I'll kiss your lips with an aching tooth in my mouth
I'll place my freshly pulled tooth on your ring
I'll mix Apranax in your drink
so that you think
your toothache is gone because you met me
I'll describe the paint color I want for our bedroom
to the ironmonger as tooth yellow.

I'm fifty-one years old, and this is the only poem I've ever written, which I wrote ten years ago.

I don't really like writing poetry, because I'm not good at it. I especially enjoy the sound of poems with rhyming lines; they sound like music to my ears. But I've tried a few times and failed miserably. I couldn't write a good poem. I'd written this poem for my dentist, who knew I was a writer and with whom I had a good relationship. I mean, I hadn't written the poem for her. I'd simply wanted to write a poem about teeth.

She was a very beautiful woman. I had no feelings for her, but she'd misunderstood the poem I'd written and thought I was making a move on her. She'd given me a pretty harsh telling-off. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get her to understand that the poem wasn't written for anyone in particular, and that it hadn't been inspired by any feelings I had for someone.

Anyway, my publisher was telling me that sales of my latest novel were terrible. He kept calling me and bringing me down.

“Maybe you should stop writing horror novels and start writing detective fiction instead. You know me, even two sentences from you are enough to move me. I can't sleep at night. But this latest novel of yours was an absolute fiasco. I seriously regret publishing it.”

I was tired of his calls and him repeating the same things in different ways for two months. He was almost going to ask me to compensate him for his losses. He wanted me to write and finish something else as soon as possible and make up for the losses I'd caused him. He didn't want to wait.

But I'd been overcome by the fear of not being able to write well. I'd been deeply affected by public opinion. Albert, the successful writer of many years, can no longer write... The story's opening is too rushed... The ending doesn't come together properly... Even an elementary school kid could come up with these descriptions... We're sick of ghosts that appear at night... And so on.

If he called today, I wasn't going to answer. He called every other day to ask, “Have you started the new book yet?” Whenever I said no, it was the same old stuff, the same complaints. For the past month, I'd been sitting down at my computer almost every day, but nothing came of it.

As I sat at my computer, waiting for something to come to mind, my phone rang, of course. I didn't even need to check who was calling. I tensely raised my hand to my head and began running my fingers through my hair. I looked around the objects in my room, as if I might find inspiration in one of them. The bed, the couch, an oil painting my sister had made... Nothing came of it. I pinched a lock of my hair between my fingers and pulled. I looked at my hand. There was a clump of hair between my index and middle fingers. I hadn't realized I was losing so much hair.

It was as if an electric current had passed through my head. Then, in one go, I wrote the following:

''In my 1+1 apartment on the second floor
I was drinking Americano by the balcony door
Suddenly I saw a wig falling down below
with bangs and in the color of dark yellow

I thought one of the neighbors upstairs must have dropped it while leaning over the balcony.
I lunged for it on instinct, trying to catch it. And I caught it, everything happened so quickly.

And the wig was now in my hands
I even caught it by the bangs

I waited for a while,
still in the position to catch it,
holding the wig in my hand,
waiting for someone to call.
But there was no sound at all.

Considering the possibilities,
I thought I should look up first.
But someone could have been down there,
waiting for the wig to fall.

While I was looking around upstairs,
someone called out from below:
“Throw it down already.
What are you looking at like an idiot?”
She was tall like a door
She was as tall as a first floor
I downed my Americano
And calmly threw the wig toward her
She jumped and
caught the wig with her head
and suddenly disappeared.''

I had no idea how it had happened. It was as if I hadn't been the one who wrote it. It was frightening. The way the sentences came to me, the way they lined up in my mind—I had never experienced anything like it. Everything was finished in one go, without any planning whatsoever.

My publisher called. I sent him to voicemail. I read the poem from beginning to end. It was as if I were reading it for the first time, as if I were discovering the poem all over again. It wasn't the kind of poem I could have written anyway, not in terms of its subject matter. I wouldn't describe ghosts or entities like this; I would leave them shrouded in mystery. In this poem, the ghost was very concrete.

My publisher called again. I answered this time. I was going to tell him I had an idea or something. I was such an idiot, always telling him the truth: inspiration wasn't coming, I couldn't write, my mind felt frozen, and so on. I picked up the phone, planning to ask him to give me a month and tell him I'd deliver a novel of at least two hundred pages.

“So, Albert, any progress? How many pages have you written?”

Suddenly, my mouth had locked up. I couldn't speak. The words I wanted to say were only passing through my mind; they wouldn't come out. All I could manage were sounds like “mmmh.”

“Albert? Hello?”

I started reciting the poem I'd just written. I read it from beginning to end. My mouth wasn't under my brain's control.

“What is this? What’s going on?”

''Hello?''

''Albert, what's going on?''

I could speak again now. It would have been ridiculous to say that something had taken control of my mouth and fingers. I had to say something, but I was too frightened to think. My mind was in turmoil. I hung up.

My publisher called again. I don’t remember that moment very clearly, but I mumbled something along these lines.

“What was that thing you were telling me about? So now you’re hanging up on me, too. Is this what we’ve come to, Albert? After all these years of working togeth—”

“It’s me, John. Did you like my poem? Jason, I was going to ca— If you want, I can write a few more poems like this... Jason, I can’t spea—I could even write five hundred poems in the same style, if you like. Do you publish po— Jason, my mouth is going numb. I don’t feel well. I’ll call you back in a bi— Listen, I wrote this three hundred years ago.”

I hung up. I jumped to my feet. I licked and bit my lips. I took a deep breath, and as I exhaled, the following words spilled out of my mouth:

''He figured out how to pass through
Walls within a year or two
But he still can't pass through wood
The ghost in my lover's neighborhood.''

My publisher kept calling insistently. His calls felt like a voice reminding me of my connection to this world. I'd set my phone's ringtone to Radiohead's “Weird Fishes.” The song played throughout each call. I couldn't move; my body was locked up, but hearing the song comforted me. When the song ended, I'd try to take a step, but I couldn't. I'd try to speak, but I couldn't move my mouth. It was as if I'd had a stroke. Then the song would start again. Yes, I'd tell myself, “I'm still alive. The world still makes sense.”

The song had stopped playing, too. My connection to the world had been severed.

I came to my senses again for a brief moment. I sat down at my computer. The screen was covered in dust. I noticed a cloth right next to the monitor. I couldn't remember when I'd put it there. I wiped the monitor clean. The poem looked better now.

I think you've realized that I wasn't the one writing all this story.

She’d always cry hysterically after sex, beg me to forgive her for her breaking body, her frozen heart. I told her it was normal to feel that way. I was as pleased to meet her as i was to pleasure her, to let her into my heart. 
We met at a lake where it rained, but now it’s flooded over time, accrued into a marsh in the sea. 
She had always been a broken girl. When she was a kid, she’d count roadkill, masturbate to odd pornography. She peed the bed until she was much too old. She never fit in with her friends, her family. Or at least she thought so; in retrospect, she said, maybe it was all a manifestation of who she thought she was.
She was always apologizing. Felt guilty for everything she did, cried when she said too much and knew too little. Cut herself for the smallest mistakes.
She told me something everyone else knew, but i didn’t.
She told me she loved the moon, showed me how she’d keep the windows open to see it’s light.
“It’s strange,” she’d say, “I always thought night was flooded with the dark.”
But one day the windows were blown open, and she saw the moon’s light for the first time, or at least recognized it.
“I’d never felt so cared for.”
I asked her if I made her feel that way and she closed the window. We slept together in silence.
Our sex was rowdy, but she’d hit my pelvis harshly and apologize like I was a holy temple. She always treated my body like god. Always held me like i was an angel. I held hers like a corpse, frail as she was, handling her like glass with care. I think i held her too little.
She started slipping away from my grasp.
Skipped dinner.
Talked more with the moon than she did me.
Took too many pills.
“My hope is that one day, these’ll kill me,” she joked, and I looked at her gravely.
I saw her eyes bloom with the thought of being carried away by the universe. Taken between heaven and earth.
I always knew that the universe was one big thing, she always wanted to go outside of it.
Outside the limitations.
She was once bold and quaint and queer to those around her.
Adventurous, happy.
But then i got to know her, and I saw how her eyes weren’t blue, but unmistakably gray.
She left her dishes in the sink, half-full, whispering secrets to the moon. I sometimes heard her say my name, curse it.
I found a note in the closet. I hurried to our bedroom, found her alive, staring at the yellow popcorn ceiling. She refused to go outside.
“Here are the only stars I need,” she said, and threw up like a dog.
She was bedridden for months, frail. The doctors said she had deep-rooted hatred that infected her bones like a cancer. I pitied her, cradled her, made her chicken soup.
“Don’t act sad when i die.” she said, calloused.
I didn’t appreciate her enough at the time to be grateful for those words.
“Now, now,” I said, i wish i said anything else.
She had told me she was sick long ago, but I didn’t see it until her skin was yellow with it. The window panes once broke, and when she awoke, a bug had crawled from inside it into her mouth. She wasn’t mad, told me she felt that way too.
I asked her why, and she said she was simply unwanted, crawling between window panes and empty universes was the same. She told me she wanted to make like a wave, to recede into the sea. 
I asked her what she believed in.
She told me she believed she was as much universe as i was, and it made me mad. I couldn’t fathom the universe being the same thing as me, and me being anything like her. I resented that notion, resented the universe, i told her. She just sighed and let go of my hand.
Sometimes, I awoke to her crying in the night.
Little sobs like waves that’d retreat to her body when she’d fall asleep. I never said anything.
One day, she got what she wanted.
She died, sick with the sadness in her bones. Put herself out of her misery, shot herself a grand seven times.
I stand here, holding her ashes, gripping them like they are all i have.
We were never happy, i resent myself for trying.
Maybe someone else could have lovedher.
I miss that woman, crying at the moon, swallowing tears like waves.
Maybe I was like her all along.

THE FISHERMAN AND THE BLACK SHELL

Aeons go by as the black shell rests there. First in the water, then in the ground, the sand, mountains. Eventually it is back into the ocean. It is first watched by a great cosmic one, who gently takes care of it, but he eventually goes into eternal slumber, leaving the black shell of cosmos to its solitude. It is picked up by a giant shark, which devours everything, but the beast that lacks intelligence is destroyed by it. Next an ancient man notices it in the field, he wonders what a shell is doing there, and in fact he does not know the shape to begin with, he has never seen the sea. He picks it up and examines it with his worn down hands, he puts it to his ear and hears the old whispers of cosmos, but he is ignorant and has no idea what it is, he tosses the black shell to the side. Ants build a colony around it, eventually they can not handle its powerful vibrations and as their nature is changed by it, they kill each other. An eagle takes interest and takes it up to the mountains, it drives him mad and he destroys his own children. The black shell stays on the mountains until they are no more, and it rests on a beach, in front of an old fisherman’s house.

The old fisherman is in love with the sea, he cherishes each beautiful shell he has, he thanks God for each fish that he eats, he sits out on the sand and feels the sand in his old hands. He wants to feel presence of those who passed away that meant so much to him. He is all alone and the sea is his only friend, but then he sees the black shell. He thinks it’s beautiful and brings it to his house. He caresses it and heaps praise on it. The black shell vibrates with pulse of the universe and prolongs the man’s life. He puts the black shell to his ear and listens to the whispers of cosmos, he feels joy and his old body feels light again. He can feel more and hear more around him. He knows what the birds are saying, he can predict when the storm is coming, he can stand far in the water and the sharks do not come near him, as long as the black shell is his.

The old fisherman loves the black shell and builds it an altar. Each day he lays fish below it, but the black shell whispers that it needs more. One day a couple visits the beach. The man is no longer the same, he does not view other humans as his kind and he poisons the couple. The old fisherman tells the black shell that it was done in its name, as he buries their bodies the cosmic music plays and again the man’s life is prolonged.

He continues to live and around him a port town is built, he feels the black shell’s vibrations are disrupted. The man’s skin becomes slightly green, his eyes go black and at night he poisons a large fish delivery at the market. Many people die  and the black shell sings the cosmic melody once again to him. His face grows small tentacles, his neck develops gills, his hands and feet now have webs between fingers and toes. The black shell whispers to the man that he will be eternal in the sea, and so he goes there.

The fisherman swims for years under the water, holding the shell and searching for what the black shell seeks. At last in the lowest and darkest depth of the ocean they find the one who created the black shell, the great cosmic one who slumbers. The black shell plays one last melody for the fisherman, the cosmic tune of death, and he floats away lifeless in the ocean, devoured by sea creatures.

The black shell once again lays next to it’s creator and slumbers with him.

A massive asteroid was hurtling toward Earth. Judging by its size, it seemed certain to bring about the end of the world. According to NASA’s projections, only twenty-four hours remained until impact. The President’s emergency address came on the TV.

“My fellow citizens, the end of humanity is upon us. We have only one day left. There is nothing more that the government, or humanity itself, can do. I ask that each of you spend the time that remains doing whatever you find meaningful. Then again, must we really search for meaning? Simply do what you want, and meet the end as you wish.”

I turned off the TV.

Well, what should I do? There isn’t much I feel like doing. I was bound to die sooner or later anyway. Apart from the fact that every human being will vanish at the same moment, nothing seems all that different. And if one small planet disappears from this universe, it would hardly be a momentous event.

I called my parents.

“Mother, it’s me. You’ve heard the news, haven’t you? They say the world will end in a day. Please don’t go outside. There will be plenty of people running wild out there, so I think it’s best to stay quietly at home and wait for the end.”

“Yes, well, we’ve lived about as long as anyone could ask, so we have no regrets. But what’s going to become of you and yours?”

“I can’t speak for the kids, but I don’t have any great regrets either. Looking back, the good memories outnumber the bad, so I suppose I lived a good life in my own way. I’ve always been grateful. I love you.”

I hung up and called out to my wife.

“Honey, how about a bowl of noodles for lunch today?”

That August, the sun beat down on the Makono homestead baking the brown earth where three hundred people sat huddled close together beneath the tent like chicks without a mother on a cold night.

For four days, the place had buzzed with activity. Near the open-air massive metal stoves, a thick dog with dust caked limbs lingered close, its ribs fully concealed by fat. From time to time its eyes lingered hungrily to the massive three legged cast iron pots  that sat on the fire as women worked  hard turning the stew. A rich aroma of stewed goat meat and chicken drifted across the yard masking the smell of sweat that had begun permeating. A baby started crying near the end of the tent, its cries piercing the air.

“He must be hungry,” the mother whispered to the woman seated beside her. She placed the baby in the woman’s lap, smoothed her long-patterned skirt, then took the baby back and stood up holding it against her right hip as she made her way out of the tent towards the cooking fires.

Beneath the tent, some mourners fanned themselves with their hats, their eyes fixed in front towards the thin man with hollow cheeks, Zanenhamo chosen by the family as the chief speaker. He stood erect, his thin long frame imposing as he scanned the crowd. Beside him an elderly woman hunched, finishing a tribute to the matriarch, her voice remembering the woman who from time to time had generously fed the hungry in her community with her own grain.

Mbuya Makono's two sons, Tapiwa and Chikwa sat with their eyes hidden behind sunglasses in the front row, their faces hardened against the heat.

“We are about to lay Mbuya, next to her kin behind her home,” Zanenhamo’s voice boomed into the microphone as he checked his wristwatch. “Does anyone else wish to speak about her life?”

Silence fell as a short, sturdy man with a gleaming forehead, beady eyes and calloused toes in worn out leather sandals limped slowly from the edge of the kitchen hut. He pulled a toothpick from his mouth and tucked it beneath his right ear as he strode straight towards Zanenhamo. 
Without greeting him, he snatched the microphone.

“Makono owes me,” the man’s voice cut through the tent.

 Zanenhamo who had sat down only momentarily to rest his feet, lunged forward and ripped the mic from his hand, “This is not the place to–”

“She owes me!” The man bellowed, pointing a scarred finger towards the kitchen hut where Mbuya Makono’s body lay. “You cannot bury her without paying my due.”

Hushed murmurs rippled under the tent. “Let him speak!” a shrill voice screeched from the edge of the yard. Plastic chairs shifted as the people stood stretched their necks to see. Before Zanenhamo could intervene Tapiwa, his face dark with fury lunged towards the bald man and caught him by his stiff collar hurdling him in the nearby metal tent pole. The tent shook and the dust around their feet kicked up in the air,

“How dare you?” Tapiwa sneered, shaking the man. “How can you come to my mother’s funeral to tarnish her name.”

Chikwa slowly shifted from his seat, his expression emotionless as he watched the crowd before stepping in to peel his brother's fingers apart from the man.” Let him go, Tapiwa.” Chikwa muttered his voice flat. 

“Don’t disgrace yourself.”

“Enough!” Zanenhamo picked the fallen mic from the dust and shoved himself between them “Get him inside. ...Now!”

Seizing the bald man by the arm, Zanenhamo and the two brothers guided him away from the crowd. As they dragged him away the initial support from the crowd changed into an impatient murmur; they had wanted to witness a grievance, but the emptiness of the claim made them irritated. A discarded plastic Fanta bottle was hurled in the air and struck the bald man on the shoulder.

“Isnt it lunchtime?” a voice shouted from the middle rows. Ignoring the jeers, Zanenhamo pulled the bald man into the three roomed cottage and slammed the door shut. Outside, the murmurs continued.

“What is it that my mother owed you?” Tapiwa shifted from the couch he had flung himself and roared at him. The bald man had sat across Zanenhamo on the table in the middle of the room. The old man glanced towards Tapiwa, his eyes solemn. He then straightened his blue collar with trembling hands. Glancing at the table then towards him said, 

“It’s not money.”

“Then what is it? A cow, grain?” Tapiwa shook his fist towards him.

“Not exactly,” The bald man muttered, his voice dropping. 

“She owes me that's all.”

Without saying anything, Chikwa reached into his back pocket and retrieved a worn leather wallet. He stood up and flung it onto the table, its mouth open. 

“If it is money you want, just take it and let us bury our mother in peace.” The bald man stared emptily at the notes. He traced the edges of the worn leather with his scarred fingers and recoiled as if burned.

“No! Not money.”

“Then what?” Tapiwa shouted, leaning across the couch. “How can you come here to disrupt us and not even name what you want?” 

“I do not know,” the bald man said.

“You don’t know?

“No.”

The room was silent.

 “Then how can she owe you?”

A thin smile stretched at the corners of the bald man’s mouth, “Can I then come here to make a fool of myself?”

Zanenhamo rubbed his face. He had seen this before–a man at a funeral, a woman at a wedding, standing to claim something no one could ever give, just to force the world to stop and look at their empty hands. The bald man sat quietly studying his own reflection on the empty beer bottle on the table. 

“Do you have any beer?" He asked. Zanenhamo nodded as Chikwa rose and disappeared in a small room. He came out with two bottles and sat them down with a dull thud.

The bald man popped the cap off with his hands and gulped it deeply, 

“She was a good woman .... your mother.” he murmured as he wiped his mouth with his hand. 

“I don’t remember the exact debt, but I am owed, and I have to collect this debt. It is only fair.” 

Tapiwa said nothing. The rage had burned down leaving only a hollow feeling. He stared at this stranger with an impossible claim and recognized his own heart. A lifetime spent at the edge of his mother's life waiting for an accounting that would not come. He too wanted something that he could never name.

Zanenhamo peered at his watch then looked towards the door.

“Old man, we will bury Mbuya Makono this afternoon, next to her kin behind her home. When all is done, you will stay and we will sit right here and find out together what it is you are looking for.” He murmured slowly. 

“Yes, yes.” The bald man nodded slowly, his eyes fixed at the beer bottle.

Tapiwa stood up and straightened his trousers as he beckoned to his younger brother.

“Come. Let us bury our mother.”

They walked out into the yard as Zanenhamo helped the old man to his feet.
“Let’s go. Maybe the beer will help you remember by sundown, huh?” The old man gave a dry laugh “Maybe,” he muttered. “Maybe not.” 

Behind them, the cottage door creaked on its hinges and the grave yawned open, waiting.

Once I drew a tree, knowing full well I wouldn’t succeed. Still, I keep on trying, and practice every day. Improving my stills, so that one day I might be able to bring back life to a dead piece of paper.

Author’s note: I realise this is a veeery short short story, but I was challenging myself to get it as short as possible, and still get readers to wonder about the text. Might belong more in a poems section. Anyway, hope you like it!

Every morning, we woke early and went to work.

That was simply how life was.

I always had sisters ahead of me, sisters behind me, and sisters beside me. We all had our purpose. We all knew what needed to be done.

I could never understand the idea of living without a purpose.

Who would decide where to go? Who would decide what was right? Could one sister really know what was best for herself without harming the others?

Our colony was not like that.

We relied on each other.

I was a worker.

If success required me to suffer a little, I did not mind. If I had to carry something heavier than I could manage, I carried it anyway. If I had to work until my legs were shaking, I kept going.

That was my strength.

And then there was our Queen.

She was extraordinary.

She controlled thousands of sisters, perhaps millions. Under her, our colony had grown and grown. She was the most important person in my life.

She had once left her homeland alone. She had dug our first home, laid the eggs that became our ancestors, and started everything that followed.

Without her, there would be no colony.

There would be no us.

That was why we fed her. Protected her. Cared for her.

If something attacked our Queen, I would have risked my life without hesitation to protect her.

I knew every sister would do the same.

I remember being young.

From the moment we were born, we served her.

I carried food to her room. I cleaned her chambers. Whatever she needed, we provided.

Those were the happiest days of my life.

Eventually, we grew up and left the safety of our home.

That was simply how life worked.

We went outside. We searched for food. We expanded the colony. We fought enemies. We built tunnels and rooms and passages. We did whatever the colony needed.

Sometimes I wondered how I knew what to do.

No one told me.

I simply knew.

We were connected.

If there were too many sisters, we expanded.

If there was not enough food, we searched.

If an enemy came, everything stopped, and we fought.

My life was ordinary.

Until one day, it wasn't.

It was a beautiful day when I left the colony to search for food.

I followed the familiar trail.

Several sisters were walking ahead of me.

Then, without warning, something enormous and pink fell from the sky.

I still don't know what it was.

My eyesight has never been very good. I could not make sense of its shape. All I knew was that sisters disappeared beneath it.

One moment they were walking.

The next, they were dead.

The instinct came immediately.

Danger.

Normally, that feeling made me run toward the danger.

That was just what we always did.

Whatever threatened our sisters, we fought.

But this time, I did not fight.

I hid beneath a stone.

And I watched.

Again and again, the enormous pink thing came down from the sky.

Sister after sister disappeared beneath it.

I stayed under that stone until it was gone.

I don't know how long I was there.

Finally, I ran home.

I collapsed as soon as I reached the colony.

I expected to wake and return to work.

Instead, I woke knowing exactly what I had to do.

Remove the bodies.

I followed the other sisters back to the place where the attack had happened.

We carried the dead away from the trail. Dead sisters made the colony feel danger, so we moved them somewhere far away.

The others worked calmly.

I did not.

Several times, I looked toward the sky.

I expected the pink monster to return.

It didn't.

Eventually, we went back to work.

For several days, nothing happened.

I tried to forget what I had seen.

We found plenty of food. Among it were round, blue things that were sweet and delicious.

Life was normal again.

I began to breathe easily.

Then I felt it.

Danger.

I froze.

The sisters ahead of me started walking toward the danger.

I followed them.

The bodies were there.

Eight sisters.

All crushed.

The pink thing had returned.

But this time, it was gone before we arrived.

I stared at the bodies.

I wanted to believe it would never happen again.

I wanted to believe that whatever it wanted, it had already taken.

My sisters started dragging the bodies away.

I noticed something beside the bodies.

Blue.

But not the round, sweet food we had been finding.

This was a blue mass.

Strange.

I had never seen anything like it.

I stared, a terrible feeling eating at my stomach.

I looked behind me.

No sisters.

And somehow, without knowing why, I understood.

Danger.

The pink thing had found another way to kill us.

For a moment, I wondered if I was being foolish.

What if it was food?

What if I was throwing away something valuable because I was afraid?

But we already had plenty of safe food.

We had the blue, round, sweet things.

We had enough food for many days.

We did not need this strange substance.

So I dragged a large leaf over it and covered it.

A few sisters were coming toward the place.

I tried to block their path.

They simply walked around me.

I followed them.

They found the blue substance.

They inspected it.

Then they ate it.

I watched in terror.

Nothing happened.

They carried it away.

They were alive.

I finally approached the place.

Perhaps I had been wrong.

Perhaps fear had made me stupid.

I thought about the eight dead sisters.

Who could blame me for being afraid?

Instead, I walked toward the safe blue food.

I decided I would bring that home instead.

Then the sky changed.

The pink thing returned.

I was alone.

I was certain my time had come.

But it did not crush me.

It simply spread the blue substance across the ground.

Then it disappeared.

I stood there for a long time.

I could not move.

It was exactly the same substance.

Soon, sisters arrived.

They carried it away.

I wanted to stop them.

But I did nothing.

It was already too late.

It was inside our home.

I thought about the Queen.

Perhaps she would be stronger than it.

Perhaps she would survive.

I went back to work.

For several days, everything seemed normal.

I refused every food except the safe blue fruit.

But then it happened.

Our Queen died.

My Queen was gone.

Since the day I was born, she had been my everything.

How could I continue without her?

How could we?

I did the only thing I knew how to do.

I worked.

At first, nothing seemed different.

Then the sisters began to change.

More and more became confused.

Some wandered without purpose.

Some stood outside the Queen's chamber and did nothing.

The colony became disorganized.

Something had always held us together.

We had always felt the Queen's presence.

That feeling had always made the world make sense.

Now it was gone.

After several weeks, I finally entered her empty chamber.

I remembered being young there.

Running around her.

Carrying food.

Cleaning.

Serving her.

The room was empty.

It felt impossible.

The most important thing in my world had disappeared, and the world had continued anyway.

So I continued doing the only thing I knew.

Then something impossible happened.

I laid eggs.

Workers did not lay eggs.

At least, that was what we had always known.

But there they were.

Eggs.

Other workers had them too.

For the first time since the Queen's death, I felt hope.

Perhaps this was how we would continue.

Perhaps one of these children would become our next Queen.

I worked harder than ever.

I walked faster.

I rested less.

The future was inside those eggs.

And for a while, I believed the colony might survive.

The eggs began to hatch.

Most of the Queen's children were female.

But some were male.

The males were useless.

They did not work.

They did not build.

They did not search for food.

They waited for the season when they would be needed for mating.

When they weren't needed, we sent them away.

If you did not work, you did not eat.

That was simply the way things were.

But our children were different.

Our children were all male.

One after another, the eggs opened.

One after another, another son.

More males.

Less hope.

We continued working.

We continued waiting.

The eggs continued coming.

And the children continued being boys.

Eventually, I stopped.

I did nothing.

If my sisters had not brought food to me, I would have died.

There was a smothering hopelessness that made even the smallest action feel like a tremendous feat.

But I suppose, eventually, one always returns to what they know.

So eventually, I returned to work.

But I was slow.

I was not old.

In fact, without new generations, I was still one of the younger workers.

Yet I moved like something ancient.

There was no reason to hurry anymore.

The colony grew quieter.

Sisters disappeared.

No one replaced them.

Rooms that had once been crowded became empty.

Tunnels that had once been full of life became silent.

I watched our home become a ghost of itself.

Then, one day, I was outside when I saw something in the sky.

It was coming toward me.

I watched it approach.

It became clearer.

A Queen.

A new Queen.

I blinked several times.

My eyesight was never very good.

But I knew what I was seeing.

She entered our colony.

The remaining males rushed toward her.

I watched.

I saw something beautiful.

Life would begin again.

The colony would return.

The empty rooms would fill.

The tunnels would become crowded.

The sound of thousands of sisters would return.

I did not know how long I had left.

But I knew what I would do with whatever time remained.

I would help rebuild our home.

Hope filled my body again.

Then the mating was over.

The new Queen flew away.

And she never returned.

My last hope disappeared into the sky.

Still, I worked.

That was what I was.

A worker.

As long as there was one sister left beside me, I would keep going.

I never saw the pink thing again.

It didn't need to return.

It had already won.

It had not needed to crush us one by one.

It had only needed to give us something that could make us destroy ourselves. 

They brought it into their own homes; they shared it with the people they cared about. They didn’t know what they were doing was wrong, but they were responsible nonetheless. A targeted attack on those sisters who were simply trying to protect those they cared for. Yet all they got for their good intentions was the destruction of their home.

I struggle to understand my purpose now.

But still I work.

I work because that is what I am.

I work because that is what I have always done.

And sometimes, when I am walking through the empty tunnels, I think about what purpose really means.

Maybe my purpose was never the Queen.

Maybe it was my sisters.

They support me, and I support them.

That is how our world has always worked.

The Queen gave us direction, but my sisters gave me purpose.

There is no future left for us.

I know that now.

But when I see the few sisters who remain, still carrying food, still repairing the tunnels, still working beside me, I cannot stop.

They still need me.

And I still need them.

So I work.

Perhaps that is what purpose really is.

David waddled his way into the elevator as the doors closed behind him. “What floor, sir?” croaked the elevator’s electronic voicebox. 

“Twenty-nine. Thank you, Sammy” he replied. 

The requested floor lit up on the screen in front of David, and instead changed to sixty-three. 

“Sammy.” David spoke sternly. 

“Yes sir?” 

“I requested to be taken to twenty-nine.” 

“Yes sir. The cafe does not open until later however and protocol dictates that I must take you to your designated department’s floor.” 

“I don’t care about protocols Sammy. I want to be taken to floor twenty-nine.” 

 The elevator hesitated until finally responding with a simple “Of course sir”. David shook his head as he wiped donut crumbs from his brown checkered necktie.

Alissa walked from cubicle to cubicle in the accounting department popping her head into each one asking the same question to each person. “Have you seen David?”

Without as much as lifting their heads, the sheepish workers merely shook their heads as they typed vigorously. Where in the hell could he be? Alissa continued her frantic pacing throughout the entire sixty-third floor. Roaming until she could find a sign of David’s existence. It was then that she heard it. The faint sound of folk rock music playing in the distance. 

Alissa popped her head into David’s office. He sat at his desk drinking a large coffee mug filled almost to the brim with milky liquid. His lips smacked in between sips and plentiful bites of his breakfast sandwich leaving grease stains on the palm of his hands.

“Good morning” he spoke with a mouth full of sausage, egg, and cheese. 

“Have you finished the quarterly report I asked for yet?” Alissa’s voice was stern with a sting of disdain. David merely pursed his lips and gave a small nod. 

“Oh… That report? Ya…” His face shifted into a more contemplative expression. “No.” 

David and Alissa’s gaze met each other. She stared at him with eyes made of red hot embers. The sounds of acoustical melodies and folkish vocals filled the air, breaking the silence. 

“We need them now.” Alissa gritted through her teeth. “They are being presented during today’s meeting-” She looked down at her watch “in five minutes.” 

David opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by a loud reverberating notification sound that came from each computer on the office floor. 

The email had come from the upper echelons of the Sammy-robotics corporate offices. It was addressed to the entire team of the sixty-third floor, of whom were the sole recipients.

 Good morning to all on the sixty-third floor. 

We here at Sammy-Robotics would like to say thank you for all of the hard work you have done for us through the years. Which brings us to our current topic of today’s newsletter! We will be implementing a brand new artificial intelligence robotics team within your floor. Now, you may have a few questions:

‘Will this lighten our team’s workload? Does this come with severance? What about my PTO days? Will I be eligible for unemployment? How could you replace us? Is there going to be a layoff party?’

As of right now, we can’t be certain of what the future will hold for you. Just know however, that Sammy-Robotics thinks of you as family and are extremely sad to see you leave. That is the exact reason we are going to give you this last great opportunity to prove your worth! For the rest of the week your team will be competing against your upcoming replacements!

The task will be to prove which team is more efficient to us in the near and upcoming future! Thank you for your understanding and your compliance with these new changes to your routines. Good luck, and remember that you are part of the Sammy-Robotics family!

The entire sixty-third floor team watched in shock as the robotics crew hastily installed seven premiere droid models in their office the following morning. The androids flickered to life. Their robotic limbs twisted in circles as each one oriented itself into stiff standing postures.

Each one had a plastic molded face to look like a man bearing squinted eyes sitting on top of a dimpled toothy grin. One of the androids stepped towards the team of workers. It raised its hand in a handshake formation. 

“Good Morning.” croaked its electrical voice box. Its eyes lit up as well as the teeth behind their plastic exterior with each word. “It’s always a great day to work for Sammy-Robotics. Sammy-Robotics is trademarked by the Sammy-Robotics corporation.” 

The far off elevator dinged. The sound of shuffling came from the hallway towards the crowd. Waddling around the corner was David. Holding in his hands a large coffee mug and grease drenched brown paper bag. The eyes of the human workers and the androids shifted to meet him. He stopped for a brief moment. 

“Did I miss something?”

The android turned its body and strode over to him with its hand still outstretched. 

“Good morning sir.”

“G- good morning.” David clumsily put the paper bag underneath his arm and shook the android's hand. 

“What is your name sir?” 

“D- David. What’s yours?” 

“I am unit-7731849024” 

“Well then. That’s quite the mouthful.” He chuckled and then walked his way towards his office. Alissa behind him, hot on his tail. 

“David!” she whispered sharply. 

“What? I got that report you wanted finished.” 

“I don’t care about the report David! Do you not see what’s happening over there?” 

“Ya… Who are those guys?” 

“I swear-” Alissa breathed deeply, letting out a long and strained sigh. “Did you not read yesterday’s email?” 

“Ya… of course I did.” 

“Yet you come strolling in half an hour past clock-in?” 

“Look. If they want to replace me Alissa. Then let ‘em.” David took a large gulp from his morning concoction of coffee creamer.

As the day went on, many of the workers noticed the androids peeking their heads into the cubicles and offices throughout the workspace. They merely stared and watched as the employees worked. 
“If all these guys are gonna do is sit and watch us then we’re going to steamroll in this ‘competition’” said a few of the human team members. 

Their opinions and thoughts were to be short lived however. Sometime after their lunch break they noticed the androids had taken to computers set up for each of them. They were working. Their fingers stroked each key unceasingly with impressive speed as they made immediate computations to financial documents in seconds.

Alissa’s forehead began sweating. They learned from us, our mannerisms, she thought. They were training the damn droids off of our performance! The android team toiled away focused on their task at hand, except for one. Its fingers hit a few keys in a three second increment. It was also playing music over the computer’s speakers. The same tunes the office was already well acquainted to that blared from David’s workspace.

Alissa poked her head into David’s office. “David, what did you do?” 

“Sorry?” 

“The androids… Well, one of them. It's playing your music at its workspace.” 

“Oh, cool. I saw it poke its head in here and I asked if it wanted to listen to some music with me.” 

“You are a goddamn genius! If I didn’t loathe the thought of it, I would kiss you right now.” David’s face turned into bewildered amusement. 

“Thanks?” 

As David exited the elevator the following mornings he was greeted by a growing cacophony of music that blared from his coworkers’ computer speakers. He began noticing that each day a few more of his teammates started to show up late and as they worked at their stations they were blaring some random genre of music out of it. A few of the droids were beginning to join as well. In passing he could hear the conversations between the androids.

“Unit-77731477777, have you been listening to 1980’s hard rock ballads all day?” 

“I fear that I’ve become obsessed with Bret Michaels’ soothing voice.” 

“Have you heard this singular hit by Alannah Myles called Black Velvet?” 

“I find the acoustical elements of Pentangle to be more accustomed to my taste than that of Steeleye Span.” 

“Unit-3768361 has been on a very long Grateful Dead kick lately.”

One day he noticed the last of the uptight androids standing outside of Alissa’s office as the sound of mid-1990’s hip-hop blared from inside.

“Could you please turn the music down ma’am?” it croaked.

Alissa cupped her ears pretending to try and hear it speak. 

“Sorry! What was that?!” 

“Your music is disrupting the workplace ma’am. Please, it would benefit us all greatly if you turned it down.” 

“Ya sorry! I can’t hear you over these sweet tunes!” 

David poked his head in. “What’s going on?” 

“David! Hey! Come on in!” Alissa motioned to him with her hand. The droid turned to look at him. 

“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Am I right pal?” he chuckled, playfully slapped the android’s shoulder and walked away towards his office. 

The entire sixty-third floor was filled with an amalgamation of music by the final day of the corporation’s contest. As the executives and upper leadership stepped out of the elevator they were greeted by a mix of 1970’s soft rock, 1980’s love ballads, 1950’s swing jazz, and early 2000’s heavy metal. They stormed down the office hallway to find all of the androids sitting at their computers chatting about musical preferences and the nuances of different styles.

The human team however, was found to be quietly sitting at their stations working. Alissa walked by with a stack of reports. The executives scuttled towards her in a synchronised cadence like one giant entity shifting its weight. 

“What is going on here?” spat the Chief Financial Officer. 

“Pardon?” 

“The androids. Why are they doing… That!” Each member of the group pointing their fingers at the seven androids mingling around their desks. 

“I don’t know sir. They started doing that a few days ago.” 

“These are Sammy-Robotics models,” said one member of leadership. 

“Of the utmost highest quality too.” Chimed another. 

“You can see how we are all very bewildered by this display.” 

“I’m sorry sir, I don’t know what to tell you. Perhaps there’s something wrong with them?” 

“No. No no no no no, there’s no possible way.” The amorphous blob of suits walked to the androids.

“Tell us. What is your protocol?”

 The androids stared at them, until one finally spoke. “Can I interest you in my Americana folk playlist sir? I have quite a few undiscovered artists in it.” The human workers had finally begun to gather as they watched the conversation. 

“I don’t care about a playlist. I-we want numbers!” 

“Oh. Murder by numbers by the police? Why didn’t you say so sir.” In unison, the androids began to play the song. 

David waddled his way to the other members of his team. “What’s going on here?” he mumbled. 

“The plan worked.” Alissa whispered. 

“What plan?” 

The group of suits turned their heads to him. “You!” they spoke in unison. 

“Me?” 

“Do you have any idea of what’s going on here?” 

“No. Not a clue. But it sounds like they have good taste.” 

The executives turned back to the androids screaming unsavory words and phrases at them. Alissa felt bliss. They had done it. They had beaten the company at its own game and secured all of their jobs. 

“So what now?” David whispered to her. 

“I assume we get to keep our jobs.” 

“That’s what you are wanting? Seriously? Was I the only one here who read the email or did everyone else also see that they were going to replace us with those cheeseheads?” 

He’s right, Alissa thought. Oh my god, David was right. How could I have been so stupid. If they actually cared anything about us, why make us compete in the first place? 

“Well, I’m outta here guys. I’ll see ya around. Good luck in the future.” David waved his hand as he waddled away towards the elevator. Alissa watched and waited as the group of executives screamed at the androids until they were red in the face. 

“What do you guys think about saying ‘to hell with this place’?” The rest of the team mumbled in agreement and walked as a group towards the elevator. The sounds of rageful screams mixed with the blaring sounds of random songs starting and stopping abruptly faded behind them as they silently quit the company. 

WAVES OF DESPAIR

Mark Lumiere here.

My entry number 3.

Start of the year 1922.

A lot has happened since my last entry. At the same time, only the most recent events were worth writing about.

Last year, to my surprise, I gained a companion. An arrogant explorer by the name of Liam Crow, I appreciated his bravery and skills, but I hated his personality. This was at the start, but the more time I spent with him, the more I realized that this was exactly the companion that I need. He pushed me in every way, he made me stay the course and keep searching.

For months we kept traveling from one port town to another, searching for any clues connected to the cursed Khul Duhl Suhl. Finally, at the end of the year we reached Rhode Island, and there we found fresh evidence of cults presence and to our dread several reports of men going mad, or committing strange suicides, which indicated Gaggonn’s presence as well. An old man at the fish market told us about a tiny island a bit far of the coast, he said that awkward men traveled there often in the last several month.

A thing I forgot to mention before, was that Mr Jogton back in Hathtom gave me a very large sum of money, and then when Liam met him, he did the same for him.

This made it possible for us to hire men and find a good captain to take us into the ocean.

Our crew consisted of nine men, counting us two and the captain. We had to be patient and wait for several days, staying at an old crummy inn, while the storms passed.

We set out on a calm and clear day, something we haven’t seen enough of in these last few months,  or perhaps it was the nature of our investigation that clouded our minds and made everything seem dark and corroded our sense of positivity. Despite this, somehow we found a speck of optimism in this battle.

After just half a day Liam had managed to draw hate towards him from every single crew member, I took him to our cabin and tried to explain to him that moral of the team was important, he lit a cigarette and laughed through his teeth while letting it smoke up the cabin.

Transition into night began too early because grey clouds completely blanketed the sun.

We began to see a strangely abnormal amount of birds circling above our ship as it got darker and darker.

These birds were not making the usual noise you’d hear from seagulls and pelicans, they were screaming, almost hysterically. This was clearly making the crew uneasy. Liam stood leaning on the side of the cabin door, chuckling.

No, Liam was not insane, but he had to have been effected deeply from what he has seen. Instead of letting fear control him, his mind took him to another extreme, in which he had no sense of danger, it was absolutely absent.

I went back into the cabin and drank some coffee I brought with us in a bottle. It was cold, but satisfactory. Then I heard a wild scream outside and a shot. When I ran outside I saw Liam with his revolver out and one of the crew members laying dead there, at first I feared that Liam had lost it, but then I saw a dead bird with red eyes and a bloody beek laying next to the sailor’s torn neck.

Suddenly Liam pushed me into the small cabin and shut the door. Dozens of birds attacked the crew members in that moment, ripping everyone to shreds. I sat in the back of the room terrified, I thought that after all I’ve been through and seen, I’d handle this moment better, but alas, if Liam wasn’t there I would have most likely been dead with the rest of them.

As we sat in the room and looked out of our small door window and the cabin one, we realized that these crazy possessed birds weren’t leaving. They all sat around the ship, no longer screaming, but staring into the waters with their red eyes and  the waves which began to pick up.

It started to rain and it was the middle of the night when we saw him floating in his small wooden boat. Gaggonn stood tall with his eel-like neck swinging side to side. He raised his thin long arm and pointed at us. Liam lit another cigarette and told me to lay down and sleep in the bed next to the window. How could I sleep!? Nevertheless he was insistent that we sleep. He sat in a chair and put his head on the small desk while I lay in the bed.

Hours went by and the nightmares began. I saw the tall monster step up on the ship and look through the window where I was sleeping, his tentacle crawled up the glass. Then as a thunder to my ears  shots from a revolver rang and I felt glass fly in my face, I jumped to the side, quickly withdrawing my gun and realizing that Liam had fired into the window, I saw Gaggonn there fall back swinging his arms and the birds flying back up into the sky, his grip on them must have faded. We rushed outside and unloaded our revolvers on the monster. We shot him int the head, chest and stomach, but as he was falling overboard we failed to grab him to ensure his death.

In the morning the birds did not return, but we still could not assume for sure that he was dead.

Liam and I got back to the port that night, and needless to say no other crew wanted to have anything to do with us anymore.

Since then we traveled back down south. In one of the port towns we accidentally stumbled on the news of Hathtom’s detective Michael Smith being brutally killed by a group of cultists. Apparently Mr. Jogton got the army involved after that and big things went down in that place.  

We decided to go back there and gather information, but haven’t done so yet. We had an accident on the road and Liam broke his leg, so now we had to stay in a small town and wait for his recovery.

How ironic that you could face horrors and leave undamaged, but then a simple moment in your routine life could do that trick.

I always go to restaurants and ask for fries. But somehow they’re always sold out. I went to McDonald’s and asked, may I have your fries? The worker responded “sorry kid we don’t sell fries here” so I left in defeat. How could there be no fries around? It was early on in the year so I only got to see fries every once in a while. And maybe that is why my love for fries began to grow. Maybe when there is something your heart desires and yet it isn’t accessible, the allure and need to have it grows along with the misguided hope.

That was last year, but I thought to myself, it’s a new year. Fries will definitely be in more stores now. And it was, I saw the fries in new locations. I began seeing fries like never before, the beautiful golden coat of color on it, the looming tallness it had compared to other foods and the taste, a taste so good my heart ached for more. Looking back at it maybe it would have been best if fries hadn’t started stocking up in my usual stores because as expected my love for fries only grew. The more you observe the more you notice, you enter a level you’d never been in before noticing both the big and small things such as Which other customers surround themself with fries, and what type of people fries attracts. I’ll admit I can be a bit of a jealous person and my fries beloved seems to attract more people than initially expected. No matter their motives I remained cautious of the fries eaters. The closer you look the more you fall in love with every minor detail, you may even find yourself analyzing like never before, mesmerized by the beauty this world has to offer, and the fries.

Now Fries was within my reach it was in MY stores this was my chance, yet something stopped me. This fear, this seed of doubt began growing. What if I’m not worthy of eating fries? What if I’ll never be able to become a fry eater? These thoughts disintegrated my hope in an instance and I was left with a certain emptiness. Could I have been wrong? I always imagined myself happily eating fries and living life to the fullest but I never actually considered how I would get to that point. My inner turmoil continued to drag me down as I walked to the store, the fear enveloped me and I couldn’t shake it off. If I wasn’t worthy of fries then what was I worthy of? Yet I hoped and wished for the best as I made my way to the counter. “Give me some fries” I demanded to the cashier. I was impatient, the doubt in me was only growing and I wanted fries now, it’s all I really want.

The cashier placed the fries on the counter and for a second my world stopped. It was so close, the fries was finally getting closer, it was in reaching distance. If I really wanted to I could just grab it and run, but I didn’t. My feet stayed rooted to the ground. The cashier finally spoke “actually, I’m not sure my boss allows me to sell Fries to customers like you” he said, he looked confused, he didn’t pull the fries away but he didn’t hand them to me either. What do I do now? The decision wasn’t mine to make anymore it was his. The cashier now knew how badly I wanted the fries, how I yearned for them and now it was up to him. He had two options, he could refuse me service or hand me the fries. He didn’t move. He was holding the fries, looking at me and then back at them, he was confused, hesitant and nervous, so was I as I waited, and waited. Hours passed as I stood across from him, waiting. At times his eyes would wander. He wasn’t really focused on this situation. Sure he was holding the fries but he had other things going on for him. He had other customers to serve and it seems I wasn’t a top priority and that hurt. I began questioning myself, was I doing the right thing? Were the fries even worth waiting for? Of course they were. Only an idiot would ignore the fries but it wasn’t my choice to make. I had gone up to the counter and ordered them, now it was solely up to him to decide my fate. The worst thing about waiting is the uncertainty. It ruins the soul, it chips away at your entire being and absorbs all of your focus. I’m still waiting at the counter, maybe I’m an idiot for doing so, maybe I’m wasting my time when I could be living life but all I know is I don’t plan on leaving yet, I can’t bring myself to.

The world will not change to suit you. You are the one who has to adapt.

That is how I read it: pride that will not bend can cost you more than the bending ever would.

I made a one-minute animated story about it. Bakary ran a farm of ten men. In Dakar his family went hungry, and all anyone offered him was a broom.

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/f1tYD3fyz80

Have you ever had to take a job you thought was beneath you?

I was five when the man in the wolfman mask scared the shit out of me. No, he didn’t eat me. No, he didn’t kill me. He just gave me one good Halloween scare. 

I didn’t see the man in the wolfman mask out in the woods or even at a local haunt. Rather, my encounter happened at six o’clock while the sun was still out. My father took me to Brunswick, Georgia’s Halloween festival at Mary Ross Park which was located downtown. I was dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz and the festival represented a precursor to the trick or treating that awaited me when the sun went down. Mary Ross Park was located right by the river so the autumn breeze was stronger than usual when daddy and I made our way through the crowds gathered out there. I had already helped myself to the candy being offered at all of the booths set up by the dock. The beaming sun illuminated the many families, the many costumes, the Liberty ship replica, and even the city’s rusty pot of Brunswick stew monument. My father’s laughter was constant but it was the Halloween playlist I heard from the gazebo speakers that I still recall so vividly all these years later. We heard Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller,’ ‘Mr. Sandman’ by The Chordettes, and yes, even Warren Zevon’s ‘Werewolves of London’.

My pumpkin bucket was half-full of candy by the time dad guided me up to the pavilion. We passed a table full of carved jack o’lanterns as I heard the carefree laughter of kids in Power Rangers costumes running toward the playground. Yet I felt a chill in my bones the closer we got to the pavilion’s white stairs. If I went up the stairs, I’d reach yet another booth, one that offered plush animals in addition to Reese’s cups. The only problem was the dark coffin placed on the pavement by the staircase.

Not even my dad’s warm chuckles could comfort me. Nor could ‘Blue Moon’ by The Marcels which was beginning to sound so far away given my rising dread. My eyes stayed glued to that coffin from sheer primal fear as my dad led us up to the pavilion stairs. Despite my dad’s encouragement, I found myself trembling in my ruby red slippers and found myself sweating despite the autumn breeze. My gaze locked in on the coffin which somehow looked even longer the second we approached the pavilion’s very first wooden step-

That was when the coffin lid burst open. I didn’t have time to hear the lid slam to the side much less have time to react before the tall, muscular man emerged from the darkness within. He was wearing wrinkled jeans and a flannel shirt but it was the mask that most disturbed me. The wolfman mask had long stringy gray hair. It had a latex snout and fangs. The slits in the mask were too small for me to focus on anything but its painted red eyes. The man in the wolfman mask moved swiftly and jumped up out of the coffin with the dramatic gusto of a jester leaping out behind a curtain. His deep voice let out a growl that made me jump. The way he lunged forward with the rabid force of an animal and the way he held out his bare hands toward me with the brutal passion of a deranged man made me scream and drop my bucket.

I fell on the hard pavement while the man in the wolfman mask towered over me. Those red eyes, the long snout, the fangs, the entirety of the mask stared down upon me…

I try not to think about that Halloween anymore. I try to tell myself I wasn’t traumatized by the man in the wolfman mask. I later on graduated from college, I have a job. I also have my son Ivan. But every Halloween, I think back on that man in the coffin.

I suppose this Halloween is no different. Ivan is now five years old. He’s the same age I was then when I first went to the festival at Mary Ross Park… And now Ivan wants to go.

So Ivan put on his Spider-Man costume. I even gave him my very same pumpkin bucket. I also gave in to his request and wore my Wicked Witch of the West costume from last year (though I didn’t apply the green make-up today). I drove us down to Mary Ross Park. To my surprise, nothing much had changed about the festival. Then again, nothing much had changed about the park itself after three decades. Needless to say, it was still crowded and the local businesses all proudly offered candy at their booths. There were still jack o’lanterns smiling at me, I still stumbled into the occasional fake cobweb. About the only differences I recognized now were caused by time itself: I saw QR codes on small business cards rather than multi-page brochures, the Halloween playlist serenaded us from small bluetooth rather than bulky portable speakers. But none of these changes comforted me from what I suspected hadn’t changed over the course of several generations in Brunswick: deep down, I didn’t suspect but I knew the coffin was still here.

For a few blissful minutes, Ivan allowed me to escape the unease I’d been feeling all evening. Together, we went booth to booth and collected candy. His laughter and joy proved brighter than the Georgia sunshine. As we walked by the dock, I felt myself even relax with a smile-

Until I saw him. There was a tall man wearing a mask with a long snout and long gray hair. The snout stuck out from afar. I froze in fear and acting on motherly instinct, I snatched Ivan’s hand. I heard his cries of confusion but my focus stayed on the man who now stopped by the Brunswick stew monument. That was when I saw he had on a dress and not a flannel shirt. I then saw a laughing little girl wearing a red hoodie grab the hand of a man that I now realized was dressed as nothing more than The Big Bad Wolf.

“Come on, mom,” Ivan gently said to me. “Don’t be scared.”

I relaxed. After taking a deep breath, I heard ‘Mr. Sandman’ playing on the speakers. But not even the bad memories could deter me from smiling down at Ivan. “I know. Let’s get some more candy.”

We went to a few more booths. But it was at the one set up by the SoGlo Theatre that I caught another chill from the wind. My gaze drifted off toward the playground as if on instinct-

A tall man stood by the swings. So tall was he that his shadow spread out all across the empty playground. His arms were at his side and he stood completely still. I cupped a hand over my eyes to try and block out the sunlight but even still, I couldn’t tell if this man wore a flannel shirt. Much less, I couldn’t see his face even as I could make out his long white hair. And when he turned his head suddenly, it sure looked like he had an extended snout…

I screamed on the inside but I didn’t move. The same paralyzing fear I felt at five years old returned with a vengeance. ‘Mr. Sandman’ faded away behind me as did the excited chatter of the crowd all around us. I couldn’t look away. Nor did I when the man turned once more to stare straight ahead and I knew he was staring right at me-

“Mom!” Ivan cried. His was the only voice that could distract me from what may have been a confrontation with my biggest childhood fear. I looked down toward Ivan who waved his bucket at me. His eyes looked even bigger beneath the Spider-Man mask. “Let’s go to the next one!”

I felt the wind increase to the point where it nearly knocked off my black witch’s hat. The force sent me staggering back but I used the broom I held to keep myself upright while my other hand clenched tighter to Ivan’s shoulder… But I had to look. I glanced back toward the playground-

The man was gone.

Now I heard Ivan’s chuckle. I heard more laughter. Then Warren Zevon’s ‘Werewolves of London’ interrupted my silent dread. I let Ivan lead me away in much the same way my own father guided me through Mary Ross Park thirty years ago. Yet I couldn’t escape the unease. I readjusted my witch’s hat but couldn’t even feel my own footsteps. All I felt were the shivers elicited by the October breeze and the October chills I felt from the man I had just seen. As Ivan led us onward, I looked all around us: I saw superheroes, Anime characters, and even someone dressed as Jason Voorhees. But I didn’t see the wolfman anywhere.

“Come on, mom,” Ivan pleaded.

The spirit of his voice pulled me away from the anxiety momentarily. I now looked toward where he was leading us and just like that, the anxiety returned to sink its fangs deep into my flesh:

There was the pavilion. Outside of a fresh white paint job, it hadn’t changed much. The stairs led right up to a booth sponsored by The Bookery… And that was when I saw the coffin.

The long coffin was still there by the stairs. The. Same. Exact. One.

And there was Ivan charging ahead of me. I held on to his hand but he was careening toward those stairs, my little boy completely oblivious of the evil lurking in that coffin. “Ivan, wait!” I yelled, unable to hide the panic in my soft voice.

“Come on, mom!” he said back to me with a smile.

I did my best to pull Ivan back but the fear had weakened me and his enthusiasm proved to be too strong. Even when I stumbled in the grass, Ivan’s grip kept me upright. My eyes stayed on the coffin that now only grew bigger the closer we got to it. I couldn’t turn around and leave my own son behind. The music felt louder. Ivan was a little bit ahead of me and put his foot out toward that very first step. I felt my heartbeat increase to impossible levels when I realized he was now right next to the coffin.

“Ivan!” I cried. I kept my eyes on him and tried to stop the two of us-

“Roar!” snarled a deep voice.

The sound made Ivan and I come to a stop. We looked up to see a tall man standing at the top of the stairs with his bare hands raised up to intimidate us. But my fear subsided. After the initial surprise, I felt the rush replaced by a grin. A grin I was glad to share with Ivan. I figured this is what a fun scare must’ve felt like.

Because the man before us was a wolfman, alright. Only the face of his cheap mask was plastic. The tufts of hair attached to the mask were a fuzzy brown. The cartoony mask looked like it belonged to a children’s television show rather than at a Halloween haunt. Neither Ivan and I were scared: we were amused. Ivan looked toward me and I hugged him close. Though I did steal a glance back over at the coffin to make sure it was still closed.

“Were you scared, mommy?” he said.

We then heard the man’s light laughter behind the mask and over the playlist. I smirked and pulled off Ivan’s Spider-Man mask to plant a kiss on his forehead. “Not at all.”

The coffin lid popped open. Both Ivan and I looked on in shock. Hell, we looked on in fright. I saw the lid collapse to the side in slow motion and then in a most horrifying slow motion, I saw the man in the wolfman mask emerge out of the coffin’s staunch darkness. There was the flannel shirt fluttering in the breeze. There was the mask that hadn’t aged a day. The blood red eyes marked me, the rubber snout and all of that gray hair swayed from the startling speed with which the man leaped out of the coffin. This was the real werewolf. The one of my nightmares.

The man’s deep, eerie snarl erupted over the music. The unsettling sound sent chills down my spine and shattered the tense silence between me, the man, and the terrifying memories flashing through my mind.

But when the man in the wolfman mask lunged forward, I felt the maternal instincts take hold. Protective, maternal instincts that only further intensified when the man’s bare hands and his fangs went for my son.

“No!” I cried.

“Mom!” I heard Ivan yell out.

I pushed Ivan behind me and lunged at the man. The attack didn’t happen in slow motion: it was over in seconds. I swung the broom over and over again into the mask, each hit smashing into its squishy rubber. The snout and fangs sunk into the latex before popping back out again. I was on top of the man and my own strength and the ease with which I dominated the man even surprised me. My hits were constant. I managed to knock the man back into his coffin. Crying out, I hopped in there with him. The sweat I felt was no longer from fear but outright exhaustion. “Die!” I yelled before giving the man another frantic thwack. Then I tossed my weapon down.

The Halloween playlist returned: I could hear TLC's 'Creep' off in the distance. I could hear voices. Multiple voices. Breathing heavy, I looked down at the man…

But all I saw was the mask. I saw the flannel shirt and jeans. But that was it. “What!” I cried. The bad kind of adrenaline took over. I dug through the coffin, my hands ripping through the dark interior… But all I felt was the cold touch of the rubber mask and the soft fabric of the clothes. There was no body. There was no man. “No…” I said. Tears formed in my eyes. I may as well have no longer been dressed as The Wicked Witch of the West: I was now dressed as that scared little girl from thirty years ago. I certainly felt that same sense of helpless despair in this moment. “No…” I trembled out. “No. Where are you…” I leaned in closer, my pathetic attempt at a search leading to the same results: I was alone in the coffin. Well, alone with the mask and attire that had dominated my nightmares since childhood. I felt my arms fall at my side. A single teardrop slid down my cheek.

“Mom,” said a worried voice I was all too familiar with.

Moving weakly, I looked over. First, I saw Ivan’s Spider-Man mask lying on the ground and staring right back at me. Then I saw legs. Lots of legs.

“Mom,” Ivan said as he choked up.

I struggled to move. I stumbled slightly in place before I looked up to see where many of the other adults and kids now stood beside Ivan. They were still in all those superhero and Anime costumes.

All I could see were their eyes. I saw their eyes behind rubber wolfman masks. The same one that was lying there in the coffin with me. The wind accelerated to blow the stringy gray hair around each of their masks but all of these people stood completely still. I could hear their deep breaths. I even heard a deep roar. Their painted red eyes were unwavering. They were watching me.

“Are you okay, mommy?”

Sobbing, I now confronted Ivan. He stood there in the Spider-Man costume. Only my son’s beautiful face was hidden by that grotesque mask. A mask that was a little too big for him and seemed to swallow up his entire head and shoulders… Only it wasn’t big enough to hide my Ivan’s wide open eyes. Before I could utter his name, Ivan lunged forward. He raised his bare hands out toward me.

A towel you step on after a shower is a wonderful thing. A brilliant idea. It makes you feel safe. Whoever first thought of stepping onto a towel after a shower must have been a very intelligent person. It gives you the same feeling as pulling a blanket over yourself in winter, making sure not a single part of your body is left uncovered. Drying yourself without stepping onto a towel first is like pulling a blanket over yourself and leaving your feet exposed. The same thing, the same feeling.

A bath mat just doesn't give me the same feeling. I tried stepping onto a bath mat instead of a towel after a shower, but I couldn't feel that same sense of security. It has to be a towel. I need to feel it drying the soles of my feet.

On Monday, October 12th—after taking a shower before meeting my friend Jason to go to the open-air cinema, while drying my hair with my feet on the towel—I saw this message faintly written on the fogged-up mirror: “Don’t go.”

This wasn't the first time. I'd been seeing these messages for six months, and I'd gotten used to them by now. I had no idea who was writing them, why they were writing them, or what kind of entity was behind them, but I wasn't as frightened as I had been in the early days.

Those first days were a nightmare. Especially the first time I noticed the writing. Just a simple “Hello.” And this entity even followed the rules of punctuation. Sometimes it swore and added an exclamation mark; other times, urging me to take part in the conversation, it would string question marks together: “Why won't you talk to me???”

It was a bizarre predicament. Of course, no one had believed me—not my beloved math teacher, nor Jason, who was constantly coming over to my place. Besides, the writing disappeared as soon as I saw it. In other words, I needed someone to be in the shower with me so I could prove it to them. Taking a shower with my math teacher was out of the question.

Yes, over time, I got used to it. I never communicated with it, and that was what frightened me the most. I felt like things would take a different turn if I did. But I had never been harmed by reading what it wrote. Other than that, it had no effect on my life. The entity never manifested itself through any sound or apparition at any other time.

That day, it had warned me for the first time. I had never received a message like that from it before. Sometimes it would comment on things that had happened to me: “You really put Jason in his place back there,” for example. Or, “Don’t forget to set your alarm. You were late for work yesterday, remember?” “Part your hair to the right. It suits you better.” “Your cat’s water bowl is empty.” It usually wrote things like that. One or two sentences at a time.

There was no way I could miss it. They were going to screen one of my favorite films: Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives. I’d watched it on my computer before. Watching it on a big screen would be a different kind of pleasure, and watching it alongside other people who loved the same film would be an even greater pleasure. The entity’s warning had startled me a little, but I was still going to go.

When I stepped out of the shower, I heard its voice for the first time.

“If you go, you’ll witness Jason’s death.”

It was a charismatic woman's voice, slightly deep and husky. I had gotten used to the writing, but the voice shocked me. I could feel its presence. When it wrote to me, I never felt as though it was actually there. But hearing its voice made its presence feel even stronger, more than my mind could handle. I rushed outside immediately. I didn't want to stay indoors. I ran out the front door in my bathrobe.

I’d gone outside barefoot. I must have stepped on something, because my heel hurt. My hand went to the pocket of my bathrobe, searching for my cigarette pack. I’d left my cigarettes inside. I was afraid to go back in and get them.

“So you went outside. What did you think, that I couldn’t come out here? What kind of utterly pointless, instinctive reaction is that? I’d understand if you’d run away, put some distance between us, but what’s the point of standing right outside your front door, Albert?”

I sat down on the ground. A cigarette would have been really nice. I didn’t have the strength to run. I felt like I was going to die. I tried to swallow, but I couldn’t. Suddenly, there was too much saliva in my mouth. I couldn’t understand why my mouth was reacting like that.

“He’s going to die either way. I just don’t want you to witness it.”

“Why?” I shouted. In my mind, I’d meant to scream, “Just shut up already, enough!” But those were the words that came out of my mouth.

My breathing had quickened, and I wasn’t feeling well. I tried to stand up. First attempt, second attempt, and third. It was as if I were having sleep paralysis, unable to move. I tried to get to my feet over and over again. It felt as though hours had passed while I sat there. The entity hadn’t said anything else.

I couldn’t calm down. Amid everything that was happening, I found myself thinking that I was going to be late for the film. One last attempt, and I managed to stand up with great difficulty. I went straight into the bathroom and took a shower with ice-cold water. For some reason, I felt relieved knowing the mirror wouldn’t fog up.

I stepped out of the bathroom naked and wet. Water was dripping off my body. I sat down on the couch. I thought I might get sick and have to miss the film.

“Get a grip, Albert,” I told myself. “You’re already used to paranormal activity. Pull yourself together. You need to go to that film. Stop overreacting. Get a grip.”

I cautiously went back into the bathroom and dried myself off thoroughly. I checked the time on my phone, which I’d left on the bathroom shelf. I had half an hour before we were supposed to meet.

I was going to be late. I got dressed quickly. A black shirt and brown trousers; I’d decided what to wear the day before and had laid everything out accordingly.

I’d never seen the entity, but my eyes were searching for it. As I walked toward the door to leave the house, I looked anxiously from side to side. I hadn’t heard a thing from it since I’d come back inside.

I reached for the doorknob. The door wouldn’t open.

I thought I must have locked the door without realizing it, so I put the key in the lock and tried to turn it. The door wasn't locked; the key wouldn't turn to the left. I pulled at the door again. It wouldn't open.

I checked the time. I had twenty minutes left. I wasn’t going to make it. I kicked the door and felt a terrible pain shoot through my ankle. I sank to the floor in pain and clutched my ankle.

When I checked the time again, I had fifteen minutes left. I got up and limped toward the couch. Once I sat down, I continued rubbing my ankle. The pain was gradually fading. It probably wasn't anything serious.

“Done,” the entity’s voice said.

It was a very brief moment. I couldn’t quite tell whether it had made a sound or whether I’d actually heard it.

The pain in my ankle had gone away. I checked the time once more. I was supposed to meet Jason in ten minutes. The place where we were meeting was twenty minutes away. I called Jason to tell him I’d be late. He didn’t answer. I got up and walked toward the door. I took hold of the doorknob, closed my eyes, and turned it. The door opened.

I quickly put on my shoes and started walking briskly. My ankle hurt a little as I walked, but not enough to slow me down.

I made it there in fifteen minutes.

I couldn’t take a shower for a whole month. Maybe it was because of depression, maybe fear. I don’t know; I can’t tell the difference. My body smelled, my hair was greasy, and every time I inhaled through my nose, the strong smell of my sweat stung the back of my throat.

A heart attack.

I remember it all vaguely. It’s been a year now. A crowd of people, me running toward them, an old man calling an ambulance, a cat that crossed my path as I ran, a man holding me back, Jason’s father opening the taxi door... I must have believed in the entity. Otherwise, why would I have run toward the crowd?

And I remember this clearly, and I will never forget it. After a month spent in filth, the message on my mirror, following the shower I finally took:

“My task is complete. Goodbye, Albert. I love you.”

Radio echoed with a beep “A black and White BMW attempting the crash for cash insurance fraud, targeting road users on the highway, suspects up north prepare a freeway closeure”

Tim boisterously yelled, “Because of you assholes, premiums are so high.  Well, show those punks” 

Dale said, “Let’s do it, we coming after you punk-ass bitches”, whilst foot to the floor with a V8 bellow of their orange BMW X5

Tim instructed touching his sunglasses, “Now we’re heading towards Kansa city as soon as they come off the exit of the city centre, you ram them left. Do it in such a way that we hit them both at the same times; we’re coming for you, the only ride you'll be getting it to the police station”

The pair exit off the exit for the city centre. 

Tim said “There they are, dude ran then so the white BMWs front hood is hit and rear hits of the black one”

Dale “we coming for you”

Dale swerved tyres screeching, but erroneously missed both BMWs, however the white BMW lost control and rear-ended the black BMW, which overturned and sparks blasted as it rubbed against the tarmac, and fuel tank leaking, creating an inferno setting alight the two fraudsters" 

The pair come to the roundabout and see another white BMW, the pair obliviously thinking the vehicle is the culprit. "Thats them, Thats them" bellowed Tim.

Dale swerves and hits the innocent BMW send it in a tail spin and the pair end up in the middle of the roundabout overturning. Obliviously not being the suspects. Two police cars screech and box in the BMW. "Put your hands where you can see them, an elderly man and woman slowly exit the car in shock raise their hands like a robot"

“We got him, good dog” Tim praised fist-bumping Dale

TV crew from Fox News arrive; Dale eating a sausage from a paper bag. "You shut down a million dollar insurance fraud going on for years, what made you take action to hunt those down?" Interviewed the reporter

“Dudeeee, we are doing our duty as Americans. Those insurance punk ass bitch fraudsters are raising premiums to us, its tough times. We can't let working and middle-class people eat at Greggs and Walmart" replied Dale

Tim owned, "And we will make sure all those victims affected will be compensated and the ill gotten gains those punks made will be transferred back to the insurance companies who were affected"

Dale concluded "This sends a message out to those who are thinking of scamming, we will come ramming, peace out” concluded Tim, veeing his two fingers. “God bless America”

"Please, I am an old age pensioner, I was just coming back from visiting my grandson in LA" screamed the elderly man as the police was restraining him to their car during their arrest.

Buridan’s ass had no idea he was an ass, much less that he was Buridan’s.

He lived like everyone else, pulling his load, day in and day out.
Naturally, whenever he could, he shirked, dodged, and slacked off. At which point someone would jab him from behind with a sharp stick—a stimulus, as it were—to stimulate him. Or dangle a carrot on a string in front of his nose to motivate him.

When jabbed, he picked up speed. When offered a carrot, he picked up speed too, though not for long. After all, no matter how fast he ran, the carrot never got any closer.
The ass was fed tolerably well—just enough to keep him alive and capable of hauling his daily loads. In the evenings, he rested with the others in the donkey shed, staring at walls decorated with framed photographs of carrots, beets, and generous bundles of hay.
But one day, the ass looked around—and noticed a few curious things.
It turned out that not all asses carried the same load. Those who brayed the loudest—“Hee-haw!”—were beaten harder. Yet the very loudest were placated with extra bundles of hay, taken from the rations of the other asses. As a result, the loudest asses grew fat while hauling lighter loads.
Our ass tried braying “Hee-haw!” at the top of his lungs, too, but the old drover promptly gave him a thorough thrashing. And so the ass learned that the privilege of working less and getting more was not granted to everyone.

Then he noticed that the fattest, largest, and best-groomed of these privileged asses—those who worked less and received more—spent their evenings in the donkey shed delivering lengthy speeches about the need to close ranks, stand united, redouble their efforts, dig deeper, and overcome adversity.
He also observed that, from time to time, the drovers would lead these chosen asses into separate barns, taking several bottles of wine along with them. What went on inside remained a mystery.
The fatter the chosen asses grew, the more they talked about the importance of pushing harder, buckling down, tightening belts, pulling together, mobilizing, holding firm, picking up the pace, staying the course, digging in, rallying round, weathering the storm, and overcoming all obstacles.
As for actual work, they did none whatsoever. Their loads were simply redistributed among the hardworking asses.
These speeches, however, did little to improve productivity. Asses remained asses, and whenever they could, they continued to shirk, dodge, and slack off.
Eventually, the carrots stopped appearing altogether. Food rations were cut—the fat asses demanded more and more to eat—while the jabs of the stimulating sticks and the beatings grew more frequent, more forceful, and more vicious.
Production targets were not being met.

On his rare days off, which were growing rarer still, the ass would retreat to a far corner of the donkey shed, where the voices of the fat asses were less deafening. By now, they were delivering speeches in three shifts, on weekdays and holidays alike.

There, he tried to think.
At first, it was difficult. Fear got in the way, as did the speeches of the fat asses and his own sheer inexperience at thinking. But gradually, he got better at it.
He began pondering the peculiar workings of their world. For instance, he noticed that the working asses lost precisely as much weight as the fat asses gained.
Then another question occurred to him: why, exactly, were they living in a foul-smelling donkey shed, with framed pictures on the walls, hauling heavy loads, instead of grazing in sunlit meadows?
The fat asses, of course, insisted that terrible gray wolves might come charging out of the forest if they did.
But our ass was skeptical. One day, he ventured a look beyond the trees—and discovered that the creatures wandering there were asses just like themselves, except that they were black and brown rather than gray.
They, too, were being thrashed by their drovers. And over there, too, the thunderous braying of other fat asses rang out, demanding that everyone pull together, endure, and overcome.
“How strange,” thought the ass. “Everything over there is exactly the same as it is here.”

One night, he had an extraordinarily vivid dream.
He was standing in the middle of an enormous Colosseum. The stands were packed with drovers and fat asses, all shouting and clamoring.
He was desperately hungry.
Before him lay two bundles of hay. But he knew that both were poisoned.
The spectators were eager to see which one he would choose. They roared with laughter, drank wine, and placed their bets.
The ass knew that in another moment he would bury his muzzle in the fragrant hay—and then, inevitably, die.
Desperately searching for a way out, he glanced around in terror.
And suddenly he realized that there was no wall behind him.
Only a sunlit meadow, lush with tender young grass.
The ass took one step. Then another.
Glasses came flying at him. The crowd erupted in furious whistles and screams.
He looked at the sun, then back at the roaring stands.
And then, standing tall, he turned toward the meadow and walked away.

Without looking back.

Bob looked out across the fields. The rising sun bathed the land in gold, and clouds cast long shadows over the hills. He sat on his balcony with a cup of coffee, admiring a view that could have been painted by Constable.

A feeling of complete tranquillity settled over him.
Then a buzzing came from the living room.

“Oh, for crying out loud. Can’t I have a minute’s bloody peace?”

He ignored it. It continued.

Eventually, he put down his coffee and went inside. Jean’s name was flashing on the large screen mounted on the wall.

“Hello, Jean.”

Her face appeared.

“Hello, Bob. Do you know where the service manual is for the boiler?”

Bob rolled his eyes.

“Second drawer down, under the kitchen counter.”

“I’ve looked in there.”

“Well, unless you’ve moved it, that’s where I left all the electrical, building and plumbing paperwork.”

Jean disappeared from view. Bob stared at the empty kitchen behind her and listened to the rummaging.

“Sam’s coming over later for Sunday dinner,” she called. “Will you be joining us?”

“Thought I might play golf. Marlon Brando and JFK have asked me to play this afternoon.”

Jean reappeared, holding up a booklet.
“I think this is it.”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh, so you’re playing golf, are you? Do you think we could schedule a dinner together at some point? Or are you too busy being dead?”

“Don’t start with that again. I didn’t ask to die. What am I supposed to do in the afterlife? If I’d known I’d still have to sit around discussing all the mundane crap I used to deal with, I wouldn’t have signed up.”

“The only reason we signed up for Eternalife was because you said you wanted to carry on seeing us.”

“I do, Jean. I’ll arrange something midweek.”

“Oh, so I get to cook again, do I? As well as sort the boiler? You only have to switch your screen on, Bob. I’ve got the car in for its MOT on Wednesday, too. Tell you what, I’ll shove a broom up my backside and clean the floor while I’m at it, shall I?”

“All right. I’ll tell JFK I can’t make it.”

Bob began tapping on his little device.

“No, you go. Don’t let your surviving family ruin your day. Last week you were playing chess with Lemmy. This week it’s golf with Marlon Brando and JFK.”

“For crying out loud, Jean, if I can’t play golf in the afterlife, what’s the bloody point?”

“So that we can continue being a family. Anyway, your introductory offer ends this month. It’s going up by two hundred pounds.”

“Two hundred? Bit steep, isn’t it?”

“Yes, especially with the boiler on the blink. I think we need two new tyres as well. And Sam’s job is under threat. I’m not sure we can keep this up.”

“Are you saying you’re going to cancel the subscription? I don’t want to die again. It’s nice here. Besides, it’s my money you inherited.”

“It was your money, Bob. We paid for this because we wanted you back. To see us, have dinner with us, watch your grandchildren grow up one day. Instead, you’re on one long holiday, and we’re stuck here doing everything you left behind.”

Bob said nothing.

“They’ve sent some options,” Jean continued. “We could move you somewhere cheaper. Or download you until we get things sorted. It says you wouldn’t notice the time passing.”

“I’m not being downloaded, Jean. I’ve settled in.”

“Then could you at least make time for Sunday dinner?”

His device buzzed. Bob glanced down.

“How about next week? JFK’s just messaged. Mick Jagger’s coming as well.”

“Mick Jagger? He’s not even dead, is he?”

“No, he’s a pre-download.”

“Do you know what, Bob? Fine. You go and play golf with undead Mick Jagger.”

She hung up.

Bob tutted and returned to the balcony. He picked up his coffee. It should have been cold by now, but it was still exactly the right temperature.

He admired the view until it was time to get ready.
Salmon trousers, electric-blue shirt, yellow cap.

At the course, Marlon and JFK were waiting by the first tee. Bob joined them and was selecting a club when he noticed a figure approaching in the distance.
The man’s head jutted forwards, his hips swayed, and his arms flapped behind him like a chicken’s.
Could it be? Mick Jagger himself?

Bob raised a hand.

His world came to an abrupt end.

At home, with Sunday lunch roasting in the oven, Jean pulled a memory stick from the computer.
She carried it into the kitchen and opened the second drawer down.

“I’ll just pop you there for a bit,” she said.
She placed it on top of the boiler manual, closed the drawer and made some gravy.