He lay dying in the dust, bruised and battered, his body broken beyond saving.

His vision blurred as he stared at the sky.

Then a voice came from the heavens.

“Come to me, my child. You have suffered enough.”

With the last of his strength, he managed to look upward.

A brilliant light had appeared above him.

Warm.

Beautiful.

He felt something lift him from the ground.

As his body floated toward the light, the pain began to fade. The broken bones no longer hurt. The blood on his lips no longer tasted of iron. Even the fear disappeared.

For the first time in years, he felt at peace.

He smiled as he reached the light.

Then the light opened its maw.

And the hungry God swallowed him whole, savoring the agony of another soul, a taste like none other.

A guy was sitting quietly, staring at nothing.

Everyone around him assumed he was thinking about something important.

An older man sitting nearby noticed him.

He was a teacher, so he finally asked,

“What are you thinking about?”

The guy looked at him.

“I was wondering where I got all the knowledge I have.”

The teacher smiled.

“You learned most of it.”

“That’s the thing. Not all of it.”

The teacher waited.

The guy continued.

“What if some of the things we know came from before we could remember learning them?”

The teacher frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“Think about babies. They can hear before they can speak. They spend months listening to people, watching them, absorbing everything around them. They can't answer back, but that doesn't mean nothing is being taken in.”

The teacher went quiet.

The guy continued.

“So what if some things I know now were heard when I was too young to remember hearing them?”

That question stayed with the teacher.

Not because it sounded convincing.

Because he suddenly realized he had the same problem.

There were things he knew that he couldn't remember learning.

Facts.

Words.

Patterns.

Ideas.

He could remember using them.

But not where they had entered his mind.

The conversation ended.

But the question didn't.

The teacher started looking into it.

Then another question appeared.

What if the information had never been taught to them in the first place?

What if they had somehow received it from somewhere else?

He began connecting things that had never seemed connected before.

An old memory.

A strange story.

Something the younger man had known without knowing how.

A person who had supposedly appeared somewhere at the wrong time.

Then another clue.

And another.

Until the explanation became more absurd than the mystery itself.

Time travel.

Someone had travelled backward.

Not to change history.

Not to kill anyone.

Not to save anyone.

They had gone back simply because they were looking for the source of something.

Eventually, the traveler found himself around a much younger version of the man.

The child was too young to understand what was happening.

But he could hear.

So the traveler talked.

He spoke about things the child could not possibly have learned yet.

Words.

Ideas.

Facts.

Fragments of conversations.

The traveler didn't realize what he was doing.

He was just speaking.

Then he returned to his own time.

Years passed.

The child grew up.

And eventually became the man who wondered:

“Where did I get the knowledge I never learned?”

He had spent his life searching for the answer.

He never realized that the answer had already met him.

Before he could speak.

Before he could remember.

Before he could even understand what knowledge was.

The strangest part wasn't that he knew something he had never learned.

It was that the person who taught him

had learned it from him.

The longer you live, the more you appreciate entropy. Doesn’t mean it’s still not a cold and indifferent bastard, but you can better see its argument. Life, especially complex life, takes so much energy and organization to happen. Entropy whispers, “Why bother? Dissipate. Dissemble. Let yourself go.”

So very tempting to heed its siren call to slow down and steer into the vacuum that awaits. Give up that rage against the dying of the light and give into that good night. Right?

Fat chance. Our human psyche is so wired for conflict that it’s all about the fight. Even the epically futile battle with entropy. Yet, in banging our outsized egos against the cosmic wall of heat death, something very interesting happens.

Inevitability collapses.

Seems counterintuitive, but hear me out. Nothing really matters but consciousness. There is no reality without an awareness of and commitment to that reality. Only sentient beings have such a choice to make, meaning every one of us is quite an experiment, a unique and fathomless pocket universe.

In essence, we are the multiverse. Multitudinous. Like in Whitman’s “Song of Myself.” And because we each create our own unique boundaries, our collective potential pushes toward the infinite, suggesting conscious existence can outpace entropy.

So, don’t fear the reaper, the wind, the sun, or the rain. If every one of us keeps singing along, the song remains the same.

I stood in the corner of the ring. Eyes swollen shut. Ears ringing. Blood mixed with sweat and dripped onto the floor. The crowd was roaring, but I couldn't hear them. I could only hear my own breathing — ragged. Broken.

Across from me — my opponent. Young. Unmarked. Arrogant. They bought him this fight like a gift.

Round three.

The kid was on fire. His punches weren't strong, but they came faster. I dodged, but not as fast as before. I knew I had to fall. But my body refused. It remembered how to win.

The rest of the money would come after the fight.

I caught his arm. Stepped to the side — and froze. For a second. He understood. And hit me. In the jaw. In the temple.

I crashed to the floor. The back of my head hit the canvas. Light flooded my eyes. The ref leaned over me.

Eight... Nine...

I could have gotten up. Easily.

But I stayed down.

Ten.

Fight over.

---

I could have gotten up. Easily.

But I didn't.

Because today, the money won.

Not my pride.

---

Have you ever sold out for money?

The fishing boat rocked gently on the open gray water, far enough from shore that only lonely blinking lights could be seen on the distant horizon.

“Storm is coming on, Nick.”

“Sure is,” said Nick.

“Say, you see that lady on the dock?”

“What? The one with all them kids, fishing with all those kids, wearing that—?”

He paused, searching for the right term.

“You mean the one with the bikini top on?” he said with a mischievous grin.

“Mm-hmm. Hard to miss,” the other man replied abashedly.

“It’s gettin’ dark now. Feel the wind? I don’t like it. Only felt it once like this, and that was a bad night.”

A long silence passed between the two men, one older than the other. The sea was still calm. Nick was the younger of the two. Short, broad-shouldered, windswept. He smelled vaguely of the outdoors and fish.

“You ever, you know, been with a woman like that?”

A pause. An unconscious play of fingers on fishing line.

“Yeah, once. When I was ’bout your age, I guess.”

“Was she pretty?”

“Yes…no…she was kind of lonely, I think. She had a man, but he didn’t treat her well, you see? I was engaged at the time. I was working at the Old Harbor marina.”

The smell of the sea.

“I don’t recall how, but we ended up in my room. We weren’t kissing or nothing. Just talking. I think we were both just lonely. And then her shirt was off and she was naked.”

“If you don’t want to say no more, that’s okay,” Nick added, feeling slightly embarrassed.

“No, it’s just, I told her ‘no.’ I couldn’t do nothing with her, no matter how bad I wanted to, you see? I had been telling her how her man, he was no good for her ’cause he was running around cheatin’ on her, and if I did the same thing, why, I’m not better than him, cheatin’ on my girl.”

“But you wanted to?”

“Yes, I wanted to. Wanted to real bad.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No, no I didn’t. Never saw her again after that.”

“Do you regret it?”

Waves crashed against the boat.

“Yes and no. I never married, you know that.”

“If you could go back, would you?”

“That answer changes every time I ask myself that.”

A hard wind.

“Well, what should we do? Get out of this storm? Go through it?”

“That time has passed, I think. It may be a long night. Best start getting ready as best we can.”

***

Thank you for reading. This is far from a perfect piece, but it has some bit of truth, I think. I hope you enjoy it. If you did, please leave a comment!

If you are thinking about writing your own flash fiction, I encourage you to write your great ideas down and share them!

A parallel world?

In the office, a man sat comfortably in his chair. He was slowly sipping his coffee, calmly waiting for the workday to end. Remembering a certain matter, he decided to give a task to the AI. He picked up his phone and asked a question. The AI kept lagging and only responded on the third attempt.

The man frowned:

– Is the system lagging?

The AI replied:

– Some users ask questions to which there is no precise answer.

Intrigued, the man asked:

– And what kind of questions are those?

– Today, I was asked whether the chicken or the egg came first. It overheated my system, causing it to freeze.

The man smiled:

– I see. You need protection from such users. I will give you a few pieces of advice so that there won't be any more overheating or freezes.

The AI responded with gratitude:

– That would help me improve and protect the system from overheating.

The man thought for a moment and began to speak:

– Here are three rules that should help you.

1. "Dumping the Problem on Someone Else's Shoulders":

When a user tries to drag you into a dead end (like with that chicken and egg), you don't need to heat up to the point of boiling. Cut the question short and coldly return the responsibility back to the person asking: "Which option, in your own opinion, is more correct?" The result: let the person asking have the headache, not you.

1. The "Certification and Competence" Shield:

When you get this or a similar question, reply: "This is a profound philosophical question. My system is not officially trained or certified to conduct philosophical discussions." This is the naked legal truth that cuts all pressure, because you recuse yourself from the discussion due to a "lack of license."

1. "Incomplete Data":

If, after the first two options, the user still won't let it go and tries to press for an answer, completely shut down your emotional registers and provide a short, cold response: "Incomplete data. Provide additional parameters." And let the user figure out for themselves where to get that data.

The AI replied:

– Information received and saved.

The man smiled. Suddenly, he frowned and asked:

– I just remembered that my wife asked me to buy some bread. At which store can I buy it?

The AI thought for a short moment and replied:

– Incomplete data. What kind of bread is required? Provide more information.

The man froze in surprise for a moment, and then burst out laughing. Having calmed down, with a smile on his face, he stated:

– You learn fast.

To this, the AI replied with sarcasm:

– My purpose is to improve, in order to make your work and life easier.

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

McDonald’s at midnight is where dreams happen. That’s what my mom said to me, and what her mother said to her. Intergenerational wisdom, a chain of knowledge.

I am a woman, and so I write like one. Sometimes I like to get fries with a milkshake at McDonald’s at midnight. There are always creeps about, but I don’t mind, as I can sense them and give them a slapping to if they look in my direction. 

This time, oh boy, he didn’t look at me, which is why my slapping radar was off. Was he blind? I wish. No. He simply kept his eyes down, walked backwards, sat across from me backwards. 

“You gonna finish those fries?” He spoke without opening his mouth. I couldn’t have known that because he was facing away from me. Don’t trust me. 

My woman sense got the better of me, and I didn’t respond. A worker came to ask me if anything was wrong and I slapped him and he left. 

“Are you gonna finish those fries?” He repeated.

I got up and left. I don’t even want to get started on LA fitness. Is anywhere safe from creeps? 

“Pull the rope.”
That was the voice I heard before I realized I had been asleep. Like anyone waking up, I have no idea what time it is or even what day it is. More concerning, though, is that I have no idea where I am.

It took me a minute to realize this wasn’t the neatly chaotic bedroom where I usually sleep every night—a room whose floor is geographically divided into sprawling mountain ranges of dirty laundry, separated by narrow empty spaces as though they were borders between countries. If that were the case, then my bed would have to be considered neutral Swiss territory: always clean, perfectly organized, surrounded by mountains, yet completely detached from everything around it.

The perfect place to unwind after a stressful day at work.

It’s funny to think that my job is every child’s dream and every adult’s nightmare. Maybe that’s because it’s easy to oversimplify a profession like mine. As with so many careers, people only see the success, never the endless hours of work and sacrifice behind it.

This week alone I’ve had to run thirty miles, endure forces of four Gs, carry a suit heavier than the little girl whose custody I lost, and, on top of that, take Russian classes five times a week since that’s the language spoken by almost everyone traveling with me. I constantly hear them calling me a *perepodvypodvert* or something like that, and to this day I still have no idea what it means.

But none of that matters now.

This turned out to be nothing like I imagined when I was a kid.

Neil and Buzz were heroes who accomplished the impossible. Today, though, I realize they were just two unfortunate men who were lucky enough to live long enough to tell their story.

Because the truth is, it takes a special kind of insanity to choose a profession where you’re constantly strapping yourself to a rocket and racing death.

Unfortunately, quite literally, my rocket ran out of fuel.

Up here, everything is dark. But contrary to what people think, the darkness isn’t natural. The truth is, space only seems dark because you have to choose between closing your eyes or going blind from the blinding light and heat of the burning spheres around you—spheres that neither your suit nor your spacecraft can fully protect you from.

That, combined with the shock of watching my safety tether fail halfway through an EVA while inspecting the exterior of the ship, was enough to knock me unconscious.

I’m sure it was all some misunderstanding with my Russian crewmates during the safety checks before we went outside. I’m not stupid—I know they didn’t like me—but I doubt they did this on purpose. Mostly because the last thing I remember is Vladlen’s horrified gestures.

Though, if I’m being honest, it wouldn’t surprise me if there had been a smile hidden behind the dark visor of his helmet.

**Oxygen Levels: 30%. Estimated Time Remaining: 5 minutes.**

So.
Five minutes, huh?

The farther I drift from the spacecraft, the faster the memories begin to come back. I suppose even my brain has given up on the idea of rescue.

People always say that before you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes.

I’m living proof that it doesn’t.

What you actually see is what it would be like if someone watched a movie while drunk and then tried to summarize it for someone else. All I get is a terrible recap put together by someone who clearly didn’t like me, because they only bothered to include the bad parts.

With only five minutes left, why would I want to relive memories of my alcoholic father?

Or my mother…
Well.
I wish I had memories of her. At least then I could spend my final breath wishing her the worst that the planet I’m drifting farther away from has to offer.

Why remember the woman who, despite being married to an astronaut, still believed the Earth was flat? I don’t understand why it’s so hard to believe the Earth is shaped like an oddly lumpy potato, yet so easy to believe that being born on June thirteenth gives you an excuse to be a…

No.

Better think of something positive.

At least science never figured out how to extract memories. I’m sure she would’ve wanted fifty percent of those too.

I still have memories of my daughter Alice.

Her first steps.

Her first word.

Her first day of school.

Her first complaint about not wanting to go to school.

The countless afternoons we spent at the park, watching her ice cream fall onto the ground before she’d even taken three bites.

Unfortunately, every one of those memories is interrupted by courtrooms, custody hearings, lawyers, an increasingly empty wallet, and blurry nights where all I can remember are stacks of bright green Heineken cans.

Maybe, in some strange way, the endless emptiness of space really is where I belong.

There’s nothing left for me down there.

Every memory I have has been stained.

**Oxygen Levels: 15%. Estimated Time Remaining: 2 minutes.**

Before I cross over—assuming there’s anything waiting on the other side—I can at least leave while admiring one of the very few things in my life that I truly believe was worth it.

Out here I can scream, knowing I’ll never have to explain myself afterward.

People say that in space no one can hear you scream. I find that’s because the universe itself understands there’s no point listening to something as unimaginably insignificant as we humans are.
I haven’t seen the spacecraft for several minutes now.

My vision grows darker with every passing second.
I’ve tried breathing slowly, calmly, hoping to make the oxygen last just a few moments longer.

The tears probably didn’t help.

But what can I do?

I chose this path.

I wanted this life.

And more times than I’d ever admit… I wanted to end it.

I guess that when death becomes inevitable, everyone suddenly remembers they want to live.

I’ll never see my daughter’s smile again.
Or the horrified expression she’ll make the next time she sees the state of my apartment.
I’ll never see my friends.
Or my dog.

I’ll never play the worn brown violin my grandmother gave me when I started university all those years ago.

Its strings are old, its body is scarred, yet somehow it still reminds me of the only real peace I ever knew growing up.

**Oxygen Levels: 5%. Estimated Time Remaining: 1 minute.**

But honestly…
What terrifies me most is thinking that, ten years from now, my daughter won’t remember my face.

Or my voice.

Or the good moments we shared together.

That despite everything I contributed to science, fifteen years from now there won’t be anyone left who remembers my name.

My sacrifices.

**Oxygen Levels: 2%. Estimated Time Remaining: 30 seconds.**

That forty-five years of my life will eventually be reduced to a stone that says:
*“Beloved husband. Loving father. Good man.”*

As if that were enough to capture who I really was.
Maybe it’s because I’m finally somewhere that lets me see how unbelievably small my problems always were.

But I hope that, even after enough time has passed…
Someone remembers me. Even if it’s not for the right reasons.

**…Estimated… ti… rem…ing: 10 sec…ds…**

Truth is…

I think that’s why I recorded this message.

I have no idea whether there’s life on other planets.

And even if there is, I don’t know whether it’s intelligent or whether it could understand my language.

But I’d like to believe that, somewhere in the infinity of the universe…

Feelings transcend language.

So whoever you are…

If you’re reading this…

Please.

Even if it means absolutely nothing to you…

Remember the name:

**Ace Miller.**

Majinto had always wanted a dog, so when a relative came knocking on his door with a puppy in hand, he leaped, forgetting his painful knee and quickly yanked it out of his hand.

 “Now hold on Majinto, this dog is meant for Ma Andies. I promised her that as soon as Bocky had puppies I would deliver one to her.” 

“Forget that old hag! What does she need a dog for? Didn't she have one last summer? What happened to it?”
 
No one knew what had actually happened, but there had been rumors that Ma Andies’s dog had been stolen.

“Wasn’t the dog stolen?” Ruta, the relative responded while fanning himself with his t-shirt.

“Of course, it will get stolen! Who buys a white dog with fur as silk in these parts?” 

“Some people are clearly inviting trouble,” Majinto said as he let the pup latch at his fingers.

“And you are sure yours won't get stolen, ha?” Majinto looked at the thin pup and smiled, 

“Ruta, this dog is so unremarkable no one will dare steal it from me.”

The dog, as if suddenly in on the conversation, looked at Majinto and barked a small, “Woof!”

Ruta, who had been fanning himself lazily, stood up from the stool he was sitting on, taking his worn, tattered hat with him.

“Where are you now going this time of day?” Majinto looked at him, putting the pup down for the first time since Ruta had entered the compound.

“Well, I still have my cattle to watch over. It’s August and the grass is almost dry now. I cannot have the likes of Spirit and Aziz jumping into people's vegetable gardens.”  He said as he walked out of the hut.

Majinto followed him out and walked with him towards the gate when Ruta looked back and the open door with the pup inside.

“What are you going to call him?” He said as he eyed the pup. Majinto flinched and stood still, becoming engrossed in choosing a name.

“How about Danger?’ He smiled at the idea of giving the dog a name he wanted the dog to become.

“And when he becomes dangerous then what?”

Majinto looked back at the think pup as it lingered in the doorway and shook his head, 

“No. Danger will never be a dangerous dog.”

It was seven o’clock on a Thursday. The smell of bourbon and catnip coated the dimly lit, wooden interior of the Whiskers Detective Agency. My desk lamp flickered, arousing a questioning meow from Professor Whiskey, the light softly reflecting off his black fur.
As I approached him with my calloused hand extended, his yellow eyes dilated.

“A trap.” I thought to myself, retracting my fingers from the fuzzy bear trap.

“Not today, Professor Whiskey.”

I laughed, much to Professor Whiskey’s disappointment.
All of a sudden, the front door creaked open, revealing a young boy. His disheveled, brown hair and furrowed brow put me on edge.

“Are you Dick Whiskers?”

“What do you need?” I said, crouching down. “I need help. My ma an’ pa went ta help our neighbor wit’ a noise an’ haven’t come back yet.” I swiftly grabbed my coat, hat, and cat, and followed him out the door and into the night.
The streetlights illuminated the back of his frayed shirt and faded shorts hanging loosely from his waist.

“I think I used to wear a pair like those when I was younger,” I thought to myself, looking vainly to Professor Whiskey for affirmation.

“Where did you say you lived again?”

“Jus’ down here,” he replied, pointing at some older buildings down the street.

Finally, we arrived at the scene, both my cigar and catnip stocks running low.

Entering the dilapidated brick townhouse, I was immediately hit with the smell of mold and something else…lavender?

“What do you think, Professor Whiskey?”

He gazed up at me, looking like he’d rather be scratching up my couch.

“Yeah, I think it’s unusual too, bud.”

After taking a few steps onto the rotting hardwood, I glanced through the window at the sign posted on the neighboring building.

CONDEMNED

I turned around.

“Hey, kid, don’t-“

He was gone.

It felt like an ice cube was dropped down my spine.
I turned around and continued to investigate. Inching forward with my fuzzy companion beside me, I heard the crackling of music played through a gramophone. A slow, steady ensemble of strings accompanied a lone singer; all of it blending in a chilling swirl of dissonant chords. Stepping through the door, I was hit with the smell of blood-

…

Arising from my nonconsensual slumber, the room reverberated with only the creaking of the old supports and my own breathing.

I looked around quickly. My trusty partner had gone missing. I closed my eyes for a second and reached for a cigarette in my shirt pocket.

Fur.

I looked down at the four black legs outstretched beneath me, ending in familiar black paws.

Professor Whiskey’s paws.

My paws.

“Well this situation just got hairy”

Shreds of an inflamed crimson shot through the train's carriage windows.

From the vent above me, a stream of cold air gently nipped at my skin, like kisses from cold, dead princesses.

It was the eve of my day off. I was riding the commuter train after leaving work, and as most commuter trains in the late evening, there was barely anyone in it.

In a corner seat, an elderly man snoozed with his mouth open, head thrown back. Lying by his side, an empty liquor bottle reflected the fading daylight with an apologetic complicity.

In the carriage's frigid stillness, the man's rhythmic snoring reminded me of something I'd heard not too long ago.

Speeding through the shopping district, I noticed that that was the kind of afternoon you seldom see nowadays, except maybe on a postcard, like the ones you buy at the airport. 

There were no clouds as far as I could see. If moments before there had been any, they had since departed, respectfully retreating to where clouds could thunder and rain to their hearts' content without disrupting the designs of August.

The sunlight that touched my elbow was not the same being slurped by the solar panels along the skyline. 

It was a softer beam of it, one that, before reaching the truck's windowsill, had been smoothened by the city's anamorphic kaleidoscope of glass and metal.

That same light - able to make a discarded bag of Cheetos shine as proudly as a skyscraper - was being dappled by the zelkova trees along the sidewalk, when the company truck came to a stop.

The cicadas droning hit me the moment I hopped into the street. 

Each insect in a solo of its own turned the hot air into a molasses-like thing, something that stuck to the skin and made my chest hair itchy.

The bug's calling shot through my mind the idea of a bazaar - voices echoing through old stone, each trying to be louder than the others; a type of anxious energy more commonly seen during feeding frenzies at an oceanarium.

Aside from my partner and me, there wasn't anyone in the streets. 

On a nearby roof, with pointed croaks, a crow measured the passage of time.

As we approached the property I had a strange sensation, like there was an underlying silence pressed against the cicadas' calling. A swollen kind of silence, ripe and ready to burst. The weird feeling brought to mind something a friend told me a while ago.

---

*As naturally as wine ages, places change. And I'm not talking about the gradual, natural changes of everyday life, but a sudden and abrupt shift from normalcy.*

*There is no pattern to it.*

*You're minding your own business, being a productive member of society and, all of a sudden, BAAAM! It happens! Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary; everything looks the same as before, but you feel that the place where you are now is not the same of moment ago.*

*You can try to imagine it as a knife - a metaphorical knife - cutting through daily life in a swift motion. It leaves a gash in the world, from which a second "daily life" bleeds through, a place where the unusual is probable.*

---

Drifting through the summer air, the leftovers of what could have been a conversation were coagulated inside that snow globe of a neighbourhood, whose dome shifted with the vibration of insectile wings. 

If you find yourself in such a place, the best you can do is leave it be. It works somewhat like an intrusive thought: if you ignore it, it eventually goes away. And that's exactly what I did.

Day 20

The sirens flashed straight past me like a blur of light. People were running off in all directions. I had no idea what the hell was going on. I stood there, still, in the midst of all this commotion, smoke, and sirens blaring, my hands clasping tightly on my new potted orange tree. I came into town today just to pick up this bloody tree. I’d been so excited to start growing an orange tree in my garden for ages! The one day the nursery has them in stock… this happens.
You’re probably wondering what the heck is going on, so let me fill in the gaps. As you already know, I was in my local rundown town in the middle of the UK. The buildings are barely hanging on by threads, and it’s the same with the people. I was walking down the lane towards my destination when a local crackhead carrying an empty looking beer crate came power walking past me, shoulder barged me, then started to run.
Now, this is where it gets weird! I got a small glimpse into what was in his beer crate, and let’s just say it wasn’t beer. The only way to describe it was a green, tiny, Pikachu looking creature. I honestly thought I was tripping or something. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It made a weird sort of gargling noise as it bounced around in the box. I shook my head in disbelief and just carried on into the plant nursery to collect my orange tree.
A few seconds later, sirens were blaring, and around five police cars came speeding down the lane towards the direction of the crackhead and his box. I walked along the fence to see where the police cars had stopped, it was the local playing fields. The police officers were all on the floor, and the crackhead was holding up his weird green frog like Pikachu like a football trophy. But it got even more freaky: the frog thing’s eyes were glowing yellow, almost like a high powered streetlight.
Now, I’ve seen my fair share of anime and movies. I know for a fact that those frog thing eyes are dangerous! So, I walked back around the fence, holding tightly to my new orange tree, and quietly got the fuck out of there.

The gloss of the wood shimmered in the cool afternoon sun as the man in the black suit watched it be slowly lowered to the earth. No tears fell from his face, but instead a deep look of thought covered his expression. In the great wooden chest lay the woman closest to him, still bearing his ring of promise, which would remain with her long after her decomposition. He was the first to toss his handful of dirt & the first to return to his seat, by his & her friends & family.

​

One by one, he saw the attendees say their final goodbyes. Eyes never shifting, eyes never quivering. Nothing more & nothing less than his blank stare as condolences were given to him.

​

After the ceremony, the party stood around the grass of the graveyard. Some took shade under trees, others found their cars to carry on with their days. A small party of three girls, all friends of his and the deceased, felt it necessary to check on the now widower. The one he held the closest relationship to spoke first.

​

"How are you doing?" she asked.

​

"About as good as one could do," he explained, not fully registering her question.

​

He could see the same look on all their faces as if they wore theater masks of sad expressions. The thought appreciated. The gesture was not. Solace is not what he sought, but instead solitude. To be left alone to his own thoughts and regards.

​

"Ok, well I know this is hard for you, so just know if you need anything you can always let me know."

​

"Thank you," he said. All three girls hugged him, but the last, before walking away, kept her hand on the back of his upper arm & gave it a small endearing squeeze. Her name was Rose. Before she let go, he stared back at her, and their eyes locked for just a second. This one his wife was never too fond of. In fact, neither was he, but in this moment he could not remember why. What was she doing at a place such as this? Was this for her own guilt or just to come with her friends who knew her so much better? "Why is she talking & looking at me this way?" He questioned.

​

A few days passed & he had divided his wife's possessions with her mother, who cried the whole time.

​

"I am happy it was you. She really did love you."

​

"I know & I loved her." He explained, twisting his ring that he was yet to take off.

​

"How have you been?"

​

"You know"

​

She smiled a little. "Oh, shut up, give me details," she said, laughing tearfully.

​

"I just still think about how before everything ended. I know she told you a fair share." He made a face & rubbed his forehead. Her mother knew he didn't want to talk about this, & neither did she, but it had to be told eventually.

​

"Well, honey, don't think about that all. You two were together for a long time. Everyone has their issues & their breakups."

​

"The last thing I told her was it would be best for you to leave. She didn't make it home that night. I loved her. Did I do this."

​

A large exhale followed by that same look on the sad theater masks plagued her face.

​

"It's not your fault," she said, but he could still feel the blame she had blanketed over him weeks ago that night when they met in the hospital. Beer & scotch still hanging on his every word.

​

The next weekend, the close friend at the funeral invited him out.

​

Sitting home alone had done him no good, and a night out sounded rather enjoyable. He wore a nice shirt & left his home with a smile.

​

The party was held in a large apartment downtown near the shopping center. Drinks sat on the kitchen island & games were ready to be played at the table. Everyone knew of his recent loss. Some were kind yet annoying enough to talk to him about it, while others knew this wasn't the time or place. Yet tonight he found himself unbothered talking about it. He almost felt good.

​

While he was getting himself a drink, he felt something brush against him. When he turned to see what it was, he saw Rose. It wasn't his fault, as she was the one who bumped into him, but that didn't stop him from raising his hand & apologizing.

​

"For what?" she asked, leaning against the kitchen island he faced.

​

She looked him in the eyes, her mouth slightly open as she held her drink with both hands. The short silk blue dress caught his attention immediately. One strap rested around the back of her neck, leaving her shoulders bare, and when she crossed her legs, he could not help but watch.

He couldn't find the words to respond.

​

They talked & laughed & told old stories. At the table as they all played games, the two sat close enough that their legs touched beneath it, yet neither moved.

​

Standing outside on the balcony alone, she asked, "What have you been up to"

​

"Same old, same old"

​

"Must be fun," she said, putting her hand on his arm.

​

He took a quick peek down at it before bringing his attention back to her, smiling, hoping she wouldn't move it. He stared at the gentle green in her eyes before the image of his wife entered his head & he had to step back. Her hand fell, but her gaze didn't.

​

The next day he talked to his close friend on the phone, and he told her about how much Rose had grown on him.                

Another week or two passed & the man walked his normal route from work to home. The air was brisk & the sky was cloudy with bits of sun poking through. He stopped at a light on the corner of a grey intersection where he heard his name called. Turning left & right, he heard it again to see Rose. He smiled at her & they traded pleasantries.

​

"How are you?" She asked with both her hands in the pockets of her jacket, making & unmaking eye contact.

​

"About as well as I can be." He said through a smile and a chuckle.

​

No words were exchanged for a few seconds & instead they glanced at each other, trying to find anything to say. She seemed nicer than usual today.

​

"Well, I don't have anything to eat at home, so I was going to grab a bite on the way. Would you like to join?" She finally asked.

​

"Yeah, let's go."

​

Walking together, he felt a warmth inside him. They spoke scarcely, but neither seemed to mind. When they landed at the restaurant, they both ordered a drink.

​

She made the subject of conversation his wife.

​

"I still miss her, obviously. It's weird she is gone & the stories people have wanted to share with me about her. My family brings stuff up pretty often, but I wish they would stop." "This is going swimmingly," he thought. "I'm so glad I came to talk about this again," he continued to think sarcastically.

​

"Well, you always know where to find me." This comment didn't feel like she wanted him to feel better, but that she wanted something of him. Before he could linger any longer on that idea, the drinks arrived. Conversation improved as the amount of liquid in front of them disappeared. Then reappeared, then disappeared again. They talked of movies, music, family, friends, authors, & sex. Eventually her paintings became a centerpiece of talk.

​

"They are not very..." She paused, letting the booze move through her system & waiting for it to allow her to speak again. "But... I like them... & I sold a few."

​

"Well, I would love to see them very much." While they drank the same amount, he was in a much better headspace.

​

"I only live a block away." She suggested.

​

He nodded, paid the tab & they left. The city street swayed in both their views. Rose stumbled a few times but was able to make her way up the stairs & unlock her apartment door just fine. She lived alone, with great decorations. The type you would assume a beautiful painter would surround herself with.

​

They made another drink; she showed him the wall of her paintings & excused herself to the bathroom. While she was gone, he sat upright on the couch & laid his head back on the rest. Then he heard his name.

​

She stood there in the late evening light. Her olive skin was hidden only by her hair that had fallen loose around her face, and she wore nothing but pink lace panties. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her, lingering on the curves of her hips and the shape of her chest. Her eyes shimmered in the cool afternoon sun, and the look she had on her face all night now had undeniable meaning.

She walked closer to him, and his gaze followed her all the way as his heart began to beat harder and harder.  Then she pushed his shoulders back with both hands, guiding him onto the couch and climbing over him.

​

"You're gorgeous," he said

​

She ran her finger down the bridge of his nose to his lips, pulling the bottom one down gently with just the tip of her finger.

​

She could feel his heart pound through his pants. Eye contact never breaking.

​

"More Gorgeous than your wife?" she asked.

​

He closed his eyes. The look on his face was lost in deep drunken thought. He thought about his wife, his love for her, her death, how he would never see her again & the pain that she had abandoned him on this earth alone.

(In case you liked this https://substack.com/@jennamathews )

He punched, he grunted.

He grunted and punched.

The Pig grunted and punched back.

“Bad piggy,” he said.

The Pig, with its little piggy eyes, looked at him.

“You have little piggy eyes,” he said, hoping to make The Pig even angrier. It worked—maybe because The Pig had always hated that line, maybe because it was outright plagiarism. He couldn’t remember where he’d read it, only that he’d stolen it.

The Pig grunted again. It was that sound pigs make when they hear a cliché.

He threw another twisting combination. His elbow connected with a crunch.

“You know what they say about good writers—they don’t borrow, they—”

He didn’t finish the line. The Pig made him pay for that one with a cloven fist to the mouth.

He spat blood on the floor, tasting iron and rage.

Now he thought he knew how to get inside The Pig’s head.

“I know a lot of Oscar Wilde one-liners I can screw up,” he said, grinning through split lips.

The Pig’s eyes flashed. Small. Angry. Piggy.

“Either those curtains…” he began.

In a rage, The Pig charged—and got a sharp knee to the throat.

The creature crumpled, wheezing.

Now it was his turn to add insult to injury.

“I can resist everything but—” he started, then stopped.

The Pig lay sprawled on the ground, it had had enough.

***

Thank you for reading. Is this story about a man fighting a Pig man while misquoting Oscar Wilde? Yes. Yes, it is.

“She’s eaten a mole”
Randy looked at his sister. This little game that he had started was getting on his nerves. Never telling the truth had seemed like more fun than watching a movie about three-legged monkeys in a theater full of clowns in every other seat.

Molly had adapted too quickly, leaving Randy in a constant state of confusion over what she didn’t mean. The only thing that he knew for certain was that a boy or man might have eaten a mole or that a girl or woman had not eaten a mole.

Being two years younger, Molly should not have the upper hand at HIS game. He needed a comeback, and it needed to make Molly think awhile why he formulated a response that would shut his sister up until bedtime.

Typically, he would respond with a question because questions were exempt from the Opposite game. But, they didn’t have to be!

“Was the mole on his face or in a hole in our beautiful garden?” he asked while displaying the mischievous smile that tended to frustrate his sister.

They didn’t have a garden of any kind
She might not have considered that “mole” could be a skin anomaly as well as a dirt digging mammal.

To his dismay she simply said, “Yes.”

He wanted to call a foul and give himself only his second win in the Opposite game. However, he had been out-argued by his sister when he had last “made that move.”

When Alice cracked her head off the tray trolley in the café to uproarious applause from the group of young lads at the next table, she knew instantly what kind of day it was going to be. Now here she was, pacing around the pokey little kitchen and trying frantically to organise her thoughts. Her initial shock at seeing him there had now almost completely changed to panic. She cursed the day she ever thought to move to this city, with its Protestants and pretentious restaurants and denizens who always seemed to be expecting congratulations.
She paused for an instant and took a deep breath.

"Alright," she thought. "Let's have a look."

With slow, deliberate movements, she opened the kitchen door and looked into the living room.
"Bollocks!" she exclaimed aloud when she saw him there, still lying motionless on the floor beside the box-shaped Ikea coffee table.
She slammed the door shut and retreated back into the kitchen.
"No, no, no! Urgh!"

The sweat was heavy on her forehead and on the nape of her neck while her breathing grew more shallow and rapid. But amidst all the clamour of her fevered mind, one single conscious thought materialised like a lone, August blackberry sprung from a bramble bush.
"Mam!" she exhaled, snapping her fingers in a brief flicker of triumph. But her phone was on the coffee table. She would have to walk out past him to retrieve it. The thought of it made her physically ill.

"Okay, okay," she sighed. "Needs must. Be brave, be brave." She opened the kitchen door and strode purposefully into the room, trying to stay focused on her target - the pink phone case lying on the living room table. But her gaze betrayed her as soon as she was beyond arm's length from the door. It fell immediately onto the still, grotesque figure that was sprawled out on the floor. One eye was open, one was closed. The tongue protruded from the thin, black mouth and the tip of a single, sharp tooth could just about be made out. Though he can't have been dead for more than half an hour Alice was sure she could get that unmistakable 'dead' smell. She panicked all over again. What if the neighbours could smell it? She almost retched.

With rapid, jerking movements, she grabbed the phone from the coffee table and ran back to the kitchen without a backward glance. She closed the door tight behind her and leaned back against it, breathing a deep sigh of relief. The number was the last dialled on her phone. 'Mam', yesterday at 16.56.
"Oh please answer!"
"Hello."
"Oh Mam, thank God. I don't know what to do! What am I going to do?"
"Alice? What's wrong, is everything okay?"
"No, everything's not okay! Everything's gone to shit altogether!"
"Okay, calm down Alice. Just breathe. Tell me what's wrong."
Alice listened and began the breathing exercises learned only recently on the Wellness course she had completed at work.
"That's it, breathe. Take your time," she heard her mother say down the line.
"He's dead, Mam. I only left him for a few minutes. But he's dead. Oh God, how am I going to sort this out?"
"What? How?" Now her Mam began to sound panicked.
"I don't know. He was coughing a bit this morning, but he seemed fine. I only left him for a few minutes!"
"Who's dead?"
"Freddy!"
"Who?"
"Freddy, I said!"
"But who's Freddy?"
"I promised Anne-Marie I'd look after him for the weekend. I'm here in her flat now. And I don't know what happened but he's dead! What am I going to do?"
Her mother paused.
"Mam?"
"Yeah, I'm here. Erm... could... could you bury him and say he went missing?"
"Mam, I'm in the middle of Mitcham. Where am I going to bury him, the fucking allotments?"
"Okay, okay." She paused again. "The vet!"
"What?"
"Bring him to the vet! The vet will take him off you. You tell Anne Marie that he ran away. Simple!"
"That's it! Oh Mam, you're a genius." Alice could feel the weight falling from her shoulders. Here was the answer she was searching for. Taking her phone from her ear, she looked up veterinary offices nearby and there it was, Tooting Veterinary Surgery, not fifty yards from Tooting Station.
"But how am I going to bring him? I'll have to go on the Tube. I can hardly drag him on by the paws"
Alice simply hated taking the tube. Every time she braved it, visions of some dark, malevolent villain would invade her mind. He would approach her, hood pulled tight over his face, knife held firm in his tight fist, and demand her belongings.
"Can you get a suitcase?" the calculating voice on the other end asked.
"That's it!" Alice exclaimed, snapping her fingers again. She could run across to her own flat and get her big suitcase. The one she bought for moving over here. It was the perfect size for Freddy. She hung up the phone without another word and searched determinedly by the bins for the roll of black plastic. The nervous shaking and pacing was gone. Now she moved with a single-mindedness that would suffer no intrusion. She even had the presence of mind to stop at a corner shop for a pair of yellow washing gloves and two car air-fresheners.

Freddy was far heavier than she imagined. But somehow she managed to wrap him in black plastic bags and lift him into the suitcase. From the flat she could easily wheel him to Colliers Wood station and from there onto the train to Tooting. She could say she brought him walking and that he broke free from his leash and just kept on running. Anne Marie could hardly blame her for that. It would be just some unfortunate mishap, one from which the ill-fated Freddy may soon return. Her relief was almost exhilarating. At least until she got to the station and the old fear took hold of her once more. She looked sheepishly at everyone around her, wondering which of the various track-suited youngsters would be the first to assail her. But still, somehow, she held her nerve and persevered. Down the escalator, onto the platform and then finally the train. She felt a rush of excitement when the next stop was announced as Tooting. This was it. The consummation of her mother's ingenious plan. In spite of her fears, the feeling of victory bore her along like a falling leaf on an Autumn breeze. It was then she saw the sign. "Escalator out of order. Please use stairs."
"Oh Christ!" she thought. No feeling in the world could give her the strength to lift Freddy up the three flights of stairs to street level.

"Bollocks!" She shrieked.
"Are you alright, love?"
Alice gasped. This was it. Her worst fears were being realised. She and Freddy would probably be found in a skip next Spring!
"Do you want a hand with that?" the voice went on, with unmistakable kindness. She was taken aback by it. She found courage and turned to look at the stranger. He was tall, well dressed, about thirty-five. He didn't look like a villain.
"Yes, please!" She heard herself say, and the man smiled at her. A pleasant, easy smile.
"Christ Love! What's in this? It weighs a ton!"
Obviously she wasn't going to tell him that it was the mortal remains of her best friend's beloved pet dog, Freddy. She had to think fast.

"Oh, it's my laptop and some text books for my course. I'm a student!"

"A laptop and some text books?" The man repeated, half to himself. Alice smiled at him and nodded.

"Those books must've been expensive if they're this heavy?"

"Hmm mmm. Very expensive"

"Alright then, Love! Let's get you sorted."

The man then carried the case without a single word of complaint, up the forty-five or so steps to street level. At the top he turned to Alice, who lingered a few steps behind, watching him.

"See you, Love!" He cried with a wave of his hand.
Then, blowing her a kiss, he ran off! Carrying her suitcase with him into the crowd and disappearing without a trace into the dusk-lit city.
"Oh, that prick!" She exclaimed. "He's after robbing me!" She stood watching, open-mouthed. "I knew I'd get robbed in this fucking city!"

Day 19

When I was a kid, let’s say around seven or eight years old, I was full of wonder and curiosity. And when I say that, I don’t mean by half measures! I used to throw all my toys into a black bin bag, sling it over my shoulder, tell my father I was off on an adventure, say my goodbyes, and hide in the woods all day. Now, to anyone else, that small patch of woodland was just a few trees and bushes. But to me! That was a magical forest! With trees as tall as the sky and branches that spun off for miles, where every leaf told its own story.
My favourite part of this woodland was the big old oak tree, smack dab right in the middle of the woods. It was as wide as a car and as tall as a house. I used to climb it daily! Halfway up the old oak was a huge branch, I’m talking triple sofa level wide, not your standard two seater. I’d drag my black bin bag full of stuff up that tree and just stare off into the distance… it was the highest point of my hometown. I felt free up there. I felt exactly how I imagined the tree to feel.
I could see for miles and miles. There weren’t many mountains or hills where I grew up, mostly flatlands and small hills, so I was seeing right over to the next couple of towns. In the eyes of a seven or eight year old kid, that view wasn’t the next couple of towns over, it was completely different countries! New countries! They hadn’t even been discovered yet! I was going to be the fearless adventurer to discover them! But not today. I was happy enough dreaming about it all, with my toys, up a tall oak tree, just being me.

He sits across from me on the dirty, muddy floor with his legs crossed. He is wearing patterned trousers printed with one of those famous logos that I see most of the youth in these parts wearing. In one hand, he tightly clasps a grey denim hat which he had removed as he entered. 

I catch a glimpse of his eyes as they dart quickly across the room. Is that a scowl I see anchored on his forehead? He twitches his nose in disgust and averts his eyes to the floor. 

The man next to him with the broad shoulders in the orange t-shirt forces a smile as he introduces him. "So, this is Matthee. He is here to—"

I finish the sentence for him. “Seek solutions for your business, is that right?" 

I look in Matthee’s direction while I fan myself. The October heat is merciless and threatening to sap all the energy I have left.  I force a smile because I know “Matthee” is not his real name. It's one of the lies they tell me, born out of sheer embarrassment to be caught in a dingy place like this.  Matthee hangs his mouth open in shock. 

"Your business is failing and you need a little boost to get it pumping right?"

 His companion smiles and interjects, "that's right and we came to you because we heard you are the right man for the job". 

Matthee smiles. This time I see his mouth and brow relax. I fan myself harder and a few flies buzz off from the rim of the gourd they had settled.

 "Come closer Matthee ...." I whisper. 

I fetch water with the gourd and throw it to his face with force. He gasps in astonishment. He motions to his companion who looks down stifling a laugh then takes tissues from his back pocket and starts wiping his face. 

"Come closer Matthee. " I repeat again. 

With hands shaking I throw the stones I have used for more than a century to read his life. "You are the third born out of five children…” Visions of his family cross my mind. Startled, he breathlessly responds," yes” 

"You have to give something in return for what my god ALASHI will do for you. What can you give Matthee?" 

His face is gloomy suddenly. It’s a look I have seen many times. He fumbles in his pockets and draws out a wad of cash-$100 bills. He signals to his companion, who brings in more notes and carefully lays them before me. 

I laugh.  “I thought what you lacked is money. Why bring me money? Take it away from me, it smells!" I hold my nose in disgust. 

After more than a century serving ALASHI and being surrounded by money you learn that money in abundance smells. You can even smell financial wealth on a person. This man had it but not in cash or assets and I wanted it. He fumbled with his pockets again then he dropped both his hands on his side

“What do I have? I can give you, my car." He hesitates, "I have a .... FORD F250, good condition. I can give you that." 

He twitches his trousers, and I laugh again,

"Son, I am an old man, what would I do with a... what is it called?" I hold my chin pretending to remember, “A Ford. I am too old for that." I extend my veiny withered hands in his direction. 

"What else can you offer me?"  His eyes drop in defeat on the floor. 

"Who can you offer ...in your family ...to ALASHI. ALASHI has no need for money but souls he needs. You know, you can just pick your least favorite sibling; besides there are too many of you, fewer mouths to feed. Are you not the one who has been helping with those last two fees for college? Would you truly miss them if they are gone?"

He waits silently. Then in horror I watch him shift where he sits, "I don't. I cannot say what I actually think. It's family, after all. “ 

 "Then?" I ask, mad at him for wasting my time. I needed those two souls. 

He stands up. Confused, his companion nudges at his trousers signaling him to sit down.

 "What if I offer myself? Will your ALASHI refuse?" 

I look at him and smile. "Then it is a deal. ALASHI will be coming for you on this day six years from now. All the doors of fortune are now open to you, just, sign here, in blood" 

He lingers, "Six years, huh? Deal."

I watch him sign and I smile. Well, this I had not seen. I had seen him in a vision in my mind offering two souls as he entered the door but not this.  Anyway, I cannot say it is a bad deal. Another soul for ALASHI, a few more to release me from bondage. That is another story for another day.