and they loved Francoch because he always gave them pizza. "What the...where am I?" "You're in our underground colony, Francoch. We've been keeping an eye on you and we're glad you're finally awake." "You mean...you're not just regular rats? You're... super-intelligent rats?" "Bingo. And let me tell you, you're one lucky human. We're the only reason you're alive right now." "What do you mean? Something happened?" "Well, let's just say things went a little...nuclear. But don't worry, we've got everything under control down here. You're safe with us." After he recovered and spoke with the rodents, something wonderful happened. Francoch paranoia disappeared for he was right about being watched. Francoch became friends with the rodents that he loved so much. After some time had passed underground, he asked if he could go back to the surface. The rats looked at each other as if they wanted to tell him something uncomfortable. Dr. Mauso Mousinsky, the mouse doctor, told him, "Uhm, Francoch, we're sorry to say this, but there's nothing up there anymore. Sorry for not telling you earlier." Francoch was shocked, "WHAT?! WHAT HAPPENED?!" Dr. Mauso Mousinsky continued, "Well, you see when we knocked you out and brought you here, we did it to save you... Humans have been going crazy with war lately. Specifically the USA and Russia. The president of the USA told in a public press conference that he banged the Russian leader's mom and that he enjoyed that ass. The Russian leader didn't take it well. Our last recording of the Russian leader heard him saying "Rush B Cyka Blyat" and a nuke was dropped on New York. The only reason that you are alive is because of our extremely advanced technology and security defense. Sorry dude." Francoch said, "Oh rats!" as he realized that the only friends he had left were the super-intelligent rats and mice living underground. He may have loved rodents, but this was not the kind of rat society he had in mind. In the end, Francoch said the following: "Well, at least I can make pizza."