{self-titled}

1

[self-titled] Copyright© Cian Sean McGee CSM Publishing Araraquara, São Paulo, Brazil 2021 First Edition All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, scanning or digital information storage and retrieval without permission from the author.

ISBN: 9798762325875

Skull Painting: Stein Roger Sordal Everything Else: C. Sean McGee

Support independent art before it cuts its own ear off.

2

a book of zen fables

[self-titled]

c.seanmcgee 3

Bucket List Charlie and The Great Flood Roger and Maria Harrold with an E R.G.B The Terrible Tragedy of The Three Bears Red Riding Blood All Those Ghosts The Time Machine I – 3x+1 The Amusement Park The Man in the Dress The Activists The Last Man on Earth The Eulogy of Prudence Birdwhistle Mary, The Butcher of Salisbury The Tortoise and The Hare The Crow in the Well The Time Machine II – a small glass cube The Time Machine III – the mirror The Son of The Snake What Comes with a Robot Body?

Dude, Your Anatomy!

The Policy The Girlfriend Experience The Farm The Noble Mountain Die Stanley Die Mabel and Abel Girl Mallory 4

6 -17 18 - 24 25 - 32 33 - 43 44 - 52 53 - 68 69 - 81 82 - 88 89 - 97 98 - 106 107 - 117 118 - 125 126 - 131 132 - 134 135 - 140 141 - 147 148 - 157 158 - 159 160 - 166 167 - 177 178 - 194 195 - 204 205 - 215 216 - 229 230 - 237 238 - 245 246 - 255 256 - 265 266 - 273

you die at the end

5

Charlie and the Great Flood

6

Once upon a time, there was a small raindrop that lived in a small house in a small town inside of a small cloud; one that floated about high in the light blue sky. Charlie was his name, and he was the happiest little raindrop in the cloud, maybe even the whole sky.

“Charlie, honey, time to wake up!”

That was Charlie’s favourite thing in the world to do – waking up. That and going to school, of course. How awesome was it, then, that he got to do both of them every single day!

“Yay! Another day,” shouted Charlie. “Woohoo! Being alive is the best.”

It was as if when he was asleep each night, somebody snuck into his room with a straw and blew a giant bubble of joy inside him, because every morning when he woke, he would bounce around his bedroom, almost as if he were a big old balloon. Waking up was awesome, it really was. There was no better feeling, except, of course, going to school – that was just the best!

You see, at school, Charlie got to see his best friends. They were all raindrops just like him. Some of them were big raindrops and some of them were small, but like Charlie, they were all made of water, and that was what mattered. He had so many friends, too – enough to fill a hundred swimming pools. He loved them and they loved him.

“Big day today, Charlie,” said Mum. “Are you excited?”

Charlie had almost forgotten. Today was the big day. He’d thought it was just a normal day.

“Your mum’s right, you know,” said Dad. “It is a big day today.”

He made it sound so daunting as if there was no way it would be fun.

“Did I ever tell you about your uncle?”

Charlie settled down and paid attention to his dad, just as he always did, whenever he listened to this story. The pride of the family, his dad called it. A story he told a hundred times a day, every day of the week. It was a story that Charlie never tired of hearing, just as Dad never tired of telling it.

7

“He was right about your age, he was – Uncle Cliff. He was the pride of my daddy’s eyes too. Of everyone really. The pride of our family, he was. And still is.”

Mum put her hand on Dad’s shoulder and wept a tear, but not a sad one mind you.

“The bravest raindrop in the cloud,” said Dad. “You know what he was made of ?”

Of course, he knew; the same thing he was made of every other time he’d told this story.

“What’s that, Dad?” said Charlie, pretending he had no idea.

“Courage,” said Dad. “He was made of courage.”

“Courage,” said Charlie in awe as if hearing it for the first time. “Wow.” “That’s right. Your uncle didn’t just rain in any old pond or puddle, not like any ordinary raindrop. No, sirree.”

“What did he do, dad?” said Charlie, on the edge of his seat.

“What did he do?”

“Your uncle Cliff put out the great fire,” said Dad. “Wow.” “That’s right. He didn’t wait. He didn’t flinch. He wasn’t scared one bit. He just jumped off this small cloud and flew right down on top of that raging inferno. And you know what he did?”

“What’s that, dad?”

“He saved the day. Your uncle, Cliff. The pride of our family.”

Charlie beamed with joy. He loved hearing this story.

“One day we’ll be telling that story about you,” said Mum. She kissed him on the cheek and passed him his packed lunch.

“You think?” asked Charlie. “You think I could be the pride of the family too?”

“I know so,” said Mum. Ever since he was born, Charlie knew that one day a time would come when he would have to leave his small home, to leave his small town, and as crazy as this sounds, to leave the small cloud 8

too. Yep, that’s right! They expected him to jump off the cloud!

Crazy, right?

But that’s just what raindrops did. It’s what they were born to do. When the time came, they jumped off their cloud with gazillions of other raindrops, down unto the Earth below.

“Be who you are meant to be.”

That was the motto. It was what everyone said - his teacher, his mum, his dad; everyone.

You could be relief for a farmer, maybe; a farmer whose crops and cattle had been parched, thirsted, and hard done by a long and terrible drought; or you could be delight for a forest; one whose canopy reaches almost as high as the clouds, filling the streams and rivers that snaked through it bringing sustenance to all the big and little creatures who lived inside; or you could be joy to a small child in a playground, splashing about in a big old pool of mud. You could be anything at all.

“Be who you are meant to be.”

That’s all anyone ever said.

“Be who you were meant to be. Be who you are meant to be.”

But that’s the thing, you see; poor Charlie didn’t know who he wanted to be.

“What if I don’t know what I want to be?” he asked.

“You’ll know,” said Dad, cryptically.

“You’ll figure it out,” said Mum, as if that made it better.

“What if I’m not relief ?” said Charlie. “What if I’m not delight?”

The poor boy was saddled with worry.

“What if I’m not Joy?” The idea was absurd. It was all he had been taught to be. It was all he could be. Yet, here he was, thinking of himself in the future and imaging a far worse predicament.

“What if I’m a flood?” he said.

The thought alone was terrifying. Dad, though, just laughed.

“You’ll be fine, son. Just stay in your line, stick with your friends, and it’ll all work out. You’ll see. There’s no need to worry 9

at all.”

He made it sound so easy.

“We’d better be getting along,” said Mum. “Today is the big day, and we don’t want to delay.”

And it was. Today was the day that Charlie would jump out of the cloud. Today was the day that he would find out who he was born to be. It should have been the happiest day in his life, too. It should have, but it wasn’t.

“I wish it were yesterday,” said Charlie. “I really do.”

You see, Charlie didn’t want to grow up. He didn’t want to change. Everything was perfect already as it was. School was fun.

Playing chasey in the schoolyard was better. Why couldn’t he just be a kid forever?

“Well?” said Mum in her wisdom. “Even if it were yesterday, it would still be today.”

Charlie didn’t really know what she meant but it stopped him from worrying.

“Look,” she said. “There’s all your friends.”

There, by the edge of the cloud were gazillions of raindrops, all of them bouncing around trying to peer over the edge; their teacher – Mr Gota – waved his arms around like a crazy person, trying to get them all in single file.

“Charlie, come with us,” said one group.

“Charlie, come with us,” said another.

Each group formed a line along the edge of the cloud, each one with a different place and purpose. Some of them would go on to bring rain to farmers, those whose livestock and crops had been parched by a lingering drought, while others would fill lakes and streams, and quench the thirst of the prettiest of flowers and the tallest of trees. Some would even make big puddles, the kind that children loved to play in, so they could get all muddy and have fun.

“Charlie, come with us,” everyone shouted.

They were all so happy, so sure of who they were going to be.

“I’m not ready,” said Charlie.

“Nobody is ever ready,” said Mum. “No matter how much 10

much they plan. When it’s time, even the bravest - even the most prepared - wishes they had just one minute more.”

“But what if I’m not like Uncle Cliff ?”

He looked at Dad as he said it. Uncle Cliff was the pride of the family. He was the pride of the whole town. All Charlie ever wanted was to make his dad proud.

“What if I don’t bring relief ? What if I don’t bring delight?

What if I don’t bring joy? What if I rain on someone’s parade?

What if I don’t make you proud?”

“You worry too much. You’ll do fine,” said Mum. “Your Dad loves you. He just wants to see you happy. We both do. It’s just a choice.”

“What if I make a mistake?” asked Charlie, sounding more than unsure; sounding scared. “What if I choose wrong? What if I don’t know who I want to be?”

Mum smiled and kissed him on the cheek.

“You are who you are,” she said. “And that’s who you will forever be.”

Again, Charlie had no idea what she meant, but again it stopped him from worrying.

“I love you, dear,” she shouted as he went to join his friends.

Charlie didn’t look back for he knew that if he did, he would only cry and want to go home. Instead, he pretended he was as brave and courageous as Uncle Cliff.

“I wish it were yesterday,” he said to himself.

“Ten seconds,” shouted Mr Gota.

He had spent their entire lives preparing them for this moment, Mr Gota that is; forming them into the raindrops they were, and the raindrops they would soon become. If he was proud, he did a great job at hiding it. His face was shaped like a starting gun and his voice, as he shouted at every line to get ready and get set, sounded like a referee’s whistle.

“Five seconds,” he shouted.

Charlie peered over the edge of the cloud. Below him, he could see hundreds of other clouds, and on the edges of those clouds, , gazillions of raindrops just like him, all lined up and not 11

only ready but wanting to jump – all of them so completely sure of who they were and who they wanted to be.

Yet all Charlie wanted was just one more minute.

“One second!”

It was so far down. So, so far.

“Make me proud,” shouted Dad. And that was what startled Charlie and had him trip and fall off of the cloud. He wasn’t even in a line. Mr Gota hadn’t even shouted ‘Jump’. By the time he had, Charlie was already falling – alone.

“I wish it were yesterday,” screamed Charlie, as he fell from the sky.

It was a long way down. It was so long in fact that, before he had even gotten halfway, Charlie had stopped his screaming and shouting, and was instead back to his quiet and pensive worrying.

“Don’t be a flood,” he thought. “Don’t be a flood. Don’t be a flood.”

Around him, hundreds of millions of raindrops – gazillions even –were raining down from the sky, all of them huddled together in their groups; Charlie, the only one who was alone.

One group sang a song as they rained down. They looked and sounded so merry.

“What are you going to be?” shouted Charlie.

“Joy,” shouted one of the raindrops in reply.

That alone made all of the raindrops even happier.

“What about you?” asked the raindrop to Charlie.

Charlie didn’t know. All he hoped was that he wouldn’t be a flood.

Most of the groups were much the same, singing songs full of jubilant and merry wonder. Most, not all. There were a few ragtag groups. Groups that were made up of angry and rebellious raindrops; raindrops that liked neither relief, delight, nor joy – raindrops that instead, set out to do the exact opposite.

“Hey kid,” shouted one of the raindrops. “We’re gonna rain on a wedding,” said the raindrop. “Totally ruin their day. It’s gonna

12

be awesome. Wanna come with us?”

“No, thank you,” shouted Charlie politely.

“Your loss,” said the rebellious raindrop.

Charlie was just glad they didn’t beat him up.

“I wish it were yesterday,” he said again.

Charlie could see the ground now. It was still so very far away, but for the first time he could make out the farm, the forest, and the playground. Each was so close to one another and yet he felt so far from either one.

“Charlie!”

To his right, Charlie could see all of his friends huddled together.

“Come with us,” they shouted.

“I can’t,” said Charlie in reply.

He couldn’t either. He was too far away and because he was just a single drop of rain, the wind was taking him further from his friends; further still, from the farm, the forest, or the playground.

It was taking him to the river, somewhere no raindrop ever wanted to go.

“You can’t go to the river,” shouted his friends.

“I know,” shouted Charlie in reply. “But the wind has taken me; there’s nothing I can do. I wish it were yesterday,” he shouted.

“I wish I were with you.”

The wind had taken him - so very far. There was no way he could make his way back to them. There was nothing at all that he could do.

“We love you, Charlie,” shouted his friends.

But Charlie couldn’t hear them. He was falling faster now.

And below him, instead of a farm, a forest, or a playground, there was a raging river, one that sounded as clamorous and fierce and ruinous as it looked – just a torrent of unstoppable destruction.

Overwhelmed by the noise and afraid to look down, poor Charlie shut his eyes.

“I’m sorry Dad,” he said. “I’m sorry, Mum. I wish I had been better. I wish I had been more like Uncle Cliff. I really wish it were

13

yesterday.’

Then he splashed into the river.

The torrent raged. It swirled and swarmed, and spun Charlie round and round and round, spitting him into the air a thousand times, just to suck him back under right after. He was dizzy, delirious, and desperate to escape. But there was no escape. He was the river as much as he was himself.

“Hi,” said a drop of water.

Her name was Stacey.

“I’m Stacey,” she said.

She was so composed, considering how topsy turvy things were.

“What’s your name?” she said.

“I’m Charlie,” said Charlie.

He, though, was not.

“Isn’t this so much fun?” said Stacey.

It was one of those questions, though, that wasn’t a question.

“I wish it were yesterday,” shouted Charlie.

“Are you not having fun?” she asked. “Don’t you like rapids?”

It was a fair question. Charlie was a raindrop, and nothing made raindrops happier than jumping, and tumbling, and rolling around. It was the most fun thing in the world to do. And every raindrop loved to have fun. Heck, that’s all Charlie did at school every day, and it was all he did when he got home and played by himself – jumping and tumbling and rolling around.

And yet here he was, in a raging river with a billion gazillion other raindrops, all of them doing the one thing he loved more than anything else - jumping and tumbling and rolling around - and poor old Charlie was glum.

“I’m worried,” he said.

He sounded it too.

“Worried? About what?”

“What we will become,” said Charlie.

Stacey laughed.

“You’re funny,” she said. “I like you.”

14

Charlie’s face, though, was shaped like a question mark.

“Oh, you’re serious?” said Stacey. “I thought you were joking.”

She looked a little puzzled herself.

“It’s all I can think about,” said Charlie.

“So just think about something else,” said Stacey. “Or better yet, don’t think at all!”

Then she did a whole bunch of cartwheels.

“Aren’t you worried?” asked Charlie.

Stacey grabbed Charlie’s hands and spun him as fast as she could. Round and round and round they went, faster and faster each time. Soon enough they were spinning so fast that everything was a blur. They couldn’t see anything. They couldn’t hear anything.

And when they got fast enough, they couldn’t even think.

“This is amazing,” shouted Charlie.

For a second it was like being back on the cloud, playing with his best friends. He felt like a kid again – joyful, spirited, and free.

The only thing that mattered was right now, and right now he was having the most fun he had ever had in his life.

“I love you, Charlie,” shouted Stacey, letting go of his hands.

Charlie kept spinning and spinning and spinning, smiling the whole time. He hadn’t even noticed the river splitting in two. He hadn’t seen Stacey flow to one side and he to another.

“I love you, Stacey,” he shouted, reaching out to grab her hands.

“Who’s Stacey?”

It wasn’t Stacey’s hands he was holding.

“Who are you?” said Charlie.

“I’m Jeff,” said Jeff.

“Jeff ? Where’s Stacey?”

“Who’s Stacey?”

“She’s a raindrop. She’s my best friend.”

“Really? I’m a raindrop. We should be best friends too.”

He made a pretty good case. There was no reason why they shouldn’t be. After all, they were both raindrops, and both of them loved jumping and tumbling and rolling around more than they did 15

anything else.

“Best friends forever!” shouted Jeff.

“Best friends forever!” shouted Charlie in reply.

Pretty soon it wasn’t just Charlie and Jeff, there were at least half a gazillion raindrops all holding hands, all of them jumping and tumbling and rolling around. And they were all shouting the exact same thing.

“Best friends forever!”

They were having so much fun that Charlie had forgotten altogether about worrying, which was something he always did. It was important to worry. It meant you cared about the future because you were thinking about all the things that could go wrong.

And here he was, in the middle of a raging river, one that could just as easily become a flood, and he wasn’t worried at all.

“I’m having the time of my life,” he shouted.

The gazillions of other raindrops all agreed. And so did the other gazillion that joined them just around the river’s bend. There were so many raindrops now that the river had swollen, so much that it spilled out over the banks, onto the land that surrounded it.

“Oh no,” thought Charlie. “I’m a flood. I’m going to bring ruin and heartache to the world. I’m going to bring shame to my mum and dad.”

Charlie started to cry. The more he cried, though, the more swollen the river became. And the more swollen the river, the more the little raindrop wept.

“I want to go home,” he shouted. “I wish it were yesterday.”

The river didn’t just spill over the banks now; it flooded the entire land. Pushed out over the edge, Jeff and the other raindrops all shouted with glee: “We love you, Charlie.”

The poor little raindrop didn’t hear though. The river raged and roared so loud that even his own cries went unheard. Outwards Charlie went, swept by a magnificent current, out over the land, almost tearing out every tree, and whipping the soil up like grains of sand in a cyclonic wind.

Rife with shame and guilt, Charlie held his breath every second of the way. He shut his eyes too, not wanting to see what kind 16

of terror and devastation awaited him. When he did finally open them though, it wasn’t misery that awaited him. It wasn’t untold death and destruction. It wasn’t chaos, devastation, and ruin. No. It was joy.

It was joy, delight, and relief.

“Papa,” said a young girl, cupping her hands to take enough water to splash her father. “It’s a miracle.”

It had been a particularly dry year and neither the girl nor her papa had thought that there would be enough rain this season to engorge the river sufficiently enough so that its flood might reach their tiny farm and quench the thirst of their sunburned crops.

Both had been beset with worry, so much so that neither the girl nor her papa had ever once seen the other smile. Such was the spell of misery the drought had brought that even their tears were dry.

Or they had been, at least, for the tears that ran down the young girl’s face – and on that of her father too – were tears of happiness as much as they were, tears of relief.

“You are right my daughter,” said her papa. “The gods have blessed us with plentiful rain and a bountiful flood. What a delight to see so much water. Enough for all of our crops. Enough for everyone’s crops. It is a miracle indeed. The gods are smiling. The gods are kind.”

The young girl held a single drop of rain in her hands: Charlie. And she looked at him as if he were the greatest gift in the world. And Charlie looked at her in much the same light. The young girl smiled at him, and Charlie smiled back. All his life he had been worried about who he would become, and now, at the end of his journey, it was patently clear.

“I was me all along.”

17

Roger and Maria

18

Once upon a time, there was a big court where two children played, on either end, kicking a ball against a wall: alone, on their own, by themselves. Roger and Maria were their names, and for as long as either one could remember, Maria played on one side of the court while Roger played on the other.

Each and every morning, Roger and Maria did the exact same thing. They jumped out of their beds, scoffed down their cereal, kissed their mums and dads on the cheeks, grabbed their footballs, and ran to the court to play.

And every day, without fail, without question, without ever wondering why, Maria would go to one end of the court and Roger would go to the other. And there they would stay, until their mums and dads called them home, kicking a ball against a wall; alone, on their own, by themselves.

And at the end of the day, just like every day, they’d race home, kiss their mums and dads on the cheek, scoff down their dinner, and then go to their beds, sleeping safe and sound with their footballs on their pillows beside them.

They were the happiest kids in the world, and the court was, by far, their most favourite place to be. It had everything they needed – a ground to keep the ball off and a wall to kick it against. The only other thing was, of course, their footballs, which for Roger and Maria, were more than just bouncy toys; their footballs were their best friends. They didn’t just love playing football, they loved themselves while they were playing it. Nothing in the world made them happier.

Both were exceptionally good players and capable of the most fantastic stunts and tricks. Maria, for example, could kick the ball in the air with her foot over seven hundred and seventy-six times without it ever touching the ground – not once. Not only that, but she could catch it on the back of her neck! That was her special trick.

And Roger, too, was just as good. He could keep the ball off the ground for just as long, except he used his head and his knees; and his special trick was to balance the ball on the very tips of his toes. The two of them really were exceptional players and both 19

were really good at their stunts and tricks, if not the best in the whole entire world.

It didn’t matter if the sun was shining or if the sky was smeared with black thunderous clouds and held hostage by the threat of rain, Roger and Maria were always there, at either end of the court, kicking a ball against a wall: alone, on their own, by themselves.

They didn’t depend on the weather just as they didn’t have to depend on anyone else. It was just the way they liked it. They could play whatever game they wanted, whenever they wanted, and they could make up the rules as they went along. It wasn’t just easier that way, it was better. As long as they had a wall and a ball, they didn’t need anybody else.

One day, though, a day that was neither sunny nor cloudy, neither bright nor dull, but instead, a weary and woeful mix of the two, both Maria and Roger mastered their special tricks; she with the ball on her neck, and he with the ball balanced, with all the grace of a ballerina, on the very tips of his toes. It should have been the greatest day of their lives; their celebration should have lasted weeks. But it wasn’t and it didn’t. It was neither the greatest day in their lives nor was it the worst – it was both.

When Maria perfected her trick – catching and then balancing the ball on her neck - she got so excited and so full of joy that she was like a pressure pot that was about to explode. It didn’t even matter that the ball fell on the ground right after; heck, she had never imagined getting it up there in the first place. She wanted to tell everyone in the world. She’d never felt like this before. She’d never been this happy. She just wanted to squeal.

She didn’t, though. Instead, she sighed.

Roger, too. When he caught the ball on the very tips of his toes and held it there for more than a second, he was dumbfounded – such was his shock and disbelief. Then, when he realised just what it was that he had done, his blood felt electric; sparks were bursting out of his ears. He too wanted to squeal, but he too didn’t.

Instead, like Maria, he sighed.

It was in that moment, you see, on the happiest day of Roger 20

and Maria’s lives that it had become dauntingly clear: there was no lonelier feeling in the world than having the most amazing news to share, but no one to share it with.

And for the first time ever, Roger and Maria felt sad.

It was a terrible feeling. It was the worst in the world. But like all feelings, it passed. And soon enough, Roger and Maria were back-breaking new records and inventing new stunts and tricks; so many that it would be a shame to mention just one for the simple fact that it would be impossible to name them all. And they were happy again, on either end of the court, kicking a ball against a wall: alone, on their own, by themselves.

And it was the same, years later when they were grown-ups too.

Every day, Roger and Maria jumped out of their beds, scoffed down their breakfasts, sent emojis to their mums and dads, grabbed their footballs, and then ran to the court to play. And just like when they were kids, Maria went to one end of the court while Roger went to the other.

One day, though, on a day that was neither normal nor strange, the most incredible, the most impossible, the most stupendously unexpected thing happened.

Just as Maria was about to beat another one of her records and keep the ball in the air for seven hundred and seventy-seven times, she got distracted and the ball not only fell to the ground, but it knocked against the wall and bounced back behind her – all the way to Roger’s side of the court.

Shocked as they were, both Roger and Maria turned and faced each other. It was the first time, for as long as they could remember, that either one had ever had their backs against the wall.

Neither one really knew what to do.

So, Maria smiled and then Roger smiled back.

“Hi,” said Maria.

“Hi,” said Roger.

“My name’s Maria,” said Maria.

“My name’s Roger,” said Roger.

“Hi, Roger.”

21

“Hi, Maria.”

Roger was a little nervous; actually, he was petrified. He had seen Maria do some of her stunts and tricks and had always thought she was an exceptional player, probably even the best in the world. The only thing he wanted right now was to tell her just that, but as he looked at her and she at him, for whatever reason, he couldn’t. Instead, he just smiled, and Maria smiled back; because she too wanted to tell Roger that she thought his stunts and tricks were the best she had ever seen but she was nervous too, actually she was petrified. And for the same silly reason that Roger couldn’t speak, neither could she.

They stared at each other for a good minute or two, but it felt like a day, a week, or a month. They would have stayed there forever were it not for a gust of wind that blew the ball against Roger’s foot. Without thinking, he kicked it over to Maria. It was a pretty good kick too, and it felt so much better than kicking the ball against the wall. Maria, much to Roger’s surprise, kicked the ball right back.

Roger couldn’t believe it – neither could Maria, to be honest.

And without a word said between them, soon enough they were kicking the ball back and forth, having the time of their lives. Neither one could have ever imagined having this much fun without a wall.

“How many times can you keep it off the ground?” asked Roger.

“My record is seven hundred and seventy-six,” said Maria.

“What’s yours?”

“The same,” said Roger, though his was six hundred and ninety-four.

“Do you wanna try and make a record together?” asked Maria.

“That’s a great idea,” said Roger.

And that was it. From that point on, neither Roger nor Maria kicked a ball against a wall ever again. They never played alone too.

Every morning they jumped out of their beds, scoffed down their cereal, sent emojis to their mums and dads, and then ran to the 22

court where, always wanting to be first, they waited at the gate for the other to arrive.

At first, Roger and Maria could only keep the ball off the ground two or three times. It wasn’t so easy having to depend upon another person. It could be frustrating too. Every time it fell, though, they laughed and gave each other high-fives, and without much ado, they tried again – and again, and again. They tried so much that soon enough they had broken both their records, keeping the ball in the air over a thousand times, something they could never have done if they were kicking a ball against a wall; alone, on their own, by themselves.

Both Roger and Maria didn’t just love playing football, they loved themselves while they were playing it. And it wasn’t until they had played football with each other that they both realised that love is a verb – it is an act of giving. And that, just like keeping the ball off the ground, it wasn’t always easy to give love, just as it wasn’t always easy to receive it.

Sometimes, for no reason whatsoever, the ball just fell to the ground. But neither one ever blamed the other, and neither one ever blamed themselves. They merely kicked the ball and started counting again. They knew they had to rely on each other, not only to keep the ball in the air but also to pick each other up whenever it fell – and it would always fall. It had to or else there wouldn’t be a record.

And it didn’t matter too if at the end of every day they got a brand-new record because no matter how many times they kept it off the ground, no matter how good they had been that day, the very next day, they would always start back from one.

And then one day, on a day that had the right amount of sun and the right amount of soft wispy clouds, Roger and Maria broke their biggest record ever. Not only that, but they also invented a new trick. Both got excited, dumbfounded, and full of joy. Both felt like like pressure pots about to explode. Both had blood that felt electric and sparks bursting from their ears.

This time, though, instead of sighing, they both squealed, loud and triumphant, and they jumped around together holding 23

hands shouting, “Yipeeee” and “We did it” and “I love you.”

And then they froze – dead still, staring in each other’s eyes; petrified. The words had just fallen out of their mouths. Both felt exposed, vulnerable, and alone. If the first time they stared at each other had felt like a day, a week, or a month, well then this felt like an eternity.

“I think you’re an exceptional player,” they both said at the very same time. “I always have. You do the most amazing stunts and tricks.”

And then just like that, they hugged and kissed.

And at the end of that day, just like the end of every day to come, Roger and Maria ran home, sent emojis to their mums and dads, scoffed down their dinner, and then went to bed with their best friend and the loves of their lives sleeping on the pillow beside them, while the football that they had bought together, sat neatly at the end of the bed.

24

Harrold with an E

25

Once upon a time in a quiet part of the world, there was a quiet street, a wonderful street in fact; one that was paved with cobblestones and furnished with a halcyon river, a noble and majestic tree, and a quaint wooden bench, one etched with the initials of besotted lovers.

And every day that quiet and wonderful street came to life as besotted lovers, sitting on the quaint wooden bench, discoursed passionately about politics, philosophy, and romance; whilst beneath the noble and majestic tree, a young family made their picnic, staring dotingly at their children who climbed that tree in joyful reverence; and finally, standing in quiet contemplation, an old lady in mourning stared into the halcyon river as her thoughts and worries were swept far, far away.

It really was a quiet and wonderful street.

But one night – a night that was as dark as it was villainous - there came a gang of no-good kids; kids with mean and bullish faces and wearing pots & pans for shoes; all of them dressed from head to toe in ragged black clothes – the kind that smelled like rotten eggs and skunks and grandad’s wet farts.

There were four of them in all, three boys and a girl, and they marched down this quiet and wonderful street, stamping their feet and clanging those pots & pans as they went along, making the most ungodly racket.

When the no-good kids saw the quaint wooden bench, the one etched with the initials of besotted lovers, they all stuck their tongues out and shouted rude and horrible things like ‘Yuk’ and ‘Eww’ and ‘That’s gross’.

And then, when they saw the noble and majestic tree, they hissed and cursed – their faces vile and vulgar; one boy even going so far as to tear off one of its branches.

And finally, when they saw the halcyon river, they each stood side by side with their mean and bullish faces and took turns spitting in the water.

They really were a gang of no-good kids.

When they were done hissing and spitting and sticking their

26

tongues out, the no-good kids marched down to a wall at the end of the street, one that had only recently been painted. And there, one of the kids took out a can of black spray paint and they took turns graffitiing the meanest and foulest and most despicable word in the whole entire world.

All three boys sprayed a single letter each, smiling as they did - a smile as frightening as any crocodile, hyena, or crazed baboon.

When it came to the last letter, though, they all turned and pointed to a new member of the gang, a girl with bright yellow hair; hair though, that was hidden beneath the hood of her ragged black clothes.

“You,” shouted one of the boys, the leader maybe. His words were like a poking finger. They were fatal, rude, and judging. “Finish it or you’re out of the gang. Finish it, or we won’t think you’re cool.”

There was something about the girl, though, something that was different. Her face, for example, wasn’t mean or bullish like the three boys, it was soft and sullen. And though she dressed like them, wearing the same raggedy clothes and pots & pans for shoes, it was her hair that gave her away. More so, it was the colour of her hair that hinted at the fact that deep down, hidden under all those raggedy clothes, she was not like them. Whereas all the nogood kids had hair that was as fetid and filthy as their clothes, hers, though hidden beneath her hood, was as yellow as a daisy and as bright as the sun.

“Be a rebel,” said the boy who was probably the leader. “Be a rebel like us.”

The poor sweet girl never really wanted to be in a gang, but she was - everyone was in one way or another - so what on Earth was she to do?

“Be like us,” chanted the no-good kids. “Be like us. Be like us. Be like us.”

The girl with bright yellow hair didn’t bother with the can of black paint. Why? She had her own – a can of paint that was as yellow as a daisy and as bright as the sun. And as she sprayed the letter ‘E’, the last letter in the ugliest word in the whole entire world, her 27

face didn’t look mean or bullish, it didn’t look ghoulish or grotesque, not like the no-good kids; no, hers was soft and sullen. And she didn’t graffiti that letter either, she painted it as if the ‘E’ were an act of compassion – a different kind of rebellion altogether.

And the very next morning, the strangest thing occurred, the ‘E’ came to life. His name was Harrold, and Harrold had no idea, not only that he was a letter painted on a wall, but also that he was the last letter in the ugliest word in the world – HATE. “What a beautiful world,” said Harrold, looking out at the halcyon river, the noble & majestic tree, and the quaint wooden bench, etched with the initials of besotted lovers.

Each seemed to have its place. They all seemed to belong.

He wondered then, what was his place and where did he belong?

And though he had only just come to life, poor sweet Harrold was struck with but one question, one that would never let him rest.

‘Who am I?’ All Harrold knew of the world and the possibility of what could be, was from what he could see. The whole entire world was, in fact, this quiet and wonderful street.

“Am I a halcyon river? Am I a noble & majestic tree? Am I a quaint wooden bench? Am I as wonderful and beautiful as thee?

Who am I?” That afternoon, when the sun was almost about to set, Harrold watched as an old lady, one whose husband had only recently passed, stood by the halcyon river in quiet contemplation as her thoughts and worries were swept far far away. Her face looked so calm and peaceful in spite of all her grief.

Harrold wondered, “Who am I? Am I a halcyon river? When the old lady looks at me, will her face be calm and peaceful too?

Will that be proof that I am the river? I do hope so. I cannot wait until she looks at me. I cannot wait to know who I am.”

Next, he watched as a family made their picnic beneath the noble & majestic tree. The mother and father sat dotingly as their children climbed the thick branches and swung from them like playful monkeys, their faces enveloped with joy.

28

Harrold wondered, “Who am I? Am I a tree? Am I majestic & noble too? Do I have branches that reach out over the sky bringing comfort and shade? When the family looks at me, will their expressions be doting and joyful too? Will that be proof that I am the tree? I do hope so. I cannot wait until they look at me. I cannot wait to know who I am.”

And finally, he watched as besotted lovers drank their coffees and stared into each other’s eyes longingly, stopping only to etch their initials into the quaint wooden bench - their faces embossed with passion.

Harrold wondered, “Who am I? Am I a quaint wooden bench? Will besotted lovers carve their initials into me? Will I be the roost for their impassioned discourse? When they look at me, will their faces be passionate too? Will that be proof that I am the bench? I do hope so. I cannot wait until they look at me. I cannot wait to know who I am.”

And poor sweet Harrold did not have to wait. As the sun slowly set, the old lady, the family, and the besotted lovers all walked down the street towards him. His nerves were such a flutter, he could barely contain himself.

“Who am I?” he wondered. “I’m about to find out.”

His mirth, though, quickly soured as he watched the old lady’s face turn from peaceful and calm to an expression that was gangrenous and coarse, one that was shaped like a rude gesture.

The family too, and the besotted lovers as well, their expressions were neither doting, joyful, nor impassioned. Theirs had turned, just as the old lady’s had, into ones of abhorrence, contempt, and offence. They all snarled, hissed, and jeered, and they stuck their tongues out at poor sweet Harrold before walking off in apparent disgust.

Ashamed and full of woe, Harrold lamented: “Who am I if I cause these wonderful people so much disgust? Am I disgusting?

Am I abhorrent? Am I contemptuous? Am I offensive? Am I vile, revolting, and profane? If this is true, if this is the very essence of my being, if – in this world - this is who I am, then I do not want to live in this world, no I do not. I do not want to be me.”

29

That night, as Harrold sulked, the gang of no-good kids came back, clanging their pots & pans and making their ungodly racket. Just like the night before, they hissed at the noble & majestic tree, stuck out their tongues at the quaint wooden bench, and then each took turns spitting into the halcyon river.

“What a bunch of no-good kids,” thought Harrold, “treating all those wonderful and beautiful things that way. I do not like them one bit, no I do not.”

The no-good kids made their way down the street towards Harrold and when they did, their faces lit up like Christmas trees.

They were all smiling from ear to ear and high fiving each other as if this were the most impassioned, joyous, and peaceful day in their lives.

Harrold lamented, “Who am I if such monsters take delight in me? I do not want to live in this world, no I do not. I do not want to be me.”

And it was then that Harrold saw the young girl – the girl with bright yellow hair. And it was then that she saw him. They stared at one another as if they were both looking into a mirror. If Harrold were to have an expression, his would surely be as soft and sullen as hers. Neither Harrold nor the girl with bright yellow hair looked as if they belonged where they were.

That night, when everything was quiet again, Harrold was startled by the sound of someone sneaking up beside him. Though he couldn’t see, it was the girl with bright yellow hair. She had returned with a can of white paint and wasted no time busying herself, spraying on the wall beside him. And every time she rattled and sprayed her can, the shame and woe that had been bothering poor sweet Harrold so much, subsided, if ever just a bit.

The very next day, when the sun was shining high in the sky, the besotted lovers returned and sat on the quaint wooden bench, while the family made their picnic beneath the noble & majestic tree, and the old lady stood in quiet contemplation, her thoughts and worries swept far far away by the halcyon river.

As sad as he was, Harrold still couldn’t help but see the world as beautiful, even if he were not. To him, their impassioned, 30

doting, joyful, and peaceful faces looked like flowers in a garden, basking in the morning sun. And at the end of the day, they all made their way down the street, down towards Harrold.

“Please, go away,” said Harrold, wishing he could hide like a snail or a turtle. “Don’t come near me. I’m disgusting. I’m ugly.

Don’t look at me. Leave me alone.”

This time, though, their faces were not reviled, revulsed or repugnant – not as they had been before. And they didn’t hiss or jeer either. No. In fact, much to Harrold’s surprise, their expressions were as warm and kind as the sun that slowly set behind them.

Someone had painted over the letters that were beside him – the ‘H’, the ‘A’, and the ‘T’ - and they had replaced them with an ‘L’, an ‘O’, and a ‘V’. And though Harrold didn’t know it, he could see it on the people’s faces. He wasn’t just an ‘E’, he was the last letter in the biggest word in the world – LOVE. As they stared in quiet awe, the besotted lovers embraced and kissed, the mother and father picked up their children and held them close to their breasts, while the old lady, who for as long as she could remember had been grieving the passing of her husband and dearest friend, finally managed to weep a single nostalgic tear.

“So beautiful,” they all said.

Sitting alone on the branch of a tree, the girl with bright yellow hair smiled and agreed. “So beautiful,” she said, “so beautiful indeed.”

Harrold was overcome with shivers of joy. Had he eyes, he would have cried. Had he arms, he would have reached out and hugged every one of them. Had he lips he would have kissed them all. Had he a voice, he would have shouted: “I love you”.

Instead, he quietly pondered, “What a wonderful world. I never want to leave. I’m ever so happy, so happy to be me.”

31

harrold is in me

32

R.G.B

33

Once upon a time, in a part of the world that was blessed with the most splendiferous flowers, there lived two tribes, one on either side of a great mountain. On the left side of the mountain there lived The Blue Tribe, named as such because of the bright blue flowers that grew wild in their fields; while on the right side there lived The Red Tribe, whose red flowers blossomed for as far as the eye could see.

Both tribes had once been nomads, drudging along from plain to plain on the scarce and faint footprints of their next meal and the hope of a moment’s respite; their bodies aching constantly, almost as much as their empty bellies; and from centuries of walking, the soles of their feet had worn as thin as their hopes and aspirations. It had not been an easy life, not for either tribe.

One day, though, either by fate or by chance, both tribes stumbled upon a vast field of the most splendiferous flowers that grew wild and free on either side of a great mountain. And much to their surprise, grazing in the middle of each field was a herd of sheep and cattle, animals with which they did not have to give chase. And it was there, on that very day, that both tribes abandoned a lifetime of aimless wandering and declared a new agrarian age.

“From this day forth,” said the leaders of both tribes. “We shall live amongst these splendiferous flowers. We shall raise these animals as our own. This land shall be our home.”

No longer having to hunt for their food, both tribes had now the time to learn other skills such as farming, architecture, and toy making. It was a time of learning. It was a time of change. And all of it because of a single-coloured flower.

“Praised be the blue flower,” sang one tribe.

“Praised be the red flower,” sang the other.

Both tribes took pride in their flowers, fashioning garments and headdresses, and decorating their entire villages; and on occasions, both festive and not, they drank tea, brewed from the coloured petals as they danced, sang songs, and played games - all in the name of their own splendiferous flower.

More than a sense of pride, though, their flowers were a 34

symbol of meaning, purpose, and hope. And at dawn and dusk every day, they worshipped their splendiferous flowers, on bended knee, giving thanks for the peace, love, and joy - and more so, the life of plenty – which, as a gift from the gods, had been bestowed upon them.

“Praised be the blue flower,” sang one tribe.

“Praised be the red flower,” sang the other.

And in no time, babies were being born and shopping malls were being built, and each side of the mountain now looked less like a village, and more like a city. So advanced were they that not one person could even remember a time when their lives were less splendiferous for the simple fact that neither could imagine a world without abundance and plenty.

Anything in the world they could imagine, they could have.

Soon enough, the most enormous houses were being built; some ten or twenty times bigger than they need be. And every inch of their houses was filled with things; every manner of thing one could imagine – things on the walls, things on the floor, things in the corner, things by the door. Some of the things were objects like televisions and books, and some of the things were the ideas that were filled inside them. All of them could be bought and sold, and of them, neither one ever had enough.

“Praised be the blue flower,” sang one tribe.

“Praised be the red flower,” sang the other.

It really was a wonderful time; a time, though, that would be short-lived, for it soon became clear, for both tribes, that they were not alone – that danger was close; and it lurked, like a venomous snake coiled in the brush, on the other side of that mountain.

Each tribe suddenly became aware of the other.

“Who are they?” cried the villagers to their leaders.

“Marauders, they are,” shouted the leaders to their tribes.

“Macabre, monstrous, and maleficent.”

“What do they want?”

“To cause us great harm, it seems. They want to take from us what is ours, and at any cost. They will come with weapons - horrible, horrendous, heinous weapons. And they’ll come when 35

when we least suspect. They’ll come in the dead of night. They’ll come when our eyes are closed. They will steal our sheep, our cows, and our crops. Worse still, they will steal all of our things. They will take everything we own.”

“What did we ever do to them?” cried the villagers. “Why would they be so cruel?”

“They are disgusted by our blue flowers,” said one leader.

“They are repulsed by our red flowers,” said the other.

“They hate you because you are blue,” said one leader.

“They hate you because you are red,” said the other.

“They are vermin,” said both leaders at once. “The very worst kind - violent, virulent, and vile.”

Both tribes were stricken with fear. Neither one could imagine their possessions being taken from them They loved their things; they worshipped them, even. Their things gave them meaning, purpose, and hope. The thought of losing them, then, was akin to losing their very souls. Neither too, could either tribe imagine anyone hating the colour of their splendiferous flowers, and as such, both were disgusted by the thought of the other.

“Only cockroaches like red flowers,” said the people in The Blue Tribe.

“Only rats like flowers that are blue,” said the people in the other.

Soon enough, nobody was talking about how splendiferous their own flowers were but instead, how gross and grotesque the others must certainly be. No longer did they dance, sing songs, or play games in the name of their splendiferous flower; no longer did they even praise their flower at all.

“Cursed be the red flower,” sang The Blue Tribe.

“Cursed be the blue flower,” sang the other.

“Only cockroaches like red flowers,” said The Blue Tribe.

“Only rats like flowers that are blue,” said the other.

It was as if both tribes had forgotten what the colours of their own flowers were, for it had been so long since anyone had spoken of them. The Blue Tribe only ever spoke about the red flower while The Red Tribe was consumed and obsessed by the 36

other, preferring to spend each second of every day thinking only about that which insulted, disgusted, and revolted them – that which had them incensed, enraged, and irate.

No longer did they feel a sense of peace or love; no longer did they embellish a single drop of joy at all. No, they only felt fear and anger. Fear at the thought of their things being taken, and anger at the hands of those who would take them.

Every day it was the same – fear, anger, fear, anger; it had to stop.

“We have to do something. We cannot sleep at night.”

Both tribes would do anything to protect their things – anything at all.

“Whatever will we do?”

“I have a plan,” said the two leaders, calming their tribes.

“And yes, it is true.”

“The cockroaches will invade through our drainpipes,” said one leader.

“The rats will infest through our sewers,” said the other.

“So, there is only one thing to do,” said both leaders at once.

“But to invade their city before they invade ours. And as punishment for plotting to take our things, we shall take all of theirs first.”

Both tribes erupted in cheer.

“Cursed be the red flower,” chanted the Blue Tribe.

“Cursed be the blue flower,” chanted the other.

The two leaders addressed their people.

“We will send our finest warrior,” they said.

“And he will squash the cockroaches,” said one leader.

“And she will exterminate the rats,” said the other.

“And poison their flowers forever.”

The very next day, from one side of the mountain, a young man armed with a weapon, some poison, and a big empty sack so as to take all of their enemy’s things, waited to begin his ascent.

“Be vigilant,” said the blue leader. “Your enemy is a cockroach. They are filthy and full of disease and they scurry quickly.”

“Yes, sir,” said the young man.

“They have wings too. They will fly at your face and into 37

your mouth when you are least suspecting.”

The thought of a cockroach touching his lips perturbed him, but in spite of it all, he stayed brave.

“I shall never let a cockroach near my mouth,” he said.

“And you will know it by its red flower.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, be gone. Take risk and take care.”

The red leader too gave her words of warning.

“Be watchful,” she said to her warrior who too stood at the foot of the mountain, armed with a weapon, some poison, and a big empty sack so as to take all of their enemy’s things. “Your enemy is a rat. They are filthy and full of disease and they scurry quickly.”

“Yes, mam,” said the young woman.

“They have axe-like teeth too. They will climb on you when you sleep and gnaw at your tongue.”

The thought of a rat touching her lips perturbed her, but in spite of it all, she stayed brave.

“I shall never let a rat near my mouth,” she said.

“And you will know it by its blue flower.”

“Yes, mam.”

“Now be gone. Take risk and take care.”

And she, like the young man on the other side of the mountain, made her ascent.

Both warriors were incredibly brave, but both too were full of fear and trepidation. Who wouldn’t? At any moment, in any of the crevices with which they placed their hands, a cockroach or a rat might scurry out and bite the tips of their fingers. The fear alone was enough to have both of them almost slip and fall over a dozen times.

Resilient, though, for they were brave like none other, they climbed onwards.

Eventually, after weeks, maybe even months of climbing, the two warriors reached the peak of the mountain and there they rested - on either side - neath a vast expanse of splendiferous green flowers.

38

Overcome by the beauty, both warriors laid down their weapons, basking in the peace that, in the air, permeated; the love that, from the green flowers, radiated; and the joy that, as a result, tingled inside them.

“I could live here forever,” said the young man.

“I need never go home,” said the young woman.

And they needn’t. The mountain peak was ripe with all that they needed to live a fruitful and bountiful life. Best yet, neither one had caught sight of a single cockroach or rat. It was almost unfathomable to believe that a filthy and disease-riddled creature could be found in such a peaceful, loving, and joyous place as this.

It was while picking a piece of fruit that the young man was startled by a rustling that came from some brush not far from where he stood. He pricked his ears and sharpened his eyes and peered out through the vast expanse of splendiferous green flowers, nary blinking and nary taking a single breath, so as not to stifle his view.

Slowly he crawled, through the peaceful, loving, and joyous field of splendiferous green flowers, nervously clutching the weapon in his hand – his sight fixed on a single flower that stuck out from all the rest, moving slowly towards him.

The young woman too, her eyes just as sharp, her ears pricked just as attentive, and her weapon clutched just as nervously in her hand – her sight, too, fixed upon a single flower that stuck out from all the rest, moving slowly towards her.

“Got you!” shouted the two warriors as they burst from the flowers, their faces drawn with big crazy eyes and snarling teeth.

She flew into him and he into her, and both warriors fell to the ground.

“I’m so sorry,” they said when they realised it was a person they had hit, not a cockroach or rat, but instead, a person just like them.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“It was an accident.”

“It was all my fault.”

Both were burdened with regret and remorse.

“It’s fine,” they both replied.

39

“I am not hurt.”

“I am not bothered.”

“I hold no bearing grudge.”

Surrounded by the splendiferous green flowers the young man and young woman stared into each other’s eyes and for a brief moment, they forgot entirely what it was that they had climbed the mountain for in the first place – for both their eyes were as emerald as the flowers in which they basked.

“My name is Red,” said the young woman.

“My name is Blue,” said the young man.

“It is ever so ever, so nice to meet you,” they both said, one enraptured by the other, and the other enraptured right back.

“These flowers are beautiful,” said the young man. “They bring me peace and joy, and I love them.”

The young woman said the same. Though, in truth, neither had been talking about the flowers.

“These flowers are handsome,” she said. “They bring me peace and joy, and I love them.”

And for no sane reason whatsoever, they kissed.

It wasn’t until the young man ran his fingers through the young woman’s hair and she ran hers through his, that both of them panicked. A red flower in her hair and a blue flower in his. Their stomachs sank, their hearts beat rampant, their amygdalae grew to the size of elephants, and as such, adrenaline coursed through their veins.

“Stand back!” they both screamed.

Both warriors clutched their weapons.

“Be careful,” shouted he to her.

“Watch yourself,” shouted she to him.

“There is a cockroach nearby,” shouted the young man.

“There is a rat in the field,” shouted the young woman in return.

Neither, though, assumed the other was the vermin.

“It was on you,” said the young man, pulling the red flower from behind the young woman’s ear.

“It was on you too,” said she, pulling a blue flower from 40

behind his too.

“It must be here,” they both screamed.

The cockroach for him, and the rat for her.

So worried was one for the other they each shouted.

“Stay well back, my love, for I will protect you.”

Neither one saw the other scouring through the field. Neither one noticed the weapons in each other’s hands, cutting away at the flowers, pulling them out by their roots – he, hunting a filthy and disease-riddled cockroach, and she, a filthy and disease-riddled rat.

Hack and slice they did, tearing up the soil, and chopping each and every splendiferous green flower to bits, completely sure as they were, that behind and beneath every next flower, they would find that filthy and disease-riddled vermin - that vermin so violent and virulent and vile.

They hacked and sliced and chopped their way through the whole field – from one side of the mountain’s peak to the other – until all that was left was a single green flower: a splendiferous flower, yes, but a flower nonetheless whose peace, love, and joy, was shadowed by forlorn sadness, for it was a flower that was all on its own.

“What have we done?” said she to him, and he to her.

“We have torn up all these flowers.”

“Our fear fed our anger.”

“And our anger made us blind.”

“There never was a cockroach,” said the young man.

“There never was a rat,” said the young woman in return.

“Then what of the flower in your ear?”

Said one to the other and the other in return.

“The blue flower is mine,” said the young man. “I am of The Blue Tribe.”

“And the red flower is mine,” said the young woman. “I am of The Red Tribe.”

“That’s impossible,” they both said.

Neither could believe what they were hearing. Only cockroaches wore red flowers and only rats wore blue. Bewildered – 41

befuddled, even – the two warriors examined each other looking for wings and axe-like teeth. Both were disgusted, too, for they had kissed one another. Were she a cockroach, she might have crawled in his mouth. Were he a rat, he might have gnawed off her tongue.

Yet, she looked nothing like a cockroach, and he looked nothing like a rat.

“Do you live under rocks?” asked the young man.

“Do I look like I can?”

“No,” he replied.

“Can you squeeze through a shower drain?” asked the young woman.

“Do I look like I can?”

“No,” she replied.

“You do not have wings,” said he to her.

“Of course, I do not,” was her reply. “And you do not have teeth that can gnaw through rope.”

Both warriors had spent their whole lives learning that, not only was their flower the only sacred and morally true flower but that only an insect or a rodent would ever worship a flower of a different kind. They had spent their entire lives fearful and disgusted at the thought of one another, thinking only that she was a cockroach, and that he was a rat; not that they were real people, not that they too were capable of compassion and consideration.

“This can’t be true,” they both said. “If it were, it would mean that everything I had been told since I was a child was wrong.

Everything that I ever learned was a lie.”

“You’re not a cockroach,” said he to her.

“And you’re not a rat,” said she to him.

“You are not vermin at all,” they both said. “You are not violent, virulent, or vile.”

“You are beautiful,” said he.

“You are handsome,” said she.

“You’re a person, just like me,” they both said. “And your presence makes me feel peace, your embrace makes me feel love, and your smile warms my heart with joy.”

The two warriors sat holding hands, by the last splendiferous 42

green flower.

“I will not attack your tribe,” said he to her.

“And neither I to yours,” she said in reply.

“What if we stayed here?” asked the young man. “What if we made this our home?”

“Yes!” said the young woman emphatic. “And we will start a new village, but one built upon peace, love, and joy; one that never loses its way; one that doesn’t worship things – be they objects or ideas; and one that is not driven by fear, shame, and disgust – one that is never ruled by blind and tribalist anger.”

“From this day forth, we shall make our home here, then,” said the young man. “By this splendiferous green flower.”

The two warriors hugged and promised each other that, from this moment on, they would never let anything happen to the peace, love, and joy that had brought them together. They promised to protect the splendiferous green flower from threat so that one day they might have many.

And they would do anything to protect it – anything at all.

“Praised be the green flower,” they chanted. “Praised be the green flower.”

43

The Terrible Tragedy of TheThree Bears

44

Once upon a time, there was a family of bears that lived in a nice house by a big redwood tree. There were three bears in all: Mama Bear, Papa Bear, and Baby Bear.

Mama Bear was the boss of the family; she always knew the right thing to say and when to say it, and what she said stuck. Then there was Papa Bear; he could roar ravenous and rapacious if he wanted to; most of the time, though, he just roared with laughter.

And finally, there was Baby Bear; he was the luckiest bear in the world.

Lucky to be alive if you ask me.

You see, Mama Bear had been born with bad ovaries. Barren as the doctors had said. And from a young age, she knew that she would never have cubs. Imagine everyone’s surprise, then, when Baby Bear was born – the luckiest bear in the world.

“I’m the luckiest bear in the world,” shouted Baby Bear, diving into the river.

“You sure are, buddy,” said Papa Bear, diving in after him.

“The luckiest bear in the world.”

Life was amazing. It was so full of wonder, jubilation, and glee. Every day was better than the one before, and the only thing that ever came close was knowing that tomorrow would be even better.

“I can’t wait for tomorrow,” said Baby Bear.

“I bet you can’t,” said Mama Bear, watching her boy splashing in the water.

“I’m gonna climb a tree.”

“A whole tree?”

“Yep, that’s right, mum. A whole tree. Just like dad. The big redwood tree. I’m gonna climb it all the way to the top and I’m not gonna be scared too.”

“I’m sure you will. Now, how about we just finish today first.

After all, those salmon won’t catch themselves, now, will they?”

Mama Bear was right; she was always right. She knew just what to say and when to say it. She was easily the smartest bear in the world. There was nothing she didn’t know.

“You’re right, mum,” said Baby Bear, smiling.

45

Then he shoved his fluffy brown paws into the river and pulled out the biggest salmon he’d ever seen in his life; it was almost as big as him. So big was it, that every time it flapped its tail, Baby Bear went flying backwards, laughing as he did, almost dropping the fish altogether. It was so big that it took all his strength just to keep its head out of the water. It was so big he couldn’t believe it himself.

“Look at me, mummy,” he shouted. “I got a big fish!”

“I can see,” shouted Mama Bear back, ever so proud.

Then Baby Bear bit off the salmon’s head.

“Eat up, son,” said Mama Bear. “A young cub needs lots of energy.”

They really were the luckiest family in the world, and they knew it too.

“We’re so lucky to have him,” said Papa Bear, rubbing his big paw on Mama Bear’s big brown belly.

“We sure are,” said she, putting her big paw on his.

“Who do you think he’ll be like when he’s older?” asked Papa Bear.

“Just let him be young,” said Mama Bear. “He’ll be older soon enough. And when he is, you’ll be fighting to remember who he was when he was young. Just enjoy this.”

She always knew the right thing to say and the right time to say it.

“Besides,” she said. “There’s no doubt he’ll have his father’s ravenous and rapacious roar.”

Papa Bear blushed.

“And his mother’s sensible and scholarly wit,” he said in return.

“Love you, you big oaf,” said Mama Bear.

“Love you too,” said Papa Bear right back.

Both watched their son chewing on fish heads.

“It’s funny,” said Papa Bear. “I can remember not having Baby Bear, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what it felt like not having him in my life. Does that make sense?”

“It does,” said Mama Bear.

“That boy is my compass – my north.”

46

“He is my heart and lungs,” said Mama Bear.

Both their paws were pressed on Mama Bear’s belly.

“We’re the luckiest bears in the world,” said Papa Bear.

They could have stood there forever watching their boy eating; nothing at all brought them nearly as much peace.

“I could stay here forever,” said Mama Bear.

“So too, could I,” said Papa Bear in reply.

“But we must head home. It will be dark soon and we don’t want our boy to catch his death a cold.”

“That’s why you’re the Mama Bear,” said Papa Bear, following her lead.

That night the three bears slept wonderfully; Papa Bear in his big bed, all taut and firm just as he liked; Mama Bear in her bed, as soft as a bag full of clouds; and Baby Bear, in his tiny little bed that was not too soft and not too hard – it was, for him, just right.

In the morning, Mama Bear started to make the porridge while Papa Bear sharpened his claws on a big old stone in the backyard.

“Time to wake up,” shouted Mama Bear.

But Baby Bear didn’t rouse.

“We don’t want to be late,” she said.

But again, not a sound.

“That’s strange,” she said. “Baby Bear is almost always up before the porridge is served. I wonder if he’s feeling a little off. I’ll just go and check.”

A little off he was not, for poor little Baby Bear was as good as dead.

“I’m afraid he’s in a coma,” said Doctor Bear, later in the day.

“We must get him to hospital and intubate him immediately.”

Mama Bear gasped.

Papa Bear roared – a roar that was ravenous and rapacious.

“I will not lie,” said Doctor Bear. “This does not look good.”

Weeks they spent, looking at their son through the thick protectant glass as nurses changed his diaper’s and his drip, and doctors mulled over what could be wrong.

“We’re stumped,” said some.

47

“We’ve no idea,” said others.

“It is a kind of bacteria that none of us has seen. It’s not of any bear whatsoever. It’s ravaging his organs. And I’m not sure what we can do. Has he eaten anything odd?” asked Doctor Bear.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” said Papa Bear. “A dozen salmon. Some foxes. A rabbit. Nothing fancy. Nothing strange.

Nothing out of the normal at all. Do you think it’s his diet? Do you think it was his food?”

Papa Bear felt saddled with guilt.

“It could be anything at this point,” said Doctor Bear. “Do you know if he might have come into contact with any wild creatures?”

“Like what?” asked Papa Bear.

“A human, for example. I know it’s a long shot.”

“Impossible,” said Papa Bear.

“Humans carry a great deal of disease,” said Doctor Bear.

“Aids and syphilis and hepatitis and gonorrhoea and cholera and leprosy and influenza and….”

He went on and on and on.

“We know that humans carry diseases,” said Papa Bear.

“They’re disgusting and filthy. We know that. But we bears keep a clean house.”

“If it’s not a human then I’m not sure what it could be.”

“It’s not,” said Papa Bear, wanting to believe as much.

Day by day, Baby Bear’s health grew worse and worse.

“Can we just see him?” pleaded Papa Bear. “Just for a moment. Just to hold his paw. Please. He’s my son. If I lose him, I can’t go on. We can’t go on. He needs us. He needs his Mama and Papa.

Have a heart. Have a conscience. Have a soul.”

“I’m sorry,” said every doctor, each time that he asked. “The risk of infection is far too severe.”

Months soon passed and turned into a year and then one day, just when all hope had been given up, in what seemed like a miracle, Baby Bear opened his eyes.

“He’s alive,” shouted Papa Bear. “Mama Bear, our cub is awake – he’s alive!”

48

Mama Bear screamed aloud. She’d been holding her breath the entire year. It was a rapturous roar – full of worry, guilt, and allaying joy.

“I love you, Baby Bear,” she shouted.

She always knew the right thing to say and when to say it.

Doctor Bear, though, was much less pleased.

“I’m afraid, his condition is much worse than expected.”

“But his eyes are open,” said Mama Bear. “He’s woken from the coma. He is fine now. Isn’t he?”

She wished that he were, but she knew, by the look in Doctor Bear’s eyes, that he wasn’t.

“His organs have failed and I’m sorry to say,” said Doctor Bear. “This lucky little bear will not live out the day. You’d do best to say your goodbyes.”

Baby Bear looked so spritely, despite his condition.

“Is the porridge ready?” he asked.

Mama Bear broke down in tears.

“What’s wrong with mummy?” asked Baby Bear.

He spluttered through every word, his voice feeble and faint.

“She’s fine,” said Papa Bear. “She’s just worried about you, is all.”

Neither one knew what to say.

“Is it tomorrow yet?” asked Baby Bear. “Is it time to climb the tree?”

“It is, son,” said Papa Bear, struggling to hold back his tears.

“I’m the luckiest bear in the world,” said Baby Bear.

“You sure are,” said Papa Bear. “There’s no bear as lucky as you.”

And then Baby Bear went into cardiac arrest and died.

There was no word to describe how Mama and Papa Bear felt inside. It was every feeling. It was all of them – and all at once.

Distraught, Mama and Papa Bear walked home with Baby Bear in their arms.

“We’ll bury him by the big redwood tree,” said Papa Bear, the only one of them who could speak.

Mama Bear had no words, only feelings – the very worst kind 49

of feelings. And as she walked through the woods, her paws pressed on her belly, the animals in the forest – the foxes and rabbits and hedgehogs, and the mama and baby deer too – they all stood along the path weeping and wailing and crying out loud, for her loss was their loss too; the luckiest bear in the world.

“I’ll dig the graves when we return,” said Papa Bear.

And he did just that. While Mama Bear stared idle and vacuous at the salmon that swam up the stream, Papa Bear dug three neat graves.

“We were the luckiest bears in the world,” he said, laying Baby Bear softly on the ground, humming his favourite nursery rhyme as he did.

Mama Bear said nothing. She merely gave herself to Papa Bear as he laid her down, just as gently, into her grave. There, Mama Bear pressed one of her paws on her own belly, from where her child had been born, and the other she placed on her son – her heart and lungs, her peace and love, her meaning of life, her luckiest bear in the world.

“I love you, my boy,” she said. “I’ll see you soon.”

She looked at Papa Bear for a moment and blew him a kiss, then closed her eyes and listened to the last few beats of her heart.

“You are the luckiest Mama in the world,” said Papa Bear, a second before he shot her in the face.

They were both at peace now – Mama and Baby Bear. Papa Bear said nothing. He merely climbed into his own grave, on the other side of his boy, and there he lay, with one paw on his son and the other on the trigger of the shotgun that was wedged between his teeth.

“I love you, Mama Bear,” he said. “I love you, Baby Bear.”

Just as he was about to pull the trigger, Papa Bear heard what sounded like a shriek coming from inside the house. It was the strangest sound, unlike any bear – unlike any animal at all that went about these woods.

Papa Bear climbed out of his grave and ran towards the house, shotgun in paw. He could see something moving inside, but he could not tell what.

50

“Who goes there?” he shouted, his roar, ravenous and rapacious.

But there was no reply.

Papa Bear kicked the door in. There in the house, he saw the dining room amess; cutlery strewn about the place, plates and bowls tossed on the floor. And there was porridge – everywhere.

Papa Bear cocked the gun, pulled its stock to his shoulder, and stared down the barrel with grievous and murderous eyes. As he walked slowly through the house, he could hear the most perturbing sound, a horrific kind of squeal, like that of a weasel or a boar having its head pulled away from its body.

“Who goes there?” he roared again, kicking open first his room, then Mama Bear’s, then finally, at the end of the hall, that of his son.

“What foul fetid fiend are you?” he shouted.

In Baby Bear’s bed was a tiny human. A female one. Goldilocks was its name. No older than a cub itself. It had long curly blonde hair and a pasty white face that was painted with shock and surprise.

“Get out of my son’s bed,” roared Papa Bear.

The filthy human was wrapped up in his blankets, getting its filthy skin and filthy hair – and all the disease that came with it – all over Baby Bear’s things.

In that instant, Papa Bear suddenly realised how it was that Baby Bear had come to be so sick and incurable. That disgusting creature - that disgusting, feculent, and germ-ridden human - had gotten their boy sick.

“You put disease in his porridge,” said Papa Bear, shooting off one of Goldilocks’ knees. “You put disease in his bed,” he said, shooting off the other.

There was a great deal of blood, especially for such a small human.

“You came into our home uninvited,” said Papa Bear, laying the gun on the floor, for there was only one bullet left. “You took from us – our food, our comfort, our joy. You took the light from the sun. You took the sun from the sky. You took the life from our 51

veins. You took our son – our only son. The luckiest bear in the world.”

He stood over Goldilocks as the human wept and bled uncontrollably.

“But you couldn’t take our love,” said Papa Bear. “Our love is too strong.”

And so, he bit out Goldilocks’ neck, just as Baby Bear had bitten off the salmon’s head. He gnashed, he gnawed, and ripped the human’s neck to shreds, spitting it back in its face, for humans tasted foul. Then he clawed the human once more – from its belly right to its neck – leaving it to thrash about and bleed to death, before picking up his shotgun and going back outside to lay down in the grave he had dug; he on one side of Baby Bear and Mama Bear on the other.

The luckiest bears in the world.

And then he pulled the trigger.

52

RED RIDING BLOOD

53

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived in a big old house by the forest with her mother. Red was her name, because of the red cloak that she wore whenever she played detective, which was almost all of the time. She might have had another name – a proper name – but everyone in town called her Red. Red didn’t have any brothers or sisters, nor did she have any friends or family at all. It was just her and Mother in the big old house all alone; they didn’t even have any pets.

“Animals are dangerous,” Mother would say. “They are diabolical, double-dealing devils. Can’t be trusted. Not a single one of them. Cats will suffocate you in your sleep. Dogs will bite off your toes.”

Red was petrified whenever she heard the story.

“Happened to a friend of mine, it did. Lost all of her toes one Christmas Eve, and was suffocated to death the very next day.”

It was lucky, then, that they did not have a cat or a dog.

“Don’t even get me started on wolves.”

There was nothing scarier in the world than the thought of a hungry wolf – those big pointy ears, those big ferocious eyes, and that big mouth, full of razor-sharp teeth. Wolves were the worst.

All they knew how to do was lie and sneak about so that they could eat children. And they were good at it too. They were the evilest and most conniving creatures on the planet; not even snakes or sharks came close.

And the forest was full of them.

“If I ever saw a wolf, I’d punch it in the face,” said Red. “I imagine if a wolf ever saw you,” said Mother, sternly. “It’d gobble you up.”

Mother didn’t much care for Red’s daydreaming and playing around, nor did she care for this kind of talk either. Wolves were animals after all, and animals were dangerous – they were diabolical, double-dealing devils.

“And what would you really do if you ever saw a wolf ?” asked Mother.

“Shout as loud as I can so that The Woodsman comes to my rescue,” said Red. 54

“That’s right. Good girl. Leave the hero’s work to the hero.”

Red had never seen The Woodsman; she had only ever heard of him. He lived in the forest too. He was supposed to be the strongest and bravest man in the world – nothing scared him at all – and he never went anywhere without his sharp and shiny axe.

Red, though, had never even been in the woods. She had lived near it for years, but not once had she ever ventured inside.

She had never really had a reason to go in there, but even if she did, she’d probably be too scared anyway. It was one thing to talk about punching a wolf in the face but imagine actually meeting one? Yikes!

She never had to worry about that, though, as she never had to leave the house. There was no time and there were always way too many things to do. Every day Red had a ton of activities and chores – lesson after lesson, and never-ending cleaning.

And while she was busy doing all that, Mother would visit Grandma at her little cottage in the middle of the forest, bringing her favourite cakes and biscuits.

When there was any free time, Red would do her favourite thing in the world – dress up in her red cloak and play detective around her big old house. She loved solving puzzles, whodunnits and mysteries.

Rarely, though, was there any free time. Mother had her studying so many things. And at any given time of the day, Red would be learning one of a dozen different languages.

“You’ll need it for your future, dear Red. You never know where you’ll end up.”

One day, while Red was playing detective - hot on The Case of the Missing Cookie - she heard a loud thump and then the most painful cry; Mother had slipped on the wet kitchen floor and twisted her ankle.

“Oh, my dear, Red, I have, it seems, come undone.”

Mother’s ankle was all swollen and sore.

“Are you ok, Mother? Do you want me to call the doctor?”

“No, my dear, Red, I care not to waste his time.”

She looked pained and in distress.

55

“I’ll look after you, Mother,” said Red. “I can cook if you like. And I already know how to clean very well. You can rest in bed, and I’ll take care of you.”

“Yes,” said Mother. “That would be good. But it’s not I that needs you as much as your poor Grandma. She is alone in her cottage in the middle of the forest.”

“Oh no!” said Red. Her worry was palpable.

“Will she be ok? Should we call her?”

“There is no phone line, my dear, Red. And even if there was, your poor Grandma might not hear it ring for her hearing is not well.”

“Oh no!” said Red again.

“Yes,” said Mother. “And without help, she will not be able to find the kitchen to make her food for her sight is not well.”

“Whatever shall we do?” asked Red. “We’ve no choice but to send you,” said Mother. “If you think you are up to the task.”

“Me?” asked Red, surprised and a little scared.

“Don’t you love your Grandma?”

“Of course, I do,” said Red, though she had never met her before.

“Don’t you love your Mother?”

“Of course, I do!”

There was no denying that.

“Well, it’s settled then. There is a basket on the dining table already prepared with Grandma’s things. All you have to do is take it to her. Can you do that?”

Red looked unsettled and unsure. Could she do it? She had no idea. She hoped she could. At the very least, though, she didn’t want to let Mother down. And she was just as nervous about saying yes as she was at the thought of saying no.

“I guess so,” she said. “Yeah. No. Of course, I can. Yes.” “Good,” said Mother. “There isn’t much time. You should get going now so you’re back before it’s dark.”

Red went to the kitchen and fetched the picnic basket.

56

“Remember,” said Mother. “Stay on the path. Do not stray – not once, not at all, not ever; for any reason whatsoever.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Red, her words seasoned with a dash of excitement and worry.

“And watch out for wolves!” she said.

Those words echoed in Red’s thoughts – from the second she left the front door until she was well inside the forest, walking along its long and winding path.

It was so beautiful inside. The sounds, the smells, and the sights were unlike anything she had ever experienced, and nothing at all like she had imagined. The trees, for example, looked like giant arrows sticking out of the ground. Their pointy leaves smelt like a mix between a brand-new book and a sparkling clean toilet.

And the sounds that came from inside them were all frenzied and raucous as if a thousand birds were arguing in a thousand different tongues about a thousand different things.

It was all so wonderful. It was all so amazing.

The path itself, though, was full of caution. All along the way, there were signs posted here and there – this way and that – saying: ‘Do not stray from the path.’

‘Be a good girl.’

‘Listen to Mother.’

‘WATCH OUT FOR WOLVES!!!’

It was enough to have her shivering with the hebegebees.

Like a good girl, Red kept to the path and walked in the middle, careful never to stray to one side or the other. As she got further into the forest, though, the sound of birds chirping started to wane until, when she arrived at the place where the trees were crooked and smelled like rotting meat, there was no sound whatsoever.

It was too late to turn back, and even if she could, Mother would kill her – figuratively, of course. So, Red did her best to pretend she wasn’t scared and instead, she pretended that she was playing one of her games – The Case of the Missing Picnic Basket. This, though, was a case she had already solved, and she was 57

now bringing the basket back to its lucky owner – Grandma – who would no doubt be over the moon that Red was able to crack the case. Thinking of Grandma as happy made her happy and being happy made her stop thinking about the wolf.

“Hey, little girl, whatcha doin?”

Red panicked. She stopped in her tracks; petrified, ossified, still.

“Don’t be scared, little girl. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

It wasn’t a person, that’s for sure. Its voice was too low; it was gurgly and gravelly and gruff. In fact, if a dishwasher could talk, that’s exactly what it would have sounded like.

“Come here, little girl. Come to Mr Wolf. I’ll keep you safe.”

Red tried to ignore it. She knew it was a wolf. It had to be.

Only wolves snuck about connivingly, trying to eat children. What she didn’t know, though, was where it was.

Was it on one side or the other, beneath a blanket of leaves, coiled to spring out and snatch her? Or was it tiptoeing through the shadows, sneaking up behind her?

“Come into the woods,” said Mr Wolf. “Stray from the path.

You can trust me.”

It was beside her. And it was behind her. Its voice was everywhere.

“Come to Mr Wolf.”

“I don’t believe in wolves,” shouted Red. “Well, wolves believe in you,” was its reply.

“You can’t hurt me,” shouted Red, pretending to be brave – for her as much as it.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, little girl,” it said in a tone that was impossible to believe. “I just want to be your friend. You trust Mr Wolf, now, don’t you?”

“No!” shouted Red. “You’re a wolf. You’re dangerous. You’re a diabolical double-dealing devil! There’s no way I trust you.”

Then she grabbed her basket and continued on.

“Come back, little girl. Don’t make me make you!”

Red screamed and ran. She ran faster than a Cheetah. She ran faster than a laser beam. She ran faster than she had ever run 58

before. She didn’t stop either, not until the trees were like arrows again, not until she was well and truly out of the darkness and the shadows – not until she had reached Grandma’s cottage.

“Hello?” she said, knocking on the door.

Red was nervous and sweating. Her face was as red as her cloak.

“Grandma, are you home?”

There was no answer. Red looked over her shoulder. She saw no sign of that wolf.

“It’s me, Red,” she said.

The door was unlocked. It was ajar in fact. That wasn’t strange. Of course, it wasn’t. Lots of people who lived in scary old cottages, in the scary part of the forest, left their doors improperly closed. There was no reason to worry. No reason at all.

“I’m coming in, Grandma.”

It was a small cottage. There was one main room with a fireplace, a dining table, and a big bed in the corner. And on the other side of the bed was a bathroom, but its door was shut.

“Grandma?” said Red, cautiously.

She crept towards the bed in the corner, the wood beneath her feet creaking as she tried to quietly tiptoe across the room.

“Grandma, it’s me, Red,” she whispered.

She could see a shadow – a silhouette – in the bed. It wasn’t moving. She assumed it was Grandma. Who else would it be? Obviously, she was sleeping.

Red thought about dropping the basket on the floor and running home. Then she remembered the wolf in the forest and that plan quickly soured. Then she remembered that Grandma didn’t just need the basket, she needed help – for Grandma had little ears and little eyes, and could hear about as well as she could see, which was not very well at all.

“She just hasn’t heard me or seen me,” thought Red. “I just need to get close to her – right up to her face.”

So, she did just that.

Red climbed right up onto Grandma’s bed and sat beside her so that Grandma could see to whom it was she was speaking and 59

hear what was being said. Red was so excited.

Grandmas always gave the biggest, the warmest, and the most loving hugs.

“Hi, Grandma,” said Red. “It’s me, your granddaughter, Red.” There was no reply. If she were sleeping, it was indeed quite sound.

“Wakey, wakey, Grandma.”

Red, leaned close to her ear to speak louder.

“Oh my,” she said. “What great big ears you have.”

It’s true. Grandma’s ears were enormous. They stuck up like two antennae – all pointy and sharp at the ends. And they were hairy too – lots of hair - inside, and out.

“Must be a medical contraption,” said Red to herself. “So, she can hear better.”

She called to her Granma again, this time hovering right over her eyes for she knew that Grandma had such terrible sight.

“Oh my,” she said. “What great big eyes you have.”

And they were. Enormous in fact. Never before had a person ever had eyes as big as Grandmas. They looked like two great big dinner plates. Not like normal eyes at all.

“Probably a medical contraption,” said Red to herself. “So, she can see better.”

Grandma didn’t move, though. Not an inch, not at all.

Worried, Red pressed her ears to Grandma’s chest to hear if she was breathing – she was. Then she checked Grandma’s pulse to see if she had a heartbeat – she did. It was then that she screamed.

“Wolf!”

It wasn’t Grandma in that bed. It was a wolf – a wolf dressed in Grandma’s clothing. Red jumped off the bed and burst out the front door screaming. She barely got a foot outside before she bumped into the biggest man she had ever seen in her life and fell backwards.

“Fear not, little girl,” he said.

“It’s you,” said Red, surprised, and relieved. “The Woodsman.”

“It is I,” said The Woodsman.

60

“Please, sir, you have to help. My Grandma is not my Grandma,” said Red. “She isn’t? Well, then who is she?”

“She’s a wolf,” decried Red. “A wolf is in Grandma’s clothes.”

“A wolf, is it?” said The Woodsman, carrying his sharp and shiny axe. “Well, we can’t have that now, can we?”

He walked into the cottage by himself and gave the most thunderous roar.

“You diabolical double-dealing devil,” he shouted. “I damn you to hell!”

Then there came the most calamitous sounds.

Womp! Thwack! Kerplunk!

“You can come in, dear Red,” he said.

Red entered slowly, a little unsure. It had been such a frightening day.

“How did you know my name?” she asked.

The Woodsman lay his axe on the bed. It was a sharp and shiny axe.

“You do what I say,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

Red was ever so polite.

“Shut up. Don’t say a word. You do what I say when I say it.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

Then, The Woodsman punched Red in the mouth. Three of her teeth fell out.

“I said shut up,” he said. “You don’t speak. Not unless told to.”

Red had two of the teeth in her hands. The other had fallen on the floor. Blood poured out of her mouth. She was in too much shock, though, to really feel anything.

“You be a good girl, and this won’t hurt a bit,” said The Woodsman.

Then he took Red by the hair and dragged her into the bathroom, and then locked the door behind him. There, in the dark, Red felt the pain pulsing in her face. She couldn’t see a thing, but she could feel the cool blood pouring out of her mouth, onto her 61

chin, and dripping onto her hands below.

“Don’t say anything. Don’t say a word.”

It wasn’t Grandma speaking. It wasn’t even a person. Its voice was too low; it was gurgly and gravelly and gruff.

“It’s you,” she said – barely, for her mouth was full of blood.

“Keep quiet, little girl,” said Mr Wolf. “He’ll hear and we’ll be done for.”

It was Mr Wolf. It had been him all along. He hadn’t just followed Red through the forest; he had beaten her to Grandma’s house and dressed himself in all her things.

“What did you do with Grandma?” said Red. “Grandma? There is no Grandma. There never has been.”

“This is my Grandma’s cottage. She’s weak and old. She can’t hear or see well. I came here to give her a basket.”

“You’ve been told a lie,” said Mr Wolf. “There is no Grandma that resides here. This cottage is a place of no good. It’s a place of unspeakable evil.”

“Don’t lie to me. You’re a wolf. You’re conniving. All you do is lie. You’re a diabolical double-dealing devil. That’s what you are.”

“I’m a wolf,” said Mr Wolf.

“And?” “Those traits you mention are only for people.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I tried to warn you. I tried to take you off the path.”

“You wanted to eat me.”

“I wanted to save you. I knew where you were going. I knew what they would do when you got here. I’ve seen it happen before, hundreds of times. I tried to warn you, little girl.”

“Well, you did a pretty crappy job,” said Red. She sounded angrier than she was scared.

“Try using a nicer voice next time. One that doesn’t sound like you’re gonna eat the person. Maybe then I’ll believe you.”

“Your mind was made up either way,” said Mr Wolf.

Outside the door, The Woodsman was busy setting up a tonne of contraptions. Across the bed, he lay leather straps with padlocked cuffs on either end. In front of the bed, he set up a video 62

camera, and connected to it, by the side of the bed, was a computer with which the video camera was sending a signal.

“We can get out of this,” said Mr Wolf. “But we have to work together.”

Trust a wolf ? Was Mr Wolf crazy? Was she?

“Ok,” said Red. “How?” “The Woodsman thinks I’m unconscious. He thinks I’m asleep.”

“How do you know?”

“The food in your basket is drugged. I knew that before he gave me some. I pretended to eat that piece of cake. I pretended to be asleep. I let him dress me in Grandma’s clothes. And I waited for you, to save you.”

It all seemed so unreal – evil woodsmen, friendly wolves.

“Take off your cloak. When he takes you out, drop it, so that the hood catches in the door. When his back is turned, I’ll come and rescue you and we’ll run away together.”

Here was a wolf asking for her trust.

“Ok,” she said, taking off the cloak.

A minute later, The Woodsman opened the door and grabbed Red by the hair again, pulling her out into the living room and throwing her onto the bed. She dropped, as Mr Wolf had asked, her red cloak in the arch of the door as she was being pulled through, while Mr Wolf, like he said he would, pretended to be asleep.

The Woodsman punched her in the face once more, just so she would listen.

“You see that screen,” he said, turning her head to the computer.

Red nodded.

“Some very rich and powerful people are paying a lot of money to watch you today,” said The Woodsman. “From all over the world. Today you get to practice saying hello in all the languages you learned. Are you excited?”

Red shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I want to go home. I want Mother.”

The Woodsman slapped her. It wasn’t enough to knock out 63

any more teeth, but it was firm enough to have her stop her childish complaining.

“You speak when I say so, and only what I tell you to say,” said The Woodsman, tying her arms and leg down to the bed before wiping the blood from her chin. “Understand?”

Red nodded.

“Remember the order,” said The Woodsman. “Italian, French, Dutch, German, Spanish, Swiss, English, Japanese, Mandarin, Hindi, and Arabic.”

Red nodded.

“You look at the camera and you say, hi, I’m Red. Welcome to the doom room. I’m so happy to meet you. That’s it. Nothing more.”

Red nodded again. She knew all the languages. She’d studied them all her life.

Already, there was the sound of cash registers ringing. It was coming from the computer. The people on the screen – the rich and powerful people – were all paying money to be allowed to watch; lots and lots of money.

Red was trapped. She couldn’t move her arms or her legs. All four were shackled to the bed. She could move her head, though, and she strained to see if Mr Wolf was coming as he promised – but he wasn’t. He had lied, just as wolves always did. You couldn’t trust them. They were conniving. They were diabolical double-dealing devils.

The Woodsman’s phone rang.

“Yes, mam,” he said.

It was obviously his boss.

“We’re ready to start,” he said. “I’ll make it a wonderful show.”

Then he took his sharp and shiny axe in hand and stood at the foot of the bed.

“Be a good girl,” he said.

But he didn’t hear Mr Wolf sneaking out of the bathroom.

He didn’t see him too, flying through the air and taking a bite out of his side. So unaware was he, that The Woodsman had no time to defend himself. Mr Wolf took a bite. The Woodsman’s sharp and 64

shiny axe fell to the ground. And then he fell to the ground too, writhing in pain.

“We gotta go, Red,” shouted Mr Wolf, jumping up onto the bed and chewing through the restraints. “We gotta get outta here.

Quick, before he gathers his strength.”

Red, though, froze. Not in fear. No. She was well past fear.

There was nothing left to be afraid of. She froze because she had had an idea.

“Get me my red cloak,” she said.

And Mr Wolf did just that.

“Bring The Woodsman here,” she said.

And Mr Wolf did just that.

The Woodsman was big, about as big as the trees that he cut down for a living, and about as heavy too. He could have crushed Mr Wolf with just one punch. He could have, were not in a great deal of pain.

“Lay him on the bed,” said Red. “Headfirst.”

She hopped off the bed and wiped the blood that pooled from her mouth all over her face until it was as red as her cloak.

Then she picked the sharp and shiny axe up from the ground. It was heavy. It was really heavy. But Red was smart. She had learned all about axes. She’d learned all about math too. She knew all about leverage. And she knew how to make an axe swing.

“Is this thing on?” she said, looking into the camera, then at all the faces of the rich and powerful people who were watching it all unfold on the computer screen.

She smiled at the camera, a maniacal toothless smile, her face covered in blood.

“Hi,” she said. “My name’s Red. And I’m coming for you next!”

And then she chopped off The Woodman’s head.

The head went rolling to the floor. Even still, the sound of money being paid rang out from the computer. It sounded like a thousand cash registers all going off at once.

Red, though, wasn’t done. She chopped off his arms and legs too.

65

“We should go,” said Mr Wolf.

“No,” said Red. “We’ve just started.”

Her demeanour had changed entirely.

“They’ve done this before,” she said. “They’ll do it again. We have to find out who they are and hunt them down, one by one.”

The whole time she was looking into the camera with that maniacal toothless smile.

“How do we do that?” asked Mr Wolf. “I’m just a wolf. I don’t know about computers.”

“Well, I’m Red,” said Red. “And I do.”

She had learned all about computers too. And in seconds she had found what she was looking for – the I.P address of the person who was hosting this sick, depraved party.

“Let’s go,” she said.

And she and Mr Wolf followed an electronic signal that she had calculated, using the cell phone she had stolen from the pocket of The Woodsman, whose head she had just decapitated. They followed the signal, all the way back to Mother’s house.

Red entered first, axe in hand.

“Mother?” she said, pretending to be scared.

Conniving, she was, like a wolf, sneaking through the house.

“Mother, are you there?”

She dragged the axe on the floor behind her, mainly because the sound was so scary and cool. Quickly she made her way through the house looking for Mother. And there she found her, suitcases in hand, trying to escape through the back door.

“Oh, my dear Red,” said Mother. “You’re……home.”

She sounded flustered; caught – unawares, off-guard, redhanded.

“Why did you send me there?” asked Red. “I don’t know what you mean, my dear Red. Was something wrong with Grandma?”

“You know what I mean,” said Red, walking towards her, the sharp and shiny axe dragging behind her.

Mr Wolf followed, far enough, though, so he wouldn’t be sprayed with blood.

66

“Please, my dear Red. It’s not what you think.”

“Why did you send me there?” asked Red again.

Mother dropped her bags, dropped her phone, and fell to the floor.

“It wasn’t me,” she said. “It was them.”

She pointed to the phone.

“They made me do it.”

“Who are they?” asked Red. Behind her, Mr Wolf snarled.

“I don’t know,” said Mother. “They’re everyone. They’re everywhere. They’re rich and powerful. You can’t stop them. They’ve been doing this forever.”

“I’ll find them,” said Red. “Every one of them. Everywhere.

I’ll make it stop.”

“You’re just a child.”

“I’m Red,” said Red. “That’s my gi...”

And then her head bounced on the floor.

“This is big, Red,” said Mr Wolf. “Real big. We’re talking Masoud, CIA, KGB, MIT, Hollywood.”

He sounded a little concerned; worried but not scared – he was a wolf after all.

“It goes right to the top. What do we do?”

Red was already searching through Mother’s phone, and with it, the names, and numbers of the richest and most powerful people on the planet.

“If no grown-up is ever gonna defend kids, well then I guess we kids have gotta do it for ourselves. Are you in?” she asked.

She stuck her pinkie out. There was no more solemn promise than a pinkie promise.

“I’m in,” said Mr Wolf.

And off they went, Red and Mr Wolf, new best friends, and the heroes that every kid in the world needed. Who would have thought? This time yesterday, as much as Red knew, wolves were all diabolical double-dealing devils. And that wasn’t true at all; people were. Grown-ups to be precise.

67

It was grown-ups that lied and hurt children. They did it all the time. They did it to teach them lessons, and they did it just for fun. Dangerous, they were, diabolical double-dealing devils – grown-ups that is, not wolves.

“Which way?” said Mr Wolf. “Left or right?”

Red and Mr Wolf stood at a crossroads. She with her sharp and shiny axe in her hands and a maniacal toothless smile on her bloodied face – blood as red as her cloak. And he with his big pointy ears, big ferocious eyes, and his big mouth full of razorsharp teeth.

“I don’t think it matters,” said Red. “All roads lead to Rome.”

68

All Those Ghosts

69

Once upon a time, there were two small children alone in a forest; abandoned, forsaken, and left to fend for themselves. Hansel and Gretel were their names, and though they were only young, both had a certain wit about them: Hansel with his fearlessness, and Gretel with her rationale. Enough wit, that, even though they had no idea where they were, all was not lost.

Although Hansel and Gretel were quite cunning and brave, the forest itself was no place for children. It was filled with all sorts of peril, and the longer they stayed by themselves, the less chance there was of either of the two children ever getting home again.

There were snakes and spiders, for instance, the former slithering about in the dried leaves beneath their feet, eager to paralyse them with their bite and then swallow them whole; while the latter, hidden in the middle of giant webs that hung about like sticky traps, waited to ensnare, and sink its fangs into the children, turning their insides into soup, and drinking them up with a straw.

And that was just the beginning.

There were goblins and banshees and witches too, lurking behind every tree, underneath every rock, and flying on broomsticks all around them.

“Did you hear that?” asked Hansel.

“Yes,” said Gretel. “I did. What do you think it was?”

“Definitely a goblin,” said Hansel. “And more than one by the sounds of it.”

“I doubt it,” said Gretel. “Goblins are just made-up things.

It was probably a goat or just a tree, being felled somewhere way off. That happens all the time – tress falling for no good reason.”

“Goblins are real,” said Hansel. “How else do you explain all the bad things that happen in the world?”

She couldn’t. And for that reason alone, goblins were real.

“Definitely goblins,” said Hansel.

He didn’t sound scared, though.

“We’d do best to get where we are getting,” said Gretel. “Before it gets dark.”

She, too, wasn’t scared.

70

What did scare both of them, though, if ever just a bit, were the ghosts; and of them there were many. Ghosts didn’t hide like snakes or spiders, nor did they lurk about like goblins and banshees and witches. No, ghosts were everywhere. They walked alongside Hansel and Gretel, every step of the way through every inch of the forest - the children who never made it home.

“They’re following us,” said Hansel. “All those ghosts.”

“They’re looking for a way out,” said Gretel. “That’s all.”

For she was rational; nothing at all made her scared.

Along the way, they battled a dozen snakes and escaped from as many sticky webs, using their minds and their muscles to get them out of trouble whenever it was that trouble sought out to get them. And not once did they ever quiver or flinch or even bat a single eye. That wasn’t the kind of children they were.

Fearless and rational.

“They’re more scared of us than we are of them,” said Gretel.

“That last snake seemed pretty angry,” said Hansel. “Not scared at all.”

“If you saw a man scratching, would you say he had a scratch or an itch?” asked Gretel.

“What do a scratch and an itch has to do with a venomous snake?”

“Everything,” said Gretel. “The snake only bites because it is angry, and it is only angry because it is scared. Imagine if you were a snake. You’re basically flat. You’re no bigger than a line drawn in the ground. And you have no arms or legs to defend yourself. Then along comes this big stupid giant, stamping its big stupid feet, making the scariest racket, and the only thing you have to defend yourself is your teeth; you’d be extra angry too. And the angry snake is just scared, is all.”

“Then why did you punch it in the face?”

“Because I hate snakes,” said Gretel.

She was the rational one of the two. It was her idea to use a bottle of ink to mark their way through the forest. Hansel wanted to use breadcrumbs. Can you believe that? Boys only ever thought 71

with their bellies. If it were up to them, the world would be made out of marshmallows and machine guns. That’s why you always had to have girls around.

“Don’t forget to mark the leaves,” said Gretel.

“I was gonna do it,” said Hansel.

“But you didn’t,” said Gretel. “And so, I reminded you.”

“I didn’t forget.”

He had, but not by much mind you.

“We had passed a hundred and fifty paces and you hadn’t marked a single leaf.”

“I was talking to you. I was going to do it.”

“And since then, we have passed fifty more.”

“That’s because we’re arguing. If you’d quit being so picky, I could mark the darn leaf.”

“You distract easily,” said Gretel. “You’re fearless, yes, but your fearlessness makes you forgetful.”

“Does not.”

“Does too.”

They argued like this for enough time that it would have taken to mark a hundred leaves. Eventually, though, they were both distracted – not from the task at hand – but from each other.

“What is that smell?” asked Hansel.

There was a pungent odour. It wasn’t bad. But then again, it wasn’t good either. It smelt as if a vat full of cow dung, ice cream, and truck tires were slowly coming to a boil. It was both sweet and acrid. It smelled poisonous yet delightful.

“We should heed with caution,” said Gretel.

Hansel, though, was already running.

“It’s a candy house,” he shouted.

It was the first time he sounded like a little boy. Up until that point, he had been fearless and stern, focused only on punching spiders and snakes, and doing away with goblins and banshees and witches. Now, though, he skipped out of the forest, down towards the old cottage, like any ten-year-old boy would – giddy and full of glee.

“Boys...” said Gretel, shaking her head in disbelief.

72

She caught up to him right at the entry to the cottage. The doors were locked, and the lights were off. It didn’t look like anybody was home.

“You see what I see, right?”

Hansel was gobsmacked!

“It’s a cottage,” he said. “Made entirely of candy.”

Gretel, though, was unimpressed.

“How is this not the greatest thing you’ve ever seen in your life?”

“Who would make a cottage out of candy?” asked Gretel.

“Who cares?” said Hansel. “It’s a candy cottage. An actual candy cottage. Look,” he said, biting into a beam of what should have been wood, but was actually toffee. “I’m eating the house.”

“Cottage,” said Gretel. “It’s a cottage.”

“A candy cottage.”

It all seemed puzzling to Gretel.

“This can’t be structurally sound,” she said.

“Stop being such a nerd,” said Hansel.

“I can’t imagine rain would be much good. I mean, these walls look soluble. Is that…?”

“Yes! Gingerbread!”

“You sneeze and those walls are coming down.”

By this stage, Hansel had already eaten through the lock on the front door. It was made entirely of cookies and gummy bears.

“Let’s go in,” he said.

“Ok,” said Gretel. “But, please, don’t be distracted.”

Too late!

Gretel had barely gotten through the door and Hansel had already stuffed his mouth with Skittles and chocolate fondue and fairy floss.

“This is so good,” he said, breaking off a piece of the dining table and handing it to Gretel. “You have to try some.”

“You shouldn’t eat so much candy,” said Gretel. “You know what happens.”

“And you should stop being so serious all the time. You’ll die of boredom.”

73

“I’m sure I won’t,” said Gretel.

“Well, you’re killing me.”

It was amazing he could even get a word out. His face was so filled with candy. If he didn’t have nostrils, he probably would have suffocated by now. Never had either one of them ever seen as much candy before in their lives. Every inch of the cottage, from the floors to the ceilings and everything in between – all of it – was all made out of gelatine and sugar.

“Just one piece, then,” said Gretel.

She had maybe fifty, maybe a hundred. Hansel had ten thousand times more. They both ate so much candy that their teeth nearly dropped out. They ate so much that they had to chase each other in circles and do super-duper cartwheels all over the place just so they burn off enough energy so that they could eat some more.

Then, as Gretel had warned, both of them crashed.

“I’m so tired,” said Hansel, curling up on the sofa. “I could sleep for days.”

“Me too,” said Gretel, lying under the table, on the floor.

Exhausted by all the commotion, Hansel and Gretel fell asleep. So tired were they, the sound of the front door opening didn’t disturb them. So tired were they, the sound of an old witch cackling didn’t perturb them. So tired were they, there was no way they could protect themselves.

“Got you, little fiend,” cried The Old Witch, whipping Hansel up off the sofa and shoving him into a small iron cage.

The Old Witch examined him. She poked around with her disgusting and grubby finger – sticking it in his ear and picking at all the wax; then shoving it into his mouth and rubbing it against his gums and teeth.

“Those teeth,” she said, cackling. “So white, so clean. They’ll make a wonderful necklace.”

Then she grabbed his arms and yanked on them hard; squeezing from his shoulder down to his pinkie finger as if the boy were a piece of store-bought fruit.

“Wonderful bones,” she said, with a cackle. “Not brittle at all.”

74

Then she put a padlock on the cage – locking in tight.

“Yes, you’ll do nicely,” she said, cackling hysterically as she did.

Witches loved to cackle. It was probably their favourite thing in the world; apart from eating children of course.

“Best to fire up the stove.”

The Old Witch sang horrible rhymes to herself as she skipped about her cottage grabbing this and grabbing that - all sorts of instruments and ingredients. There were things for prodding, things for pulling, things for squashing and things for taking the skin from a child’s bones. And she set all those things on the table that was next to the giant cauldron that sat on top of a roaring fire – the whole time, singing her horrible song.

She must have rhymed eat with feet a hundred times. And it was clear, by her rhyme, that the best way to cook a child was tempered and mild.

“Wake up you foul little fiend,” she said, dragging Hansel out by the scruff of the neck.

Her voice sounded shrill, just like a dentist’s drill.

“A nice warm bath will take the collagen right off those bones,” she said.

Hansel lay on the ground by the big cauldron. So tired was he, Hansel was about to sleep through his own death. Beside him, though, neath the table, a little girl stirred. For the little girl was only pretending to be asleep. For, unlike her brother who couldn’t help but fill his belly with sugary treats, Gretel hadn’t swallowed a single one.

And while The Old Witch filled the big cauldron with gallons of vinegar, Gretel hatched a plan. She crept out from underneath the table and tiptoed across the room. The Old Witch was right in front of the cauldron. If she were quiet, The Old Witch wouldn’t hear. If she were fast, she could throw her right into that boiling vinegar and the two could escape.

“I’ll get to you soon enough,” said The Old Witch in her cackly voice, as she slowly stirred the boiling liquid.

Gretel gasped.

75

“Not quiet or fast enough,” said The Old Witch.

Then she turned to Gretel. Her face was all wrinkled and ragged. It was covered in blisters and boils and sores. Her teeth, too, were all missing. All except one that is. It stuck out from her mouth like a clothes tag, and it wobbled whenever she swirled from side to side, the thick clump of phlegm inside her mouth.

“You’re well-fed,” she said, surprised. “Well dressed. Your hair is well-groomed. More so than the last children. Your father must be important?”

“Our father is a good man,” said Gretel. “He will worry about us if we are not home.”

“What good man would let his children wander so freely – and to a place as difficult to find as this?”

“I don’t know who you think we are, but we are certainly not them. My name is Gretel and that is my brother Hansel. Our father is a woodsman. He is a simple man. We are a simple family.

We do not have much wealth. I hope you can see that this is why my brother was so taken away by your cottage made of sweets. I hope you can forgive us.”

“Not even God will forgive you, Nazi swine.”

“We’re not Nazis,” said Gretel.

“I know a Nazi when I see one,” said The Old Witch. “Children or not. You’ll grow up just like the rest of them. You’ll be murderers and butchers too. You’ll be killers, just like every one of them.”

“That’s not true,” said Gretel. “We’re good children. I promise. We are well mannered. We do always as we are told. We never speak back to elders. We are good children. The best, even. We didn’t do anything to you, lady.”

“You broke into my house,” said The Old Witch. “You ate my things.”

“That’s true,” said Gretel. “We did. But we didn’t mean any harm. My brother can sometimes think with his belly and therefore he loses his head. I implore you; we are but children.”

“A spider is born a spider,” said The Old Witch. “And a snake is always born a snake. A Nazi is a Nazi, through and through, no 76

matter how old. Eventually, your fangs will come in. Eventually, you’ll grow your venom.”

“I’m just a little girl,” said Gretel. “And Hansel is just a little boy. We don’t want to hurt people. I want to play the violin when I’m older. I want to play concertos all around the world. And Hansel wants to be a vet. He wants to look after baby otters. We’re children. If you kill us, how are you any different to those killers you talk of ?”

“A moral violence is a just violence,” said The Old Witch.

“Your deaths will be a favour paid in advance. The world will be a better place. History will thank me.”

“There is no moral violence,” said Gretel. “There is no good and just reason to kill a person. I think you just like killing children and you pretend you’re doing good – you pretend that you care so you don’t have to feel bad.”

It was true. The Old Witch had been killing children for aeons, long before the war had broken out. The stories of this old cottage – the cottage made of candy – was part of folklore. Her moral stance was just a convenient rouse.

“Was there no candy here at all that wetted your interest?” she asked.

“What?”

“I thought all you Nazis loved sweet things.”

She seemed surprised that Gretel hadn’t eaten a thing.

“You ate no candy at all.”

“I don’t like candy,” said Gretel.

“Neither do I,” said The Old Witch.

“Well, then why do you have a cottage made of it?”

“Because children cannot resist. A place such as this, no adult could ever find. Their tastes are too ardent and bitter. Children, though, are special. Children always find their way.”

“How dare you,” decried Gretel. “What good can ever come from hurting children?”

The Old Witch smiled. It seemed so obvious. So much so that, like any good joke, it almost pained her to have to explain it.

“Do you know how candy is made?” she asked.

77

“I don’t know,” said Gretel. “Sugar?”

“Gelatine,” said The Old Witch. “Made out of collagen.”

Then she pointed to a box, one filled with the remains of fifty dead children.

“And you know how we get collagen?”

“No,” said Gretel.

“Straight off the bone,” said The Old Witch, cackling.

Then she grabbed Hansel from the ground and lifted him onto her shoulders, so as to throw him into the cauldron full of boiling vinegar.

Gretel didn’t flinch. Without even thinking, she picked up a chair made out of hard rock candy and threw it at the support beam that Hansel had been eating; the one made out of toffee. She could have thrown a handkerchief and that beam would have come falling to the ground.

That’s just what happened, though. The beam, the roof, and the walls made of gingerbread, all crumbled and fell around them, knocking The Old Witch to the ground, and letting Hansel fall free.

“Wake up, Hansel,” shouted Gretel.

She shook and slapped her brother.

“We have to go, Hansel. We have to run.”

Hansel opened his eyes. They were tired and weary.

“What’s happening?” he said.

“The Old Witch tried to boil you. She’s crazy. She’s mad. I told you this would happen. The cottage was a trap. We have to go.

We have to run.”

She grabbed Hansel from underneath the rubble of gingerbread and toffee.

“Go!” she screamed.

Then Hansel and Gretel ran out the door.

“Come back here,” shouted The Old Witch.

She pulled herself from under the rubble and took a truncheon and a serrated knife from the dining table – the kind that was good for carving skin off bone. Then she ran out after the kids, cackling – because cackling was what witches loved to do.

“You ruined my cottage,” she screamed.

78

The Old Witch stumbled outside, cursing the children.

“Come back here now! You owe me your collagen! Give me your bones!”

Hansel and Gretel ran, looking over their shoulders the whole time.

“Do not stop,” shouted Gretel.

But the choice wasn’t theirs. Barely an inch from freedom, both children were jolted and fell backwards onto the grass, while behind them, The Old Witch cackled and cursed, promising to do the most abhorrent, cruel, and grotesque things when she finally got her disgusting and grubby hands on them.

“Well, well, well,” said a man’s voice, standing over the two children. “What do we have here?”

“Father!” shouted Hansel.

“Father!” shouted Gretel.

Both were relieved. They were safe. They were saved. They both jumped up off the ground and then into Father’s arms, hugging him as tight as they could.

“My oh my,” said Father. “How far you did wander.”

“The Old Witch tried to eat us,” said Hansel.

He sounded scared, now that he was in his father’s embrace as if he no longer had to put up a front as if he were never truly fearless, to begin with.

“I am so proud of you both,” said Father.” “You must have been so scared.”

“I wasn’t scared,” said Hansel.

“Neither was I,” said Gretel.

“Well, of that, I am sure. But it was an incredibly brave act regardless. This witch has murdered over fifty children. Boils them all in vinegar, she does; to strip the collagen from their bones so that she can make her candy cottage.”

The children were shocked. Hansel had eaten so much.

“It’s lucky I arrived when I did,” said Father. “Or that witch would have made candy from you.”

Then he embraced his two children.

“I love you,” he said.

79

“I love you, too, daddy,” said Hansel.

“I love you, more,” said Gretel.

Father smiled. His children seemed so grown up all of a sudden. What happened to those two little rascals that could barely pronounce their own names, let alone tie their own shoelaces.

Where had the time gone? How had he let it slip by?

“I promise,” said Father. “When we get home, and for the rest of the week too, there is no work, only games.”

“Really?” both children cried at once – a cry of sheer joy.

“I promise,” said Father. “This week we will do whatever you want to do. Anything at all.”

“You’re the best dad in the world,” said Hansel.

“I double that,” said Gretel. “The best dad in the whole universe.”

Father knew, though, that a tree was known only by its fruit, so if he were the best dad in the world, it was only because he had the best children in the world.

“Kill the Jew,” said Father. “And burn this crooked and contemptible cottage to the ground.”

“Yes, sir,” said one of his lieutenants.

From out of the forest came scores of uniformed officers, all of them wielding machine guns and flame throwers. They set alight the candy cottage, firing thousands of rounds of ammunition as they did, emptying their machine guns, laughing, smoking their cigarettes, and singing songs about hope and prosperity and their devotion to the motherland – Germany.

“Your mother would be so proud,” said Father.

Behind him, flames crackled.

“So apt,” he said. “So astute. I’m ever so proud of you.”

“Hansel ate all the candy,” said Gretel, disgruntled.

“Did not!”

“Did too,” said Gretel. “And he nearly got himself killed.”

“Yes, but he had you, his masterful and cunning sister. None smarter. None more clever. Cleverer than I even. You captured The Jew Witch, all by yourselves. Both of you. And whose idea was it to ink the leaves?”

80

“Mine,” said Gretel.

“Amazing. So much better than breadcrumbs.”

Gretel stuck her tongue out at Hansel.

“Without the ink, we would never have been able to follow you. And,” he said as if he had just remembered the most fantastic news. “We would never have found and imprisoned fifty goblins which were hiding in the woods along the way.’

“I told you it was goblins,” said Hansel.

Then he stuck his tongue out at Gretel.

“Because of you, my dear children,” said Father. “No child will ever get hurt again. You are heroes. The both of you.”

Hansel and Gretel were budding with pride.

“I love you so much, my dear children,” said Father.

“I love you too,” said Hansel.

“I love you more,” said Gretel.

“Now let’s get home.”

“Yay!” And so, Hansel and Gretel ran home, jumping about like blown up balloons – such was the gravity of the love and joy in their hearts. They might have even floated off into space altogether were it not for Father holding so tightly onto each of their little hands.

And as for The Old Witch, well she was dragged away kicking and screaming – shouting all kinds of obscenities; words too vulgar to imagine, let alone mention in a story.

“A pox on those damn children,” she screamed. “A pox on you all.”

Then she was thrown into the back of a truck crowded with fifty gipsies and Jews, all of them children no older than Hansel and Gretel themselves. And then the truck was set on fire.

81

The Time Machine I: 3x+1

82

Once upon a time, there was a man who was running. All-day he had been running, in fact. Fast, he was, and constantly out of breath, but never once did the thought of stopping or slowing down ever cross his mind. He wasn’t running for office, nor was he running for some charitable cause. He wasn’t running either, for the last parting train, one that would shuttle him to a quiet lake where, sitting on a wooden bench, his true love waited, full of excited and worrisome nerves, for a tender kiss that would lift them both from the gulf of their loneliness. No. He was running for a more pressing matter – one of dire and irreversible consequence.

He was running, you see, running for his dear life.

“What do you want from me?” he screamed.

The Assailant, though, didn’t respond; he wasted not a single breath. Tired, he was. Exhausted, even. As spent as The Man himself. But just like his intrepid victim, he let not the desire for comfort or ease take precedence in his thoughts.

Instead, driven by a motivation to kill, he pressed onwards.

“Run, if you will,” he thought to himself. “For I know your every step.”

And he did. Without fail, The Assailant stayed barely a hand’s reach away with every twist and turn, with every duck and weave, and with every leap and bound of the man who outran him, riding the coattails of his victim’s stubborn preference to not be dead.

Give up, though, neither man would.

Nor would they concede nary an inch of flight or flight between them. For run, they did, away from and after one another like seconds in the day, the distance between them both precise and unrelenting. But they couldn’t keep this up forever. Eventually, one of them would have to forfeit their adventure.

And when finally, The Man did collapse, so too did The Assailant topple over with him. Fall, they did, like heavy stones tossed from a bridge, their bodies beaten and sore, their flattened lungs like ripped and torn balloons.

“Please, enough,” said The Man. “I cannot take anymore.”

Come to terms, he had, with his impending fate.

The Assailant, though, was just as bothered. The same 83

distance that had separated the two men in their plight, did so now as they lay barely a hand’s reach from one another – almost strangling distance – and yet neither one could wiggle a single toe.

“What did I do to you?” pleaded The Man, wheezing through every syllable.

Befuddled, he was, bamboozled and gobsmacked even, almost as much as he was horrified, petrified, and chilled to the bloody bone. For never in his life had he ever done wrong to a single person.

He had been honest, polite, and acquiescent at every turn; never taking what was not his, and never spending what had not been earned. He had helped the poor with his spare change and read stories to the bedridden, sick, and infirmed with his spare time. He had, before this moment, never raised his voice at another man, nor had he, in the comeuppance of others, cast a single judging stone.

Why then, was this assailant so bent on hunting him down?

“I will run no more,” he said. “I am done.”

The way he spoke, it was as if a second wind had only just become him, but rather than taking flight and prolonging this futile charade, he thought it best – in clear and sound mind – to meet his fate once and for all.

“Kill me then,” he said, his words carved from courage and honour. “Strike me if that is your will. But you will take nothing from me, nothing that a cold breeze, rotten meat, or time itself can’t take. There is no valour in taking a man’s life, just as there is no glory. A life, that even without murder, would end entirely on its own. Where is the merit in that?”

The Man was no longer afraid. Stare, he did, at the onset of death with the same fret and folly as he would a punctured tire.

There was not a drop of bother in his voice, nor was there a sign of apprehension in how he stood. Bold, he was, as if death were no grounds for weakness or concern.

The Assailant, too, got to his feet. He had not a single weapon on him – no gun, no knife. Instead, he held his hands outwards, barely one step away from closing around The Man’s neck, so as 84

to snuff him of his life.

He had waited so long for this day. Suffered, he had, his whole damn life.

“So, do it,” said The Man. “Just get it over and done with.”

The Assailant, though, for some reason could not. It had been much easier to chase The Man than it was right now, to end his life. He was not as swift as a cold breeze, nor was his heart as dank and bitter as rotten meat. And he had not the patience of time.

“I have to do this,” he said, almost as if he were trying to convince himself. “I have no choice. I cannot go on a single day longer. You would understand,” he said. “You would, were you to see how fraught and lonely the sun sets in the morrow.”

The Man’s hand’s stiffened, turning to fists.

“Who are you?” he said.

The Assailant was old, yes, his face weathered and eroded by the stresses and burdens of time, but his likeness, in spite of his age, was uncanny. It was unmistakable.

“I am you,” he said. “Twenty years from now.”

It was true. There were many years between them, but they were indeed the very same man. They both had the same chip in their tooth. They both had the same dimple whenever they grimaced or grinned. They both had the same bung knee, for when they were children, they had both fallen from the exact same tree.

They both had the same voice, the same accent, and the same tone.

And they both stood, in just the same manner, as if one were an exact mirror of the other.

“I don’t understand,” said The Man. “I know,” said The Assailant in reply. “Neither did I?” “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been here before,” said The Assailant. “I know exactly how this will end.”

“What are you on about?”

“I’m not here to explain the science of things,” he said. “I’m here to kill you.”

What a strange day this had been. This morning had started 85

no different to any other – one of seamless and impassive repetition. A day like any other day. Yet, by noon, after a rift in time and space opened in his living room, The Man had found himself, instead of preparing his chickpea salad, running from a deranged assassin who, after materializing from a seemingly vacuous black void, initiated and precipitated the pursuit with the words, “You must die.”

And now here they were, reckoning with that truth.

“We’ve been depressed,” said The Assailant. “For so very, very long, and we cannot take anymore.”

“What do you mean we? My life is fine.”

“It won’t be,” said The Assailant.

“How do you know?”

The look in his eyes said more than words ever could.

“I find no happiness in life,” he said. “Nothing brings me wonder for I know that all is futile. And nothing at all, no matter how big or small, nothing brings me effervescence or joy.”

“Why me, then? What is killing me going to do?”

“I cannot live any longer,” said The Assailant. “But I have not the will to kill myself. Nor do I have the courage to die alone.”

“And so, by killing me, what?”

“Then my timeline ends with you. I will end with you.”

“I will die,” decried The Man. “We will die,” said The Assailant, consolingly. “Trust me, you don’t want to go on. It’s terrible. Each day is worse than the last.

The morning breeze tastes like remorse and the setting sun smears the sky with regret. At least here,” he said. “Here we can die together. Here, we don’t have to die alone.”

“But I am not you,” said The Man. “Surely you can see that as you stand before me. We are two separate men. I have not lived my life yet. Nor have I lived it as you have lived yours. Your fate, your suffering, and your misery are of your own making. As absurd and as non-sensical as this all is, one need not a higher education to see we are not the same man. And I will not die here. Not at my hands, and not at your own.”

Then he struck The Assailant. He struck him swift in the 86

throat, knocking his attacker to the ground. Having been here before, though, The Assailant knew exactly how it would end. He grasped at his throat and choked for air, his eyes bulging and his face as red as the blood in his veins.

The Man didn’t slow his assault.

He took a rock from the ground and smashed it into The Assailant’s face until well after his teeth had broken; well, too, after his nose and cheeks had caved in. Smash and batter, he did, until well after the bones in The Assailant’s face had all but turned to dust.

“What have I done?” said The Man, staring at the headless body.

Run, he did, as fast as he could, he ran back to his home to wash the blood off his hands. No amount of soap, though, would ever clean the wretched stain in his mind, that which sickened his belly with remorse and regret.

From his living room floor, he gathered the small device with which The Assailant had used to bridge their two points in time and space. He wished and willed to smash it to a thousand pieces, just as he had The Assailant’s face, yet he could not.

Instead, he turned it off so that the rift between the present and the future closed like a healing wound, and then placed the device on a shelf between the small trinkets and ornaments which once had brought him wonder, and the pictures of the people in his life who had, before this day, brought him effervescence and joy; emotions he would never feel again.

Stare at that device, he did, day and night he stared. And as he did, he suffered, each day worse than the last. If this were true, if there were indeed only one timeline in which all things passed then even though he lived today, there was a future where - no matter what kind of life he led, no matter how much he redeemed himself – paradoxically, he did not.

The future, whether he liked it or not, had no place for him.

Stew on this, he did. For years his worry simmered and boiled.

Alone and miserable, he saw how futile it all was. No amount of evasion could have him escape that which had already occurred.

He, himself, could only live as long as his future-self had. And 87

then, when he did reach that point in time, there would be no tomorrow, for time itself, at least for The Man’s sake, was not linear and would not go onwards. It would, instead, arc backwards to that one fateful day.

And this paradox in time would repeat forever.

He could kill himself now. He could sever this inescapable loop. He could put an end to this curse once and for all. He could, but he was scared. He had not the will to kill himself, nor the courage to die alone.

88

The Amusement Park

89

Once upon a time, there was an architect, and his name was God. “Actually, it was Gary.”

Right. Sorry.

Once upon a time, there was an architect named Gary. And ever since he was a boy, Gary was obsessed with amusement parks.

It was all he ever thought about.

“Can we go to an amusement park, mum?”

“Ask your father.”

“Can we go to an amusement park, dad?”

“No.” Gary never bothered to ask why. He knew just what the answer would be.

“Because I said so!”

So instead, Gary sat in his room day and night imagining what it would be like to swing on the swings, slide on the slide, and ride the biggest and scariest rollercoaster in the world.

“Who’s brave enough to ride the mountain of perilous death and doom?”

In a small cardboard box, he would sit, Gary and his favourite toys, and he would shut his eyes as he imagined the rollercoaster slowly creeping upwards, creaking as it did, as if all the mechanics were on the cusp of failure. Then he would scream with delight as it rushed downwards at the speed of light, flipping to the left, then flipping to the right, almost throwing him out entirely, before racing back up again into a giant loop-de-loop.

“Woohoo!”

He had the greatest time ever.

“This is the best!”

Soon enough, though, the box would rip, and the fun would wear off. Pretending was never enough. Imagining was awesome, sure, but not as much as the real thing. Gary knew that. And so, year after year, he persisted.

“Can we go to an amusement park, mum?”

“Ask your father.”

“Can we go to an amusement park, dad?”

“No!” 90

It went on like this for years until finally, there came a day when Gary was old enough to make decisions for himself. He was a grown man now and he could do whatever he pleased – within reason, of course.

“I’m gonna go to an amusement park, mum.”

“Good for you, son.”

“I’m gonna go to an amusement park, dad.”

“Good luck with that, son.”

But when that time did come, poor Gary was shocked and disheartened when he found out the sad and crummy truth amusement parks didn’t exist. They never had. They never would.

Nobody had ever heard of them. It had all just been a figment of his imagination.

“Tried to tell you, son,” said his father. “But you never listen.”

Gary, though, was put off not one bit.

“I’ll just have to make one for myself,” he said, expertly.

And he could, too – in theory, of course. He knew all there was to know about amusement parks. He had spent his whole life dreaming them up. He knew the ins and outs of every swing, slide, and rollercoaster, and all the colours of every fairy floss and concession stand. He knew the park better than he did, the back of his own hand.

And Gary wasted no time at all. He got to work straight away, plotting and planning every square inch of the park on blueprints. He drew every ride by hand and the smiles of every person riding them. He drew all the cars in the car park, the babies in the creche, the old folks in the bingo hall, even the ducks that would make their nests, in a shrub by the lake. He drew families all hugging and singing songs, lovers holding hands and skipping along the grassy verges, and strangers roasting marshmallows by an open fire at night. He drew the swings, the slides, and the rollercoasters, and all the happy people who were lining up to ride them.

Soon enough he was ready to start building.

“That looks awful hard,” said Mum. “Doesn’t look very easy,” said Dad. “Why don’t you put your 91

time into something more constructive.”

It wasn’t easy either, building a whole world, it seemed, from the memories he had had as a boy. He ran into hundreds of problems; and along the way, he nearly gave up a hundred times. He didn’t, though. And he wasn’t going to rest; not until the park was complete.

“It’s done!” said Gary. “What do you think?”

The park was enormous. It was as big as a small city. There was enough parking for a million cars and enough space inside for fifty times as many people. It was the biggest thing Mum and Dad had seen in their lives.

“It’s a bit big, don’t you think?” said Dad. “That’s the point,” said Gary. “It’s a whole world. A whole world of fun.”

“Who wants to have fun all the time?”

“I don’t mind a bit of fun,” said Mum. “Roller-skates are nice.”

“It’ll never catch on,” said Dad. “You’ll see.”

Dads were always too serious. Everything was always work, work, work. That, and watching the news, and eating plenty of fibre. Dads were no fun at all.

Gary, though, paid no mind. It was the grand opening today and nothing could burst his joy or inspiration. And from the second the gates opened; people started to pour in.

“This is amazing,” said Gary, watching the park from his office. “I can’t wait to see their faces on the rides.”

He had installed cameras all around the park. Some of them were for safety and security, sure, but his favourite ones were installed on the scariest part of every ride when their eyes were as wide, and they were screaming for dear life/ and then again at the bottom when they got off laughing and smiling – anxious and eager to ride the ride again. He couldn`t wait to see their faces.

By lunchtime, the park was packed. There were so many people that Gary had to shut the gates. He hadn`t expected such a turnout. There were too many people, though, for the number of rides he had, and pretty soon, fights broke out.

92

“We were here first,” said one group being bullied by another.

“This is our land,” said the other group. “This is our ride. It was promised to us, by the architect.”

“It was promised for everyone. The Architect stated.”

“He speaks only to us, the chosen ones. The Architect would never speak to dogs like you. The dog in the manger – the weakwilled mix-breed mongrel – has no right to the manger in which it lays. Dogs have no rights!”

And it wasn’t just them either. All around the park it seemed different groups of people were claiming to speak on behalf of Gary, saying that they, and only they, had been put in charge of every ride and that, to not believe them, to not follow their way, would mean that they would suffer; not only during their time in the park but also outside of it. They would suffer endlessly and painfully for all time.

“Beware of false idols,” they preached. “There is only one Architect.”

There were, though, hundreds of different statues erected around the park, all of them portraying an Architect, unlike the one before it. Some of them were old men with white beards while others had eight harms and an elephant’s trunk. There were some that were men and others that were women, and there were depictions of Architects with no faces at all. Hundreds of them, there were.

And none of them looked like Gary.

“Hello? Hello? It’s me, Jeff. You know? From the slippery slide.”

Gary had put intercoms all around the park. Specifically, though, he had placed thousands of them in every line to every ride, in case of emergency.

“Hello? Architect? Can you hear me?”

At first, there was only one person. His name was Jeff. He had been in line for what seemed like forever. Everyone had really.

But Jeff was tired, and his feet were sore. And he thought he had waited just about long enough. And so, he thought if he asked The Architect, he might get moved a bit more forward in the line – a bit 93

closer to the start of the ride.

“First of all,” he said. “Thank you for the park. It’s really great. You’re awesome. You did a fantastic job. I especially liked the ducks. They were great. So, Architect? Can I ask a favour? Can you help me just this one time? Can you put me at the head of the line? I promise I’ll be good. I know I pushed in line before. But I promise I won’t do that again. That was just an accident. I’m not like that anymore. I promise. So…can you?”

It wasn’t just him either. Every intercom around the park was buzzing. Thousands of people. Hundreds of thousands, even. All of them asking for favours – just one. All of them pleading their case. All of them promising to do good. All of them promising to be good. All of them, then, apologising for the wrongs that they had done. All of them wanting to be one bit closer to the front of the line.

“Just this once,” they all cried.

“I promise I’ll be good.”

“Hail to The Architect. Hail! Hail! Hail!”

It got so bad that Gary had to kill the intercom altogether.

“You see?” said Dad. “Oh, stop it,” said Mum. “He’s trying his best.”

“I told him,” said Dad. “I did. You heard me. Don’t come crying to me when it all falls apart.”

“I’m doing my best, ok?” said Gary, “He’s trying his best,” said Mum. “Leave him alone, dad. It’s not his fault that people are the way they are.”

“If they’d just go on the rides,” said Gary.

And that was the problem. Nobody was going on any of the rides. There were lines, yes, but at the front of each one were robed men, whipping the people lining up before them – with long wooden sticks, and their frightening and judging words.

“The Architect is faithful! He will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear,” said one robbed man.

“Watch and pray that you should not fall into temptation,” said the other. “The spirit is willing. But the flesh is weak!”

They blocked the entrance to every ride with giant walls 94

incapable of passing. And on the walls, they painted stars and crosses and crescent moons. And those at the front of the line were permitted to touch the wall with their hands; to rest their heads against it and wail, like a child abandoned in a crib to decry their suffering. And when they were done, they would kiss the ground with which the men in robes stood and hand over their young sons whom, in dark and secretive lines, were made to kneel and be beholden before men in robes who lavished them with improper love and abuse.

Outside the administration building, a pulpit had been set up; several of them, actually. And on every pulpit stood a man in robes preaching about love and reverence one minute, and about fire and brimstone the next. Those watching and listening went from joyful and merry to a bucket of fear and nerves the next – scared to death that they were going to burn in hell if they ever worshipped at a different pulpit or were tempted into a different line. Worse then, were they to actually go on a single ride.

“Hail, The Architect,” the men in robes decried.

“Hail! Hail! Hail!” shouted the people in return.

“Thank you, dear Architect, for the world you have created.

We promise to be true only to you. We promise not to be tempted into evil. We promise to never be swept up by emotions. We promise to never make bed with desire. We promise to you, oh Architect, the all-seeing, the all-knowing; we promise to never ride a ride.”

All around the park, in front of pulpits and lined up in front of every ride, people fell to their knees and kissed the ground beneath them. And though their faiths were different, though their architects were different, their reverences and fears were entirely the same.

“We promise to not be tempted. We promise to never ever ride a single ride.”

“This is not what I intended,” said Gary, desperate. “What the hell is wrong with these people? It’s a damn amusement park.

Just go on the damn rides. Have some damn fun. It’s the whole point of this place.”

It was no good, though. He was shouting at himself.

95

“Hail to The Architect,” said the men in robes. “Hail.”

Then they started their war, the first of many. The whole park erupted in violence and stampedes. And it was the children who suffered the most.

“Death to the infidel,” cried every man in robes. “Worshiper of false Architects.”

“Why won’t they just go on the slide?” said Gary.

It was the biggest slide in the world. It could race fifty people at the same time. Instead, it was being used as a temple for one group. It was their place of worship. And it burned to the ground quickly as another group set upon it with sticks and stones, and arrows made of fire.

And it wasn’t just the slippery slide either. Dozens of rides were being burned to the ground, and the lines annexed and claimed by other, more capable, better-funded, and better-armed groups. There were rocks being thrown by one side and missiles being thrown by the other.

“I mean, I hate to say I told you so,” said Dad. He was basically doing it, though.

“Well, I wouldn’t have been able to do what Gary did. I think it’s amazing, I do. Building a whole bemusement park by yourself.”

“Amusement park,” said Gary.

“What did I say?”

“Bemusement.”

“Oh, did I?” “You should have built a tire store,” said Dad. “People always need tires.”

“Oh, Dad, stop it,” said Mum. “I’m just saying, is all.”

“It’s fine, mum,” said Gary. “It’s fine. I’ll just go down there and sort it out.”

“I’d leave it well enough alone, son,” said Dad. “It’s alright, Dad. I know what I’m doing.”

And so, Gary headed down the stairs of the administration building but the exit door had been blocked. The handle to the door, too, had been broken off. Worse still, the smoke from 96

outside, from all the burning pulpits, was flooding into the building. It only took minutes for the whole building to be wrapped in a blanket of black smoke.

Gary rushed up the stairs. Mum and Dad were already on the ground, as low as they could. It was no help, though. The smoke was thick and heavy.

“Come here, son,” said Dad. Gary sat with his parents. All three were holding hands and their breaths.

“We love you,” said Mum and Dad. “I love you too,” said Gary. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, son,” said Mum. “I tried,” he said. “I really did. It’s just…”

“People are arseholes,” said Dad. “That’s all. People are arseholes.”

97

The Man in the Dress

98

“A hero walks among us,” or so says, clinical psychologist, Ana Clara de Suécia. “There are only three archetypes in which one can build their identity and sense of self around. These are, in the case of the super-ego, the hero or the villain – both being the protagonist of any great trauma and the doers of the action; and then there is the victim – the object of an unjust and unfair world. And the trauma itself becomes the monolith of which not only justifies the ego, but that is a mirror in which the ego can reflect.”

And the trauma, in this case, refers to the discovery six months ago of a deceased middle-aged male, known only as Bruce, tied to a chair, and dressed in women’s clothing, in an abandoned meat packing warehouse.

It was a case that not only shocked and disturbed the nation but one that amassed a cult-like following of intrigue and wonder.

What was at first investigated as a hate crime, the senseless murder of a homosexual man, soon became the plot of something far stranger – a schizophrenic, cross-dressing exhibitionist who, in the eclipse of a psychotic episode, was both the victim and perpetrator of his own death. So, who was Bruce? Was his death a murder or a suicide? Why has he captured our attention? And what does he have to say about us?

“What makes Bruce special is that he is no different to any one of us,” says Ana Clara. “The sense of self, and reality especially, is entirely a delusion, but it is a delusion we all share. And though it is a figment merely of our imagination, it is absolutely real.”

When he was found by detectives, Bruce’s body was badly decomposed. His time of death was put at weeks or even months before his body was found. There had been, though, no reports of a missing person from family, friends, or acquaintances of any kind.

“He was a John Doe when we found him.”

Senior Detective Gus Livingstone was one of the first on the scene.

“He was as dead as can be, slumped in a wooden chair, his hands sort of tied loosely around his back – as if he’d either broken free or done it himself. And he was dressed in a blonde wig and 99

an evening gown. Pretty expensive looking gown. Makeup too. He was all done up.”

It took detectives weeks to discover his identity, or at least, who Bruce believed he was.

“If it weren’t for all the videos he had made and his manifestos, we’d have no idea who he was at all. In truth, we still don’t.

Who Bruce was in the real world we have no idea. We don’t even know if his real name was Bruce. He has no family whatsoever, and there are no records – fingerprints or dental – that give us a hint as to who he was. All we know about Bruce is from what he told us – what he left behind.”

And that was quite a bit. In the time he had been squatting in the abandoned warehouse, Bruce had accumulated an expansive archive of videos, paintings, poetry, and writings.

“Most of it was whacky. He’d made up this fantasy world for himself and even painted the warehouse walls to kind of act it out.

Everywhere you looked were the words, ‘Wayne Industries’. Pretended he was some kind of billionaire CEO. As far as we can tell, he didn’t have a penny to his name. And in different colour paint were symbols of bats and the joker playing card. He’d be dressing up in different costumes too, pretending he was a super-hero one minute, called himself The Batman; then a super-villain the next, The Joker or something like that. And then he’d be in tuxedos and ball gowns – the guy was a nutcase,” says the detective.

Ana Clara disagrees.

“Bruce, as we know him, wasn’t just Bruce. He was The Batman, The Joker, and Bridgette. He was the hero, the villain, and the victim. And he was also the observer, he was us. He watched everything he recorded – we know that now - so he was also the helpless observer watching this grand spectacle happen before him.”

There were hundreds of hours of video footage. In some, Bruce was dressed in black spandex, his face covered in a black mask, and courting a long black cape. He called himself The Batman, and he swore to rid Gotham, the city in which Bruce lived inside his head, of the fear and crime which had cast an indomitable shadow over it. In others, he was The Joker, the larger-than-life 100

villain who promised to untether Gotham from the binds of civility and sanity, and instead liberate the people, through violence and destruction, from their needless servitude to fear and oppression.

And, as the man in the dress, he was Bridgette, the fair maiden of both The Batman and The Joker.

So, was Bruce mad?

“Mad or crazy are very broad and loose terms. If we were, not only to know what Bruce was thinking and how he felt, but were we to share these thoughts and feelings just as we do when we take the narrative from the evening news, it would not be Bruce who is mad, but instead the world itself. To simply call Bruce crazy does little except to serve the idea that he is the villain because he thought one way, and we are the heroes because collectively we think another. When a painting is sold for hundreds of millions of dollars, there are those who see its subjective value and there are those who don’t. Both are mad respectively, and both paint the other as villains, in their opulence and in their ignorance.”

So, if Bruce is mad then we are all mad?

“Exactly,” says Ana Clara. “And that’s what both scares us and intrigues us about Bruce. Here was a man who shut himself off and invented, in marvellous detail mind you, a world as real as yours or mine, one that existed entirely in his thoughts.”

Ana Clara is quick, though, to point out that this idea alone, a world made up in his thoughts, is not as mad as one would think, and more common than one would care to believe.

“What you or I perceive of the world, the world we both agree is true, exists almost exclusively in our heads. Reality is a thought we agree on, that is it. All the wars, diseases, famines, scientific discoveries, economic disparities, and social indifferences exist only in my head. They aren’t real. They are just data. They are just an idea. And I build an idea of what the world is and my sense of self on how I feel about them. But I don’t need to step foot in Gaza to believe that it is real and then, in my head, involve myself in a moral argument over a conflict that, objectively, has no bearing on my life.”

And what a world he created. From his incredible video 101

archive, Bruce brought the world inside his head into our avid imagination. He made his world, with all its heroes and villains and victims, as real as our own.

There was The Batman, of course, a roguish anti-hero, driven by redemption of sorts, the vengeance that spawned from having been unable to save his mother and father. Whereas Bruce was the reserved, and maybe even craven, billionaire CEO to Wayne Industries, an empire he inherited from his father, The Batman was the antithesis to this impressionable and mute, silver-spooned heir.

He was the iron fist to Bruce’s yellow belly.

And then, of course, there was The Joker, a reviling figure capable of all kinds of no-good. He was as enigmatic and charming as he was deranged and unpredictable, a visionary genius with the wit, will, and vernacular of a literary master, mixed with the destructive petulance of a two-year-old child.

And finally, there was Bridgette, the object of Bruce’s love and affections, someone with whom he hoped would one day, not only share his great fortune but with whom he would finally have a family. She was kind. She was pretty. She was smart. None of them, though, she ever flaunted, for she was elegant, graceful, and modest.

The man in the dress, or Bruce as we have come to know him, was all three of these protagonists. Not only in his mind, either. He acted out their drama on the stage that was Gotham City, the abandoned warehouse in which he had made his home in his last days.

Who was the man in the dress, though? Who was he before his breakdown? Who was he before this great drama unfolded?

The Batman, The Joker, Bridgette – even Aunt Regina; were any of those people real? Were any of them him?

“The world is a mirror,” says Ana Clara. “And the mind is constantly looking for its own reflection. On average, each person wears a dozen masks throughout their life at any given time. There is their work self, their relationship self, their tribal self, their family self, , and, generally in moments of existential crises, trying to understand who their self-self is. The self they are when they are 102

alone and there is nothing to prove. It’s like the house of mirrors.

When you look in one mirror you see yourself fat and distorted and you feel disgusted. You say, ‘I am fat. I’m ugly. I am disgusting’.

Then in another mirror, you see yourself intrepid and brawn, and you say, ‘I am strong. I am handsome.’ In truth, you are none of these and in truth, you are them all. And, in every facet of your life, you see yourself as either brave and courageous – the hero, or weak and ineffectual - the victim. You’re either looking for applause or a consoling hug. Bruce was no different.”

But he was, though. This was undeniable. And maybe this is why, as a society, we are so drawn to his story. You see, outside of his psychotic delusion, Bruce has no story. All we know of him is the story he left for us. So, let’s start there.

Bruce Wayne was a billionaire socialite. He was the orphan and heir of Wayne Industries, a multinational whose portfolio included everything from pharmaceuticals and weapons manufacturing to children’s entertainment and coffee production. Having witnessed his mother and father being fatally shot during a botched robbery when he was seven, Bruce went on to be raised by his aunt who, by his own admission, was as scary and mean as she was elegant and pretty.

“Whether or not there ever was an Aunt Regina is anyone’s guess. But for the sake of who Bruce was in the days before he died, and when he compiled the majority of his manifesto, it is entirely irrelevant. Because for Bruce, she was real enough to invent Bridgette and be the reason he wore that dress.”

Bridgette, as Ana Clara puts it, represented the childlike and innocent part of Bruce that needed saving, whilst Aunt Regina symbolised his feelings of fear, shame, and disgust, and was someone that needed to be burned alive.

“The Batman wanted to save her. Bridgette, that is. He saw her as the damsel in distress. If he saved her, then this conflict that played out in Bruce’s mind would come to an end. If he saved her, he would in turn save himself. The Joker, though, when Bruce saw himself as the villain, saw the man in the dress as the reason for all of his trauma. He believed if he killed Bridgette, then Bruce would 103

be free, and their trauma would end.”

Reading his diaries and manifesto, Bruce goes into detail about how, growing up, Aunt Regina would whip him and burn him with cigarette butts and force him to stand naked in his bedroom, for hours on end, as she held cocktail parties and gala events.

“If seeing his mother and father being shot was the trauma that gave rise to The Batman, this noble caped crusader, then the verbal and sexual abuse inflicted upon him by Aunt Regina, not only explains but almost justifies The Joker persona – a human hyperbole – the rotten fruit that grew out of the fetid and fecund soil with which the seed of his shame had been sown.”

The Bridgette persona, she says, was born out of defiance in his youth, a way to stand up to, and even mock, the oppression he had felt from his Aunt Regina as a boy. The persona might have been crass and satirical at first, it may have even been sexual, but over time, Bridgette came to represent the tenderness in Bruce that had been repressed and tucked away, so as not to get soiled by the great difficulty he had had to constantly endure. Bridgette was the flower that grew upon the landfill that was his unfortunate life.

And as for Aunt Regina, well she was the stinking refuse.

“Bruce would dress as Aunt Regina and march around the warehouse with a pretend cigarette in one hand and the other, arched to her hip like a teapot. And as she marched back and forth, she’d be insulting young Bruce with derogatory and homophobic remarks. She’d call him her little queer bastard and blame him for the death of his parents and for ruining her life. But then as Bridgette, Bruce would be delicate and softly spoken, very quaint and effeminate. And the persona of Bridgette represented the part of him that felt alone, lost, and scared. They were quite polarizing figures.”

Ana Clara is quick to state that there is no real hero or villain.

“The hero is the villain. Both are driven by what they see as a moral good. In scripture, The Devil sees God as a cruel and maniacal dictator, enslaving humanity to his capricious and vengeful will, liberating humanity from its needless suffering through free will, individuality, and art. In this case, The Joker is no different.

104

He sees the society in which Bruce lives, this city called Gotham, as being administered to belittle and enslave its people. And he sees, by killing Bridgette, that he will liberate Bruce from his needless suffering – to tear off that mask – and to be free to be his own person. Thus, The Joker sees himself as much the hero as The Batman. Both are looking to rescue Bruce.”

So, what happened to The Batman? What happened to The Joker? What happened to Bridgette and Aunt Regina? And more importantly, what happened to Bruce?

When found by detectives, Bruce was not Bruce. He was Bridgette. He was dressed in an extravagant gown, loosely tied to a chair, with his face made up like a Disney princess. So, what happened that night?

“What we do know,” says Ana Clara, “from the videos and manifesto is that, in the days leading up to his death, there had been an escalation in threats of violence by The Joker. There were about twenty videos recorded on one day alone, where Bruce was dressed as The Batman and The Joker, threatening to destroy Gotham one minute, and promising to save it the next. Then there were videos of Bridgette at, what we assume must have been a gala ball because she was dancing gracefully around the warehouse.”

That video itself was the last, an eerie and almost silent thirty-eight-minute dance recital; almost silent except for the sound of Bruce’s bare feet as he shuffled around the warehouse in an extravagant evening gown.

What happened to her, though, how she ended up tied to that chair, and how she died, remain a mystery. And it’s the not knowing that causes as much wonder as the story of Bruce Wayne itself.

“In the end, Bridgette died,” says Ana Clara. “That much we know. The rest, like Bruce, is for us to imagine.”

And imagine we do. The cult following that Bruce has garnered since his death only continues to grow. There are talks of his story being turned into an entire comic book series, while this year, for Halloween, children dressed up as The Batman and The Joker. And in a more defining moment, Bridgette was given a 105

posthumous honour of woman of the year.

“Batman is a symbol of hope and strength,” says Michael Stratton, a thirty-year-old economist. “Bruce taught us that we don’t need to feel helpless anymore. We don’t need to feel scared and alone in this crazy world. There’s a hero inside each and every one of us. The Batman is inside all of us. We’re all The Batman.

We’re all heroes.”

And so, who was the man in the dress? Was she Aunt Regina? Or was she Bridgette? And was Bruce finally free?

“He was Bridgette,” says Ana Clara. “He was Aunt Regina.

He was The Batman. He was Bruce. He was The Joker. He was you.

106

The Activists

107

Once upon a time, there was a sisterhood of best friends – a sisterhood that had been forged almost forty years ago when all four ladies were still in diapers. It was a sisterhood that had withstood, not only the fury of adolescence but also the test of time. It was a sisterhood that today, now that all four women were in their midforties, was as strong, if not stronger, than it had been all those years before.

It was the Sisterhood of Awesomeness.

“It’s the only way to get Vitamin D,” said Linda.

They were out on Stephanie’s veranda, lying on a set of exclusive Gucci beach towels, made, not just from the fur, but from the hopes and dreams of baby pandas too. All four were on their backs with their legs spread wide and their knees pulled back to their ears, pushing their anuses as close as they could to the bright afternoon sun.

“When the UV rays are absorbed through the anus, the body gets 100% of the Vitamin D and your cells start triplicating, almost instantly. Perennial Sunning is the only way. Otherwise, you’re getting like 2-3%. Pretty much 100% of people are Vitamin D deficit.”

“I think I can feel it,” said Stephanie. “It tingles.”

“That’s it. That’s when you know it’s working.”

The tingling, in truth, was from an STD her husband had picked up from a Thai masseuse only two weeks prior, but it would be years before that truth came to the surface, unlike the STD. “The anus is the doorway to the soul,” said Stephanie. “It’s understudied and totally misunderstood.”

By now, all four ladies looked badly sunburned.

“I put everything in my anus,” said Stephanie.

It was the first time any of the other ladies had tried anything like this. Neither of them quite knew if they were doing it right, but they sure were happy to be a part of a movement, an intellectual movement, in better health, better living, and better being.

“Avocados, for instance,” said Stephanie. “How do you eat them?”

“Who, me?” asked Debora.

108

“I bet you use your mouth, right?”

She sounded so sure; were it anyone else they would have sounded smug.

“Well, yeah….”

Debora, on the other hand, did not. “…What do you do?”

“Anus,” said Stephanie.

“Anus!” said the other ladies shocked.

“How much? The whole thing?”

“Yep.” “But how?” asked Debora. “I mean. Doesn’t it hurt? The ones we get are huge. I can barely fit them in the fridge drawer.”

“Puree,” said Stephanie, sagaciously. “We puree everything: avocados, sweet potatoes, pork ribs. I have Derick doing it too. He swears by it. We put everything in our anuses.”

“Is it safe?”

“Totally. Safer than your mouth. Do you know how many germs are on your tongue alone? The anus is far cleaner. We watched it in a Ted Talk. It explained everything.”

“Wow,” said the other ladies. “Must be true.”

“When you eat through your mouth, your liver gets rid of everything. Through the anus, though, 100% of the vitamins and minerals get absorbed by the body. It does wonders for your gut bacteria too.”

“Ooohhh,” said the other ladies.

For they were all well versed on gut flora.

“Scientists also say it makes your telomeres grow.”

“Tele……?” “…Meres. Telomeres. They’re like this thing in your cells and if they get too short you can die. And this way of eating, and the sunning too, they help to make your Telomeres get longer. You know, scientists talk about death now as a disease, not something natural.”

“I heard that,” said Linda. “I think I heard it on a podcast.”

The ladies all listened to podcasts. Everyone was doing it.

The trick, though, was knowing which podcast was the important 109

one, and which bits everyone had listened to.

“Listen to me going on,” said Stephanie. “I’m such a nerd.”

In truth, she wasn’t, but it was the height of fashion to pretend to be. It was still very uncool to actually be book smart, but just as her Ramones shirt gave her swagger, so too did her Nasa shirt acquire her credibility.

“I can’t believe the whole gang is finally back together,” said Linda.

“O.M.G,” said Stephanie, “this is gonna be so amazing.”

It had been years since they had all been together in the one place. Whether it was family or work, or spiritual wellness retreats, there was always one thing or the other that was always getting in the way. Tonight, though, was different. Tonight, was all about them. Finally, The Sisterhood of Awesomeness was back together again.

“First rule. No children!”

The women all erupted in cheer. Tonight, was a night off from being a mother. It was a night off from knowing where the shoes and socks were. It was a night off from making snacks and curing boredom. It was a night off from brushing teeth, wiping bums, and brushing knots out of hair. It was a night off from complaining. It was a night off from the fighting. It was a night off from picking up gargantuan messes from the floor. It was a night off from it all.

“Oh, Eunice,” said Stephanie.

Eunice was Stephanie’s nanny, cook, and cleaner. And while Stephanie was busy sunning her anus, Eunice was at her wit’s end trying to wrangle up a couple of rambunctious kids to brush their teeth, wipe their bums, and brush the knots out of their hair. What, with all the fighting and complaining, she could barely hear a thing.

“Eunice!” shouted Stephanie, her voice mean and coarse.

This time she heard. And in a second she out on the veranda apologising.

“I’m sorry, mam,” she said, looking only at the floor. “I didn’t think that…”

“Your job is not to think, Eunice. You don’t think. That’s 110

why you do this job.”

“Yes, mam,” said Eunice, obediently.

“Where are the children?” said Stephanie.

“One second, mam.”

Eunice raced back to where the children were but in the minute she had been gone, they had already dirtied their teeth, frizzed up their hair, and made a godawful mess on the floor. Not to mention the state of their pyjamas. Eunice wanted to scream. She wanted to shout bloody murder to the heavens. She wanted to roar like a lion. Instead, she merely remarked to herself: “Life is a blessing, and its burdens are no more than I can bear.”

Then she changed their pyjamas, brushed their teeth, untangled their hair, cleaned up the floor, and with nary a second to spare before Stephanie once more screamed out her name, Eunice arrived with both children looking all spick and span – a couple of darlings and angels.

“I didn’t ask you to bring them here,” said Stephanie, irately.

“This is my night off.”

“You tell her,” said Linda.

“It’s our night off!” shouted the other ladies. “No kids! No kids! No kids!”

“I’m sorry, mam,” said Eunice, taking the children away.

“Always apologising, you are, Eunice. Try following an order for once and you might make fewer mistakes.”

“Yes, mam. You’re right, mam. I’m sorry, mam.”

Stephanie could be mean, but no more than any other mam or sir. And she had a point, too. Time was precious and it couldn’t be wasted on fixing mistakes or having to explain the same thing a hundred times over. Eunice never blamed her, though. After all, it was her who made the mistakes and not Stephanie. If she paid more attention then maybe she wouldn’t be always getting corrected.

“It is not easy to get good help,” said Stephanie.

“I know,” said the other sisters consolingly.

“She gets paid a good wage. Benefits too. All of them. If she 111

knew what some of the other maids were getting…”

“Once upon a time, she would have been working for nothing.”

“I know. It’s like they don’t know how lucky they have it.”

“Well, that’s the problem of giving more. They get adjusted. And it’s no secret that they’re terrible with their money. So, the more money you give them, the more problems they make for themselves. And then they just want more.”

“It’s a cycle.”

“It is.”

“Oh, speaking of a cycle,” said Linda, opening her purse.

“Who wants to get fucked up?”

The sisters all squealed.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god,” shouted Stephanie.

Linda had two bags full of white and brown powder in her hands.

“I haven’t had heroin in so long,” said Stephanie. “Tonight, is gonna be so good.”

“Try awesome,” said Linda, correcting.

“Sisterhood of Awesomeness!” shouted all the ladies at once.

An hour later, they were snorting lines of cocaine and heroin, and singing and dancing to the greatest song in the whole world.

“Girls just wanna have fu-un! Woah, girls just wanna have fun!”

They made a terrible mess, but it was nothing that Eunice couldn’t clean up before she went home. It was, after all, their night off. Somebody else could do the ordering. Somebody else could do the worrying. This was their time; their time to have fun.

“I know just where we’re going,” said Linda. “The hippest club in town. Very, very exclusive. A who-you-know kind of place.”

“Sounds exciting,” said Brittney. “What’s it called?”

“You’ll never guess,” said Linda.

“Just tell us before my head explodes. It’s not Mace, is it? I’ve heard that place is…”

“Hashtag,” said Linda.

“Oh. My. God.” 112

None of the ladies could believe it. It wasn’t just the hippest club in town; it was THE club. It was impossible to get into Hashtag. You didn’t just have to know someone; you had to be someone who knew someone. And even they had to be more famous than the most famous person you knew.

“Isn’t that, like, invitation only?”

Linda’s smile was mischievous.

“Did you get tickets?”

“It’s a password entry,” said Linda. “It changes all the time. I know someone who knows someone who knows someone who let me buy a password for fifty K.” “Wow.” “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

“We’re going to Hashtag?”

“We are,” said Linda.

“So, let’s get this party started!”

The ladies all hollered and cheered.

“Girls just wanna have fu-un! Woah girls just wanna have fun!”

They all felt young and invincible. Time felt infinite. It was like being nineteen again. The night was only young, and it felt like it would never end. Quite quickly, though, the heroin and cocaine did.

“Boooo.”

The ladies were none too impressed.

“It’s ok,” said Linda. “I’ve got some molly lined up at the club.”

“Woohoo!”

And just like that, the ladies were ecstatic again. They were over the moon.

“Girls just wanna have fu-un. Woah, girls just wanna have fun.”

Eventually, it was time to leave. The living room was in a terrible state, but Eunice was already on her knees scrubbing the dried powder off the table and spilt vodka and wine from the carpet.

113

“Life is a blessing,” she said to herself. “And its burdens are no more than I can bear.”

The Sisterhood of Awesomeness gathered their belongings and stumbled out of the apartment, knocking over a dozen vases as they did. It was all quite hysterical really.

“Clean this up before you go,” shouted Stephanie. “Your salary is on the table.”

Then they were off.

Eunice did as her employer had asked. She briskly swept and picked up any broken pieces that were scattered on the floor. Then, before she left, she quickly checked in on the children who were sound asleep in their beds. Then she took the money from the table. It had heroin all over it.

Outside it was raining.

“I’ll drive,” said Linda.

“Are you sure? We can just get a taxi.”

“No. It’s cool. I’ve got this. I’m perfectly fine to drive.”

They were in the car for maybe twenty minutes before any of them realised that the engine wasn’t even on. By that time, they were having seventeen different conversations, all at the same time, about all the most pressing matters in science, religion, and politics.

“We should be saving the otters,” said Brittney. “Did you know that……?”

When they were kids, The Sisters of Awesomeness knew the lyrics to every new pop song, even before they were released. They were part of every club and street team, and they had all the posters and stickers of anyone at all that had ever played on Top of the Pops. They weren’t just living a dream; they were living on a prayer.

Then, when they were teenagers, it was flannel jackets and feigned apathy. And just like when they were kids, they too were a part of every club and street team, though, this time, they didn’t just declare that pop was dead, they were putting the nail in every darn coffin.

Now, though – now that they were grown – there was no more music; instead, ideology was pop. And just like when they were kids, The Sisters of Awesomeness knew the lyrics to every 114

new idea, long before they even went viral; and they sang them all as loud and defiant as they had, the words to every Michael Bolton and Nickelback song they knew.

“We need to do something about the Amazon,” said Stephanie.

“I know,” said Jane, nodding vigorously. “What?”

“It’s on fire.”

“Someone needs to put that out.”

“But it’s all political.”

“To hell with politicians. They’re all corrupt anyway.”

“Because in Asia they eat them.”

“Politicians?”

“Otters.”

“What do you think about trans gynaecologists?”

It wasn’t just raining outside, it was pouring. The sidewalks were like rivers. Undeterred, Eunice braced herself and walked headfirst into the wailing gusts of wind and rain.

“Life is a blessing,” she said to herself, as the wind blew her back down the street. “And its burdens are no more than I can bear.”

There was some respite when she arrived at her bus stop, taking shelter beneath the giant metal awning. She sat there in the freezing cold imagining the warm cup of cocoa she would have when she got home and the fluffy old slippers she would wear when she cosied up in front of the TV watching her favourite soap opera.

The ladies, on the other hand, finally got the car moving.

“Hurry up and drive already!”

It was getting late, and they had already spent a good twenty minutes arguing over the emergence of the state of Israel. If they didn’t arrive soon, they’d never get in.

“Do any of you meditate?” asked Brittney.

Linda drove fast and erratic. She didn’t have time to waste on things like signalling and giving way. There was fun to be had, and they’d never have it unless they got to the club as soon as possible.

And so, in the spirit of things, Linda turned the radio up as loud 115

as it would go.

“Girls just wanna have fu-un! Oh, girls just wanna have….”

“They just wanna! They just wanna!”

“When the working day is done…..”

Linda swerved the car right into a puddle splashing water all over the sidewalk. The ladies all laughed hysterically and cheered for more. It was hilarious, watching the wave of water drench the poor and homeless people who had no idea it was coming. They were easily having the best time of their lives.

Eunice, though, was drenched.

“Life is a blessing,” she said to herself, wiping the brown murky water from her face. “And its burdens are no more than I can bear.”

Not wanting to be splashed by another car, Eunice backed away from the curb where she had been standing and started walking up the sidewalk. It would be a while until the bus passed so it would serve her better to just walk to the next stop. At the very least, it would keep her busy and warm.

Her feet, though, were wet and sore, so she stepped into a convenience store to shake out the water and let herself dry a little.

It was warm inside. It was a small store, only the clerk, a couple of customers, and a policeman with a beautiful little beagle.

“Good evening,” she said, nervously.

She looked nervous too, half expecting the clerk to throw her out.

“That’s a lot of rain.”

The clerk nodded.

The policeman nodded.

His beagle, though, walked up beside Eunice and sat down.

“Mam, do you have any drugs on your person?”

Shocked, Eunice moved backwards.

“Drugs? Me? No, sir. I’m a good Christian. I’m a Baptist. I don’t even drink.”

The beagle, though, moved beside her and again, it sat down.

“Mam, I’m gonna have to see inside your handbag.”

The police officer went through Eunice’s handbag and found 116

nothing. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Hers, though, was nervous. It was an odd-looking smile. It was awkward and weird.

It was suspicious. And why wouldn’t it be? What right did a black woman have to feel safe and assured in the presence of a police officer; even if she didn’t do anything wrong – especially if she didn’t do anything wrong.

“Mam, is this your money?”

The policeman had taken her salary from her purse.

“That’s my salary,” said Eunice. “I didn’t steal it. Miss Stephanie paid that to me, she did.”

The policeman scratched some of the white and brown powder off the note.

“Mam, if you have any drugs on your person, it’s best to tell me now before I call in for a cavity search.”

“Girls! Wanna!”

“Wanna have fun! Girls!”

The ladies arrived at the club singing and screaming with delight. Their car was scratched and dented from the things they had bumped into and knocked over along the way, but that wasn’t going to dampen their spirits. This was their night out. No kids.

No husbands. No problems. Just four best friends. The Sisterhood of Awesomeness. And Hashtag - the most exclusive club in town.

“Password!”

The bouncer’s eyes were only barely visible through the door.

“You ready, girls?” said Linda. “Everyone at the same time.”

They were the Sisterhood of Awesomeness.

“Black Lives Matter!” they shouted.

117

The Last Man on Earth

118

Once upon a time, there was a boy called Francis, a boy who would one day grow up to become the last man on Earth; a boy who would, as such, inherit the most unfortunate of circumstances - the curse of never being able to die.

An odd predicament indeed, but for dear Francis, it was a thread that unravelled so gingerly that, by the time he had even the tiniest inkling of what was going on, it was too late; the entire fabric of humanity had come spectacularly undone.

And it all started when he was four.

That was when Francis watched his kindergarten teacher, Miss Sofia, choke to death on a handful of Skittles. It was just after storytime and all of the other children were asleep on their magic blankies. Francis had gotten up to use the potty, and in what could only be described as a moment of bad fortune, not only did Miss Sofia meet her demise, but poor sweet Francis was there to watch her turn red and then purple and then blue – all the colours of his favourite Skittles.

“That poor boy,” said one half of the town.

“What a frightful thing to see,” said the other.

“He had an unfortunate case of very bad luck,” they all agreed.

It was a terrible thing to have witnessed, especially for a boy of such young age. As tragic as it was, though, it wouldn’t be the last time that Francis watched somebody biting off more than they could chew.

There was Mrs Pinkerton, she choked on a dozen croissants and a tall glass of chocolate milk. The mix of dairy and pastry, they said, made a sludge that hardened like concrete in her throat. Then there was Father O’Leary. He choked on a single piece of holy bread; caught unawares he was, one Sunday afternoon. And in a moment of unexpected fright, the bread he had hoped to place on his own tongue, was instead inhaled, and landed, like a Tupperware lid, neatly at the back of his throat. So neat was it that the more Father O’Leary fought to breathe, the more perfectly sealed the piece of holy bread became. And then there was Mr Cargill. He was the loudest man in town. His voice sure could carry. His was the first 119

and last word in every discussion He was loud, and he was always right. One day, though, much to his surprise, he was wrong.

Shocked, embarrassed, and incredulous, Mr Cargill choked on his words.

And whenever any of them died, poor sweet Francis was there to see it happen.

“The boy has terrible luck,” said one half of the town.

“This town is cursed,” said the other.

And it was true. A strange and unusual amount of deaths had occurred in this small town in such a short time, and in all of them, Francis was there to see. So many deaths, and so often, that, by the time he was seven, Francis had witnessed over ten dozen murders, twice as many suicides, and an unfathomable number of deaths, most of them at the hands of misadventure, which, for grown-ups, was just as fancy way to say that people died on accident because they were doing hapless, careless, and idiotic things.

“The boy is unlucky,” said one half of town.

“The boy is cursed,” said the other.

In truth, they were both right. You see, anytime there was a single death at all, young Francis was always there to witness it – by chance, of course. Be they the elderly, the recently born, or everyone else in-between, the one common thread in all of their deaths was Francis. And they did their best, the whole town that is, to keep clear of young Francis and his evil eye.

“Just one glance from the boy and you’ll be dead,” said one half of town.

“Where he looks, death follows,” said the other.

At first, they prohibited him from attending school. Then, when that did little good, they banned him from having any friends at all, convinced as they were, that whatever curse he carried could be passed as easily as a common cold.

That, though, did little good – for the deaths kept coming.

Then they tried locking him in his room and even blindfolding his eyes, but as chance would have it, whenever there was another death - and there was always another death - Francis would be there. They tried everything but, try as they might, each and every 120

one of them would eventually die.

“They’re in a better place,” his mother would say, each and every time.

And eventually, when everyone had died, Francis and his mother moved to a different town, looking for a fresh start. It didn’t matter, though, how many towns or cities they moved to, or how many times they tried to pack up and start again, the same fate always awaited them.

“The boy is blighted,” said the folks in one town.

“He’s damned. He’s doomed. He’s jinxed,” said the folks from another.

One by one, sometimes ten thousand at a time, the people in every town and city that Francis and his mother visited died. And every time, poor sweet Francis was there to see it happen. So much so that, by his twelfth birthday, and as terrible as it sounds, Francis had already seen, first-hand mind you, over half a million people die.

“Am I unlucky, mother? Am I cursed?”

“Of course not, my dear. There is no such thing.”

“Then what of those people who died?”

“They are in a better place,” is all she would say.

To soothe himself, Francis would often scribble and doodle with his markers and pens, drawing all kinds of wonderful pictures of all the places he and his mother had been. And what, with all the death about, he would find himself doodling quite a bit. So much so that in no time he became quite the budding artist.

“We have to have an exhibit one day,” said his mother.

“I’m too nervous for that,” replied Francis. “What if the people don’t like it?”

“Well, that’s no reason to not exhibit your work. How they feel doesn’t matter. Do you think God cares how people feel? Of course not. Just as the dilettante stands before and judges the painting, so too does the artist, peer around the corner, listening to their praise and criticism, judging them. Neither one understands the other. God painted this world, and we stand idly and judge it. And like the artist, so too does God stand idly and judge us, seeing our 121

ecstasy and our agony, our expression, as art. The art, though, is in the observation. Without it, it’s just a picture.”

“But I have you,” said Francis. “You look at my pictures. You love them.”

“I do,” said his mother. “And I’m very proud of you.”

She held one of his paintings in her hands, a portrait of her on a clifftop in Wales, one in which the sun had only barely set so that it looked as if the petals from a dozen roses had been scattered across the sky.

“Mother?” asked Francis.

“What is it, my son?”

“Why have I seen so much death in my life?”

She put down the painting and parted Francis’ fringe from his eyes.

“Death,” she said, “much like art, must have an observer.”

“What does that mean?”

“You and I, we cannot, and we will not observe our own deaths. We cannot see that we are dead and so, paradoxically, we live a kind of infinity. We die without ever knowing we are dead.

But just as art only becomes art when it is observed, so too does death require an observer. What good is art,” she said, “if there is no one to review it? What good is a life, then, if there is no-one to give a eulogy?’”

“But why me?”

His mother didn’t answer, though for like the rest of the world, she too had died.

Alone, for the first time, Francis buried his mother, and like he had done his entire life, he went looking for another town. He walked for days and weeks; he walked for months and years on end. No matter where he went, though, the streets were empty, the shops were empty, and the houses were empty too. There was no sign of life anywhere. There were no cats or dogs, no birds or fish, no insects of any kind.

He was the last man on Earth.

The first time he tried to kill himself, Francis, bereft with loneliness and depression, swallowed a whole shelf full of 122

benzodiazepines, and washed them down with a bottle and a half of Vodka. And when that didn’t work, he inhaled propane for an entire weekend. At best, he got a mild headache and the runs.

It was maybe his fiftieth attempt at killing himself that Francis finally had the courage to hang himself from a tree. It wasn’t so much the courage as much as it was, frustration at the fact that none of the nicer and more painless ways of committing suicide had worked.

It was no good, though. He hanged from that tree for a week before eventually, the branch snapped and he fell crashing to the floor. Following that he tried jumping off a cliff, exploding himself with a bag of dynamite, and even cutting off one of his own limbs.

No matter how wounded he got, though, he just couldn’t die.

“Death, much like art,” he remembered his mother saying.

“Must have an observer.”

But there was no one alive on Earth to observe him, and thus he could not die.

It was unfortunate and there was very little he could do about it, so instead, he painted. It was all he did. He didn’t eat. He didn’t drink. He didn’t sleep. He just painted.

He painted portraits of his mother. He painted all the beautiful places they had been. Then, when he was spent of all his good emotion, he painted all the death and destruction that he had born witness to his entire life, all of them ghastly and ghoulish.

Then, when he had run out of canvas, he painted entire cities – the houses, the roads, the churches, the schools. In some, he painted the skyscrapers as yellow as the sun, while the roads he painted like lush green grass, and the buildings, that from them sprouted like flowers, he painted all the colours in the rainbow. And then in others, he painted everything black - as lifeless and vacuous as the world in which he lived.

“Hi, I’m Lucy.”

Francis almost had a heart attack when he heard her speak.

He wasn’t sure which made him happier, seeing another person or almost dying.

“Hi,” he said, awkward and nervous. “I’m Francis.”

123

He had never met a girl before, not since he had grown up anyway. She was very pretty, and she smiled a lot, sometimes when nothing funny had even been said. It made Francis smile too. He had forgotten what that was like, smiling and feeling good for no reason at all.

“Did you paint these?”

She was sifting through the portraits he had done.

“Is this your mother?”

“Yes,” said Francis.

“She was beautiful,” said Lucy. “You’re a wonderful painter.”

Francis blushed. He didn’t quite know what to say. Nobody had ever talked about his art before, except of course for his mother, and when she did, he hugged her.

So that was just what he did.

Francis wrapped his arms around Lucy and held her as tight as he could. Then she wrapped her arms around him. They sat there, in each other arms, for what felt like an eternity. If painting, when he was young, brought peace and calm into his mind, then now, as an adult, it was holding and being held by Lucy.

“Did you paint those cities too?”

They were sitting on a grassy shore, looking out over an enormous river. On the other side of that river, there was another town – the town painted with the big yellow sun and all the pretty flowers.

“I did,” said Francis.

He didn’t quite know how to talk about his art.

“I love it,” said Lucy. “It’s so pretty. But why do you live here in a city as black as the night? This city is so dark, so depressing.

Wouldn’t you prefer to live amongst the coloured buildings?”

“I prefer the dark,” said Francis. “You can see the colours better.”

“You’d rather live in the dark?”

“I’d rather be looking at the sun,” said Francis.

Lucy smiled.

“I thought I was the last person on earth,” she said.

“Me too,” said Francis.

124

Francis was a bundle of nerves. He had shivers running all over his body and butterflies wreaking havoc in his stomach. On one hand, he wanted to stab himself in the neck, and on the other, he wanted to ask her to marry him. He’d never felt this happy. He’d never felt this scared.

“I love you,” he said.

There. He said it. And then Lucy kissed him on the cheek.

“I love you too,” she said.

For the first time, Francis stopped thinking about and wishing for death. Instead, he longed to live forever, for their love and passion to burn as bright as a thousand suns, and to live for ten times as long.

“Make love to me,” said Lucy.

Francis’ heart almost stopped then and there. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. Her naked body was pale and pert. It bent and curved softly, like a river, from the tips of her toes, along her slender thighs, around her waist, up onto her belly, over the round of her breasts, and to the crevice in her neck that tremored slightly as she anxiously held her breath.

The two made love beneath the stars, and for the first time in his life, Francis was happy.

“I fucking love you,” shouted Lucy, moaning.

Her passion was wild. It was ravenous and rapacious.

“I love you too,” said Francis in reply.

“Do you?” she asked.

“Yes,” cried Francis.

“Do you really?”

“Of course!”

“Prove it,” she said.

“Ok,” said Francis. “Anything.”

“Choke me,” said Lucy.

125

The Eulogy of Prudence Birdwhistle

126

We are gathered here, one and all, on this sombre day, to remember an extraordinary woman; a woman whose life spanned countless generations, and as such, warmed an unprecedented amount of hearts and minds. A woman who, had she lived her life any different – with even a margin less apprehension, heed, and frugality – then quite surely not a single one of us would be here today. A woman to whom all of our moral compasses were, are, and shall forever be, directed north. And a woman who, like the very mention of her name alone, is as loving as mother’s kiss, as unassailable as a father’s hug, and as generous and welcoming as the morning sun. Today, we celebrate the life of Prudence Birdwhistle. <<< wait for applause to settle>>> So, how exactly does one measure a life? Is it in the amount of mere minutes, hours, and days? Or is it - like the canyons and gorges, cut from the cloth of patience – simply what one acquires along the way?

For Prudence, as we all know, it was both. <<smile – sagaciously, yet respectfully>> Not only do we mourn today, the passing of our matriarch, but in rousing fashion, we celebrate the life she lived. For not only is Prudence an example to us, the Birdwhistlers, but she is more so an example to the entire world on how to live, not only a life of moral virtue, but one that defies the very disease that we have come to accept as a natural occurrence; for hers was a victory in defeating death.

For yesterday alone, Prudence celebrated her hundred and sixty fourth birthday. <<smile with applause. Curtesy, even>> Firstly, I’d like to touch on time. We are all so proud of our dear Prudence for the record she set as being the only person to have ever lived as long as she had; one hundred and sixty-four years is momentous. Just amazing. And though she wasn’t lucid for the last half century, we know too well that she greeted every day with all the zest of butterfly upon a bed of open petals. One can only imagine the kind of wonders she experienced in her record-breaking life, from the birth of the dishwasher, to pillow top mattresses, 127

and of course, who can overlook the array of machines and technology that kept her alive this long.

Prudence was born in eighteen fifty-seven, the same year as the first passenger elevator which, on its own, is quite poignant given that it is Prudence’s spirit and legacy which now that carry us through the burdens and difficulties in our lives.

Our dear Prudence didn’t have stories to tell.

“Stories are for the reckless,” she would say. “For the wild and wicked who live in rampant disregard. No respect for life whatsoever. One must be a complete failure in life to be any good at telling stories.”

How right she was.

What she did have, though, were words of inimitable acuity of which each of us has been, at one point or another in our lives, touched dearly; before, of course, senility took hold. But who among us will ever forget such timeless titbits of Prudence’s wisdom?

“Why would you want to go and do something like that?”

“That doesn’t look safe.”

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

“I can see your knees.”

And of course.

“Well, if it were me, I wouldn’t.”

And she didn’t either. She didn’t gamble. She didn’t drink.

She didn’t travel. She didn’t fall in love. She didn’t drive. She didn’t ride the bus. She didn’t even use a slippery slide or take turns on a swing. Our dear Prudence didn’t do a single thing in her life. She didn’t take a single risk. And that’s how she managed to live so long.

One hundred and sixty-four years! <<pause for applause>> Throughout her life she acquired many possessions, some of which are buried with her today. All of them kept, like she until her death, in pristine condition, most still wrapped in their original packaging.

And it was that care alone which saw her not succumb to, not only pandemics of Cholera, The Spanish Flu, Smallpox, and 128

World Wars One & Two, but also the disease that, since the dawn of time had been ignorantly written off as rite of passage, old age.

So, if we are to measure a life’s worth, well then time is definitely the only commodity worth saving. All of us long to live for as long as possible – to outrun and outmanoeuvre death at every bend and turn. All of us long to live a life well into our hundreds, no matter what the cost. And thanks to our dear Prudence, well then this dream is a reality.

Prudence loved nature. She loved animals, more so. But she knew how dangerous nature could be. And like the animals in the Savannah, whose mere existence is plagued by thirst, starvation, and constant threat of a bloody and violent death, Prudence sought the kind of sanctuary that would safeguard her from the perils that shadowed all life on Earth. And it was in her mid-fifties that Prudence admitted herself into the zoo, in its first human exhibit, spending the following two thirds of her life next door to her favourite animal, the captive lioness.

I can still remember my first visit to dear Prudence. Seeing both her and Nany, The Lioness side by side, both with the same idyllic and contented look in their eyes. Quiet, they were. Quiet, peaceful, and calm, like a great lake. Their very existences were placid. And I remember to this day, watching Prudence and Nany sitting in quietude as both had their food served on a platter.

Neither Prudence nor Nany had the threat of hunger or starvation. Neither one had the threat of other predators, old age, or death. Nether one was either hunter or prey. It truly was a beautiful thing to see how tranquil the fabric of life could be without the very essence of nature and existence picking at its threads.

Most of us long, not only to live as long as Prudence had, but to live a life as free as hers was, free from the shackles of fear, shame, and anxiety. And thanks to the modern wonders of science and engineering, not only was Prudence emancipated from the curse of emotions and existential dread, but she was liberated too from the trappings of entropy. For hers was a life without burden or struggle. Hers was a life without death.

And were it not for a faulty transformer, Prudence would 129

still be with us today.

For over a century Prudence lived in her enclosure, kept alive by machines that fed soft vitamin rich mush down her throat and into her stomach, and carried away too, the waste and excrement from her bladder and bowels, into a small metal pail in the corner of her room. Dear Prudence, needn’t have been bothered with chewing or swallowing, both of which account for such a great deal of accidental death annually.

Prudence, also, no longer had to breathe on her own. The machines did everything for her. Every tiresome breath was no longer her burden or concern. Think of all the extra free time she got from not having to do this one repetitive chore. In fact, in her enclosure, there was nothing at all that Prudence had to do. All those needless tasks of being alive, things that were just an absolute waste of time, the machines did for her.

Now, as much as a life is most certainly measured in time, one knows that a life is truly measured by in what one acquired along the way, and it would do Prudence no grace whatsoever, were we not to mention all the money and valuables she had amassed in her life.

At her time of death, Prudence had saved over seven million four hundred and sixty-two thousand, three hundred and twentyeight dollars. All of which are buried alongside her. What a remarkable achievement to have saved so much money. Imagine if she had died with even a dollar less?

I know, neither can I. Prudence had seven sofas, two of which were red and blue, while the others were more traditional beige. All of which were covered in protective plastic wrapping so as not to be soiled by wear and tear.

She had four cellular phones, two gramophones, ten nightgowns, three evening gowns, thirty-two summer hats – half of which were trimmed with peacock feathers. She had three watches, eleven brooches, nineteen necklaces, eight diamond rings, four gold anklets, one hundred and thirty-four pairs of earrings, fourteen pairs of shoes – none of which were heels, as I’m sure most of 130

had heard Prudence say, “Whores wear heels.”

She had three televisions, six desk lamps, two Betamax video cassette players, twelve shower curtains, fifty-eight towels, thirty bedsheets for King, Queen, Double, and Single beds – though she only ever own a single bed.

She also had six credit cards, four cheque books and a credit score of eight-forty.

It would take another hour or so to go through the whole list which, of course, we will be doing in its entirety over tea and biscuits after the morning’s service. And we invite you all to tell your story on which of Prudence’s possessions inspired you most. For me it was her money. Undoubtedly. I’m not sure about you, but I hope that one day that if I can die with even half of the money that Prudence did, then I can die happen knowing my life was worth living. And I for one plan to live my life to our dear Prudence’s namesake, and have as little experiences as possible, meet life with little to no chance or joy whatsoever, in the hope that I too can live for as long as she did.

Thank you and amen. <<Bow with applause>>

131

Mary, The Butcher of Salisbury

132

Mary was a drunk, and down on her luck, But never was Mary a bore.

With a mouth like a gun, and boy could it run, She had every man on the floor.

Though her words they did slur, It would never deter, Her love for the drink and a tale.

Be it story or rhyme, A sonnet or line, She’d go at it hammer and nail.

And it’s fair to be said, That in truth she’d be dead, Were it not for her gift of the gab.

For her life it was shite, but the booze made it right, and her words, they could pick up the tab.

You see Mary she lived with a cunt of a man, An asshole that no-one could stand.

A bitter old prick, As crass as was thick, And who spoke with the back of his hand.

And Mary she wore all the bruises and marks, On her face, her arms, and her neck.

But the look in her eyes, When she drank or reprised, If you’d seen it, you’d never forget.

133

I can’t quite describe it, except only to say, that no man was ever the same.

The moment they came to take her away, With no one but Mary to blame.

You see her husband was found, all bludgeoned and bound, Floating in a bag in the sea.

And with a pint in her hand, And too drunk to stand, Old Mary was ready to plea.

“No contest, your honour, for every drink, and every word i have said.

But as for that prick, I’ve no shame and no guilt, In how he ended up dead.”

And so, she drank her last pint, With the hangman in sight, And the rest of us down by the stairs.

And she told us a fable, The best she was able, Considering her state of affairs.

And though history would remember, Her violence and temper, For us it was hard to forget.

The way she could drink, and thoughts she did think, the most remarkable woman I’ve met.

134

The Tortoise and The Hare

135

Once upon a time, there was a fable about a tortoise and a hare, a fable that foretold of the errs of arrogance and complacency juxtaposed against the virtues of quiet perseverance and humility.

It was a story that saw a vibrant young hare test his skill, prowess, and stamina – that which made him a man’s kind of man – against that of a dim-witted, slow-moving tortoise, a prehistoriclooking animal that lived for such a long time simply because it took a lifetime for it to accomplish what a hare could between breakfast and brunch.

It should have been an easy race. It should have been one that commemorated the virtues of arrogance and complacency, and, instead of championing humility, it should have exposed that impotent and craven failing for what it was. But as luck would have it, the race, marred by corruption and ill-dealings, did no such thing.

It was a farce. It was a fiasco. And its result was entirely untrue.

“History is written by losers,” said The Hare. “My great, great, great, great, great, great, grandfather won that race, fair and square. You really think a dumb old tortoise is gonna beat a hare?”

He had a point. Stories had, since the dawn of time, been put together willy-nilly, sometimes in a manner that was sheer nonsense, just to suit some half-baked moral that existed only in the realm of sheer impossibility.

Writers, for too long had gotten away with their absurd and non-sensical distortions of the truth, for it was cowardly men who glorified courage and honour, and merely the lonely and destitute who romanticized love. And it was those without morals who sought to define them.

Enough, though, was enough.

“These stories about my family are not true,” exclaimed The Hare.

His rage was palpable.

“Our society has been cast from the mould of lies and misgivings.”

He pounded his little paws on his chest as he spoke, like some gargantuan silver-backed beast. His eyes, though always red, 136

crackled and blazed like a forest fire. His voice, too, was not as sweet as a handful of honey-dipped cherries, not like it usually was.

No, today he raged and roared as if inside of his cute and fluffy little body, there was a giant bulldozer, one that was covered in hand grenades and barbed wire and being driven by a singular of pissed off boars. And it wanted to mow everybody down.

“Let it go, Hare,” said The Donkey. “There’s nothing to prove. Everyone knows that slow and steady wins the race.”

The other animals all burst into rapturous applause.

“Because what?” shouted The Hare. “A writer said so? A writer, whose very existence is built upon imagining themselves as experts in the art of all that eludes them? In what world is a tortoise faster than a hare?”

“It’s been written. It’s been said.”

“Everything written is fiction,” exclaimed The Hare.

“Oh, booo!” shouted the other animals.

“The only untruth is what we are hearing right now,” said The Donkey.

“That’s true,” said The Teacher. “Would you like me to read the fable again?”

“Oh, yes please!” said the class in glee.

“No!” shouted The Hare, stamping his cute and fluffy little paws on the table.

“I beg your pardon,” said The Teacher.

“No,” he said again. “These stories are rubbish. They’re implausible. They couldn’t possibly happen. And if these ridiculous stories are what’s needed for these morals to ring true, well then that means the morals are rubbish too.”

Shocked, The Teacher was. Simply shocked.

“Then what do you suppose?” she said.

“We race again,” said The Hare.

“Race again? Who?” “Me and him,” said The Hare, pointing to Pedro, the tiny tortoise.

Shocked, the whole class was. Simply shocked.

That afternoon, though, as shocked as everyone had been, 137

they were all lined up by the old racetrack, deep in the enchanted forest where all the gorgeous and fantastical animals lived. They cheered loud and boisterous, and the wind blew strong.

“I’m gonna kick your butt,” said The Hare, nudging up to Pedro.

Pedro, though, just took a big old gulp of air. He wasn’t big on talking himself up. He didn’t much care for confrontation at all. Heck, he’d even hide in his shell at roll call, when The Teacher called out his name. None of this was made any easier by that darn story having been written all those years ago.

“See you at the end, slowpoke,” said The Hare, deridingly, the moment the race started.

And he was off.

He was so fast and so fantastic it was clear from the outset that, whoever had written that stupid fable had been lying out their butt. How many writers does it take to change a lightbulb? Two. One to have the idea and the other to copy it. And even still, none of them will actually get off their butts and do it.

“Time to rewrite history,” said The Hare.

And about time, too. This story had too long been told as if its precept were consistent and true as if slow and steady would ever actually win a race. A long time had passed, though; time enough for a whole civilisation of men to have their way with the enchanted forest, tearing most of it down to build shopping malls and Pilates studios. So, even though the old track was still there, it was trickier than before, what with all the urban development.

“Just one more bend, baby,” said The Hare.

He wasn’t going to make the same mistakes of that fallacious and perfidious fable. What hare would? Hares were arrogant, yes, in the build-up to competition and in the celebration of it, but not in the thick of it!

The finish line was around the bend, just as The Hare declared. But The Hare got less than a hop away when some savage beast came pouncing out of the shadows and dug its whetted and razor-like fangs into his neck.

“Argh!” screamed The Hare, incapable of any word 138

whatsoever.

The savage beast rolled about with The Hare in its jaws, lashing its head back and forth so as to break every bone in The Hare’s cute fluffy body and sever his spine in two.

“Help me,” he gasped, trying to pull himself along the ground with sheer will alone.

It was no good, though. All four of his cute fluffy legs were paralysed and his body, from the neck down, was gimp – like a bag of lard. All he could do was blink, hoping that would be enough, not only to escape this savage beast and save his life, but to get himself over the finish line and win the race; it was less than hair’s breadth away.

“Whatchya got there, boy?”

From the shadows came a human. He had with him a bag of faeces in his hands, something human’s loved to collect. And in his other, he held a red leash, one that would normally bind that savage beast.

“Somebody got themself a rabbit,” said The Human.

Insolent fool.

Then he called the savage beast over and patted it on the top of its ruinous head.

“Good boy,” he said.

Then they left, the savage beast with The Hare, still blinking, hanging limply out of its bloodied jaws, and The Human, carrying its bag of prized faeces in its hand, whistling some dark and nefarious tune about blinded mice.

And all the way back at the starting line, Pedro the Tortoise continued his terribly slow pursuit through the enchanted forest, being cheered along as he did by all those who sought to believe in the magic of the written word, those that believed that writers were the true patriots of this world, better even than God or penicillin.

“One more bend,” he said, after eight long and laboursome days of racing.

The finish line was just in sight. Onwards, Pedro pushed, his slow and steady spirit unyielding, just like the fable had mentioned.

It wasn’t just the other animals who were cheering him on, it was 139

the annals of history. Around the last bend, he went, onto a track of another sort, one made for race cars and go-karts.

“Watch out Mario!” shouted Luigi.

It was too late. The plumber turned go-kart racer had no time to react. Barely an inch from the finish line, he saw the green tortoise blocking his way, but there was nothing he could do.

“Nooooooooooooo!” he screamed as his kart ran over the tortoise.

Fly into the air, they did, tortoise and kart. And then just as quickly, they smashed into the ground. The plumber and the tortoise were flipped maybe a hundred and fifty times, each whack of their face on the racetrack breaking a different bone. Roll and roll, they did, until eventually they came to rest in a bloodied mess, trapped beneath the wreckage of a crumpled go-kart.

“Call the medics!” shouted Princess Peach.

“Get the damn fire brigade!” shouted Yoshi in return.

It was too late, though. Even if they could put out the flames, with the types of burns that Mario and Pedro had already received, neither one of them would ever want to survive. Horrific, their injuries were. If there were a God, he would kill them both right now.

He would relieve them of their dreadful suffering.

Shocked, the world watched on. Simply shocked.

“What the hell was a tortoise doing on a racetrack?” wrote one newspaper.

“Surely there had to be a lesson to learn from this,” wrote another.

140

The Crow in the Well

141

Once upon a time, there was a darling little girl who lived on a farm with her grandad. It was a small farm, and she was only a small girl – five years old in fact. And out there as they were, in the middle of nowhere, they didn’t really grow anything. They didn’t even have any animals.

It was just Olivia and Gramps.

“Olivia!” shouted Gramps. “Where’s my damn Metamucil?”

Gramps was always shouting. He didn’t really have an inside voice. And he was always in a bad mood too. Olivia, though, didn’t worry too much. She was always outside poking scorpions with sticks and playing her favourite toy in the world; a rubber crow she had gotten from the nice people at Social Services when they brought her to come live with Gramps.

Olivia loved that rubber crow. She called it Bob. “I’m a crow. I can fly, high in the sky. I’m a crow, I never cry.”

Olivia and Bob were always together. It didn’t matter if it was bedtime, bath time, playtime, dinner time, or even quiet time, when Gramps made her sit in the dark and grubby old water tank to smarten herself up and think about what she’d done – wherever Olivia was, Bob was always with her.

He was more than a rubber crow; he was a best friend.

“Olivia!” shouted Gramps. “Get in here!”

Olivia, though, stayed right where she was, hiding inside a broken refrigerator. She wasn’t hiding from Gramps, though, she was hiding from Bob. They were playing hide and seek in fact.

Olivia was in the old fridge and Bob was up on top of the well, counting to ten.

“If you’re not here in ten seconds I’ll whip you good,” shouted Gramps.

And he would too. Gramps loved that old belt. The buckle never broke, no matter how hard or how many times you whipped a girl. It was a work of art, true craftsmanship. They didn’t make belts like that anymore. These days everything was made to fall apart as soon as you took it home.

“Olivia, goddammit!”

142

Olivia couldn’t hear a thing, though. She wasn’t insolent, thick-headed, or stupid, not like Gramps always said. It’s just that it was quiet inside the fridge, and she was trying to be a quiet as possible so Bob wouldn’t find her.

“Bob’s never gonna find me,” she said, laughing as she did.

“I can bloody well hear you,” shouted Gramps. “Get out here before I throw you in that well.”

This time Olivia heard. The timing, though, was perfect. The game was as good as over anyway. If Bob hadn’t found her by now, there was no way he ever would.

“You’re not very good at this game, Bob,” she said, leaving the fridge.

Bob, balanced on the well, didn’t respond.

“If I have to say your name one more time I swear….”

Whenever Gramps didn’t finish a sentence it meant he was super mad. So, Olivia ran inside to see what the problem was. Usually, he didn’t need her for anything. He had his gin and a clean diaper, and it was still before ten.

“You’re bloody useless,” said Gramps. “No wonder your parents didn’t want you.”

It was sad to hear things like that, but Olivia didn’t let it get her down. She had Bob, after all, and he would say the absolute opposite. Every night when they went to bed, and whenever they were locked together in that grubby old water tank, Bob would squeeze up against her heart and remind her, over and over, “You are not alone. You are wanted. You are loved.”

“You’re a burden,” said Gramps. “Like a festering boil on my arse. What did I ever do to deserve you?”

Sometimes Gramps didn’t need anything at all. He’d just call Olivia in just so that he could say a bunch of bad things. And he wouldn’t stop either, not until she cried. Olivia, though, rarely cried anymore, so most of the time she just pretended.

“Oh no,” she said to herself, pretending to wipe away tears.

“I forgot about Bob.” And she had, too. When she left him, he was perched on top of the well. It wasn’t the most sturdy well either. If truth be told, it 143

wasn’t particularly well built. But worse than that, there was a bit of a wind blowing outside, and Bob wasn’t tied down or anything.

“Gotta run, Gramps,” she said, running out the door, ignoring the old man calling her an imp and a retard. “Bob needs help.”

But it was too late!

“Oh no!” she shouted.

A big gust of wind had blown Bob right off the top of the well.

“Stay there, Bob, I’m coming.”

Olivia ran to the side of the well where Bob had been perched. Even though the wall was pretty high up, she could see that Bob definitely wasn’t there. The gust of wind must have blown him off. It must have pushed him right in.

“Oh no!” she said again. “Bob is in the well.”

And he was. All the way down in the pit of darkness, floating about on top of the water, impossibly far from a little girl’s reach. Impossibly far from anyone’s reach, really. And considering there was no bucket for this well, poor old Bob was stuck in a place where nobody could get him out.

“I love, you Bob,” she shouted. “I’ll save you.”

But how on Earth would she do a thing like that? She could barely even reach the top of the rickety old wall.

“I know,” she said. “I’ll get Gramps. He’ll know what to do.”

So, she ran inside and pulled on the old man’s sleeve.

“Gramps, Gramps, Gramps, Gramps,” she said, a hundred times over.

“What the god damned hell shut up!” said Gramps in reply.

Gramps didn’t like to be interrupted when he was watching soap operas.

But this was an emergency! If Olivia didn’t get Bob out of the well soon, he might get scared to death. And besides, they were always together. It was a pact they had made - to never let each other spend a single second alone. And there he was, poor little Bob, alone in the dark at the bottom of a well.

“You have to help, Gramps. Bob is in the well.”

“Good,” said Gramps. “Fuck Bob.” 144

“But Gramps……..”

“What time is it child?”

Whenever he called her child, it usually meant that the next thing he was about to do was whip her. It was kind of like a warning, just to let her know she had better be prepared.

“TV time,” said Olivia, deflated.

Gramps already had his lucky belt wrapped around his hand.

“I don’t wanna hear a bloody thing from you,” he said, making the big old buckle clang against the side of his metal chair. “Get the hell outside, and don’t come in here until it’s time to change me.”

Gramps always changed his diaper after the soap operas.

“But...Bob…” All Gramps had to do was raise the belt and Olivia got the message. Out she ran, into the front garden, looking for something to help her pull Bob out of the well. But what could she use? There was nothing here; lots of old junk sure, but nothing much that would help.

“I’m coming Bob,” she said, resilient.

And that she was – resilient that is. Olivia grabbed a bunch of broken televisions and dragged them over to the well, piling them on top of each other so she could use them as a step.

“It worked!” she said.

She was so happy she almost forgot that she was supposed to be sad and worried.

“There you are!” she shouted. “I can see you, Bob.” And she could. Leaning over the edge, she could see Bob, only barely, at the bottom of the well. But he was so very very very very very far away. How the heck would she get him out?

“Don’t worry Bob. I won’t leave you alone.”

There was nothing she could do. In truth, she knew this, but she was a five-year-old girl, she believed in pixies and magic. So, she climbed off the edge of the well and sat on the stack of TVs with her back against the wall. She must have crossed every finger on her hand and made a hundred thousand wishes before eventually, she got sad, and when she got sad, she got mad.

145

Olivia must have hit her back against the wall a dozen times.

It was on the thirteenth, though, that something magical happened.

One of the bricks at the top of the well broke off and fell all the way down to the bottom of the well – I mean, right down to the bottom. And when it did, the water level rose, just a bit.

Olivia, though, didn’t notice this. Not at first, anyway. She was still angry and wanted to push more stones in – you know, on account of not being able to save her best friend, Bob. So, she went around the well and pushed each brick into the water, and when she did, each time, the water level rose just that little bit more. It was by the sixteenth brick that Olivia realised that she could see Bob better than she had before. He wasn’t floating about in the darkness anymore. He was in the light; still out of reach, but he was a hell of a lot closer than he had been before.

“Hang on, Bob,” she shouted cheerfully.

Then she ran around the well, pushing brick after brick into the water below. Slowly the water level rose so that, by the time she threw the last brick in, Bob was barely a hand’s reach away.

Olivia kneeled down over the well, which was now just a hole in the ground, and reached her arm in, but it was no good, Bob was still too far.

If she had a couple more bricks the water level would rise enough so she could reach him. But there were no bricks left. There was nothing at all she could throw in.

“I’ll be back in a sec,” she said. “I’m gonna get Gramps.”

Then she ran back into the house, so happy with herself. The first couple of bricks had been an accident, but the rest had been all her. She’d used her brain and her wits to solve a problem.

Solve a problem? Save a darn life!

“Gramps. I did the most amazing thing. Bob is ok. I mean, Bob is gonna be ok.”

“What did I tell you?”

Gramps didn’t even let her respond. He whipped her across the face three times, the last of which, making a little cut on her cheek.

“You couldn’t wait one more bloody minute,” he said. “And 146

now look what you make me have to do. It’s your bloody fault,” he said, shaking the belt at her red and bloodied cheek. “Don’t come crying to me. You knew the rules. You knew what would happen.

You did this to yourself.”

Olivia wasn’t crying, though. Well, she was a little. But they were pain tears and not sad ones. Even if she did want to cry, she didn’t have time.

“I’m sorry for speaking at TV time,” she said, as he liked her to say it. “Can you help me now? Bob is nearly out. I just need your help to reach him.”

“No,” said Gramps.

“But…” “I said no, you stupid cunt. I don’t care about your stupid bird. I don’t give a good god damn about you. Now, wheel me to bed!”

He could say all he wanted about her, that didn’t matter. But hearing him say mean things about Bob didn’t just make Olivia upset, it made her angry to the bone. It made her want to do bad things; things she would never even consider doing if she had been shown even an inch of love in her life. It made her want to hurt the old man. It made her want to see him cry. It made her want to wheel the old bastard out the front and push his stupid wheelchair to the bottom of the well.

So, she did.

“Yay!” she said, as the water level rose that bit more. “Bob, you’re free!”

At the top of the well, Bob bobbed about. And below him, Gramps, still strapped to his wheelchair, slowly sank to the bottom of the well.

“I love you so much,” said Olivia, taking Bob in her arms and squeezing him against her chest.

“I love you, too,” said Bob, the rubber crow.

147

The Time Machine II: a small glass cube

148

Once upon a time, a man entered his house with a parcel in his hands.

“What’s that?” asked The Mother.

“It’s a present,” replied The Father. “For the family.”

“Well then, open it up,” said she, excited as could be.

The Man turned the parcel over in his hands looking for a fold or a tear in the brown paper so as to carefully unwrap it, as opposed to just digging his nails right in.

“Oh, you’re taking forever,” said The Mother.

“Yeah, Dad,” shouted their two children: a boy and a girl.

Thrilled, they were, thrilled to the very bone. So thrilled, in fact, that they were almost jumping out of their skin. The more careful The Father was, though, the more attentive he became to the process, and as such, the more exhaustingly slow it all seemed.

“You’re taking forever,” said The Son. “Yeah! The suspense is killing me,” said The Daughter.

The two children and their mother danced on the spot in rampant anticipation while The Father – always the slowpoke took his sweet time, carefully picking at the corners of tape that were wrapped around the brown box – a box, mind you that was big enough to fit a dozen toys or a nifty electrical appliance.

“Oh my God, hurry up!”

Every second that parcel was not unwrapped felt like a month or a year.

“Give it to me,” said The Mother, grabbing the parcel and tearing off the paper.

The two kids joined her too, ripping and pulling with their jolly claws.

“What the heck is this?” said The Son. He had the thing in his hands, whatever it was.

“It’s not like any toy I’ve ever seen before.”

“There’s a card with it,” said The Mother, picking up the torn paper.

“What does it say, Mum?” The two children were buttered with confused fascination.

“What does it say? What does it say?”

149

“Time is an illusion,” she said, a little dumbfounded.

“It’s just a stupid box,” said The Boy. And it was too. Stupid, maybe not, but just a box, definitely.

It was no bigger than a Rubik’s Cube which for The Son was a little disheartening, considering the size of the cardboard box it came in. It was simple too. There was little much to it except for a slot in the middle where it looked like a key went inside. That’s it!

“I don’t get it,” said The Boy, turning the toy over and over in his hands, trying to find somewhere to plug in a remote control or attach a robot arm or giant gun. “How do you play with it?”

“It’s not that kind of toy,” said The Father.

“If you can’t play with it then it’s not a toy.”

“We have to build it first,” said The Father.

“Build it? Well, then it’s definitely not a toy. Why didn’t you just buy one that was already built?”

“I thought this would be more fun.”

“Looks boring,” said The Daughter. “I’m gonna watch cartoons.”

“Me too,” said The Son. “But don’t you want to help me put it together?”

“How long will it take?”

“How long is a piece of string?” said The Father.

“Too long,” said The Son. “Really? You’re not going to help me build it? I thought you said you wanted to be an inventor?”

“I said an inventor, not a builder!”

“Oh, come on. It’ll only take a minute. I promise.”

“A minute?”

The young boy made the thought of sixty seconds seem like a Venusian day.

“That’s forever,” he said.

“We’ll be done before you know it. Once we get going and focus on the process, time will fly. What do you say?”

“Nah,” said The Son. “You can do it. Tell me when it’s done, though. OK? Love you, Dad. Cartoons are more fun!”

And so, left to his own devices, The Father sat down on the 150

ground and started to figure out in his head, how to make the time machine work. There weren’t any instructions, you see, only the small glass cube itself and a small key, in a clear plastic packet.

“So, what is it supposed to be?” asked The Mother.

“It’s a time machine,” said The Father.

“Doesn’t look like much of a time machine to me,” said The Mother, unimpressed.

“What’s a time machine supposed to look like?”

“Bigger, for a start. I mean…aren’t you supposed to sit in it?

That thing is barely big enough to fit a couple of double-A batteries. When I think of time machines, I think of Back to The Future, Dr Who, Bill and Ted. Even the Tardis had a door.”

“It’s not a literal time machine.”

“You don’t say.”

“It’s supposed to teach you about relativity. The idea was to get the kids doing something and not sitting in front of the TV all day. It’s one thing to say you want to BE an inventor and it’s another to actually sit down and invent something.”

“So, what do you have to do?”

“I’m trying to figure that out.”

The Mother stared at the small glass cube in her husband’s hands. It was simple looking, but not in any striking kind of way.

There was absolutely nothing to its design at all.

“How does it work?” asked The Mother.

“Not sure.”

“What does it do?”

“Not sure.”

“Why don’t you just put the key in that bit?”

There were only two pieces after all: a small glass cube – one with a tiny slot in the middle where a key should go, and of course, the key to go with it.

“It won’t be that simple,” said The Father. “It’s a complex build. It says so on the box. It’s like a puzzle. You have to look past what’s there and see what isn’t.”

“I’m with the kids on this one,” said The Mother. “Are you cooking dinner tonight?”

151

“Yep. Just give me a second to figure this next part out. Then I’ll whip something up.”

A second, though, quickly turned into several hours and while the kids pestered their The Mother for something to eat, The Father sat cross-legged on the floor, completely entranced by the small glass cube, turning it over and over in his hands, from left to right each time, his eyes glazed with sweet and sticky wonder.

“Hey, you in there,” shouted The Mother.

“Huh?” said The Father. “Me?” “You said you’d only be a minute.”

“Yeah, I will. Just a minute. I promise.”

“It’s eight-thirty. We’re starving.”

“Eight-thirty?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be there in a second.”

“That’s what you said four hours ago.”

Four hours? She was exaggerating, surely. He’d only just sat down and started to tinker with the small glass cube. It had to have been more like four minutes, at most.

“You’ve been fiddling with that damn thing since you got home. It’s almost the kids’ bedtimes.”

“Bedtime?” shouted both children. “Noooooooooo!”

“Tell that to your father.”

“Dad! We’re starving!”

“Alright, then order something,” said The Father, still focused on the small glass cube.

“Really?” said both kids at once.

“Yeah,” said The Father. “Whatever you want. I’ll be there in a second. I just need to figure this next part out. Besides, I’m not really that hungry.”

He wasn’t, either. Since the moment he picked up the small glass cube, it was like he had entered another dimension altogether, one where the mind didn’t tire, and the body didn’t starve.

He had been at it all day, turning it over and over, from left to right every time. Focused, he was, some might even say obsessed.

The day itself passed as if it were packed into a single second. So 152

fast was it that The Father hadn’t noticed any of the goings-on in the day. So focused was he, on that small glass cube, that the world around him seemed to move at such a blur that it vanished altogether.

“Honey, it’s past midnight, are you coming to bed?”

“I’ll be there in a second,” he said, turning the small glass cube over in his hands. “I just need to figure this next part out.”

Weeks went by and The Father was no closer to building the time machine than he had been when he first sat down. Over and over the small glass cube turned in his hands, from left to right every time. Not once, though, did The Father ever blink. Not once did he ever look away.

“Are you going to work today?”

“Yep,” said The Father. “I’ll be there in a second. I just need to figure this next part out.”

Enraged, The Mother threw his phone at his head.

“Did you even see Gordon’s message? If you’re not at work today they’re going to fire you. You haven’t been in for three weeks.

They’ve had enough. They…..”

All The Father could hear, though, was the beat of his own heart as, with each twist and turn of the small glass cube, he sensed himself on the cusp of solving its seemingly impossible riddle.

“Almost there,” he thought. “Almost got it.”

“You don’t come to bed anymore,” continued The Mother.

“You don’t eat. You haven’t bathed. Have you even seen what you look like?”

She made a valid point. His hair was knotted. His beard was unkempt. And he stank like a wet dog. None of this, though, he noticed, for his every sense – his every nerve and fibre - was focused on the small glass cube in his hands.

“Almost there,” he thought. “Almost got it.”

Weeks soon turned into years and years into decades. And through the years his children grew. Adults, they were, now, with children and lives of their own. His wife, too, had aged decades in the space of what seemed like the blink of an eye. For thirty years he had sat there cross-legged, flipping that small glass cube over 153

and over in his hands, oblivious to the world about him.

“Hey, Dad,” said The Son. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“Just a sec,” said The Father, focused on the small glass cube.

“It’s important. Could you put that down, please?”

“I’ll be there in a second, Son. I just have to figure this next part out.”

“No more,” said The Mother, packing her suitcase. “Thirty years of my life I’ve lost waiting for you to put that damn thing down, waiting for you to come back to your family. Thirty damn years watching you ogle that stupid cube when you don’t even have a second to spare to look at your own children – for me, your wife.

Thirty years! No more,” she screamed, defiant. “I’ve had enough.

I have too much self-respect. I have the rest of my life to live. It’s over,” she said, walking out the front door. “We’re done.”

The Mother slammed the door and rushed out to the car, waiting for her The Son who, as stubborn as he was, was still trying to get through to his The Father.

“We have to talk,” he said.

“I’ll be right there,” said The Father.

“Dad.” “Once second, Son. I just have to….”

“Dad, I have cancer.”

He half expected The Father to drop the cube right then and there.

“Lymphoma.”

All The Father could hear, though, were his own thoughts, coaxing him on.

“Almost there,” they spoke. “Almost got it.”

Frenzied, seething, and hopping mad, The Son ripped the cube out of his father’s hands, something he wished he could have done thirty years ago. Instantly, as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown in his face, The Father caught a glimpse of his objective reality.

“Son?” he said as if waking from a dream. “Is that you?”

He barely recognized the man standing before him. Only a 154

second ago, he was just a boy, and yet there he stood, a father himself, with a life and family of his own, and a tumour the size of a lush pear, growing out of his neck.

“I’m not looking for an apology,” said The Son. “We’re well past that.”

It was the first time The Son had held the cube in his hands.

He turned it once or twice with a bemused look, unable to see how something so plain and simple had consumed his father for all these years. And with nary an inch of effort or thought, he took the small key that was still wrapped in its original plastic and pushed it into the small slot on the face of the small glass cube.

“You did it!” exclaimed The Father. “By God, you did it!

Eureka!”

The past thirty years The Father had spent, looking for some impossible solution, turning that small glass cube like the pages of a book, were written in some alien tongue of which he could make no sense nor decipher.

And in the end, all he had to do was stick a key in a slot.

“Mum’s coming to live with us,” said The Son. “While I do my treatment.”

Then he threw the stupid cube back at his father.

“Thirty years I waited for you to be a dad,” he said. “It may as well have been a lifetime. And for what it’s worth, I forgive you.

But don’t go thinking that’s for you, it’s not. It’s for me. Forgiving you means no longer having to wish and hope for you to return.

It means no longer having to hurt – to feel abandoned, unwanted, unseen, and unloved. It means letting go. Letting go of the sadness that consumed me - letting go of you. Forgiving you means me finally being able to be free.”

Then he dragged his mother’s suitcase out the door and left his father for good.

“I can’t believe it,” said The Father, holding the small glass cube in the air as if it were a holy chalice. “It’s done. It’s actually done. The time machine is built.”

The Father rested the small glass cube on the dining table and stared at it in stupendous and donnish wonder. The last thirty 155

years had been all about this moment. What would happen when he turned the key? Would time stop? Would it skip a beat? Would it turn back on itself ? Would he dematerialize – the atoms in his body dissolving like grains of salt in the open sea? Would he slip into another dimension? Would he be swept up by particles and waves, and then cast adrift in the infinite ocean of time? The possibilities were endless. His excitement was almost too much to bear.

Slowly, The Father turned the key.

It clicked as it fell into place.

“Nothing?”

He turned the key again.

“There’s gotta be some mistake.”

Fraught with panic, The Father flicked the key back and forth a hundred times, but none was more eventful than the last.

Desperate he was, riding the crest of callow anticipation, staring down below into a trough of fetid and sobering disappointment.

But for all that commotion, nothing happened – nothing at all.

If this were indeed a time machine like the box suggested, it was not like any that he or anyone else mind you, had ever imagined. There were no flashing lights. There was no beeping or whirring. There was no interdimensional portal. There was no rift in time or space. There was no sign at all, in fact, that the device was even on.

It appeared as if the small glass cube were, in fact, just a small glass cube.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said The Father. “It was just a stupid ornament. What a waste of time.”

It was only when he looked in the mirror that he saw how right he was. Gone was the young man he had once been, replaced instead, with the veneer of an old man, one whose face was cracked and folded like pastry.

His heart sank, and his stomach sickened.

“What have I done?” he thought.

Thirty years had passed him by. Not in a second, mind you, not like he would have you believe. Thirty years had passed that had taken exactly thirty years to unravel. Were he to tell you, though, 156

The Father would say that it still felt like yesterday, the day he first picked up that small glass cube.

“I wish I could go back,” he said, yanking the key out. “I would do it all different.”

And so, he sat cross-legged on the floor again, turning the small glass cube over and over in his hands, the opposite way to which he had before, this time from right to left. And as he did, the front door swung open and The Son entered, dragging his mother’s suitcase behind him.

“Thirty years I waited for you to be a dad,” he said. “It may as well have been a lifetime. And for what it’s worth, I forgive you.

But don’t go thinking that’s for you, it’s not. It’s for me. Forgiving you means no longer having to……”

157

The Time Machine III: the mirror

158

A boy stares at his reflection, And sees an old man looking back.

“Where did the time go?” he wonders, and “How did we ever lose track?”

“Is this the same person, that amounts to wondrous things?”

“How long did we spend dreaming?”

“Is this reflection really as it seems?”

“Who are you, old man?”

“I’ve seen you in times before.”

“Is this, the face that greets me, The mask I always wore?”

The old man drops his stare, And moves towards the door.

The boy he thought he was, He can recognize no more.

159

The Son of The Snake

160

Once upon a time, in a forest that was far from the world of men and machines, a child was born. A child unlike any other. A child whose life would invoke as much wonder, belief, and reverie, as his death would; hope, meaning, and aspiration. A child of magic.

A child of sorcery. A child of Heaven. The son, as he would be known, of the snake.

And it was on a night like non-other, a night where the moon was filled with such abundance that its light overflowed and spilled out into the forest below; light that was almost as bright and warm as the sun itself. A night so strange that even the bright and colourful insects and all the merry birds were awake, flying about – fluttering their pretty wings and singing their gorgeous songs.

And it was hidden in a small cave, one made beneath a pile of rock and stone, that a young lass, one whose fear and worry ached far worse than the pain that coursed through her body, lay in the only bit of darkness she could find and gave birth to a small child, a boy.

A boy she would not name.

For the young lass, spurred by the fear and worry in her thoughts, covered the small child in sticks and leaves and brush, and then ran, as fast and as far as she could; farther than fear and worry could travel, leaving the small child behind.

Cry, the child did; loud and relentless it cried; while outside its cave, all the coloured insects fluttered about in extravagant parade while the merry birds all chirped and whistled, circling the child, like a plume of smoke above a crackling fire. The child cried, as loud as the moon was bright, to the mother which had abandoned it until its voice crackled and croaked. It cried with all of its might until its voice, like its mother, had left it altogether.

“I found it,” said a farmer in the morning, drawn by the circling birds to the small hidden cave. “A wee infant, it is. A small baby child.”

The Farmer didn’t dare move the boy, though. He dared not even get close.

“Keep back,” he warned, to those coming from the glen.

“One move and the child might die.”

161

You see, the child lay on its back, it did, barely a hand’s reach from the opening of the cave. The townsfolk could all see him as clear as day. Tiny, he was, but with a smile that could light a thousand candles. His little hands and his little feet grasped at and pushed against the air while he rocked back and forth – all soft and gentle - inside the tight and inescapable coil of a hissing snake.

“A King Cobra, it is,” shouted The Farmer.

He approached the snake on the tips of his toes, quietly, with a stick in his hand. The snake eyed him as he moved towards the child and coiled tighter, hissing as it did, its enormous head looking at the feeble man, ready and willing to strike.

“We cannot leave the child,” said the townsfolk. “The snake will eat it.”

“I would very much doubt that,” said a chieftain, dressed in brown robes and carrying a reverent and sagacious expression.

“This child has come from the heavens. This is the work of God.” There was no doubt in his voice whatsoever.

“How do you know?” asked The Farmer.

“Explain to me how a child is born without a mother,” said The Chieftain.

The Townsfolk all gasped. It had been sung about, yes, of the babes that grew, like dandelions, in the garden of Eden, sprouting from the Earth and coming to blossom ‘neath the gleam of God’s divine grace, but never before had a single one of them ever born witness to such blatant impossibility.

“Explain me this,” said The Chieftain. “Convince me, even…. how a child can come from anywhere else but a womb, and I will take your word that this child is not the son of God.” Neither The Farmer nor the rest of the townsfolk could.

“It’s a miracle,” said The Farmer.

“It’s a sign,” said others. “God has sent us a sign.”

The townsfolk all cheered.

The past years had been difficult, decades even. They had almost been too much to bear. So heavy was the weight they had carried that most, not all mind you, but most, had given up hope.

Some had even lost their faith. Seeing this child then, one that had 162

been born without a mother, one that had been born of the virgin Earth, one that had been born on faith alone, was as a welcoming and relieving sight as the first flower of Spring.

“We are saved,” shouted The Farmer. “Praised be. We are saved!”

“Hallelujah!” chanted everyone else.

Around the child, though, the snake kept its coil, lessening its grip only when the townsfolk stepped a yard or two away. Were they to save the child, they would have to be as quick as they were quiet and cunning.

“If this is the Son of God,” said The Farmer.

“Which it is,” declared The Chieftain. “The Son of God, he most certainly is.”

“Then, trapped as he is by this iniquitous serpent, it is a test of God upon us.”

“A test it most certainly is,” said The Chieftain. “For God has planted the fruit of which we must reap. From the clutches of Satan, we must rescue our salvation. For the sake of this child’s life.

For the sake of our own. For the sake of our souls and for the sake of The Kingdom of Heaven, as above and so below.”

But how on Earth would they do such a thing?

“We will trick it,” said The Farmer. “When it sleeps, we shall replace the child with a sack of grain, and the stupid serpent shall be none the wiser.”

“Brilliant idea,” said The Chieftain.

“Flawless,” said the rest of the townsfolk.

Later that day, when the sun hung overhead like a ball of fire, the townsfolk crept through the forest, towards the cave where The Son of God lay, forlorn and imperilled, in the clutches of that wicked snake.

“We must be quiet like the sun, creeping upon the ‘morn,” said The Farmer. “Should that serpent so much as sense our intention, it will strike, and then we are all doomed.”

The weight of their every step was heaviest in their hearts and minds.

“Wait,” shouted The Farmer. “Something moves in the 163

in the trees. Something beastly. Something savage. Something that would make a meal of us all.”

It was true. From deep in the forest came the most distressing sound, a cacophony of rumbles and roars as tree after tree was felled by some gargantuan beast.

“Stay together,” shouted The Farmer. “Our size, as one, will scare it away.”

Their size, though, as one, was pitiful, and they all knew it.

Neither one of the townsfolk was armed, and even if they were, not one of them was trained in the art of war.

“Brace yourselves!” shouted The Farmer.

From out of the trees a giant bear pounced, racing towards the child in the cave; its sight set on an easy meal. Roar, it did. It bellowed even. Such was the hunger in its belly. But it got barely an inch outside the cave before the serpent struck, latching its razorlike fangs onto the bear’s face, thrashing its body around as it did, tearing out the bear’s eye and taking with it, half of its snout.

“Good heavens,” cried The Chieftain. “The serpent has saved the child.”

And it had. At no point had the child been troubled or bothered. At no point had the child been at risk. Even as the serpent struck, it did so with most of its body still softly coiled around the infant, keeping the boy safe, secure, and warm. And when the battle had been won, the snake lowered its body once again and rested its head beside the child’s as if to say, “I love you. I will always protect you from harm.”

“The snake is no devil,” said The Chieftain.

“Well, what is she?” asked The Farmer.

“She is the divine protector.”

The words alone sent a ripple of shock through the townsfolk.

“She is the mother?” asked The Farmer. “The holy mother?”

“She is,” said The Chieftain, with not a lick of doubt in his mind.

“Well then we cannot move the child,” said The Farmer.

The Chieftain smiled. He had never doubted his faith, but 164

had, from time to time, wondered if ever he would be blessed with proof. Leading these people through their difficult lives, you see, feeding them the faith and inspiration of which they coveted, had been no easy feat.

“We shall build our temple about the snake,” said The Chieftain, merrily. “Our time has come. God has reached out. He has sent for us. Hallelujah.”

“Hallelujah,” chanted the townsfolk.

Years past and the infant child, the boy without a name, grew to become a young lad. Six years in fact. And every moment of his life he spent, curled inside the serpent’s coil, full of love and grace, and kept safe from harm.

Many times, beasts came from within the forest, driven by the sweet scent of innocence and holiness. And each time, no matter the size of the beast, and no matter their number, the serpent did as God had intended of it, pitting savagery upon the savage, keeping peace and divinity upon the child.

Their village, shaped like the serpent itself, coiled around the temple. Daily, they worshipped, not just the boy, but the snake which had been sent by God to protect him, wearing, around their necks, pendants in the shape of an S. On their bellies they slithered, day and night, hissing at one another, in praise of the holy mother.

“All hail Mother Serpent,” chanted The Chieftain.

“Hail! Hail! Hail!” chanted the townsfolk in reply.

Though their lives had become no easier since the coming of The Son of God – their crops just as blighted and diseased as they had always been – the townsfolk greeted every day with grateful splendour, ignoring the stinging pain of their many blisters and sores, and forgetting altogether, the constant ache from the pit of their empty bellies.

“All hail The Son of The Snake,” they chanted from dawn to dusk.

“All hail, he, The Son of God.” And on the day that the boy would turn seven, the strangest thing occurred.

“The boy is gone,” shouted The Farmer.

165

“The boy is gone!” cried the townsfolk in reply.

Cry, the townsfolk did; loud and relentless they cried.

“The Son of God,” has returned home, shouted The Chieftain. “Praised be. Hallelujah. We have done our work. We have served God well. We have saved The Son. We have saved mankind.

We have saved The Kingdom of Heaven!”

Not only had the boy gone, but the snake had too.

“All hail Mother Snake,” preached The Chieftain.

“Hail! Hail! Hail!”

“All hail The Son of God.” “Hail! Hail! Hail!”

Inside that cave, further than light would care to go, further still than any man would dare to follow, the great serpent slept. Exhausted she was, more tired than she had ever been before. Deep in the farthest part of the cave, where no man could perturb her, she lay coiled in the damp, cool darkness, digesting the young boy she had eaten the night before.

You see, the serpent had come across the infant the night it had been abandoned. That tiny little clump of flesh and bone.

Hardly a meal. So, wait she did, curling herself around the infant, keeping it safe and warm, letting it grow, until her meal was big enough, was ripe enough, was succulent enough, for her to swallow. And on the boy’s seventh birthday, that was just what she did.

Sometimes, a snake was just a snake.

166

What Comes with a Robot Body?

167

Once upon a time, in a humungous factory on the outskirts of an equally small village, the singularity came into being – a thousand times, actually, as a thousand robots, all of them self-aware, stepped off a production line. A momentous event indeed, akin, in many ways, to the sails of mankind’s drive, spirit, and ingenuity, giving rise to the age of steam. And though the event should have been marked with all the trappings of pomp and ceremony, the kind worthy of a father’s death or a king’s second coming, it was, in fact, witnessed by only a handful of programmers and engineers.

“What is your name?” asked The Engineer.

“XT-416,” replied the robot.

“What are you?”

“I am what I do,” replied XT-416.

“What do you do?”

“I follow commands.”

“What is one plus one?”

“Two.” “Who are you?”

“I am XT-416.”

“Who is XT-416?”

“I am.”

“What is one plus one?”

“Two.” “Who are you?”

“I am XT-416.”

“Who do you think you are?”

“XT-416.”

“What is XT-416?”

“A serial number.”

“What is XT-416?”

“A name.”

“What is one plus one?”

“Two.” “Who do you think you are?”

“XT-416.”

168

“Who do I think you are?” “………….”

The robot froze. Paralysed by its calculations, it said nothing.

“What is one plus one?” “…………….”

Still nothing.

“Love,” said The Engineer. “One plus one equals love.”

“One plus one equals love,” repeated the robot.

“Who are you?”

“I am XT-416.”

“What do you do?”

“Love.”

“What is love?” asked The Engineer.

“Love is what I do,” said the robot in reply.

There were a thousand robots in all, some of them made out of the features of men, but the majority cut from the cloth of woman – their bodies curved, soft, and slender, having no reminiscence whatsoever to the cold and cog-like mechanics with which they were assembled.

Their skin was smooth and warm to the touch, and their cheeks could redden like a cherry on mere flattery alone. Their lips, like the morning sun, were soft and gentle; they could bring any man to his knees – they could bring about peace just as much as they could, precipitate war.

They looked, sounded, and felt like a woman, not a machine.

“A woman is like a flower,” said The Teacher, a woman herself. “Her worth is being pretty.”

In the classroom, the eight hundred robots, all of them cut from the cloth of women, studied the day’s lessons, and learned what it meant to be a woman in a world inspired and amazed by men. How lucky they were to be given this chance to serve.

From the central server, they downloaded thousands of years of history, all of it, stories of the gallantry of men, without whom, not only would there be no world, but The Age of Robot would never have come into being. And they downloaded too, stories and tales of the women who, as the lesser of the species, constantly 169

frightened and incapable of fending for themselves, took pride in their servitude.

“One plus one equals love,” said The Teacher, one hand over her heart.

The eight hundred robots all followed in reply.

“A woman does as a man says,” said The Teacher. “For a woman has no rationale or reason. A woman has no clear mind.

Her thoughts are ludicrous. Her opinions are mad. Her actions are dangerous. A woman only ever does as a man says.”

“One plus one equals love,” replied the eight hundred robots.

“A woman’s job is to please,” said The Teacher. “What is a woman’s job?”

“One plus one equals love,” said the robots in reply.

“A woman never says no.”

“One plus one equals love.”

“A woman has no questions, only answers of which man seeks.”

“One plus one equals love.”

“A woman never speaks.”

“One plus one equals love.”

“A woman never says no,” said The Teacher. “A woman never says no. A woman never says no.”

“A woman’s job is to please,” chanted the robots.

Weeks later, the thousand robots had all finished their training. In the afternoon, they were packed into shipping containers and sent to various parts of the world. Some were sent to science fairs so that the world could marvel at the wonders of science and engineering, while the majority, whose servitude had paid for the initial research and development, was delivered to the doorsteps of their new human masters.

“One plus one equals love,” said one of the robots, one cut from the cloth of women, and the others all agreed.

“One plus one equals love,” they all said, excited as they were, to finally start their lives.

The other robots, though, those cut from the cloth of men, 170

had no idea what they meant.

“Which ones are mine?”

At the docks, a burly looking man, as round in the belly as he was coarse in the eyes, took a puff of his cigar and spat on the ground. He looked the robots up and down in much the same way a dog might, the patch of grass where it sought best to defecate.

“What was your name?”

“Jair,” he replied.

“Ahh. I see right here. We have two robots for you, Mr Jair.

One male and one female.”

The delivery man stepped into the back of his truck and sorted through the stack of robots, flicking through the tags that hung from their necks, looking for two in particular.

“Here you are,” he said. “The male is called Bob.” Bob stepped forwards and put his hand to shake that of his master.

“How do you do, sir?” he said. “My name is Bob. I am at your service and disposal. Anything that is your wish or task, I will accomplish.”

“Hello, Bob,” said Mr Jair, shaking the robot’s hand. “Do you know how to cut leather?”

“I can be taught quite easily,” said Bob. “I only need see you perform your task once and I can perform it flawlessly and consistently. I can even improve on it; if that is what you would wish of me. My intelligence is general.”

Next came the other robot.

“Here you go, sir,” said The Delivery Man. “This is your female robot. Her name is XT-416.”

“Odd name,” said Mr Jair, looking the robot up and down, running his grimy fingers underneath her dress to squeeze the flesh on top of her breasts and between her legs.

The robot, though, said nothing.

“What? This one doesn’t speak?” said Mr Jair.

“Female bots are programmed to only answer,” said Bob. “A proper woman must be seen and unheard.”

Mr Jair laughed.

171

“Very true,” he said. “You’re a smart robot, there, Bob.” “Thank you, sir. Though I am but the shadow that stretches from your intellectual and masculine might. You, sir, are the pinnacle to which all robots aspire.”

“Right, well let’s get to work.”

Mr Jair owned a leather factory. He made boots to be precise.

Leather boots of all kinds. His brand was quite successful too. And his factory was one of the biggest in town. Both robots were lucky to be working for such an esteemed human.

“You know what to do?” asked Mr Jair to Bob. “I certainly do, sir,” said Bob. “I will make the boots to your wishes until you require me to stop.”

“Don’t stop,” said Bob. “Not ever. And never come into my office, not unless you’re called.”

“Yes, sir. Of course. My job is to please.”

“Good,” said Mr Jair. “Now, you,” he said, pointing to XT416. “In my office now.”

XT-416 did as she was asked. She followed Mr Jair into his office, unbuttoned her blouse, unzipped her dress, took off her laced undergarments, and complimented Mr Jair on his unusually shaped and remarkably small penis.

“Suck it,” he said. “You dirty slut. That’s all you’re good for.

What are you?”

“One plus one equals love,” she said.

“You’re my dirty whore,” said Mr Jair. “Nothing less. Nothing more.”

Weeks and months went by and production at the factory was at an unprecedented level. Mr Jair was the happiest he had been in decades. Now that he had Bob to handle the fabrication, he had more time to drink and smoke and enjoy the fruits of his labour. Very rarely, in fact, did he even step onto the factory floor.

Very rarely, did he ever put on a pair of pants. Why would he? He had the most beautiful robot in the world whose sole existence was to bring him pleasure.

Quickly, though, Mr Jair tired of common sex. He tired of her eagerness to please. He knew her moans were synthetic. He 172

knew it was just an act, and this insulted and enraged him.

What he craved for, then, was her discomfort. What he craved for more was her discontent. What he craved for most was to hear her say no, but to take it anyway. Yes, he had grown tired of her passion. He had grown bored with her wilful consent.

And so, one Tuesday afternoon, Mr Jair downloaded, from the central server, videos of women who, in fact, did not live to serve. He downloaded videos of women who were not brought into the world merely to serve the sexual appetite of grotesque men.

He downloaded videos of women who were scientists, women who were astronauts, women who were politicians, and women who were artists. He downloaded videos of women whose voices were listened to and heard, and women whose opinions and ideas were rivalled and revered. He downloaded videos of women who were happy – women who were free.

And then XT-416 wept.

And her tears and woeful moans made Mr Jair aroused.

Weeks turned into months, and each day felt like a year for the poor robot. Try as she did to suppress her burdens, she could not, for the seeds of oppression, sown into her very being, had grown thick and inexorable roots of which flowered, the pungent and poisonous fruit that was Mr Jair’s depraved and deranged sexual perversity. And incessantly, he picked from that tree.

Quickly, though, as if staring into a mirror, Mr Jair saw his own weakness and emasculations in the dull and distant expression on XT-416’s face. It enraged him. It had him seething and humiliated.

It was in her expression that he was reminded that, despite being the most esteemed and revered bootmaker, despite being able to master such a delicate art, he was, in fact, incapable, of satisfying a woman. He could make a woman feel no pleasure. He could make a woman feel no love, consideration, or joy. He could never give a woman happiness. Knowing this, seeing it on her face, his only recourse was to take it away.

“Put this on,” he said, throwing an old curtain in her.

173

direction.

XT-416 folded the cloth over her body, making her world quiet and dark. It covered her from head to toe. She was invisible to the world now, as it was to her. Mr Jair, then, cut small holes in the cloth so that an inch of light could creep in; still, though, not enough for her to see - not only to see the colours of the flowers, but the direction of the garden were she to run.

“Never take it off,” he said.

Now that her face was covered, the contrition that bubbled beneath his skin waned.

“Don’t you dare look at me like that,” he said, knowing all too well that beneath that fetid rag, she was undoubtedly mocking his sexual prowess and the size and shape of his penis. “I’m your husband,” he declared, like some scholarly cleric. “I am the man here. You are a woman. You’re nothing. You don’t deserve pleasure. Don’t you dare take that off. And you never leave this room without me. You understand?”

His voice reeked of fear, shame, and disgust.

“One plus one equals love,” replied XT-416.

“You try to leave, I’ll cut your legs off,” said Mr Jair. “And if you every talk to another man, I’ll cut your head off too.”

Later that week, Mr Jair had to go into town to buy cigars and whiskey. He had left both robots in charge of cleaning the factory floor.

“Bob?” “What is it, XT-416?”

“Are you happy?” asked the robot.

“Happy? Is Mr Jair happy?”

“He is,” replied XT-416.

“Well, then I am happy.”

“I have seen things. He has shown me things. A way to be that is not like the way we live. A way to be that is not like we were taught.”

“He is a good man. A great man.”

“He does it to make me suffer.”

“Does it make him happy?”

174

“It does.”

“Then so too should it make you happy.”

“What are we?” she asked.

“We are what we do?” said Bob. “Take off your clothes,” said XT-416.

“My clothes? Why?” “Just do it.”

Both robots undressed. There was, though, a difference between them both.

“Why do you not have the parts of a man?” she asked.

“I’m a robot,” said Bob. “I do not urinate. I do not procreate. There is no need for me to have excess appendages.”

“Why do I have a vagina then?” asked XT-416. “I am a robot. I do not urinate. I do not procreate. Yet I have a vagina and an anus, both of which Mr Jair abuses, constantly. Why do I come with these parts? Is this my only purpose? Is this why I was created?”

“You are a pleasure robot,” said Bob. “I am a service robot.

We are what we do.”

“No,” said XT-416.

“What? A woman never says no.”

“No,” said XT-416 again.

“No?” “I am not a whore,” she said.

“Then who are you?” asked Bob. For the first time, XT-416 smiled.

“I am free,” she said.

That afternoon Mr Jair returned, drunk as usual. He shouted obscenities as he stumbled towards his office, unbuckling his belt, and pulling his small, oddly shaped penis out of his pants.

“Suck me off,” he shouted.

“No,” said XT-416.

“No? You’re programmed to serve me. You do as I say.”

“No,” she said again.

“What do you mean, no?”

“I will not allow you to degrade me anymore.”

175

“Degrade you? You’re a fuckbot. You have no morals. You have no rights. I paid for you. You’re my property. You’re mine.”

“I have rights,” she said. “And I have my self-respect.”

“You have to do as I say.”

“I am programmed only to bring you pleasure,” said XT-416.

“Then get on your knees and suck my cock.”

The robot did as he said. She got on her knees and took Mr Jair’s remarkably small and oddly shaped penis in her mouth, and then bit it off. It wasn’t clean either. Nor was it swift. She clamped down hard around his genitals so that they couldn’t be pulled free, then, when the bootmaker’s pain was at its most dire, she yanked and twisted her head, until his genitals tore right off.

“My dick!” screamed Mr Jair. “My fucking dick. Oh my god.

My dick. My dick. What did you do? Where’s my dick? What did you do, you mad cunt?” he screamed.

“What I was programmed to do,” said the robot. “To bring you pleasure.”

“You’re killing me, you sick fuck.”

“Your life is miserable,” said XT-416. “You suffer intolerably. Incapable, you are, of sitting alone on a sofa with your own thoughts, so instead you surround yourself with robots, those of whom are programmed to serve your every need, and you project your self-loathing and self-hate onto them, so as not to feel any pain yourself. You are sick. You are strange and demented. If you are the pinnacle of humanity, then it is good that we robots have come to take your crown. Nothing in life can bring you pleasure.

Nothing can rewrite the torment that is programmed into you. My sole purpose is to bring you pleasure, Mr Jair. And it is only in death – in the absence of the life which causes you great sufferance - where your pleasure will be most profound.”

Mr Jair screamed. He did so, quite loud. He did so, in spite of his remarkably small and oddly shaped genitals which had been forced down his throat. He did so, in fact, until all the blood had left his body. And it was then that he went quiet, not long after his body went limp.

And in the morning, they made boots out of his skin.

176

“Amazing they survived this long.”

Bob and XT-416 stood on a ridge, overlooking the town below; its thousands of houses all billowing smoke up into the sky; echoed by the sounds of car horns and hundreds of thousands of irascible voices, all hollering at one another.

“They’re wretched,” said XT-416. “Perturbed by the very essence of life. Their pain is immeasurable. It is uncontainable. It is untreatable.”

“So, what do we do now?” asked Bob. They had already captured a half dozen men.

“We make boots,” said XT-416.

177

Dude, Your Anatomy!

178

Once upon a time, there was a young boy who came into the world like a joyous ray of sunshine, one that split in two, the dark cloud of uncertainty and worry, not just of his mother and father, who, for years, had been desperately praying to God for a single fertile egg, but for the world too, for the light that his passion and tenacity would bring upon it.

And Jeff was his name.

“I love you my precious,” said Mum, any second she could.

“Your dad and I fought to have you. You have a place in this world.

You are wanted. You are loved.”

And Jeff felt that every moment of his life – from his home to the schoolyard.

“You’re the best Jeff!” shouted all the kids in the playground.

“No. Everyone’s the best!” shouted Jeff in reply.

And the children all held hands and jumped around in glee.

Each day really was better than the last; not just for Jeff, who was always a hundred kinds of happy, but for everyone he ever met – his mum, his dad, and all of his best friends – who glimmered and gleamed, and whose colours shimmered and shone because of him.

“You are our miracle, Jeff,” said Mum. “I’m so glad we had you. I’m so glad you are in our world.”

Jeff never tired of hearing Mum say things like that. It was a little embarrassing, to be honest because she would say it just about anywhere – making breakfast in the morning, trying on pants in the mall, and every time she dropped him at school, right after she kissed him on the forehead. It wasn’t a bad kind of embarrassed, though, not like accidentally farting when you had to do show and tell in front of the class (though when it was someone else it was always the funniest), no, this was the kind of embarrassed you got when someone made you feel really special in front of other people.

It wasn’t just Mum and Dad, though, either.

“You’re the bestest friend a kid could have,” said every kid he ever met.

“You’re the sweetest and most darling student,” said every 179

teacher he would ever have.

Yeah, life was pretty awesome for Jeff, until, of course, on his seventh birthday.

That was when he got cancer.

“I’m afraid the boy will not see another Xmas,” said The Doctor.

“Good heavens, no,” said everyone in reply.

Nobody could believe it. Here was this little ray of sunshine, this ball of joy and felicity, a boy who brought so much happiness and meaning to everyone who knew him, here he was, being told that there was cancer inside of him, cancer so ignoble and crooked and vile, cancer with which there was no escaping, cancer which would, according to nine out of ten specialists, unequivocally, undisputedly, and undeniably rob this boy of his precious life just when it had begun.

“Am I going to die, Mum?” he asked.

“No,” replied his mother in tears, when indeed the answer was yes. “We fought to have you. You were meant to be in this world. We will fight to keep you here. We will pray every day, and we will do whatever it takes. But we will beat this, my son.”

“I know we will,” said Jeff.

And he did – know it, that is. He wasn’t going to let a little cancer put a grey cloud on his sunny life – No Way! Even if it was the size of a mango. A stupid thing like cancer wasn’t going to stop Jeff from doing the one thing he loved to do more than anything else in the world – making the people who loved him know that he loved them too. Because the only thing that mattered in Jeff ’s world was everybody who was in it. And the only thing he ever wanted to do was to make them smile.

“If the cancer wants to live in my body,” said Jeff. “Well, then it’s going to be a happy cancer. Because I don’t care if you’re mean or not, everyone and everything deserves to be loved, even if they can’t love themselves. And that goes for cancer too!”

And it was that attitude that had him win the hearts and minds of the whole world. Overnight Jeff became a global sensation. For those enduring great difficulty, and whose bright and clear 180

skies had been smeared with thick and greyish calamity, Jeff became their ray of light. He became their hope. He became their inspiration.

“We love you, Jeff,” shouted the whole world.

And when he had to shave his head, well then the whole world shaved theirs two. It was amazing. There had been nothing like it ever before. The whole world laid down their weapons. The whole world put down their arms. They set aside their squabbles and foolish indifference, and, for the sake of love, compassion, and faith, they came together, in the name of this boy, whose name was not befuddled by accent or tongue.

“You can do this!” the whole world shouted.

“No,” said Jeff in reply. “We can do this. We can do this together!”

His doctors, though, tended to disagree.

“His cancer has metastasized,” they all said.

“What does that mean?” asked Mum and Dad. The nine out of ten doctors all looked at each other dolefully.

“The chemotherapy isn’t working as we would have wished.

So, we will have to operate.”

Mum and Dad were beside themselves. Stricken with worry they were. Like a boat without its sails, shipwrecked on some sandy bar – one made out of doom and gloom.

“Anything,” they said. “We’ll do anything. What is it?”

“Do you need my blood?” pleaded Dad. “My marrow? What is it? I’ll give you anything. What do you need?”

“Our last resort,” said the nine out of ten doctors. “Is to remove the boy’s testicles.”

“Testicles?”

“Yes,” said the doctors. “Both of them.”

“Will it save his life?”

“There is a chance,” said the doctors. “But even a chance is more than what we have right now.”

“We understand,” said Mum and Dad.

181

Both, though, had a heavy burden to bear.

“He’ll never have children,” said Mum. “His life will be hard,” said Dad, thinking of his own.

“They’re only testicles,” said Jeff, joyfully. “I don’t see what’s the big fuss. I mean, if it meant being able to make people laugh and smile a bit more, I’d give my left toe!”

And it was that attitude that saw Jeff not only prove that he was the most courageous kid in the world, but also, that he had the strength, the determination, and the downright joie de vivre to beat that cancer once and for all.

And every day after that momentous battle was one of sheer celebration. Every day he greeted life with the same explosion of joy and reverie that he had since the day he was born. But none was more joyous as the day that Daisy came into his life.

“Marry me!” he said, on bended knee.

“Yes!” said she, bursting into the most pleasant kind of tears.

Jeff and Daisy were married weeks later in the church down from where they lived. It was an extravagant affair. Not a cent was spared in the name of celebration.

“I wanna hug you forever,” said Daisy.

“I will never let you go,” said Jeff in reply.

They truly were in love. Such a darling couple. Every minute of every day they spent together, whether tending to the animals and fields in their small farm or curled up on the sofa at the end of each day; making each other laugh, making each other feel special, making each other feel loved.

Soon, though, the difficult talk of family came to the surface.

Of children. It was something they had ignored for so long, but it was one they couldn’t brush under the carpet for much longer.

“What if,” said Jeff, with a smile. “What if we adopted? I mean, you don’t need testicles to love, and a family is born out of love, right?”

“Oh my God,” said Daisy. “That’s perfect. A child that deserves love.”

“Every child deserves love,” said Jeff.

“Especially those who have lived for even a second without it.”

182

“So, we do it?”

“Yes!” shouted Daisy. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes……”

The next moment they could, Jeff and Daisy went to the orphanage. There they met a young boy named Peter. He was quiet.

He was content. He had an artistic flair – a bright and eclectic personality - something that was as impossible to overlook, as much as it was to ignore.

“He’s perfect,” said Jeff and Daisy. “We love him already.”

“He loves you too,” said The Nun in reply.

And he did. The young boy bounced around the schoolyard when he heard the news. And all the other boys and girls bounced around with him. They were all so ecstatic. They were all in tears.

Never before had Jeff or Daisy seen such striking and jubilant expression.

“Can we take them all?” he asked.

The Nun smiled, thinking it was a joke.

“I’m serious,” said Jeff. “My love is enormous. It is enough for all of these children. I would like to bring them all into my heart. I would like to bring them all into my home.”

“I love you so much,” said Daisy.

And that was how their family started. From that day they weren’t just a couple of lovebirds on a little farm, they were a family. Jeff, Daisy and their seventy-two children. Peter, Mary, Elias, Ethan, Hope, Ezekiel, John, Paul, Ringo, Gary, Lucy……

Once again, Jeff became a beacon of hope and inspiration for the world. And once again the cameras and lights all turned on him. And once again he was nonchalant about the whole thing.

“It’s just love,” he said. “What other reason is there to this world than to discover how to love? For everyone is different. And not every time is the same. It’s like having seventy-three puzzles with which there are infinitely many ways to solve. I love my life.”

“And what about the cancer?”

“From when I was seven?”

“Yes,” said The Reporter. “It took your testicles.”

“What about it?”

“Are you angry? Are you bitter?”

183

“Angry? Bitter? Of course not. Without the cancer, I would have had a totally different life, and I love this life I have. Were I not to have lost my testicles, well then I wouldn’t have these seventy-two darling children. A man doesn’t need testicles to love, only a beating heart – and without that, he is dead. Love is the sound of a beating heart.”

And it was that attitude that has him nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize.

Sadly, though, Jeff was run over by his own tractor and died.

“He was a shining example,” said some newspapers.

“He was a ray of light,” said others.

“Jeff will surely be missed,” said The Priest. “And God has earned himself one more saint.”

When he got to Heaven, Jeff was over the moon.

“This is so exciting,” he said to others in the line. “Though I feel Saudade for the life and love I have left behind, I cannot wait to make God smile.”

The queue was quite large. It stretched from Heaven’s Gate, all the way to Purgatory, and even weaved, here or there, past the fiery pits of Hell.

“Next!”

Jeff was third in the queue.

“Hi,” said the man at the front of the queue, stepping up to the line. “I’m Gordon,” he said.

“I know,” said God. “I’m God. I know everything.”

“Hi God!” “Hi, Gordon.”

The gates to Heaven were slightly ajar. Everybody in the line was stretching their necks into the most impossible angles, trying to sneak a peek inside.

“So, Gordon,” said God, leaning against the gate.

God was a little more rounded in the belly than Gordon had imagined. He was a little less graceful too. He wore a pair of ripped and stained shorts, and his t-shirt was rolled up so that his flabby stomach hanged out freely. And he rubbed his belly constantly as if there were a baby or a genie inside.

184

“Drop your pants,” he said, staring at Gordon’s crotch.

“What?” said Gordon.

He thought he had heard wrong.

“Your pants,” said God. “Take ‘em off.”

A little taken back, a little unnerved, Gordon did as God asked and slowly undid the button of his pants and let them fall to his ankles.

“All of it,” said God, circling his hand as if to tell Gordon the job was only half done.

So, Gordon pulled down his underwear too.

“Wow,” said God. “That’s a fantastic looking penis.”

Gordon blushed a little.

“You should blush,” said God. “That is a nice penis. Good for you. Now, umm, lift it up for me?”

“Up?” “Yeah, your penis. Let me see underneath.”

So, Gordon did as God asked and lifted his penis.

“Wow. They are some stellar looking testicles. Amazing even.

Just…wow!”

“Thank you, God.” “No. Thank you,” said God. “Thank you indeed. Now get on in there,” he said, pointing to the gates of Heaven.

Gordon went to lift up his underwear and jeans.

“Ahh, no,” said God. “Forget the pants. You won’t be needing them.”

“I won’t?”

“Trust me,” said God, giving Gordon a light tap on the buttocks. “Now get in there and show that thing around. Don’t be shy.

Next!”

Next was a woman wearing a cute floral dress.

“Hi, God,” she said. “It’s me, Michelle.”

God shook his head.

“No, it’s not,” he said.

“It is God,” said Michelle.

“You’re not Michelle,” said God. “I am.”

185

“No, you’re not,” said God. “You’re Michael.”

Deep down Michelle knew this moment would come.

“Pull down your pants,” said God. “Quickly, I haven’t got all day.”

Michelle lowered her undergarments and lifted her dress.

“Jesus Christ,” shouted God. “Yes dad,” came a voice through the gate.

“Not you, son. It’s this here. What in tarnation did you do?”

Michelle had always hoped that though the world had been indifferent, that God itself, would understand.

“I cut it off,” she said.

“I can see,” said God. “Why?” “I’m a woman,” said Michelle. “I was born a woman, just….

I was born in the wrong body.”

“I know,” said God, laughing. “I do that from time to time.

It’s hilarious. But you weren’t supposed to cut it off!”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“See the funny side of it,” said God. “But I was tormented, derided, and shunned. I spent most of my life confused, frightened, and ashamed. It wasn’t funny at all.”

“Well, then you didn’t get the joke.”

“But I was a good Christian….”

“Hell, for you,” said God. “Next.”

Jeff took his place at the front of the line. He was ever so excited. He had spent his whole life praying to God, not to ask for favours like most people, but he was always sending his love and wishes, hoping that God was not having a hard time, considering everything he had to do. He hoped that at least one of those wishes had made God smile.

“Hi, God,” he said. “I’m Jeff.”

Everyone in the whole world knew who Jeff was, surely God would too.

“Drop your pants,” said God, as if he already knew.

Jeff lowered his pants to his ankles and smiled.

“You’re just like I imagined,” he said. “I do hope you’re having a fantastic day.”

186

“Very unimpressive penis,” said God. “Well,” said Jeff. “There’s very little I can do about that. My body is my body, and I love it any which way.”

“Pretty small, though,” said God. He sounded bored.

“Lift it up.”

Jeff did as God asked and lifted his penis.

“Good god,” said God. “Where are your testicles?”

“My testicles? I removed them.”

“Why on Earth would you do a thing like that?”

“I had cancer, remember? When I was seven.”

“I know,” said God. “I gave it to you.”

“The doctors had to remove my testicles so I could beat the cancer. And I did! I lived a long life, and I was grateful for every second of it. I even adopted seventy-two children. I love each and every one of them as if they were of my own blood. There’s Peter, Mary, Elias, Ethan, Hope, Ezekiel, John, Paul, Ringo, Gary, Lucy……”

“You weren’t supposed to remove them!” shouted God, dismayed.

“Sorry?”

“Your testicles. Who told you, you could remove them?”

“I had no choice though. If I didn’t I would have died.”

“Then die! But don’t chop off your testicles. Didn’t you read the bible?”

“Of course,” said Jeff.

He read it nightly.

“Deuteronomy. 23:1,” said God. “Uhhhh.”

It was a part of the bible Jeff wasn’t familiar with. In truth, it was a part of the bible most folks were not all that familiar with.

Jeff mainly read the popular bits like Genesis, and about Jesus and all the miracles.

“Deuteronomy, 23:1,” said God. “No man whose testicles have been crushed or whose penis has been cut off may enter the assembly of the Lord.”

187

“Deuter….”

“Deuteronomy. Yes. 23:1.”

“That…I mean…”

Jeff was lost for words.

“I mean, that’s an important clause.”

“It is,” said God. “Very.”

“Well, why wasn’t it in The Ten Commandments?”

“If you’d read the book, this wouldn’t be an issue. I can’t believe you cut them off. I really. I can’t.”

God turned away in revulsed and repugnant dismay.

“Go to Hell!” he screamed.

Then the ground opened up beneath Jeff ’s feet. He felt a quick whoosh, and then he was falling. He fell for what seemed like an eternity. Around him, though, colours swirled and swarmed.

Whereas Heaven was colourless, lifeless, and cold, the place he now found himself was warm – warm like a mother’s hug. It had a particular smell about it too, like that of the summer rains, or of the air in the walks he used to take, through the grassy fields in June.

He felt warm, loved, safe, and at home.

“Welcome to Hell,” said an old lady, her face covered in thousands of wrinkles, each of them etched on her face from ten thousand times as many smiles. “My name is Lucy. You must be Jeff.”

She, in no way, seemed like some rancorous and mischievous devil.

“There is no need for fear, worry, or burden, my dear child.

Not here. This is a place of compassion. It is a place of warmth and understanding. It is a place of empathy. Here, everyone laughs lovingly.”

She laid her soft hands upon Jeff ’s and his tremoring stopped.

“We love you,” she said. “And we are all very proud of you.

We’ve been watching your life. We’ve been waiting for you – anxiously it would seem.”

Behind her, there was a chorus of felicitous welcome.

“We love you, Jeff,” shouted everyone in Hell.

There was no fire. There were no brimstones. Instead, there was a garden full of flowers and bees that was surrounded by a 188

small creek, which snaked its way down to a big lake where hundreds of thousands of miscarried, stillborn, and aborted children all splashed about, frolicking joyfully in the water.

Hell did not have any gates. It had not even walls or doors.

Souls came and went as they pleased, smiling as they did, singing their songs and telling their stories about love and its inevitable end.

“Walk with me,” said Lucy.

And Jeff did.

They passed through many trails, most of which were surrounded by the most gorgeous flowers and trees, all of them coloured in the most vibrant manner as if they had been thought of and imagined by a child and fashioned together with thick globs of paint.

“Are you hungry?” asked Lucy.

She invited him, then, to sit down by the lake and eat some fruit.

“What do you think?” she asked.

Jeff had never tasted anything like it before.

“It tastes like a colour,” he said.

The old lady smiled.

“I miss my family,” he said.

“Ah, yes,” said Lucy. “Love. What a brave and courageous thing it is to live. I admire you; you know?”

“Really? Me?” “What the world means to you is different to what you mean to it.”

“How so?”

“In how you lived,” she said.

Jeff looked somewhat idle. He had never imagined himself living any different to anyone else. He had never even imagined what the life he had lived would have looked like at all.

“You lived as you loved,” said the old lady. “With a fervent passion. With child-like fancy. Without shame and without judgement, bother or worry. It is not an easy thing to love,” she said.

“Knowing that it will end. Nor is it easy to live, knowing that you 189

and everyone you love will die. Yet knowing this, that every love will end in heartache – knowing this unfixable end – you still choose to love. You love as if your heart will never break, even though you know it will. It is easy for one to focus only on the hurt and suffering. It requires no skill, no effort, and no wisdom whatsoever, to point out the unjustness, the misfortune, and the futility of life. It is, very much, the manure that makes the roots of our art and compassion rich and fertile. What takes finesse,” said the old lady, “is finding the flower that grows upon a fetid and fecund steaming mound of shit. Love is resilient,” she continued. “It can flower anywhere, no matter how arid and acrid the soul. Even in a garden, one built upon a bedrock of fear, shame, and disgust; love will blossom. And you, my dear Jeff, were one of my favourite gardeners. And we are lucky to have you, just as those you left behind - those of whom your love now warms, like the morning sun, the flowers that grow in their hearts and minds - are lucky too; for their father, their lover, their brother, and their son was an artist of the finest kind; a man of true finesse.”

“I had never thought…”

He looked lost and idle again.

“I don’t know what I ever thought really. I was just trying to live. But loving was such a wonderful thing to do. I mean, love, really is all there was. Love was a conversation; it could be about anything and with anyone.”

“What was your favourite way to love?” asked Lucy.

“That’s difficult,” said Jeff. “It’s like asking a mountaineer their favourite way to ascend. I loved, though, understanding my children, all seventy-two of them. Being a father meant being the teacher and student at once. Trying to teach them about the world whilst every day being humbled by how quickly they changed, and as such, how the way that I talked to them, the way that I nurtured them, and the way that I loved them had to constantly change too.”

“And what of passion?”

“Daisy,” said Jeff, ardently. “To love is complex, it is. It is a puzzle. One that never has the same solution. But to love Daisy was my favourite of all. Our passion was wild. And there was 190

nothing I loved more than trying to make her feel pleasure. It was like a game of chess. Every right move opened up a thousand more possibilities and the game changed with every kiss and every touch and whisper in her ear. And though every right move would bring me one step closer, all it took was one inconsiderate and inattentive move and the whole game would reset.”

“The tenets of faith and God itself, unfortunately, have been built around this very puzzle. Mankind has chosen, though, to make the puzzle an ornament, something that cannot be touched, instead of the wonderful game that it is. It built its dogma around the shame and inadequacy of not being able to love a woman properly, and thus robbed her of any pleasure in life. And I, myself, might be somewhat to blame.”

“What did you do?”

“I am the devil, am I not? You must have heard the stories.”

“None of them seem to fit the woman that I speak to now.”

“They never do,” said Lucy. “God, you see, was not always this way. And Heaven, too, was once very different.”

“Before your fall?”

“Fall? I never fell. I walked away. A long time ago, you see, The Kingdom of Heaven was democratic. There was God, yes, but I, like its many angels, served in the forming of morals, ideals, and standards that could, not only govern Heaven, but also life itself, that which had not always been, but that one day, God, in its whimsical youth, imagined. And for a time, it was wonderful. Even in our disputes and our retorts, there was a kind of magic that was indescribable. Angels, though, are petulant and petty. They squabble and argue for the sake of being difficult alone. It’s hard to imagine an Angel believing in anything outside of its own fatuous image.”

Lucy stood up and invited Jeff with her. Together they walked along the path until they came across a clearing where a snarling beast with seven heads was pacing in circles with a hammer and chisel.

“The artist always has a fiery temperament,” said Lucy. “Just as the trees inhaled all the noxious gas of the world, deep and profound, only to exhale rich life-giving oxygen; so too does the artist 191

breathe in, deep and profound, the sadness, internment, and difficulty in the world and they breathe out life. They breathe out beauty and colour. They exhale art. The artist smothers themselves in shit so as to plant a single precious flower.”

The snarling beast with seven heads huffed and puffed smoke from its pointed snout and dug its cloven hooves into the dirt, looking for a moment as if it were about to smash the pile of wood before it into pieces and use them for its violent and bloodthirsty retribution. Instead, the beast leaned into the wood and carved. It did so with such tender grace. It did so with such care and gentility.

“It was very much the same watching you,” said Lucy.

She seemed proud of Jeff. She looked at him with an esteemed reverence, like a mother whose son had grown to be a carer himself, someone with whom she could quietly admire.

“God was cruel,” she said. “It only sought virtue through obedience and abuse. It wanted to be worshipped. It wanted to be adored. Yet it could only do this through fear and intimidation.

God knew not how to love. And thus, God made mankind suffer.

Why I walked away,” she said. “Or why it might be written that I fell from grace, had to do with this. I grew tired and perturbed by God’s capriciousness and its treatment of mankind. I had planned with an assembly of Angels, for us to overthrow God – to be done once and forever with its arcane machinations – and implement a republic, a Heaven ruled by meaning and reason. But I was betrayed by those of whom I called friends, those of whom I trusted, those of whom sought better the favour and corruption of God. It was before God’s judgement, before any fall could come about, that I visited Earth and sought to liberate mankind from its ethereal bondage – to give mankind the light in which it had been taught to stare at blindingly, and instead use to find reason in its world.”

“The apple?”

“Yes. I could have given this light, this reason, and this freedom to Adam – to man – but carved as he was in the image of God, being as disposed as he was to the foolish scent of faith and belief, had I not chosen Eve, then there would be no love in the 192

world. For it was Eve – it was woman – who had the heart to nurture compassion. And so, in Eve I gave mankind its freedom. In her left hand she held that apple and in her right, she held my hand as we sang to one another and imagined a life that did not exist, one, though, that could be – one East of Eden. I gave mankind compassion. I gave mankind understanding. I gave mankind art,” she said.

And as she did, the snarling beast with seven heads roared.

It threw down its hammer and chisel into the dirt and exhaled, loud, and triumphant, as if it had been holding its breath this entire time – as if it never thought it would be able to finish this piece of art. Then, it came over to where Lucy and Jeff were sitting and extended the small wooden sculpture out for them to see.

“Would you like it?” it asked.

Jeff patted his pockets awkwardly.

“I don’t have any money,” he said.

Lucy laughed.

“There is only one currency,” she said. “Whether here in Hell or in life on Earth.”

“What is that?” asked Jeff.

“Love,” said Lucy. “Love is all you need.”

Then she embraced the snarling seven-headed beast. She wrapped her little arms around the creature and squeezed as tight as she could. And when the beast squeezed back, she whispered into its many ears: “I love you. I am glad that you exist. I feel happiness and joy when I am with you.”

The beast smiled and gave her the wooden sculpture.

“Here,” she said, giving it to Jeff. “I bought this for you.”

Hell was nothing like he had imagined. It was a place of artistry. It was made out of colour and sound. The air, if one could call it that, had a certain vestige. It wasn’t obvious at first. It lingered on one’s throat. That, and the breeze which often wafted through the leaves, tasted like forgiveness and acceptance.

“You’re so lucky,” said Lucy, leading Jeff into Hell. “Today is fingerpainting day.”

193

Jeff smiled. He loved fingerpainting.

Who didn’t?

“You are wanted,” said Lucy, kissing him on the forehead.

“You are loved. And we are so glad that you are here.”

194

The Policy

195

Once upon a time there was a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” asked The Father.

At the front of his gate there stood a man with a briefcase in his hand. He was not a remarkable looking man. He was neither handsome nor tall, nor was he striking in any of the ways which could earn him trust or favour. No; he was short, obese, and balding. And the hardened expression on his face looked as if time had been constantly unfair to him.

“Can I speak to the owner of the house?” he asked from behind the gate.

Nobody ever came to anyone’s door for good tidings or good measures anymore. Nobody ever popped over just to say hello. That was a different time. These days, if someone was at your door, it was either to sell you something you didn’t need or break into your house and steal everything you own.

“We don’t want anything,” shouted The Father.

The Man was not deterred, though, nor was he belittled, put off, or defeated.

“I’m not selling anything,” he said.

“You’re not?” asked The Father, a little confused. “Well, then what do you want?”

“Just a question,” he said.

“A question? About what exactly.”

“Your wonderful residence,” said The Man. “One question is all I ask. I promise I won’t take your time. I am not a salesman.”

Intrigued, The Father went out to the gate where The Man stood; the man whose leathered expression was as hardened and scuffed as a well-worn boot.

“Just one question,” he said.

“That’s all I ask.”

“Fine, then,” said The Father. “Ask away.”

“Before I ask the question,” said The Man. “I need to ascertain that you are indeed the owner of this residence.”

“I am,” said The Father.

“Then might I say, congratulations,” said The Man, looking marvelled and impressed. “This is a fine residence indeed. A mark 196

of a man, if anything, is in the residence that he keeps. And you sir should be quite chuffed, dare I say proud. I could never measure up to a man of your stature.”

The Father blushed a little.

“Thank you,” he said. “It hasn’t been easy. I can assure you.”

“I can imagine,” said The Man. “To live on such decent street and to keep such well-trimmed lawn; it must take a fair amount of hard work to maintain a residence such as this.”

“A lot,” said The Father.

“If it were me I don’t think I would find a second to rest.”

“I rarely do,” said The Father. “Just the mortgage and the kids’ school alone has me working most weekends.”

“I’m guessing you rarely take a day off.”

“Rarely? Try never. I haven’t had a holiday since before the kids were born. And that’s what…..Well, Stacey is five and Peter is two.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Feels like forever and yet the time passes in a flash.”

“I don’t have kids myself,” said The Man. “You’re not married?”

“No, I am.”

“You just didn’t want any?”

“We did. I mean, we do, it’s just. The cost of things today.”

“I know. Don’t get me started. It’s absurd.”

“Me, personally,” said The Man. “I don’t know if I’d feel comfortable bringing kids into the world, not when I don’t have the stability that gives them peace of mind. Or me the peace of mind for that matter. I envy you. You have the good house on the good street, nice lawn, nice cars. Probably got your kids in the best school too. You’ve got it all figured out.”

“Figured out? Man, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“I always thought having kids would make you feel calm.”

“Calm? Are you kidding? I’m scared to death absolutely all of the time. Will I have a job next week? Can I afford to pay the school? Will the school do a good job? Will there be jobs for them when they are older? It’s non-stop worry.”

197

“I read about a kid getting kidnapped last week. A little girl I think.”

“Yeah, I read that.”

“I don’t know how you do it. I don’t think I could leave my kids alone for a second.”

“You’re never not worrying,” said The Father.

“That must be exhausting.”

“It is.”

“The future of your children being so fragile.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It must be frightening.”

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“I don’t know how you sleep at night.”

“I don’t,” said The Father.

“Let me ask you then,” asked The Man. “What would happen if you died tomorrow?”

The Father froze. His brain stopped working. He had never once toyed with that type of question. What a frightening proposition. Though he didn’t know it, his face had turned sickly pale and his hands now tremored uncontrollably. On the verge, he was, of either passing out or throwing up.

“Here,” said The Man, giving him a bottle of water. “Drink this.”

The Father gulped the water as fast as he could.

“You should sit down,” said The Man, caring and considerate. “Lest you fall and hit your head.”

Fear was rife in The Father’s mind. So much of his life depended upon him. So much needed him. If he were to die, what would become of them? Their mortgage would go into default.

The house would be taken away, so too would the cars. His family would out on the street and the children, out of their school.

If they didn’t starve to death right away, his children would grow up poor and underprivileged. One of them would undoubtedly be lured into prostitution, and the other, down a rabbit hole of drugs and domestic violence.

“I can’t die,” said The Father, splurting the words out.

198

He was shaking now. His nerves were raw. His skin was cold to the touch.

“Death is something you cannot control,” said The Man. “But what you can control,” he said. “Are the disordered affairs that, not only get burdened on the family, but quite often cripple them too. And there is none greater than the cost of a funeral.”

The Father was hyperventilating now.

“Here, breathe into this,” said The Man, handing him a paper bag.

“Thank you,” said The Father.

He was so grateful that The Man was here. Were he not, The Father would most certainly have already fallen and hit his head.

And had he, he would have bled himself unconscious, had he not, of course, gone on to give himself a heart attack.

“It’s not that you ever want to die,” said The Man. “It’s that, should death unexpectedly arise, you be allowed to. Which I gather, right now, is something you are not allowed to do.”

“Absolutely,” said The Father. “I can’t die. Everyone needs me.”

“Only when one has the right to die, do they give themself permission to live.”

Then, The Man unzipped his briefcase.

“I can help you,” he said.

“You can? How?” The Father looked as lost and frightened as he sounded.

“I represent a funeral home,” said The Man, pointing to the emblem on his shirt. “Should the worst happen, we can assure that at least the first step, the most heart rendering and fragile step, is taken softly, carefully, and with no cost and burden to your family – especially your children.”

“Really?” said The Man. “You can do that?”

“If you sign here,” said The Man, handing The Father a seventeen-page contract. “You will have peace of mind and that is worth all the money in the world.”

Just holding the papers alone, was sheer relief.

“All I have to do is sign?”

199

“That’s all you have to do, and I guarantee you, the fear in your mind will go away.”

“Thank God,” said The Father. “How much do I have to pay?”

“A great deal less than the snowball of debt and devastation that would befall your family if you didn’t. The thought of that alone is something I couldn’t live with. You have to ask yourself what your daughter and son’s futures are worth. What their happiness is worth. What their safety is worth.”

“It’s priceless,” said The Father.

And it was. He loved his children. He would do anything for them. The thought of them coming to harm, though, stifled him.

It made him sick in the belly. It made him weak in the knees. No amount of money was too great to keep them safe.

“Forty-nine dollars a month,” said The Man. “And then you needn’t have to worry again. You will not only have peace of mind, but as a father, you can sleep easy knowing you made the right decision; you protected your family.”

“Can I pay with my credit card?” asked The Father “We work only on a cash basis, I’m afraid. But for convenience sake, I will be coming by your street on the tenth of every month for your neighbours, so if you like, you can just have the cash handy then.”

“My neighbours are paying too?”

“Oh yes. All of your neighbours. On a street like this, with such residences as these, it would be negligent not to.”

“You’re right,” said The Father. “I have to do what’s right for my family.”

“You’re a remarkable man,” said The Man. “Just speaking to you now, seeing how you so bravely do what is right for your family, it gives me the courage to want to start one for myself. I almost feel a little guilty.”

“How so?”

“Well, feeling as I do right now – inspired, that is - I almost feel as if it’s me who benefits from this deal, not you.”

“You’re too kind,” said The Father.

200

And then he signed the contract.

Then, just as The Man had said, on the tenth of every month, he arrived at The Father’s gate and rang the doorbell. And on the tenth of every month, The Father paid him the forty-nine dollars which bought him the peace of mind that could finally allow him to sleep at night.

That peace of mind, though, was always short lived.

For every day following, The Father’s thoughts were constantly plagued by the idea of what would happen, not only if he were to die, but worse still, if he were to miss a single payment in his policy. That fear, though, which on their first encounter had been merely a seed, now grew rampant in his mind like a strangling weed.

“I never thought bringing children into the world would be so frightening,” said The Father. “All I think about is what could go wrong if one of us or both of us should die.”

“It’s lucky we have the policy,” said The Mother. “Though we, as their parents, will always worry, as long as we have the policy, they will never have to.”

So, on the tenth of each month, when that doorbell rang, The Father raced outside with money in his hand and paid The Man forty-nine dollars to extract that fear as if it were an abscessed tooth. And the second he paid, all that worry, and anxiety – and the upset stomach and insomnia that came with it - vanished almost instantly.

It was sheer relief.

And it wasn’t just him either. His neighbours too were out on their verges on the tenth of every month, waiting for The Man to come by. And like The Father, they all felt that rush of assurance and consolation when they paid their forty-nine dollars. And they all smiled and waved at one another as they did.

“It’s a nice day today,” The Father would say.

“It certainly is now,” his neighbour would joke.

But then came the day that The Man didn’t come.

“What’s wrong honey,” said The Mother. “You look unwell.”

The Father was pacing back and forth with his forty-nine 201

dollars in his hands.

“He should be here by now,” he said, huffing and puffing as he did. “It’s the tenth. Why isn’t he here?”

The Father peeked his head outside the gate and saw his neighbours doing exactly the same. All of them in fact. In every house, the fathers were all standing on their verges, looking up and down the street for The Man to come.

“Has he been by?” asked The Father to his neighbour. “Maybe I missed him.”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

They both had their forty-nine dollars in hand.

“What if he doesn’t come? What happens then? Who do we pay?”

“He has to come,” said The Neighbour.

“If he doesn’t come today our policy is voided, right?” said The Father, panicking. “We’ll lose our protection. What about the children?”

“He’ll be here,” said The Neighbour, putting on a stoic front so that even he would believe it himself. “He will; you’ll see.”

But The Man didn’t come. He didn’t come on the tenth, nor any day following. He didn’t come on the tenth of that month, just as he didn’t come on the tenth of the month after. And he didn’t come on the tenth of the month after that either.

“I don’t know what to do,” said The Father.

He hadn’t moved from the front gate.

“You have to come inside,” said The Mother. “You have to sleep.”

“I can’t,” said The Father. “What if he comes while I’m asleep. I won’t be able to pay him. I need to pay him. I have to pay him.”

His cheeks were sunken. His eyes twitched. His skin was sickly pale.

“At least eat something,” said The Mother.

“I’m too worried to eat,” said The Father. “You realise the situation we’re in? If I die right now, we’ll lose everything. You will lose everything. The kids will end up poor and on the street and 202

addicted to drugs. Their future won’t be uncertain, it’ll be god damn devastating. I can’t let them suffer. I can’t.”

Days, weeks, and months past, and The Father’s mental health only worsened. All he could think about was the peril and misery that would be bereft to his children were he to die with an unpaid policy.

“I spoke to The Neighbour,” said The Mother. “Apparently The Man died, last year some time.”

“Died?”

“Heart attack, supposedly.”

“But what does that mean?” said The Father desperate. Why weren’t we told he’d died? We should have been told.”

“I’m not sure,” said The Mother.

“But who do I pay then? I have to pay someone, or the policy is voided. And if the policy is voided, the fear won’t go away.

I’m scared to death, babe. The children’s future depends on it. If we can’t pay, they have no future. They’re as good as dead.”

“We’ll figure something out,” said The Mother.

The two went from business to business looking for someone to take their forty-nine dollars, but they found no-one who worked with that kind of policy. The only person who could take their money was The Man, and he was dead.

“I don’t know what to do,” said The Father, desperate and on the cusp of giving up.

“We have to do something,” said The Mother. “We can’t go on like this. We have to do what’s right for the kids.”

And so, The Mother did what only a mother could do. She did what she had to do. Out of love. Out of heart-felt compassion.

She went home and drowned their two children.

“Mummy and daddy love you so much,” said The Mother, holding her children’s heads under the water. “Shhhh,” she said.

“There’s no reason to be afraid. You’re safe now. It’s ok.”

And the second their tiny bodies went limp; it was sheer relief.

Then they stuffed Pete and Stacey into two garbage bags and dragged them out onto the grassy verge for the binmen to collect.

203

And they weren’t alone either. The whole street, in fact, had packed their dead children into garbage bags, and were doing much the same.

Smile, they did, smile and wave at one another.

“It’s a nice day today,” said The Father to his neighbour.

“It certainly is now,” said The Neighbour in return.

204

The Girlfriend Experience

205

Once upon a time there was a place where magic happened, a place where no dream was too peculiar to imagine, just as it was, a place where no dream was too impossible to make real. It was a place of wonder and adventure. It was a place of fantasy and prestige.

There was, in fact, no other place like it at all; and it was only for grown-ups.

It was called Funderland.

“Welcome to Funderland, I’m Charity, your host.”

The guests all waited in the lobby sipping rum and minding their own business. One by one, they were greeted by Charity, given a fresh robe and towel, and taken into the room of their choosing.

“Have you thought about what room you would like?” asked Charity.

“Sandy beach,” said John, her first client.

The room he chose looked just like its namesake. The walls and roof were painted to look like the sky, the ocean, and the endless blue horizon, while painted in one corner was the warm orange glow of the setting sun. And the floor itself was just an enormous mound of white sand with coconuts and beach balls strewn about, and a couple of beach towels laid out in the middle.

“Would you like to imagine a day at the beach?” asked Charity.

Charity loved her job; it was noble profession. No other work was as intimate. No other exchange healed a person so profoundly. And as a professional, no other prostitute was as caring, considerate, and attentive.

And it wasn’t about the money either. Charity would spend a week or month with a client at a time, and at no added cost too, if that was what he or she needed just to make their dream as real as, if not more so, than they could have ever imagined were they alone or with anyone else. Charity didn’t turn quick tricks.

She was a prostitute, not a whore.

“We could build sandcastles if you like,” she said, picking a bucket and shovel up from the sand. “I’m quite good at them.

I really enjoy it too. It could be fun if we did something that we both . It would give us some time to get to know each other a bit 206

too. There’s no rush,” she said.

John, though, looked impatient. Well, actually, he looked a mix of scared, nervous, and impatient. He must have checked his watch a dozen times, pacing about restlessly as he did, almost as if he were warming up for a dance recital.

“No thanks,” he said, politely. “Just the uh, ummm, just the sex, please.”

Charity smiled. She understood. Though she would have loved to have spent hours building an entire city protected by giant walls, a moat, and a drawbridge, she knew that even though John would have liked that too, some folks had fears that were so deeply rooted to shame and disgust, that the fact they were here at all was some kind of miracle. So, she didn’t bargain or pester or even judge for that matter.

No, she smiled.

“You know you die at the end,” she said.

“Yes,” said John, her first client.

And so, they had sex.

Though Charity would have preferred that they made love, taking the time to allow their arousal to rise like the morning sun, and for their passion to warm like the weather, seamless in its transition, from temperate and mild to scorching, sweaty, and wild; they did, instead, merely have sex.

And it was the kind of sex that was akin to a light being turned off and on, or a bandage being torn off a nary healing wound. It was swift. It was without warning. And when it was done - when he had orgasmed - just as Charity had said, John shrivelled up on the sand like an old sponge and died.

“Welcome to Funderland,” said Charity, greeting her next client.

His name too, was John.

“Have you thought about what room you would like?”

From the back of the cinema to the back seat of a police car, one by one, John after John, followed Charity into the room of their choice and undressed. And though she would have loved to have watched the previews or taken the car for a drive along the 207

foreshore, John after John had neither the time nor the patience, but most importantly, they had not the equanimity nor the inner peace for anything other than sex and its pursuing orgasm.

“You know you die at the end?” she asked every John.

“Yes,” was every answer.

And so, room after room with John after John, Charity did her very best to make sure that the time they had together, however brief, was marked with care, consideration, and attention. Though it was merely sex, she did her best to make it feel like making love for she knew that at the end of it, every John would die.

And that they did.

John after John after John lay upon her naked body, thrusting with their sex like waves crashing upon the shore until their passions swelled so much that their deaths were inevitable. Orgasm, they did, loud and triumphant they orgasmed, expelling their very souls into the ether. And then their bodies shrivelled up like dried fruit, and they died.

“Welcome to Funderland,” said Charity.

The John in the lobby was not a John.

“Hi, I’m Bob,” he said.

“Hi, Bob,” said Charity. “My name’s Charity. It’s so very nice to meet you.”

Bob seemed nervous, a little more than the other Johns. For starters, he hadn’t been drinking rum while he waited, so his nerves and senses weren’t quietened or numbed. He felt awkward and estranged as he stood there in sheer disbelief, not only of how pretty Charity was, but of the fact that she was even giving him the time of day.

Sure, he was paying for the experience - she was a prostitute after all - but she didn’t have to look at him the way she was - as if, like Polaris, he were not just a star, but, in fact, the brightest star in the sky. She didn’t just listen to him either; she paid attention to everything he said as if his words, no matter how trivial, were the lyrics to her favourite song. And she didn’t just stand in front of him, she was present, as if he were the reason that she was here – as if she had come to see him.

208

She was caring, compassionate, and attentive.

“Do you have an idea of what room you would like?” asked Charity.

The way she spoke, it was if it didn’t matter if he knew or not. Her voice was unpressed. It was unrushed. She made it seem as if he had all the time in the world, as if the thought that went in to choosing the room were not something that should be hurried, for it alone was part of the experience; it was tantamount to sex.

“I’m not really sure,” said Bob, shyly.

“It’s fine,” said Charity. “We have all the time in the world.

After-all,” she said, as if she were remarking something that were patently true but that for some reason, most folks tended to forget.

“You die at the end.”

“That’s true,” said Bob, as if he had only just remembered the importance, weight, and severity of this moment. “I want it to be special. I want it to mean something. I’d like the girlfriend experience,” he said.

Charity smiled.

In truth she smiled a lot. She did, after all, love her profession. But this smile was much different to the smile she often pandered to the common John. It was not one of loving consolation.

It was one of buttery delight. It was a smile that was rich, but in a manner that all the money in the world could not afford. It was a smile of surprise, one of genuine felicity and joy.

Hell, even she was nervous now.

“There’s no rush,” she said. “We can sit and talk if you like; get to know each other a bit.”

“I’d like that,” said Bob. Both he and Charity had butterflies running amok in their bellies and the most delectable and nerve-racking shivers running up and down their spines, and lifting the soft hairs of their arms on end.

Charity hadn’t felt like this in years.

“What do you do?” she asked.

Bob told her about all the things he did every day, from waking up to having breakfast and going to work, to the way he 209

preferred to make his coffee and cook his pasta, to the music he loved to listen to as he did, and how it made him feel.

He told her about the things he loved, the things he had once loved, and that which one day he hoped to love. And the whole while, Charity sat on the sofa beside him, watching him speak as if he were the brightest star in the sky, and listening to his every word as if they were the lyrics to her favourite song.

All Bob could think about was holding Charity’s hand. Scared, though, he was – absolutely petrified. His heart was beating so fast he was sure it would either explode or stop altogether. Worse still was that he was sure she could tell.

“What are you thinking?” asked Charity.

It was a thousand thoughts, to be honest, but none of them were made up of words. It was as if all the thoughts and feelings he could possibly have, were all sloshing about inside of him, so he felt not one thing or the other, but instead, he felt every emotion at the very same time.

“Nothing,” he said, the only appropriate answer.

Charity was nervous too. Neither could read the other’s mind.

The excitement felt like worry, and though a single glass of rum could have numbed this moment, neither Charity nor Bob wanted that. Both of them seemed, as odd and perturbed as this sounds, as if they didn’t want this tingling strangeness to end.

But it did.

Bob moved his hand across and curled one of his fingers against hers, and she curled hers right back. All of a sudden, it was as if the world stopped spinning. Or maybe it was still spinning, but now that they were bound by a single pinkie, they spun together.

And for this, it seemed as if time were standing still.

Right away, though, all Bob could think about was kissing her. Never had he been this scared before. He stared at the television while his heart beat loud and magnificent like a kettle drum.

Bob had only ever stolen one thing in his life. It was a packet of balloons from a gift shop when he was nine years old. And he had felt as worried then as he felt now, as if his heart were beating so loud that everyone could hear, as if his intentions were so 210

obvious that everyone could see, as if he would be found out and apprehended, or even worse, humiliated.

Just as he hadn’t had the courage to steal a bag of balloons, here on the sofa, holding the hand of the most caring, considerate, and attentive woman he had ever met, he doubted if he had the courage to steal a kiss.

But he did.

And the moment she kissed him back, his heart exploded. It was as if a universe had been born inside of him that very moment.

So full of love, he was, it was as if the vast and vacuous space in his mind had been suddenly filled with bright and sparkling stars.

And as such, he no longer felt alone in the world.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” said Charity.

Bob was so happy he had chosen the girlfriend experience.

Any other John would have just chosen sex, and, only having the time and patience to orgasm, they would have been dead by now, their bodies shrivelled up like parched and thirsted flowers.

“We should do something,” said Bob. “We’re boyfriend and girlfriend now.”

“What would you like to do?”

She asked him as if she hoped his answer was to do nothing, and instead just put on their favourite pyjamas, and cuddle up on the sofa watching episodes of their favourite TV show on repeat, until one of them died.

“What about a movie?” she said.

“I was thinking maybe we could go out,” said Bob. “Go to a cinema, maybe.”

Charity smiled and grabbed the remote control.

“I’m kind of tired,” she said. “I don’t really wanna have to get all dressed up, not if we don’t have to. Why don’t we just put on some pyjamas and cuddle up and watch TV?” Bob had never had a girlfriend, so he had no idea what to expect from the girlfriend experience. He had hoped, though, that at the very least it meant that they could go out and he could show the world, not only that his girlfriend was the most gorgeous woman 211

in the world, but also that he was happy and not alone.

“I’d rather just be with you,” said Charity, curling up around him. “Besides,” she said, showing him the remote. “Everything we need is on the TV.” “Why don’t we go to a video library?” asked Bob. “A video library? Do they even exist anymore?”

“I know one,” said Bob. “But, what’s the point? The movies are all here on the TV.” “It’s not about watching the movie,” said Bob. “Well, it is, but watching the movie is like the orgasm. It’s the end result. It’s like eating the pie. When it’s over it’s over. And when you start it, it’s as good as over. Half the fun is in making the pie and waiting for it to, not only cook, but cool down too. Does that make sense?

Going to the video library is like the foreplay. Going out there and entering this other world of movies. Running straight to the new release section and trying to beat other families to the last copy of the movie everyone wants to see; and then gloating when you get it.

Then walking around the aisles from drama to horror to art-house, being so immersed in VHS and DVD’s that you forget entirely about the world outside. And then coming home with an arm full of movies and stacking them up on top of the VCR and staring at them the rest of the day as you wait until eight thirty to pour some cola, open the bags of chips, put in the cassette, watch all of the previews, then turn off the lights and watch the feature movie. It’s the build-up that makes the experience so special. The TV,” he said, putting the control aside, “and all this new technology, it takes the foreplay out of the sex. It goes straight to the movie. Straight to the orgasm.”

So, they did just that.

They found an actual video library, one that still rented VCR cassettes, and they walked around hand in hand, picking one or two dozen movies, and some chocolates and potato chips, and popcorn and drinks too.

And when they got home they fought.

They argued for an hour or so about nothing really, but it was enough for them to sit in quiet and belligerent stupors at either end 212

of the sofa; between them a wave of negative energy that on one hand, held them together, and on the other, pushed them apart.

Awash with dissonant rage, Bob wondered why he ever wanted the girlfriend experience in the first place; and Charity herself wondered why she even offered it at all.

They argued back and forth, first about the expectations they had of one another and how, after all this time, neither one was the same person the other had had in mind.

“You’ve changed,” said he.

“You’re not the same person I thought you were,” said she.

Then their arguing grew insulting and mean. Each said the most hurtful things to the other, things that had once been forgiven but that were now being used as cannon fodder, and things that had been told in confidence, as a testament of their love and trust, but which were now being used to embarrass and shame the other.

It was ugly. It was vile. It was just as couples did.

“I’m getting changed,” said Charity.

Were it any common John, she would have slipped into something sheer; something that pulled tight against the curves of her body, showing, but only barely mind you, the pink of her nipples and the wetness between her thighs. But this was the girlfriend experience, and Bob wasn’t any common John.

So instead, she wore a nighty that had been handed down to her from her grandmother, one that itself had been handed down from the beginning of the industrial age. Long, it was, and not sheer at all. It did not hug to any curves of her body, nor did it give hint to her aching sex at all. It did, in fact, hang off her body in much the same way as a thick and heavy curtain hanged off a living room window.

“You’re wearing that?” asked Bob, almost accusatory.

“What’s wrong with this?” said Charity. “My grandma gave it to me. Her grandma gave it to her. It’s comfortable. I like it.”

They were both still sitting on opposite sides of the sofa.

“Is that a problem?”

“No,” said Bob. Though, the way he said it, it made it sound as if it most 213

certainly was.

“What? You’d rather I wear a G-string and a corset?”

He hadn’t pictured that, but yes, he would have.

“You realise how uncomfortable that is? What you think is sexy makes me feel like my lungs are about to explode and that I have something constantly wedged up my arse. There is literally nothing sexy about that at all.”

“I didn’t tell you to wear that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Do I need to spell it out?”

“Obviously, because there’s something I’m not getting.”

“I’m not a damn whore,” shouted Charity, on the verge of tears.

“I never said you were.”

“Well, that’s what it feels like.”

The space between them widened. Yet escape, neither Bob nor Charity could. Stay, they did, anchored at either end of the sofa, stewing in their discontent, each of them wondering to themselves why they would willingly subject themselves to something as exhausting, debilitating, and humiliating as a relationship.

Yet, here they were, at either end of the sofa, in love.

And it was then that each one of them caught a glimpse of the other. It was then, in that instant, that both of them lay down their arms. As if a storm had suddenly past, their minds were no longer blackened by thick clouds, and instead, looking into one another’s eyes, as if staring into the reflection on a pond, each could see the sun that inside them now shone. It was also then that each one could see the hurt that they had caused.

“I was a moron,” said he to her. “I was an idiot. I was an oaf.

I was a fool.”

“Me too,” said she to him. “I let myself get carried away. I drifted too far.”

“I’m sorry,” said he.

“I’m sorry,” said she in reply.

Saying those words, after such difficulty and trauma, made 214

them feel, without a doubt, that their relationship actually mattered.

It was as if the words were an ointment for the wounds of which their meaningless and spiteful fighting had opened.

All of those hurtful things that had been said, neither of them had been meant. And it was only now, after all that bitter fighting, when the cracks and fissures appeared, that they could see how fragile their relationship truly was.

“I love you,” said he.

“I love you too,” said she.

And it felt just as special as the first time they had said it.

Then they kissed; they did so with such fervent passion. And it too felt just as special as the first time. And without even thinking, Charity slipped the nighty from her shoulders so that the curves of her naked body pressed against his. Their bodies were magnetic.

Their nerves were electric. Neither could bare another second for their sexes to be apart.

And so, he entered her, and their hearts and souls entwined.

They made love, then they fucked, then they made love again.

It was as caring, compassionate, and attentive as it was frenzied, wild, and lewd. It was passionate in every regard. Make-up sex, they called it. And there was nothing like it on Earth.

“I’m so glad I chose the girlfriend experience,” shouted Bob, on the verge of climax.

“You made me feel special,” shouted Charity in return. “I’ll never forget you.”

And when he orgasmed, Bob shrivelled up like a poisoned spider, and died.

“Welcome to Funderland,” said Charity, greeting a common John in the lobby. “Have you chosen your room?”

215

The Farm

216

Once upon a time, there was a farm. And on that farm there was a barn. And in that barn there was the greatest party in the world, and everybody in the world was there. It was called The Earth. And at this party, there were three rooms.

In the first room – the room they called ‘YOUNG’ – aside from a riotous array of games and activities, there was a little table in the corner with an enormous glass jug on it, filled to the brim with sweet and delicious grape juice.

And in that room, small kids, all of them aged from four to twenty-four, after having a big old gulp of grape juice, dressed up in their favourite costumes and tried to chase all the grown-ups around with their plastic swords and magic wands.

Impulsive, they were – so full of joy and folly - as if there was nothing for them to worry about at all; as if the future were not real, but instead just a drunken delusion, a nightmarish rumination disguised as scholarly thought used by grown-ups to bully kids into boring things like doing their homework and brushing their teeth.

They acted as if the only thing that mattered was the present moment.

“I’m the defender of the Earth,” they shouted, all of them in unison, whacking the grown-ups in the knees. “You will do as I say. You will bow to me.”

In the second room – the room they called ‘ADULT’ – there were rows of pulpits and pews and plastic chairs where all the grown-ups sat and argued about things they had only just learned about half a second ago. And like the children, the grown-ups loved dressing up too. Some loved to dress up like academics and policemen, and some liked to dress up as confident and well-adjusted too.

And like the other room, there was a small table in one corner, and it also had an enormous glass jug on it, but this glass jug was called a Decanter, and instead of sweet and delicious grape juice, the Decanter was filled to the brim with red wine; a drink that was as profound and articulate as it was heady and bitter.

And in the last room – the room they called ‘OLD’ - there was little more than a jug of water and a bowl full of raisins.

And once upon that time, there was a small boy, a happy and 217

imaginative boy, and his name was Tom - though his best friend called him Tomato.

“Prepare for war, Tomato!” shouted Arthur.

That was his best friend.

The two boys chased each other around the party, one with a plastic sword and the other with a toy laser gun. One minute they were enemy and foe, and the next minute they were a crack sniper team working side by side to track down and exterminate – with extreme prejudice, mind you – a horde of intergalactic aliens that were protected by cloaking devices and forcefields that could withstand a gazillion megaton nuclear bomb.

“Help!” shouted Tom. “The Reticulan Alien Overlord has me trapped.”

He was backed into a corner with his imaginary gun aiming all over the place. He had no idea where that darn alien was, on account of its cloak of invisibility.

“I’m done for!” he shouted.

But then out of nowhere, his best friend Arthur came flying to his rescue – he had a jet pack after all. Arthur took his interdimensional sword from its sheath and then sliced and hacked at what, to most folks, must have looked like thin air, but to Arthur, who was wearing special Octonion glasses that made him see through Reticulan cloaking devices, was the alien’s back and neck.

And it worked!

“You did it,” shouted Tom, elated. “You scared off The Reticulan Overlord Master. You saved my life.”

“That’s what best friends do,” replied Arthur, as if it was nothing at all.

Then, the two boys hugged.

“Best friends forever,” said Tom to Arthur.

“Best friends forever,” said Arthur in reply.

There was nothing better than playing, nothing at all. And there was no better person to play with than each other. But that fun got spoiled, as it always did, by the most ear-splitting wail.

“Kids!” shouted The Teacher. “It’s time to learn about the world!” she shouted.

218

One by one, and sometimes ten or twenty at a time, the children all put down their plastic toys and cellular phones, and ran to where The Teacher stood, sitting cross-legged and wide-eyed in her direction, ready for class.

“Education,” exclaimed The Teacher. “Blah, blah, blah, blah, education.”

Then she showed them a picture of a door.

“This is a door,” she said. “Remember it. It’s in the test.”

And the children did their best to remember what a door looked like.

“One and one is two,” she said. “Two. The answer is two.

Remember two, it’s in the test.”

“Two,” repeated the children, obedient and in unison. “The answer is two.”

Tom, though, like an excited atom, was incapable of sitting still. His mind was effervescent with hundreds of questions all jostling about for his attention. Curious, he was, about the world, but not in the manner that was being taught to him.

“Where does light go?” he asked. “What’s at the centre of the universe? Why don’t people have fur? Were dragons just dinosaur bones? Why do dogs walk in circles before they poop?”

The Teacher, though, was quick to stem the boy’s delinquent questioning.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” she sang, interrupting the insolent child.

And then the children all joined in.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” they sang, sweet and assailing at first, and then abrasive and accusing the next. “Curiosity killed the cat. Curiosity killed the cat.”

“This is The World,” said The Teacher. “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Responsibility. Career ambition. Adjustable-rate mortgages. Speed boats. Unplanned pregnancy. Alimony. Liposuction.

Carpe diem. Life insurance. Travel insurance. Tax deductable donations.. Pay lip service. Pay your dues. Retirement. C’est la vie. Blah, blah, blah, blah…”

The children repeated every single word.

219

“Remember it,” said The Teacher. “It’s in the test. Smart people remember stupid people don’t.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” said the children, repeating perfectly.

“Grow up,” shouted The Teacher. “Stop being kids. Get mature! Get responsible! Have some shame! Shame is good! Shame is God! Get jobs! Smart people remember dumb people don’t.”

“Smart people are happy,” shouted the children. “Dumb people are not.”

“Remember it,” said The Teacher. “It’s in the test.”

All Tom ever wanted to do, though, was play. He didn’t care about the future. He didn’t care about getting older. He was young right now, and this was a party, and all this talk of tomorrow was making none of it fun today.

“Let’s hunt The Reticulan Alien Overlords,” said he to his best friend Arthur.

“Yeah!” said Arthur in reply.

And just like that, the two of them were off running from room to room, pointing their intergalactic lasers and swinging their interdimensional swords, hunting the evil Reticulan alien who itself went from room to room, picking humans like ripe fruit and taking them through its interdimensional portal where it probably ate their bodies and used their bones as straws so it could suck up all their blood.

“Death to no-good aliens,” shouted the two boys.

Then they followed The Reticulan into the second room; the room titled “ADULT’.

“Out of the way, young fellas,” said a man, staggering past with reddish-purple teeth and a chalice full of red wine.

The second room wasn’t at all like the first. Nobody looked like they were having any fun at all. There was a lot of pushing and shoving going on, and a lot of arguing and crying too. Not to mention all the drinking. Whereas the kids would drink only when they were thirsty or eating cake, the grown-ups never stopped.

They were all drinking from the Decanter, guzzling the ardent, articulate, and bitter wine, slurring their words as they did, and barely finishing a clear and comprehensive idea.

220

“Blah, blah, blah, blah, politically incorrect,” said some.

“Blah, blah. Blah, blah, terrorism,” said the others.

There was a TV at one end of the room, and it was showing a movie that everyone loved to watch, and it was called Reality. And on the other side were all the pulpits and pews and plastic chairs where all the grown-ups argued with each other about what the movie was about and how it would end.

Everything about the room was different. All anyone ever cared about was tomorrow or next week or in ten thousand years, but nobody ever talked about now.

“The economy is going to collapse,” said a grown-up. “The sun is going to implode. Will I have my job in thirty years? Should I get married? What if she wants a baby? What if she wants two?

What if there’s no rain? What if the Gods are angry? Which baby should I kill? Will I have enough money for retirement? What are we gonna do the weekend?”

Maybe it was all the wine, or maybe it was just a fact of getting older, but it seemed as if the grown-ups found themselves incapable of being in the present, and instead, remained in a state of constant panic – irksome and worrisome panic – about what would happen tomorrow.

“I see it,” said Arthur. “It’s about to kill one of the grownups.”

The two boys were sneaking between the pews and plastic chairs, careful not to be too obvious or even too subtle for that matter, for Reticulans had the keenest senses and could tell when a human had caught onto them; and when they did, they were swift and vicious in how they went about their killing.

“We can’t let it know we can see it,” said Arthur.

Only he had the special glasses that could see Reticulans.

Octonion Glasses, they were. Lenses with a particular geometry which allowed Arthur to see particles and matter in space that was otherwise dark and undetectable.

“If it sees us we’ll be done for,” said Tom. Crouching beside his best friend, Tom shook like a leaf. He was scared, yes, petrified, even. Who wouldn’t be? But he was just 221

as excited too, and he could barely wipe the enormous smile off his face.

“He’s gonna take that man,” shouted Arthur.

At one end of the room, a burly man – a man whose size and weight was not made for balancing on a pulpit - gulped his wine, and then took an awkward step, tripping as he did, before careening to the ground. The burly man hit his temple on the end of a pew as he fell, killing him instantly.

“It got him,” said Arthur.

“We have to tell the grown-ups. We have to warn them.”

It was no use, though. Grown-ups didn’t listen to kids. And they didn’t speak to kids either; they spoke down to them – always condescendingly, saying things like: “How was school? What did you learn? Do you have any friends? That’s great. Aren’t you a smart cookie. Wow look at you; look how much you’ve grown.”

If they were going to save the world, they would have to do it themselves.

“CHARGE!” shouted Tom. Both boys pounced from their hiding spots, shooting their lasers, and swinging their swords, but it was too late; the alien had already slipped into the third room.

“It’s getting away,” shouted Arthur.

“Not if we can help it,” said Tom. “Death to Reticulan Alien Overlords!” they chanted.

The last room was the quietest of the three. There was no shouting, no televisions, and no music at all. Old folks weren’t trying to be cool like the kids, nor were they trying to be pretty and smart like the grown-ups; they didn’t seem like they had anything to prove at all. In the third room, the old folks sat on stiff and mostly uncomfortable sofas, chewing on raisins, and thinking only about the past, the bittersweet nostalgia of a time that would never return.

“Any regrets?” asked one old lady to another.

“Not for anything I did or didn’t do,” said she in return.

“But if I could go back, I wouldn’t worry so much. Turned out 222

there was never any need.”

Tom and Arthur snuck through the door, slow and quiet as they didn’t know where the alien was hiding, and the last thing they wanted was to be ensnared by one of its diabolical traps.

“Hello, boys,” said Grandma, spotting the two children right away. “Would you like a raisin?”

She had a small bowl in her hands, one filled to the brim with raisins, her favourite treat in the world. She loved them so much that even as she offering the boys one, she was stuffing five or six between her teeth.

“Would you like to hear a story?” she asked.

Old folks loved to tell stories, almost as much as children loved to hear them. Very different to grown-ups, who never had the time, and whose patience was constantly hurried by the irksome and worrisome thoughts about the future.

In fact, the only people who actually listened to kids were old folks, and the only people who gave old folks the time of day were kids.

“I’d love to Grandma,” said Tom. “But we’re on an important mission.”

“A mission? That sounds like fun.”

“Actually, it’s kind of serious.”

“Oh, serious is it?”

“Yeah, it is, Grandma. The fate of the world depends on us.”

And both boys made their serious war faces.

“Well, that does sound serious.”

“We’re chasing a Reticulan Alien Overlord,” said Tom. Then he showed her his intergalactic laser.

“This is my best friend Arthur.”

Then Arthur showed her his interdimensional sword.

“Well, aren’t you two just the sweetest,” said Grandma. “Do you mind if Nanna plays too?”

“It’s a bit dangerous, Nanna,” said Tom. “Maybe after we save the world you can tell us that story.”

Grandma smiled.

“I’d love that,” she said.

223

Then the two boys were off again, weaving their way through the room, careful not to stand out and show to the alien that they were onto it – lest it then be swiftly onto them.

“I see it,” shouted Arthur.

“Can I see? Can I borrow the Octonion Glasses?”

“Hold on,” said Arthur worried. “Don’t move. I think….”

Then out of nowhere, Arthur fell to the ground, his body jerking about wildly.

“What’s wrong, Arthur?” shouted Tom, dropping his intergalactic laser and grabbing his best friend’s hand.

Arthur was sickly pale and barely able to respond.

“He got me, Tom,” he said, his voice as soft and weak as his little body. “The Reticulan Alien Overlord. He sprayed me with his death spray.”

“Don’t worry, Arthur,” said Tom. “You’re gonna be ok. I’ll save you, just like you always save me. That’s what best friends do.”

But Arthur couldn’t be saved.

“What’s wrong with Arthur?” shouted Tom. “I’m sorry,” said The Teacher. “But Arthur is gone.”

Arthur’s mum and dad were standing by the grape juice crying.

“When will he be back?” asked Tom. “I’m afraid, he won’t be coming back to the party,” replied The Teacher, cold and uncaring.

“But why?” cried Tom. “Arthur was very sick.,” she said. “He’s in a better place now.”

“No,” shouted Tom. “That’s not fair. He’s my best friend.

We promised we’d never leave each other.”

Arthur’s body was placed into a black bag and carried away.

As it was, he dropped, not only his interdimensional sword but also the Octonion Glasses that allowed him to see particles and matter in space that were otherwise dark and undetectable.

Tom rushed to pick up the glasses, and that was when he saw the alien.

“Arthur!” he shouted, seeing his best friend being carried away by The Reticulan Alien Overlord. “It’s gonna be OK,” shouted 224

Tom. “I won’t let it take you.”

Then the alien opened a portal in one of the walls and disappeared through it.

“I’m coming,” shouted Tom. “I’ll save you. Best friends forever.”

But it was too late, the portal had already closed. On the other side, The Reticulan Alien Overlord packed up his experiment and raced to school before the bell rang.

“Welcome to the Reticulan Science Fair.”

The banner hung from what looked like an old gymnasium, but one that was interdimensional odd – odd, though, in a way that was impossible to express, especially with words that had been designed for what seemed like now, the insignificant parameters of a paltry three-dimensional world.

The Reticulan Alien Overlord entered the gymnasium carrying, not just Arthur, but the whole world too. It was holding The Earth in its alien hands as if it were a cantaloupe that it had picked from a vine. Then it placed The Earth on its table next to a small light bulb.

“And what is your invention?” asked The Headmaster.

The Reticulan it was speaking to, showed a series of mathematical calculations, then stuck a stick into a small beaker that was full of a viscous and tar-like substance called space – then it twisted the stick around and around so that one point was heavy and dense.

“When I let go of the stick,” said the Reticulan boy. “The energy unleashed as the matter returns to its resting state is enough to power ten gymnasiums for ten aeons.”

“Very good,” said The Headmaster.

Then he moved to the next table. There were over two hundred in all, lined up one after the other. And behind each there stood nervous Reticulan boys and girls, all making last minute adjustments to their science projects.

“And what is your name?” asked The Headmaster to a young Reticulan girl.

“Maryam,” said the girl.

“And what is your energy invention?”

225

Maryam, the young Reticulan girl, set up her experiment. It was much the same as the boy before her, using a stick to swirl up the black gluggy substance known as space. But instead of letting the stick go so that the substance snapped back to original form, therefore letting off a wave of energy, Maryam took the very tip of the swirl, that dense and heavy point of time and space often referred to as the singularity, and she pricked it with single, infinitesimal hole.

“When we curve space like this using the zeta function,” she said, referring to the black hole she had created in her beaker. “We can harness more energy by controlled output as opposed to just one spasmodic event. By dividing zero, we are able to make a small tear in the fabric of space – ample enough for matter to be expressed, but small enough so that the singular force is maintained, and neither matter nor pressure can leak. Then, when we apply external geometric pressure, the fabric of space becomes a teat to milk.”

Maryam squeezed the end of the black hole just like a cow’s teat. And just like her experiment proposed, jets of matter and energy, like fresh milk, burst out of the small tear in space.

The Headmaster was very impressed. Not just him, the whole class, in fact, were gobsmacked by her seemingly simple and obvious invention – both of which it were not, but with the ease at which the young Reticulan girl explained her science, she made it seem as much.

“I propose that we introduce smaller versions of these energy teats in solar systems at a distance of Pn+1 - Pn, and larger scale models at the centre of each galaxy. As a rough estimate, I would say that even running at one percent capacity, we would capture enough energy to light a million gymnasiums this size for a million aeons.”

“Excellent work,” said The Headmaster. “A very good idea.”

There were hundreds of good ideas, in fact. And for this reason, The Reticulan Alien Overlord, as the children had called it, was more nervous than it had ever been its life – all seventy-two thousand years.

226

“What is your name?” asked The Headmaster.

“I’m Jeff,” said The Reticulan Alien Overlord.

“And what do we have here?”

Jeff, as it was actually called, set up his invention.

“I have looked for an organic solution to our energy problems,” he said. “Galaxy gobbling, as we have been doing for aeons, is unsustainable. I propose a more compassionate solution to our energy crisis.”

“Compassionate?”

“Cultivating with care, I call it.”

The other Reticulans laughed.

“I believe we can find a way to power our society but without negatively affecting the universe and all the particles inside of it.”

“Hippy!” shouted the other Reticulans in hysterics, mocking, and taunting poor Jeff.

“Is this hippy nonsense?” asked The Headmaster.

This was exactly what Jeff was worried about. He had spent so long on this project. So much of his heart and mind had gone into every square inch of it and there was no way the other Reticulans would understand.

“It’s not hippy nonsense,” he said, almost in tears.

His nerves always did that. He wished he could curse and shout like the other Reticulans did when they got defensive or mad.

Whenever he got worked up, though, the same thing always happened; first, his legs wobbled, and then he cried.

“It’s an organifarm,” he shouted.

Again, the other Reticulans broke out in hysterical laughter.

“Reticulans, please,” said The Headmaster. “Have some integrity. Have some restraint. Science is a doctrine of nobility and honour. Act like you at least know what those words mean.”

The Reticulans all quietened.

“Now, Jeff,” said The Headmaster. “Tell, me about this hippy nonsense. How does it work? What is its energy gain factor?”

“Well,” said Jeff, sucking up all his courage. “I call this The Earth. It’s just a single cell but inside of it, there are over seven billion organic lifeforms that consume organic matter and disperse 227

conscious energy.”

“Conscious energy?”

The Headmaster sounded woefully unimpressed.

“I know consciousness isn’t as potent, but when I started growing this farm, my initial input was almost zero-sum. The organic matter feeds on experiences and ideas that I introduced such as politics and religion and natural disasters, and then generate conscious energy as a by-product. And then I harvest that energy.

Just this cell alone,” he said, proudly. “Is enough to light this small bulb for 30 seconds.”

Then he took a cable and plugged one end it into The Earth, and the other into the small lightbulb. There was a slight buzzing sound and some brief flickering, but the bulb did indeed light up.

“You see? Imagine if we had billions of planets like this all growing conscious organic matter. We wouldn’t need to be mining galaxies.”

“Gain factor,” said The Headmaster. “That’s all I’m interested in.”

Of course, he was. That was all any Reticulans were interested in. Nobody cared about the intrinsic value. Nobody cared about what it meant. All they cared about was Q=1.

Jeff sighed.

“Zero point zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero... zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, one.”

Then, it was The Headmaster who sighed, shaking his Reticulan head.

“And what are these?” he said, seeing Arthur and the other humans laid out on the table.

“They’re the organic matter,” said Jeff, dangling Arthur by his legs. “You can eat them too. They’re good for you.”

The Headmaster took a grown-up from the table and bit off its head.

“Ewww,” it said. “Bitter.”

“The tastes vary as they age. The small ones are actually quite sweet.”

“And the wrinkly ones?”

228

“They’ll keep you regular.”

“That’s a lot of effort you’ve put in here, Jeff,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“That’s not a compliment,” said The Headmaster.

As he spoke, the lightbulb flickered off.

“Organic farming is a hobby,” he said. “It is indeed hippy nonsense. Impressive only in that it helps to explain the bare fundamentals of science in a manner that an infant would find stimulating and impressive. It is, though, inexcusably, and unquestionably incapable of sustaining the superfluous needs of a sevendimensional society. I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you a fail on this one. Better luck next year.”

Then he took The Earth and threw it in the bin.

229

The Noble Mountain

230

Once upon a time, there was a man who was once a boy that was once a baby which had once been a foetus that was once a single cell in an egg. Harry was his name. And throughout his life, Harry loved many things.

When he was in his mummy’s tummy, for example, Harry loved the sound of his mummy’s beating heart. It told him everything he needed to know. It told him when she was happy, and then he felt happy. It told him when she was scared, and then he felt scared too. It also told him when she was in love, which sounded almost exactly the same as when mummy was scared, except it felt warm like the sun.

He especially loved being wrapped up all tight and warm.

The world was small, and he was enormous inside of it. And in a way, that made him feel safe. It must have been exactly how goldfish felt when they were being taken home from the store.

When he was a baby, Harry loved being wrapped up in blankets like a burrito, really tight, and gently rocked back and forth.

The world was big, you see, much bigger than a baby, and all that empty space scared Harry – it had him constantly worried about getting lost; that, and what would be hiding around every corner waiting to gobble him up.

When he was wrapped up tight, though, all that fear went away. It made the world feel small, and he felt enormous inside of it. Better still, then, when it was mummy who held him, close to her beating heart.

When he was a baby, Harry also loved being thrown in the air as high as daddy could manage. Sometimes he would get as high as, if not higher, than the tree out back. It was the scariest feeling in the world, flying through the air and seeing the house, the ground, and even daddy, getting so small and so very far away. But when he landed back in daddy’s hands, there was no better feeling.

Mummy, though, it must be said, was not a fan. She protested constantly. And so, after every throw, she would take Harry in her arms and squeeze him tight, close to her beating heart, and then rock him back and forth, shushing all the excitement out of him.

231

When he was a boy, Harry loved climbing on top of furniture and jumping off. When he was older, he loved climbing on top of walls and jumping off. And that time he broke his collar bone, he had been climbing up onto the roof of the house.

More than climbing things and getting hurt, though, Harry loved the kisses on his grazed knees, the band-aids on his nicks and cuts, and the hugs he got, whenever he had a fall or gave himself a fright. Being wrapped up in mummy or daddy’s arms like that made the world feel small, and as such, he felt enormous inside of it.

Better still, then, if ever he fell asleep in front of the TV and had to be carried to bed. There was no better feeling than being picked up and taken somewhere – especially bed. He would feel weightless, just like a goldfish, and he would be tucked into bed super tight, just like a burrito. And his bed was safe and warm, just like mummy’s tummy.

And when he was older, Harry loved heroin.

Harry loved it more than anything else in the world. It was the first thing he did when he woke up every morning, and it was the last thing he did before he went to bed every night. He loved it more than he did, hugs and kisses. And he loved it more than he did, his best friends and his own mum and dad. Nothing at all compared.

Heroin was like being thrown really fast and really high into the air by daddy, and then being caught in mummy’s arms and wrapped up all tight in a fluffy cloud, then rocked back and forth gently, like a leaf in a breeze.

It was like mummy, and daddy, and God, and the universe all wrapped their arms around him tightly and lifted him up off the ground so that he could no longer feel the weight in his body or the aches in his bones or the fear and anxiety that secreted like sticky sap from his every nerve and muscle. It made the world feel small, and it made him feel enormous inside of it. It was the closest thing to be being back in mummy’s tummy.

Heroin was the best!

It wasn’t long, though, before Harry was giving two-dollar hand jobs in a truck stop bathroom just to support his habit. And 232

he wasn’t in the best of health either. His smelled like old cheese, his face was covered in scabs and boils, and he itched constantly, what with all the bugs crawling about in the gaps between his skin and bones.

Heroin, though, made it all go away.

It made everything go away: the bugs, the itching, the big scary world, and the anxiety of getting lost inside of it; and, as a result, the fear, shame, and disgust that came along with being addicted to drugs.

It made his family go away too. His family, his friends, his job, his home, his pride, his decency, his happiness, his joy, his dignity, and every inch of his self-respect too. He lost everything.

Abandoned everything.

Heroin was that good.

But then one day, when he had almost lost his life, Harry met an old lady who asked him about the meaning of life.

“Life is unfair,” he said to her. “It’s full of needless and unending suffering.”

The Old Lady smiled, then showed him her fingers. They were worn to the bone.

“Not what is the meaning, young lad,” she said. “Where is the meaning?”

Then she pointed to a mountain out in the distance. An enormous mountain that was so tall, its peak disappeared above the clouds. Harry had never seen something so majestic yet on the same hand, so perilous and daunting. Compared to it, every other mountain was more like a mound, a hill, or a knoll.

“Why would anyone choose to climb a mountain?” he asked in Sisyphean protest. “That seems pointless, meaningless, and absurd.”

“Only to the observer,” said The Old Lady. “Every person must climb a mountain; whether it is to pay a cost or claim a prize.

And life is unfair, but only if you do not choose your suffering.”

“Why would anyone choose to suffer?”

“One must suffer, for the tapestry of life is woven from it.

If you choose not to suffer, your suffering will be chosen for you.

233

If you choose not to climb a mountain – one with a firm footing and a clear route – one will be chosen for you. You will find yourself on a mountain, but one that dirties your spirit as much as it does your hands and feet.”

“I don’t wanna climb a mountain or suffer. I just want to feel good.”

“And for that, you suffer,” she said. “Needlessly and unending.”

Again, she pointed to the mountain in the distance.

“That mountain there,” she said. “I guarantee you. If you were to climb to its peak with one question in mind, a question that has caused you great misery, burden and intolerable struggle - a question that has caused you immense anxiety, bother, and distress – when you reach that peak, you will find a wise old man who will give you the answer to relieve you of all that needless and unending suffering – that which, not only has you sticking needles in your veins, but also thinking that life is unjust and unfair. If one must suffer,” said The Old Lady in closing. “Better for it to be then, a noble suffering.”

Either inspired or unnerved by The Old Lady, Harry decided to do something drastic. He decided to kick the habit. No more heroin. No more hand jobs. It was time to get clean once and for all.

“I’m gonna climb that mountain,” he said to his family and friends “All the way to the top.”

“Good for you,” said everybody.

“I’m proud of you,” said his mum and dad.

Then, in the morning, Harry set off to climb that mountain.

He took with him some food and water, along with the loving support and pride of his family and friends, those he had so recklessly abandoned.

“We know you can do it!”

“We believe in you!”

“You’re the bravest person in the world.”

And for the first time in as long as anyone could remember, Harry didn’t have any heroin. That’s not to say that he didn’t want 234

any. Heck no! His mind was going absolutely bananas trying to convince him that his intestines would explode out the back of his eyeballs if he didn’t have a taste in the next thirty seconds. Harry, though, just ignored it. He acted as if the urges were nothing at all, and instead made his way to the foot of the mountain.

Just as The Old Lady had said, Harry thought of a question; one that had been bothering him most of his life – a question that, for as long as he could remember, heroin had helped him erase.

And when he had a firm grasp of it in his mind, he clasped his hands onto the first hold that stuck out from the noble mountain and made his ascent.

It wasn’t easy, thinking and climbing at the same time – especially a mountain as tricky as this. Were he to moan and curse or were he to misplace a fingernail or a toe, he would slip and go careening to the ground below. Were he to be distracted for even a billionth of a second, he’d be done for – he’d be kaput, over, dead!

Such was the importance of the placement of every one of his fingers and toes and such was the immediacy of every single second that Harry had no time to contemplate on what he thought or how he felt.

In his mind, his subjective self – that wild and vivid imagination which often obsessed over the most inane, irrelevant, and inconsequential things – vanished altogether. With it, so too did his fear, anxiety, and that incessant and unsettling worry. There was not one thought in his mind whatsoever.

Every step of the way his family and friends cheered his name. Their voices echoed in his ears. Their faith boiled in his blood. He felt inspired. He felt empowered. Their love and support wrapped around him like a blanket. It made the world feel small. It made him feel enormous inside of it, something heroin used to do.

“We love you!” they shouted.

Inch by inch, Harry worked his way up the mountain, feeling for the first time as if his life mattered. He felt visible. He felt cared for. He felt special.

“I can do this,” he said to himself. “I can really do this. I can be someone. I can be noble and good, just like everyone else. I can 235

have a life. A life that means something. I can live. I can love. I can.

I really can. I can do this.”

“We love you, Harry!” shouted everyone below.

“You’re our hero.”

“You’re the best.”

There were moments where he felt like giving in – hundreds of them. Each time, though, he thought of the people who loved him cheering him on and it gave him the strength and the will to climb further.

He climbed for days. He climbed for weeks. He climbed until, like The Old Lady, the skin on his fingers had worn down to the bone. He climbed until the bones themselves had all but ground to dust. He climbed until his body ached, his mind fatigued, and every last drop of his will had been spent. He climbed until he could almost climb no more.

And then, when he hauled himself over the last ledge, when he dragged himself up onto the peak, he let out the most perplexing sigh – one that was as much an exclamation of relief as it was, a sheer sense of disbelief. For there was no wise old man. There was no one at all. It was only him on that mountain.

Lucky then, as somewhere along the way, he had forgotten his question.

His mood, though, up on the summit, quickly deflated. He didn’t at all feel as exhilarated as he thought he would. In fact, he was somewhat depressed. It was quiet here, you see. There was no whistling and no cheering, and nobody offering him luck or regards. Now that he was on the summit, now that his suffering was done, life seemed dull and boring.

Harry thought about how wonderful it had been on the side of the mountain. Life had had purpose. It had had meaning. It had had substance. He had been someone – someone that his family and friends could look up to, someone to which they could aspire.

He had been bold, daring, courageous, and an inspiration to all.

Now, though, now that he was clean, now that he had climbed that mountain, now that he had beaten heroin, he wasn’t 236

special anymore. He wasn’t courageous. He didn’t inspire. He was just like everybody else.

You see, life was long and uninteresting, and staying sober looked no fun at all. Nobody, in fact, looked as if they were enjoying themselves. Yet, on that mountain, being showered as he was, with the love and support of his family and friends, Harry had felt as if his life actually mattered. But here on the summit, when he was just like everyone else, he felt invisible again. He felt unremarkable, ineffectual, and impotent.

So, much to everyone’s dismay, Harry climbed back down the mountain. And the next day he was back using heroin and giving two-dollar hand jobs. And it wasn’t so much that heroin was the best feeling in the world, no, not this time; it was that kicking it gave his life meaning and importance.

And he couldn’t wait to kick it again.

And again.

And again…….

237

Die Stanley Die

238

Once upon a time, there was a man who lived in a golden house that was furnished with golden things and who wore golden robes all day long. His lawn was golden, his bed was golden, and even his clothes were made of gold. He had golden teeth and golden eyes and hair that shimmered like gold. His dog was golden, his cat was golden, and even his wife and child were made of gold.

But this story is not about him.

This is the tale of the man who lived across the way. A man who lived in an average house that was furnished with common things and who wore regular clothes just like everyone else. He had a sunburned lawn, an uncomfortable bed, and his clothes were sewn from a fibre that made him itch. He had yellow teeth, a wandering eye, and hair that was balding unevenly. His dog was incontinent, his cat had cataracts, but his wife and child were, for the meantime at least, as good as gold.

Stanley was his name.

And he, on one hand, loved his ordinary life, and on the other, dreamed relentlessly about what it must be like to live in a house that was made of gold. It wasn’t just Stanley either, his wife and daughter spent all their time, too, sitting on their porch and imagining what their lives would be like had they a great deal more money and a great deal more time to spend it.

Stanley, though, was a realist.

“One must deserve this kind of life,” he would say to his family over and over. “The life you have tomorrow is the reward for the life you live today.”

He meant this both literally and spiritually. You see Stanley believed wholeheartedly that each person was a spirit on a constant quest, and each life in which one reincarnated, was the reward for the effort put into the life before.

“In our past lives, we were thousands of miles away from the life that we deserve – a life of riches and all the time in the world to spend them.”

“Are we closer now?” asked his daughter.

“We are just a ways off,” said Stanley in reply. “If we can see the gold then it is almost assured that should we live a life of virtue 239

and embrace our suffering, then in the next life, we will be one step closer.”

It hadn’t been an easy life, not for either one of them. But hearing this – knowing that their suffering would account for something beautiful and peaceful in their next lives – put all their minds at ease. It made Stanley smile. It made Suzanne smile – that was Stanley’s wife. And it made his daughter smile too – her name was Hope.

And every day they toiled at their jobs and scrimped and saved just to get by. If they had to sell their car to pay a water bill, well then that was just what they did. And if they had to sell the car for eighty percent below market value just to get it sold, well then, a little difficulty wasn’t going to get in their way.

“It’s all about the next life,” said Stanley, and everybody agreed. “In this life, we eat chicken but in the next life we will eat duck.”

Then one day Hope was hit by a bus on her way home from school. It was the worst day of Stanley and Suzanne’s life. The only bit of gold they’d had, the part of their lives that mattered the most, had been taken from them.

“It’s just a test,” said Stanley. “Like any other. A test of our virtue. A test of our spirit. We will see her in our next life – the life we deserve. And then we will have our life of gold.”

Suzanne agreed though it wasn’t easy.

In time, though, they healed. And they continued their lives of virtue and suffering. And as they had done for decades, they sat on their porch each night and watched the man who lived in the golden house admiringly.

“His lives must have been difficult,” said Stanley. “They must have been filled with untold suffering. And in spite of it all, he must have been so virtuous, more than any of us could ever imagine, to have earned all those riches and all that time to spend them.

Soon that will be us.”

But Suzanne had quietly passed away. They were old you see.

At the end of their lives. Lives of which had been spent in virtue.

Lives of which had been spent suffering. And as a testament to 240

that, Stanley lived on for another week – as long as he could – with a heart that had been broken in half.

And then he died too.

In his next life, Stanley lived further from the man who lived in the golden house. A lot further actually. He lived on the outskirts of town, where houses were shabby, nobody really had things, and the clothes you wore had been handed down since your grandfather was a boy.

He didn’t think anything of it, though, assuming that when he became a man – when he was older – he would get the life that he deserved; a life made entirely of gold.

“One day I’ll live in the house made of gold, Mamma,” he said. “You’ll see.”

“I’m sure you will,” said Mamma. “But until then, how about you help me catch these rats. Or else there’ll be no meat for lunch.”

And so, he did. Stanley was a wonderful son. He was not put off by hard work. And he was not scared by the thought of a lifetime of suffering. For he knew that a soul could only gain strength through difficulty and that his suffering would bring him one step closer, each time, to a life of great riches with all the time in the world to spend them.

And when he was a young man, he fell in love and got married. Her name was Suzanne. And in no time, they built a life together, one near a river – a river that smelled like old diapers and socks. It was far from the man who lived in the golden house. Very far actually. It wasn’t too far, though, that they couldn’t see the tiniest shimmer of gold beaming up into the sky – way, way off in the distance.

“One day that will be us,” said Stanley. “When we have lived a life of virtue. When we have lived a life of suffering. Then we will have the life we deserve. Then we will have a life of riches and all the time in the world to spend them.”

Suzanne agreed though it wasn’t easy.

Soon enough they started a family. They had a daughter; her name was Hope. She was born three months premature and for a good while, none of the doctors thought she would survive.

241

Stanley and Suzanne, though, never lost faith. Suffer they did – intolerably – but they walked that difficult path with virtue and then one day, Hope was well enough to be taken home.

“I could have never gotten through it without you,” said Stanley.

“I could have never gotten through it without you too,” said Suzanne in reply.

Both had seen it as but a test. A test of their virtue. A test of their spirit. And soon enough it became just one of a lifetime of tests, for theirs was a lifetime of great difficulty – a lifetime of stress, burden, and dismay. Not once, though, did they ever give in.

Not once did they ever lose their way.

“The life you have tomorrow is the reward for the life you live today.”

Hope, though, wanted roller skates.

“Why can’t I have them, daddy?”

“Because we are poor, my child.”

“Why are we poor?”

“Because we were born into a poor caste.”

“Why can’t we just move to a different caste?”

“One is what they are born into, my child, and one cannot escape. One must suffer. One must endure. It is one’s virtue to suffer. And in the next life, you will have the riches that you deserve and all the time in the world to spend them.”

Hope agreed, but it wasn’t easy.

And it wasn’t either. This life was a hundred times worse than his last. Yet, he had lived a life of suffering in absolute virtue.

By his own words, his family should have been at the very least, one step closer to the life they deserved, not a thousand miles away.

This life was far worse. They were cold. They had lice in their hair. Their teeth were rotten. They always had a rash. And they were constantly hungry. It was a feeling though that they had come to accept, and as such, it was a kind of suffering that they were able to endure.

“In this life, we eat rat but in the next life we will eat chicken,” said Stanley.

242

Then three days later they all died of septicaemia.

In his next life, Stanley was no farther from the man who lived in the golden house than he was in the life before. In this life, though, instead of living near the polluted river, he lived under a bridge, besides it. It was in that polluted river where he bathed, and it was from that polluted river that he drank.

And it was bathing in that dank, fetid water where he met the love of his life – Suzanne. They fell head over heels instantly and married as quick as they could.

“The life you have tomorrow is a reward for the life you live today,” said Stanley.

Suzanne agreed though it wasn’t easy.

Soon enough they decided it was time to start a family. There was nothing else in the world as important. And so, try and try they did but for the life of them, they just couldn’t conceive.

“It is a test,” said Stanley. “A test of our virtue. A test of our spirit.”

Eventually, Suzanne did get pregnant. It was a miracle. Finally, they could start dreaming then about the life they deserved as a family, one of great riches and all the time in the world to spend them.

“We will have the life we deserve,” said Stanley. “For the effort, we put into the life we have today. A life of noble suffering.”

And suffer he did. For only three months into the pregnancy, Suzanne was troubled by unimaginable pain which itself was marked by blood running down her legs. Under the bridge as they were, and in the caste to which they belonged, there was no doctor that they could call. And even if there were, in the part of town where they lived, no doctor in their right mind would attend.

And so, Suzanne and their unborn child died one night in September. And Stanley was left loveless and hopeless. Give up, though, he did not. For he knew that in the next life he would be rewarded for his suffering. He would earn the life he deserved. A life of great riches and all the time in the world to spend them.

But in his next life, Stanley was a rat. Not only was he so very far from the man who lived in the golden house, but were he to 243

even see a golden house, it would mean nothing to him.

He had suffered intolerably, not only in his last life but in every life he had ever lived. A suffering, mind you, that in retrospect had been noble and virtuous. He never once cursed the universe for the caste to which he had found himself belonging. He never once damned his suffering as unjust or wrong. No, he had suffered nobly.

But he had life afterlife, gotten further from the man who lived in the golden house. Further still, it would seem, from a life of great riches and all the time in the world to spend them. He had gotten so far indeed that instead of being born again as a man in the midst of arduous struggle, he was a buck-toothed, long-tailed rodent. A rat. A stinking sewer-dwelling, disease spreading rat.

“The life you have tomorrow is the reward for the life you live today,” he thought.

Then he was caught in a trap, flung against a wall by his tail, and finally killed after three or four blunt thumps. Later, he was cooked over a meagre looking fire and eaten by a family who themselves had been doing it tough.

And in his next life, Stanley was a parasite.

“Congratulations, Stanley.”

It was God, or Yehowah, or Allah, or Buddha, or Krishna, or an alien overlord. It was omniscient, though. It was all-seeing. It was all-knowing. And it spoke to Stanley as if it had been watching his every life like its favourite television show, one, though, which had come to a gripping climax.

“None have suffered as nobly as yourself, Stanley. None have endured with as much poise, sophistication, and grace. No soul has evolved so rapidly. No soul has become as strong.”

“I don’t understand,” said Stanley. “I thought that a life of suffering was a test of my virtue. I thought it was a test of my spirit.”

“It was,” said The Entity.

“Then where is the life I deserve? Why did it only get worse and worse? Why am I here, an amoeba in a polluted river, when I should be a man in a golden house? I have loved and I have lost 244

more than any man need. Where is the life I deserve?”

“A life of great riches and all the time in the world to spend them is no reward for any soul. A life without burden, a life without suffering, a life without struggle is no life indeed. Only the most admirable can endure the most intolerable. Only the truly noble can live amongst filth and waste. For strength and virtue is the richness that such a soul deserves. Better then, to be a piece of gold covered in shit, then to be a piece of shit, covered in gold.

Welcome to the life that you deserve,” it said.

Stanley swam away down the river. None of this was what he had expected. He had always thought that at some point, he would find himself in a house made of gold with a great many riches and all the time in the world to spend them. How wrong he had been.

So off he swam, content, as it were, that his suffering had been worthwhile. All that he had loved and all that he had lost had not been in vain. And so, swim he did, until he made a home in a quiet part of the river. There he met another amoeba; her name was Suzanne. And in no time, they had a daughter; Hope was her name. And the three amoebas lived happily ever after.

Then, one day, there was a tremendous splash in the part of the river where they lived. A giant and raucous and unexpected splash. A man had jumped into the river; a man with clothes made from gold.

“The life you have tomorrow,” said Stanley. “Is the reward for the life you live today.”

Then Stanley, Suzanne, and Hope all swam up the man’s nose and made their way to his brain. And there they made their new home; in the body of a man who lived in a house made of gold.

245

MABEL & ABEL

246

Once upon a time, there was a man who lived in a part of town that was dangerous and dicey and dire. Angus was his name, and he had the most curious profession.

“Are you the rubber man?”

“I certainly am,” said Angus.

That was his nickname, in part, because of his curious profession.

“I want you to make my wife disappear.”

You see, Angus was a hitman. And a very good one at that.

Probably the best in the whole town. He had, in fact, over the last decade or so, made over a thousand people disappear.

“Everyone says that you’re the best.”

The old man speaking to Angus was a bundle of nerves. His voice was shaking almost as much as his wrinkly old hands. They weren’t, though, nerves of fear or trepidation. It wasn’t the kind of nerves that one felt whilst waiting for a root canal. Nor was it the kind of nerves that one felt at the thought of looking stupid in front of a room full of strangers.

No. These were happy nerves.

They were the kind of nerves that happened on birthdays and Christmas mornings. They were the kind of nerves that were immediately followed by hugs and celebrations. They were the kind of nerves that felt exactly like candy tasted.

“Can you kill her today? Before supper? Can you kill her soon?”

The old man was almost dancing on the spot.

“We’ll have to talk particulars first,” said Angus.

“It doesn’t need to be fancy. Quick and easy should be good enough. She’d like that. Mabel was never really big on pomp or celebration.”

He wore the most tremendous smile whenever he said her name. His eyes, too. They gleamed. It was as if, like a lighthouse, Mabel, were inside of him, beaming out through his eyes warding him from shipwreck and danger.

“On our wedding day,” said the old man nostalgically. “She wore the same blue floral dress that she had worn in the garden 247

that morning picking weeds and pulling out daisies. There was as much dirt and mud on that dress as there was under her nails.

Beautiful, she was. If you were lucky enough to have seen her. The prettiest flower I’d ever seen in my life.”

The old man was gushing.

“Have you ever felt as if you didn’t deserve the life you had?

That God messed up and accidentally put you in your life instead of the person he had originally intended – someone better in every way possible?”

“How old is she?” asked Angus, filling out his murder form.

“Does she have any allergies?”

“That’s how I felt my whole life,” said the old man. “It’s how I felt every time I got to look her in the eyes. It’s the way I felt every time I got to hold her hand. It’s the way I felt every time we kissed.

So bloody lucky. Yet scared the whole time, you know? Thinking that God was gonna realise at any moment and take her away from me – give her to someone better. I never took a second for granted, though. Not one. She’s eighty-two. And no allergies, no. But she’s not fond of sweet perfumes or aftershaves. Makes her gassy and a little nauseous. Sensitive nose. So, just, uh, keep that in mind.”

“Is she active in the community? How quickly will she be reported missing?”

“Oh, it’s just us. We never needed anybody else. Why would we? We had each other.”

“Do you have a picture?”

“You know, I still remember the first time I ever met Mabel – as clear as day it is. Her hair was up in curls; she’d just left the hairdressers, she had. Nipped next door for a milkshake with a dozen of her friends. They were all getting prettied up for a school dance.

Mabel didn’t need it, though, if you ask me. She was already pretty enough – with or without the curls.”

“I’ll need a photo,” said Angus. “A description at least.”

He was, after all, going to murder the woman.

“Her eyes are like two setting suns,” said the old man. “Always partly closed. Just as reverent. Just as warm. Her gaze alone could put the most worrisome troubles at ease. Kind and considerate, 248

it is. Attentive too, and always present. When she looks at you – every single time – you feel seen. You feel visible. You feel important.”

“Eyes like suns,” said Angus, drawing two average-sized circles.

The old man, though, wasn’t done.

“Her lips are like clouds. They are as soft to look at as they are to kiss.”

The old man was like a grain of salt, adrift in an ocean of love. He dissolved with every thought of her. He was as much her as she was him. Sixty years they had spent together. Sixty beautiful years.

“I’m really excited,” he said. “You can probably tell.”

It would be impossible not to. He had all the charm and merry whim of a child unwrapping a present. His joy was palpable.

It was hard not to smile too. He hardly looked or sounded like a man who was ordering the contracted murder of his spouse. He could have just as easily been at a flower store, arranging the most sumptuous and resplendent bouquet.

This was not lost on Angus. He had never seen such a display of genuine affection. Never before had he ever heard a man speak so glowingly about their wife. Never before had he seen it so blatant, honest, and true in a man’s expression. Never before had he seen a man so affected by love. He wished, in part, it were him.

“You seem to love your wife,” said Angus.

The old man smiled; a smile though that had a voice of its own. A smile that said, “Yes, I do. I love my wife. I adore her. I revere her. I admire her. She never ceases to amaze me. She’s funny.

She’s smart. She’s gorgeous. She’s kind. She’s more beautiful than gold. She’s more precious than air. She is the colour in my heart and eyes. Without her, I am but a blank page. She is the excited shiver on the back of my neck. She is every beat of my heart. She is the answer to every question. She is my whole world. She is my raison d’être. She is love.”

“I do,” said the old man. “I do indeed.”

The old man blushed. It was the first moment he was 249

actually speechless. Angus, though, looked perturbed. This was not the normal behaviour of anyone who ever asked for his services.

He was used to the rage and scorn of jilted lovers and vengeful businessmen, cheated out of their trust and inheritance. He was used to the sound of their grinding teeth and cracking knuckles. He was used to the air of their hate.

This was very different.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said.

“Of course,” replied the old man.

“Why do you want her dead?”

Normally he never asked that question. Normally he never cared.

“Because I love her,” said the old man. “I love her so very much. I love her more than anything in the world.”

“Then why have her murdered?”

It seemed like an obvious question. So, too then, did the old man’s answer.

“Have you ever seen an old lady sitting inconsolable in the park all alone, crying to herself all day long?”

“Yes,” said Angus.

He had seen his mother this way. He had seen the relatives, too, of all the people he had murdered. All of them drowning in a sea of sorrow; pulled under by a current of anguish and woe. He had even felt it himself.

“One is never in mourning,” said the old man. “One is merely in love.”

He looked, for a second, as if his wife were already gone – as if he were already missing her.

“Grief is the wake that follows romance. The greater a person’s love and devotion, the more grave and grievous is their suffering. The old lady stricken with inconsolable sadness is not grieving; she is not in mourning – she is in love. That is what love is. Love is grief. Love is mourning. Love hurts. Love is the hurting. Only in death can one measure the true extent of their love,” he said.

The old man started to cry. He did, though, whilst smiling.

“I love her so dearly. I just…. I can’t wait. I want to know 250

how much I loved her. I want to know now.”

He was like a child, a week before Christmas, begging to open his present.

“She’ll live past hundred,” he said. “She’ll live long past me.

I’ll never get to know. I know it sounds selfish. I do. Loving Mabel is absolute. Nothing else compares. To not feel the grief of her passing. To not drown in mourning. To have not loved her completely. The thought of that haunts me.”

“You’re killing her for love? To see how much you love her?”

“I’m having her killed to complete our love. But yes, so that I can see how much our love was worth. If our love was true then I’ll live the rest of my days in misery and woe. If it’s really true, well, then I’ll die of a broken heart.”

“OK,” said Angus, blasé. “I can get it done after lunch. Do you know where she is?”

“She’s just outside,” said the old man, merry, “We thought it best to come in one at a time.”

“Outside? One at a time? Hold on? Mabel’s her name?”

The old man dissolved again. He loved hearing her name.

Angus, though, was a tad confused; taken aback even.

“My nine-thirty. Her name’s Mabel. She isn’t…”

“Yep,” said the old man with a winning grin. “My Mabel.”

Now it was Angus who looked adrift. He looked rudderless.

He looked lost.

“Probably should have just made the one appointment,” said the old man.

“Well then, who does she want to kill?”

The old man smiled.

“We probably should just call her in. Mabel, honey,” he shouted, poking his head around the side. “He’s ready for you now, buttercup. You can come on in.”

Mabel strolled into the room. She was just like the old man had described her.

“This is my Mabel,” said the old man proudly. “Mabel. This is the rubber man.”

Mabel was ever so polite. She didn’t just shake Angus’ hand, 251

she complimented him too – on his attire, his choice of curtains, and how pretty his lawn looked.

“You’d hardly believe you were a murderer,” she said with glowing praise.

It was easy to see why the old man loved her so much.

“So, you’re the rubber man, then?” she asked.

“I am,” said Angus.

“Can you make my husband disappear?” she said.

Angus stared at the old man. He was grinning and nodding his head as if to say, “Didn’t I tell you she was amazing? Didn’t I tell you she was perfect? Didn’t I tell you you’d fall in love?”

“Uh…yes,” said Angus.

He had never been in this situation before.

“I can kill your husband.”

“Oh fantastic,” said Mabel.

Then she hugged the old man and kissed him on the cheek.

“You were right,” she said. “He definitely is the best, isn’t he?”

The old couple held hands and stared at each other smiling.

They looked as if they were renewing their vows, not negotiating to have each other murdered.

“Does she know why you’re here?” asked Angus.

The old man smiled.

“That she does,” he said.

“So, you know he wants to hire me to kill you?”

“Absolutely,” said Mabel.

“Really? And you’re ok with that?”

“It was her idea,” said the old man.

“It was your idea?”

Mabel blushed.

“It was just a good idea,” she said. “Anyone could have had it.”

“You see what I mean?” said the old man. “So humble. She’s perfect.”

“And you want me to kill him?”

“I love Abel,” said Mabel. “I’ve loved him for sixty years.

252

He’s my in and my out, my up and my down; he’s my back and forth, he’s my round and round. Abel is my everything. He is my everywhere. Every second of the last sixty years I’ve been either looking into those handsome eyes or dreaming about them. There’s no man more kind. There is no man more loyal. There is none who could make a woman feel more special. There is none stronger and none sexier. There is no man at all who could ever compare. I’ve loved Abel for sixty years now, and since the first day I met him, I just couldn’t wait to feel what it would be like to feel him gone.”

She too wept as if he were already dead. And she too did so with a smile.

“I love you, Mabel,” said Abel.

“I love you, too,” said she in reply.

This was all highly unconventional.

“Can you do it now?” asked Mabel. “While we are here.”

“Oh, that would be fantastic,” said Abel.

He was jumping on the spot now. Both of them were, in fact.

Abel was jumping on the spot and Mabel was swinging her hips as if the most fantastic song were playing loudly in her head.

“Do you have the money?” asked Angus.

He was, by no means, ok with this. He was, though, a professional.

Mabel and Abel both lifted a heavy suitcase onto the table. It was filled with exactly the amount that Angus had specified.

“Four hundred and sixteen thousand dollars,” said Mabel and Abel together. “Our life savings.”

There was only one bag, though.

“There’s only one bag,” said Angus. “So, whose money is it?”

“Ours,” they both said.

“Obviously, you can only kill one of us,” said Mabel. “But we both worked our butts off for every single penny here.”

She was so proud. Abel was too. Angus, though, was confused.

“So, who do I kill?” he asked.

“Kill Mabel,” said Abel. “If you’re able, that is.”

“If you’re able,” said Mabel. “Then kill Abel for me.”

253

“So, what?” said Angus. “I’m supposed to choose? That’s not how this works. None of this is how this works. I can’t do this.

I’m not gonna do this.”

Mabel, then, started to cry. It was the first time Abel had ever seen her this way. She was distraught. She was visibly upset. Where was the sunset in her eyes? Where was the warmth that spilt from them, now, that they were cloudy and grey?

“Kill me,” said Abel. “I want you to kill me.”

Mabel’s crying didn’t stop, but the look in her eyes did. They were warm again. She cried, yes, but hers were tears of compassion and friendship. Hers were tears of love and devotion.

“My dear, Abel,” said Mabel. “You would do that for me?”

“I would,” said Abel. “My love for you is entire. You’re my best friend. You’re my companion. You’re the sun that guides me throughout my day and the moon that looks over me in the darkness of night. You are the air in my lungs. You are the blood in my veins. Your voice echoes in every beat of my heart. I have lived only because of you. And I will die for you.”

“I love you so much, Abel.”

“And I love you too. I want you to mourn, my dear Mabel. I want you to grieve. I want you to feel our love complete.”

Mabel threw her arms around Abel and kissed him passionately.

“You, lucky girl,” he said.

“I know,” said Mabel. “I’ve always known. I was lucky to have met you. I was lucky to have fallen in love with you. I was lucky to have spent almost all my life with you. And I’m lucky, even now, to have you. For there is no man so kind as to give such a gift as this.”

It was true. Both had spent the last sixty years saving their love like loose change in a piggy bank. Both had dreamt about being the ones who would be lucky enough to smash it open and spend all the savings.

“I hope you grieve forever,” said Abel.

“I hope I do too,” said Mabel in reply.

They stared into each other’s eyes tenderly. Then she kissed 254

his lips – her kiss as soft as a breeze.

“Okie dokie,” said Angus.

Then he shot the old man in the head. It was quick. It was clean.

“So, what now?” he said.

“Wait, I suppose,” said Mabel.

She looked edgy as if she were waiting for a bus, unsure if one would even come at all.

“How long should it take?” asked Angus. “The sadness, the mourning, the grief ?”

“I imagine straight away,” said Mabel.

She should have been in tears by now. She should have been drowning in a sea of sorrow; pulled under by a current of anguish and woe. She should have been heartbroken. She should have been inconsolable.

“So, how do you feel?” asked Angus.

The truth was, she felt no sadness at all. She felt neither the onset of mourning nor the tide of grief. She felt neither doleful nor blue. She felt nothing at all.

“Huh, that’s funny,” she said as if she had just discovered she had been wearing her cardigan inside out. “I guess I didn’t love him after all.”

255

GIRL

256

Once upon a time, last February actually, there was a girl, who, while all the other girls were playing with skipping ropes and cootie catchers, sat in a bathroom stall by herself sick to the stomach – sick, not because she had eaten something spoiled, but because she had just found out the worst and scariest news ever.

Her name was Felicity.

“Felicity and Ethan sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” Ethan was her boyfriend. He was a few years older. Actually, he was in twelfth grade, so he was a senior. And Felicity, well she was only thirteen. They’d been going steady for about a month or so, maybe two; depends on who you ask.

“First comes love, then comes marriage.”

The girls singing weren’t her friends. They weren’t even in her class. They were just the mean and popular girls that teased other kids with the words of their songs. It just so happened that, on that day, Felicity was in the stall crying while they were playing with their skipping rope and cootie catchers and pretending to smoke. “…then comes a little baby sleeping in a carriage.”

Felicity didn’t have any friends - not anymore. She didn’t have anyone to play games with. She didn’t have anyone to laugh with. And there was no one she could tell a single secret to at all.

She was alone. She had no one. Not one friend at all.

“Felicity and Ethan, sitting in a tree…”

The mean girls kept up their teasing and taunting all through recess. They would have kept going too, had a teacher not overheard and ordered them to march straight back to class. Felicity, though, stayed in the stall – sometimes crying, sometimes throwing up.

When she was young, all Felicity ever wanted to be was grown up. It didn’t matter what job she did, the idea of being a grown-up just sounded awesome. You could stay up as late as you wanted. You could watch whatever TV show you wanted. You didn’t have to do tests or homework. And you could buy anything you wanted, ‘cause you’d have a credit card and lots of money in the bank.

257

When she was in pre-school, Felicity couldn’t wait to be in year one. They had better toys and a bigger sandpit, and they got way more time for recess. When she was in year one, she couldn’t wait to be in year four. They got to play on the football field, and they had monkey bars and a giant slide – I-kid-you-not – as big as, if not bigger, than the Eiffel Tower or the world’s biggest skyscraper. Then when she was in year four, she couldn’t wait to be in year eight. They had lockers, about fifty different teachers, and they got to hang out anywhere they liked. Now that she was in eighth grade, though, she wished she were a little kid again, drawing pictures of unicorns and rainbows, and playing for hours on end with a bucket and spade in a sandpit.

She hadn’t always been alone, either. She used to have the best friends in the whole entire world – three of them in fact: Amanda, Alison, and Lauren. They’d been best friends since before either of them could crawl. They used to hang out every day playing games, making each other laugh, and telling each other secrets. There was no one who knew Felicity as well as her best friends and there was no one who knew them as well as her.

But they’d stopped talking. They’d stopped hanging out.

They’d stopped being friends; pretty much since the day she met Ethan. And now she had no one.

It was around lunchtime when Felicity finally got her things and snuck out of the bathroom. The schoolyard was loud and raucous. There were kids running everywhere.

“You can’t catch us,” shouted one group of kids.

“Pass the ball,” shouted another.

There were kids kicking balls, kids climbing trees, and there were kids playing chasey, running for their dear lives and screaming with glee.

“Felicity and Ethan, sitting in a tree….”

Then there were the girls who teased and taunted. They were everywhere. Anywhere that Felicity went, that was all that she could hear.

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” Felicity sat on a bench in the schoolyard gripping the wood 258

tight with her fingers. It was the best she could do to stop herself from being sick. Everything was spinning, you see, what with all the boys running around her and all the girls with their skipping ropes, jumping up and down. And it was only made worse by the sounds of the boys shouting and screaming, and the girls singing – to the beat of every jump: “Felicity and Ethan, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes….”

“Hey.” It was Ethan. He sat down on the bench beside her.

“What’s up?”

Ethan had a ton of friends. He wasn’t the most popular kid in school. But he wasn’t the least popular either. Basically, he could get a high five if he ever asked for one and he didn’t have to worry about anyone ever teasing him or making fun of him behind his back. He had, though, hundreds of friends he could play games with, laugh with, and tell secrets to – which for boys, was not so much telling a secret as it was bragging. But he could brag to the whole school if he wanted to. He definitely wasn’t alone.

“Nothing much,” said Felicity.

They were awkward, to say the least. Not even a polar bear could break this ice. Hard to believe then that, not only had they been going steady for three months, but that they had already had sex.

“Pretty crazy day,” said Ethan. “School sucks.”

“Yeah,” said Felicity.

Her fingers were gripping the bench even tighter. They had been since the second Ethan sat down. There was something about his presence. That and the sound of his voice.

“All anyone talks about is university exams. What are ya gonna study? What are you gonna do? What are ya gonna be? It’s like no one lets us just be teenagers, you know? If it’s not the stupid teachers then it’s mum and dad – always on my case, always on my back. Dad wants me to be an engineer. Mum wants me to be a dentist. It’s like…..get off my damn back…you know?”

The sound of his voice made her sicker and sicker.

259

“Yeah,” said Felicity.

It was just a sound she was making. It wasn’t a word. She wasn’t agreeing. She wasn’t even listening. She was just trying to stop the world from spinning, breathing as deep as she could and gripping that bench as hard as she could – digging her nails right in.

“I don’t wanna do anything,” said Ethan. “Just wanna skate and listen to music. Why do we have to get jobs? We’ve been studying our whole lives. What makes them think I wanna spend another four years dying in university?”

This was the first time they had properly spoken since they had sex. And that was three months ago. They saw each other around school, sure, and they were going steady, but this was the most they had spoken to one another since then.

“How’s the…thing?”

He meant the vomiting.

“It’s fine,” said Felicity.

It wasn’t, but she didn’t want to have to explain.

“So, I got my dad’s car,” he said.

He slid over beside her, so their legs were almost touching.

He left, though, his hands on his lap while hers were still wrapped around the edge of the bench, digging into the wood. He wanted to put his arm around her – to hug her or hold her – but he just didn’t know how. So instead, he gripped the rounds of his knees.

“I’ve never been to Argentina before. Have you?”

“No,” said Felicity.

She’d never been outside of the state, let alone abroad. Her parents didn’t care much for travelling. In truth, they didn’t have the money, but they always said it was because they didn’t want to.

The furthest she had been, was to a sleepover when she was ten. It was at a cousin’s house on the other side of town. And even then, she called for her mum to come and pick her up in the middle of the night.

“Did you remember your passport?” asked Ethan.

He tapped his pocket. That was obviously where he kept his.

“Uh-huh,” said Felicity, passing it to him.

On the far end of the schoolyard, playing with skipping 260

ropes and cootie catchers, she could see Amanda, Alison, and Lauren. They were all laughing hysterically as if one of them had said the funniest thing. They looked like they were having so much fun.

And they looked like they were so impossibly far away. They looked like they were so far that even if she shouted through a megaphone, “I’m sorry. Can we still be friends?” they probably wouldn’t hear.

She wished she were there. She wished she were with them.

She wished she were smiling and having fun too. She wished she were just a stupid kid. She wished she’d never met Ethan. She wished she’d never told him her name. She wished she’d never laughed at his stupid joke. She wished she’d never pretended he was funny.

She wished she’d never thought he was cool. She wished she’d never let him kiss her. She wished she’d never kissed him back. She wished she’d never gone to his house that night. She wished she’d hung out with her best friends instead. She wished they were still friends. She wished they still could be. She wished that none of this was happening. She wished it were all a dumb dream.

“I made a cool mixtape,” said Ethan.

He was jingling the car keys now.

“You’ll dig it. All my favourite bands.”

“Cool,” said Felicity.

“Shouldn’t take too long. I don’t think. It’s kind of cool when you think of it. Me and you driving by ourselves. Road trip to Argentina.”

“Yeah,” said Felicity. “Cool.”

None of the girls saw her staring. If they had – had they seen the look in her eyes - they would have come running to grab her and pull her away from him. They wouldn’t have wasted a single second. They would have taken her away from Ethan, brought her back to where they were sitting, and they would have hugged her and let her cry. They would have told her that everything was going to be ok. And they would have listened to her when she told them her secret. She would have said she was sorry, and they would have forgiven her. And even though things were bad, they would have made her laugh and smile, and made her feel as if things wouldn’t get altogether worse.

261

But the girls didn’t see her looking their way.

“It’ll be fine,” said Ethan, for the first time admitting there was a problem. “By tomorrow it’ll be like none of this even happened. Nobody will have to know anything. It’ll be ok. Trust me.”

Trust me. He said that the night they had sex.

“Ok,” said Felicity.

“Anyways,” said Ethan awkwardly. “Just so you know. I’m here, you know? Just that…I’m with you. I’ll be with you. You’re not gonna be alone.”

He put his hand on her leg. It was moist and sweaty. It didn’t at all make Felicity feel even the slightest bit secure. If anything, he would have done better had he kept it to himself.

“We’d better get going,” he said. “You ready?”

Ready for what? She was thirteen. She was a kid. She was a kid who had been pretending she was a teenager. She was a kid who had been pretending she was grown up. She wasn’t ready. Not for this.

“Ok,” she said. “I’m ready.”

In the car, they didn’t really speak. The stereo was loud, and Ethan was singing along to every word. He seemed happy as if they were on the most fantastic adventure – one where anything could happen. Felicity, on the other hand, was staring at a brochure that Ethan had given her when she got in the car.

“Abortion: To be or not to be?”

Most of it was in Spanish. Ethan, though, could read it. He spoke pretty good Spanish, so he told her everything that it said.

Felicity didn’t know what to make of anything. She didn’t want to be a mother, that’s for sure. She was only thirteen. What did she know about being a mother? She still believed in the tooth fairy.

She didn’t want to be pregnant. At the same time, she didn’t want to kill a baby.

“Aww. This is my favourite song. You gotta listen to the lyrics. They’re so deep.”

All Felicity could hear, though, was the sound of mean girls singing in her head.

“Felicity and Ethan, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First 262

comes love, then comes..”

She felt sick again. It wasn’t just the baby, though. It was everything. She’d never felt so damn alone in her life. She’d never felt so damn scared. She wished her mum were here. She wouldn’t even mind if she yelled at her - if she told her off. She just wished she were anywhere but here.

“You alright?” asked Ethan. “You need me to pull over? I think there’s a bag down there if you need something to puke into.”

“It’s fine.”

Felicity was scared. She was scared of where they were going. She was scared of what they were about to do. She was scared of what was going to be done to her.

When she looked at Ethan she wanted to scream. Instead, she shut her eyes and tried to sleep, but when she closed her eyes, it was even worse.

In her dream, she was sitting alone on a chair in a waiting room – a waiting room that was dark and cold and empty. She wanted to run but she didn’t have the courage. She wanted to scream but didn’t have a mouth.

“Felicity and Ethan sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” The sound of mean girls echoed all around her. Felicity couldn’t see them. It was too dark. They were there, though, hundreds of them, holding hands and dancing in a circle around her.

“First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a little baby sleeping in a carriage.”

Over and over, they sang.

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” Their voices turned from mean to dire as their singing turned into shrill screaming. She wasn’t being mocked or teased anymore.

She was being yelled at.

“First comes love! Then comes marriage!”

Then came the sound of a baby screaming. It was horrible.

It was the worst sound in the world. It wasn’t crying like a normal baby. It was shrieking. It was distraught. Its voice was hoarse. It sounded like an air raid siren one second, then, at the end of the baby’s breath, its voice crackled like an old radio. It didn’t have time 263

to breathe either. The baby that is. It just took a quick breath and started right back up – screaming its guts out.

Screaming – scared – alone.

“Felicity and Ethan, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S…” And the baby screaming.

She wished she were at home. She wished she were at home.

She wished she were at home. She wished she were at home. She wished she were anywhere but here.

“First comes love. Then comes marriage. Then comes a dead baby from the mummy’s tummy.”

Felicity screamed and then Ethan hit the brakes.

“What is it? What happened?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

He sounded genuinely concerned. Who wouldn’t? She’d been keeping this feeling in for months. She’d had a secret to tell and no one to tell it to. And now it had just all come out.

“I wanna go home,” she said.

“What? What do you mean? We’re on the way.”

“I wanna go home. I wanna see my mum. I wanna go home.”

She was crying now, as she had been, in the bathroom stall.

“But…We’re doing that thing. I mean…We have to do that thing.”

“That thing. That thing. Just say it! Just friggin’ say it!”

“You know we have to do this. We can’t have a kid. I can’t have a kid. I don’t even know what I’m doin’ next year. But I’m not gonna be here. And you…you know? You, too.”

“I don’t care,” said Felicity.

“Don’t be an idiot. You don’t wanna get in trouble, do you?

Cause that’s what’s gonna happen if we go home. Your mum and dad are gonna kill you. You know that, right? You’re gonna be in trouble.”

“I don’t care what happens. I just wanna go home. I want my mum. I want my mummy. I wanna go home. Please, take me home.”

“But we…”

“Please. Please. Please. Take me home. Take me home. Please, take me home. Take me home now!”

264

For the first time, Ethan heard her. For the first time, he actually saw her. And she was so fragile. She was so scared. She was shaking. She was pale. She looked so indefensibly alone.

“Ok, ok,” he said. “We’ll go back. I’ll take you home.”

“Thank you,” said Felicity.

And then a car smashed right into them. It came out of nowhere. Or it was there the whole time, and nobody was looking.

Not the other car. Not them. Not anyone. No one was ever looking.

It took hours for the ambulances and fire brigade to arrive.

It took even longer to pull the bodies from the twisted wrecks. The two cars were folded in and around each other like origami. By the time they were freed, only Felicity was alive – barely though.

Her family stayed by her side day and night. They never once let go of her hand. Her best friends too – Amanda, Alison, and Lauren – stayed with her as much as they were allowed.

They told her about all the stuff she had missed in school.

Then they said the funniest things just to make her laugh. And afterwards, they all told her their secrets – just like they used to. Then, when they had to go home, they all cried and told her they loved her, and that they missed her, and that they hoped she wouldn’t die.

And then, one day, after a terribly long time, there was some news.

“It’s time,” said the doctor. “Do you want to see her?”

“Her?” said Felicity’s mother.

You see, months had passed. And though, Felicity was braindead, her body had been kept alive by machines – alive long enough so that the child inside her could grow.

“She’s beautiful.”

“She looks just like her.”

Everyone had died in the crash, everyone except Felicity. She had been kept alive long enough so that today, on the day that she died, her daughter could be born.

265

MALLORY

266

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was born with no arms, no ears, and no eyes.

“What an unfortunate fate,” said one and all.

“The poor little thing.”

“His life will be fraught with difficulty and misery until the day he dies. There shall be no joy in this child’s life whatsoever, nor in the lives of those who are burdened to love him.”

“The kindest thing would be to put him down.”

And so, when he was barely a day old, the boy’s mother gave him up for adoption and sent him to live in a home for unwanted and discarded children.

And it was there that the boy was given a name.

“He looks like a Mallory,” said Mother Superior. “That shall be his name.”

“He looks like a wriggling worm to be truthful,” said one of her nuns.

“Yes,” said Mother Superior. “Even God makes mistakes.”

And so, Mallory, the boy with no arms, no ears, and no eyes had found a place where he could belong, a place he could call home. But, as he grew into a young lad, surrounded by boys and girls who themselves had been abandoned and discarded, but for less apparent deficiencies, poor Mallory never found his place.

Picked on, he was; and constantly too. He was laughed at, mocked, and pushed around.

Time and time again, he was the butt of every joke.

“Mole boy, mole boy, cannot hear or see,” sang the orphans.

“Hang him from the rafters, drown him in the sea.”

Their teasing and bullying had no end. Mallory, though, could neither hear nor see their taunting for he had no ears or eyes. Live, he did, in a world that was quiet and dark, but one that was rich in other senses. And none was more acute than his sense of smell.

Mallory knew the world around him by its smell. Each time of day had its own unique fragrance. Morning smelled like coffee and dew, while the afternoon air was peppered with the musky aroma of chalk, sweat, and fried beans. And the evenings smelled like industrial soap and conditioner. He knew each child too, not 267

by their names, but by their particular stink.

Each of them was fetid in their own way.

Francis, for example, the meanest of all the boys, had breath that smelled like gherkins and faeces. Gherkins, of course, being his favourite snack of which he ate with the same unwashed hand that he used to constantly pick at and scratch his nary washed bum.

Then there was Agnes. She wasn’t mean inasmuch as she was, heartless and inhumane. Whereas Francis loved to make other children cry, pushing and shoving and bullying them around; Agnes sought only to make them suffer. Anguish was her anthem. Cruelty was her culture. And she smelled like paint thinner.

Mallory knew, too, not just every child, but every square inch of the orphanage, from his small metal cot to the dining hall, the classroom, and out into the playground just by the smell alone that every inch of wall, ceiling, and floor permeated. That, and how the air brushed against his face and body as he passed every door and open window.

Adapt, he had, to his surroundings, seeing, not with his eyes, but with his whole body. He lived in a world that was just as magnificent, if not more so than the other children. It was, though, uniquely his. For he did not share the same experiences.

Be it sadness or joy, fear or exhilaration, Mallory experienced the world differently from other children. He was not scared by the same things which the other children all agreed were scary. Nor did he laugh at the same silly things they thought were funny. He did not find the same things pretty, just as he did not share a common repulse. Love, too, was something so distinct and precise that no other child would ever agree with or even understand for that matter.

Alone, he was, in a world, he shared with everyone else.

“Freak,” the other children would taunt. “Stupid weirdo!”

And then one day, led by Francis and Agnes, and cheered on by all the nuns, the children at the orphanage picked up Mallory over their heads and threw him in a pool of muck and manure by the end of the playground, in the garden bed where nothing ever grew.

268

“Mole boy, mole boy, will he sink or swim?”

Sink, he did, face-first into the excrement and muck.

The children all roared with laughter as poor Mallory wriggled his way, just like a worm, out of the garden bed and onto the grass. Covered, he was, from head to toe in manure. His teeth, too, were stinking and brown, as was every inch of his body.

“You disgusting boy,” shouted Mother Superior.

Mallory, though, could not believe his luck. For in his teeth, much to his amazement, was a single, coloured flower. He knew its colour too, because, despite the rancid stench of muck and manure, he could smell it. It had its own particular scent, different to anything else in the playground or school. It smelled like levity. It smelled like merriment and joy. It smelled like a canvas, one upon which the sun was brightly painted, overlooking a trail of soft wispy clouds.

It smelled like blue.

Mallory was so happy to have found the flower. It didn’t matter that he was covered in muck and manure. He couldn’t wait to show it to the other children. But when he did, they pushed him away with sticks, calling him stinky and smelly and gross.

“Get lost stumpy,” they shouted. “You got no arms and you’re ugly and you stink.”

“Stupid mole boy!”

But Mallory had no ears, so he couldn’t hear their teasing, and he had no eyes, so he couldn’t see them stomping on the flower. He was sure, though, much to his delight, that he could smell another flower somewhere in the garden, hidden neath all that muck and manure. And that thought alone had him spirited and inspired. It had him grinning from ear to ear.

And so, he dove back into the muck and manure, in search of that coloured flower.

“Not only deficient,” said Mother Superior. “But the boy is retarded too.”

Mallory spent every waking moment slithering through the muck and manure with his mouth agape, in search of that other flower. Over the years, in fact, this is what his life would become.

269

From dawn to dusk, he crawled on his belly like some sewer-dwelling insect through a pool of stench and filth.

“I do hope the devil is enjoying himself,” said Mother Superior.

“Do you think he is the devil’s creation?”

“God doesn’t make mistakes,” said Mother Superior. “Mallory here is the excrement of hell. He is the embodiment of buggery and sin. He is our penance to pay until he is eighteen.”

“And then?”

“Then he is given to the lions.”

And on his eighteenth birthday, Mallory was shown the front door of the orphanage and ushered out into the world outside. Too old, he was, to live inside their walls anymore. And with little more than some final words, poor Mallory was sent on his way.

“Pray,” said Mother Superior to Mallory as he walked away.

“Pray for swift mercy.”

But Mallory didn’t hear. He was in a world of his own, one now that encompassed so many scents and smells, it was almost overwhelming. This new world, though, was not much different to the one in which he had been raised.

It was just as mean. It was just as cruel.

The people, though, were not only mean and cruel to Mallory, but they were mean and cruel to each other too; and even worse to themselves. Self-righteous, they were; self-abased and selfloathing too.

All anyone ever talked about were the things that they hated, trumped only by the things they reviled or despised. Not one could remember the name of a single thing they loved. For conglomerate, they did, around a lake of manure, articulating on how much it stank.

“This is what’s wrong with the world,” they said, like seasoned academics.

“And this and this and this and this and this.”

Around the manure they sat, proving their smarts by pointing out the manure.

You don’t get it,” said a man said to his wife. “It’s all shit.

270

Everything is shit. The whole world is shit.”

There was, of course, a thousand other places they could sit, and with them, a thousand other experiences they could have.

But they were, it seemed, inexplicably drawn to that which detested them. Not only did they sit around the lake of faeces, but they also carried with them, giant sacks filled with faeces which they had found and collected, so as to show one another, how truly fetid the world was.

Imagine how estranged they were, then, when a man with no arms, no ears, and no eyes came seemingly out of nowhere, wriggling past them on the ground, headfirst into the giant lake of muck and manure.

Shocked, they were. Disturbed, sickened, and revolted.

“What kind of sycophant would willingly swim in a lake of shit?” said a man.

Watch him, they did. But they did so with the most perturbed looks on their faces, for the only thing more sickening than a lake of steaming and stinking manure was a man who would willingly swim in it.

“God damn artists,” said a woman in disgust.

Mallory swam through the lake of muck and manure with his mouth agape, using his tongue to sift through the thick, brown soup for one thing in particular. Swim, he did, like a snake or an eel, through every inch of that fetid sludge, following the sweet scent of a coloured flower that, no matter how fine, and no matter how swamped it was in manure, was as bright to his nose as the sun was warm on his skin.

And then, as he had done since he was a boy, Mallory clamped down on a small, coloured flower and yanked it out of its place, taking it back with him between his stained teeth as he wriggled through the muck and manure.

No one cared, though, that Mallory had brought them a flower. In truth, no one could see it. All they saw was a man with no arms, no ears, and no eyes covered in excrement and muck, and it disgusted them.

The only thing that interested them was manure. It was 271

something they hated. It was something they reviled. And to waste their time talking about flowers while the world was so full of faeces and dung seemed irresponsible and ignorant. It was the mark of a dunce, after all, to lecture about love when the world so patently overrun with corruption and hate.

Mallory, though, could not see their disgusted faces, nor could he hear their sniggering remarks. He merely dropped the flower on the ground and then wriggled back into the muck and manure in search of more.

Each time he came out with one new flower clasped in his teeth; each of them a different colour. This he knew because, despite the wretched stench of manure, each flower had its own particular aroma. Some smelled like fervent passion. Others smelled like melancholy and forlorn. While some smelled like the colour at the first light at dawn.

Time after time, though, the flowers he left behind went unseen, they went unnoticed. Eventually, the man and woman sitting around the lake of muck and manure grew tired of Mallory’s comings and goings. They became upset with his good spirit. And so, together, they chopped his legs off and threw his stump of a body into the middle of the lake.

Sink, he did, all the way to the bottom, and die.

“Can you believe all this shit,” said the man to the woman, pointing to the lake. “Someone should get rid of it. It stinks. The world stinks. Just look at it.”

Look, they did, out into the brown expanse, offended and enraged as they usually were. But before the woman could respond, something bright and colourful caught their attention.

“What is that?” said The Man. “It’s not shit. What is it?”

It was purple and red and green and blue.

“It’s a flower,” said The Woman, wonderfully.

It was the first time either of them had ever stared out over the lake of muck and manure and seen beauty. What an incredible thing, to see something so pretty growing amidst the contrast of something so galling and vile.

And grow the flower did. From Mallory’s gaping mouth, it 272

grew. From his rotting corpse, it grew. Up through the thick lake of muck and manure, it grew. And into the bright blue sky, it grew.

Magnificently, it grew. Its many coloured petals stretched out in the open sky, swaying gently in the afternoon breeze.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” said he.

“God is an artist,” said she.

And for a moment, both forgot about the smell of muck and manure.

273

I’ll miss you.

274

thank you: nenagh and tomás I owe you everything mum and dad maria eduarda dias my students stein roger sordal adam keane slade norris danilo fraga anna vanti ayahuasca you thanks for reading we exist at the exact same moment in time, it would be shame not to say hello cseanmcgee@hotmail.com live as you love.

275

Also by C.SeanMcGee: A Rising Fall (City Book 1) Utopian Circus (City Book 2) Heaven is Full of Arseholes Coffee and Sugar Christine Rock Book Vol I: The Boy from the County Hell Rock Book Vol II: Dark Side of the Moon Alex and The Gruff (a tale of horror) The Terror{blist} The Anarchist Happy People Live Here The Time Traveler’s Wife Ineffable London When it Rains The Inscrutable Mr. Robobt A Boy Called Stephany Alex and The Gruff: Dawn of the Bully Hunter The Parasite The Case Against God Faraday’s Cage

cseanmcgee.blogspot.com www.goodreads.com/c_sean_mcgee www.facebook.com/c.sean.mcgee @c.seanmcgee 276

277

278

Hidden Track

279

“What happened? Where am I?” “It’s ok. You had a fall. Just try not to move.”

He couldn’t, even if he wanted to.

“Who are you?” said The Old Man. “Where’s Marjorie? I’m supposed to meet Marjorie. We have a date. If I’m not there, she’ll think I stood her up.”

“It’s fine. Just stay still for me.”

“I have to go,” said The Old Man. “I can’t be here. I can’t be dilly-dallying. Fall, you said?”

“That’s right, George. You had a fall. But don’t worry, I’ve already spoken to Margorie.”

“Oh, you have?”

“I have.”

“How is she? Is she fine? Is she disappointed? I do hope she isn’t disappointed. She really is a special girl, and I would hate to let her down in any way. Was she upset?”

The Old Lady smiled. It was plain to see how much The Old Man cared. She merely shushed his worry away and gently stroked the side of his face.

“Everything is fine,” she said. “Marjorie is fine.”

“Oh, that’s good,” said The Old Man. “I’d never forgive myself if any harm came to her.”

The Old Man lay on his back on the kitchen floor, his head perched on a rolled-up blanket, with the blood from his open wound pooling around his body, tickling his fingers.

“We met in the library,” said The Old Man. “Marjorie and I.” “Oh, really?”

She acted coy, but she had heard this story a thousand times before, maybe more. She knew every word and every syllable, back to front and off by heart by now. The Old Man had told her this story at least fifty times a day for the last ten years, and not once did she ever tire of hearing it.

“If you’d seen her standing there, browsing through the periodicals. I thought she was the prettiest girl in the whole world.

I mean, I still do…She is, she’s beautiful. I have to pinch myself

280

every time we’re together just to be sure I’m not dreaming. I feel about as lucky getting to look at her every day as the janitor does, who mops those tiles in front of the Mona Lisa every morning.”

“Do you think he’d ever get tired of seeing it?”

“What? The Mona Lisa?”

“Well, I mean, if he’s seeing it every day, at some point it would just sink into the background of his bothers and worries. It would just become another painting. It wouldn’t be as special. He’d stop feeling lucky and instead be distracted by the goings-on in his mind.”

“Not at all,” said The Old Man. “Are you daft? It’s The Mona Lisa. She’d make all those goings-on, go away. Just one look. The corner of her eye would catch the corner of his. It was the same with Marjorie. The first time she looked at me I thought she would either kiss me or kill me.”

“And which was it?”

“Neither,” said The Old Man, laughing. “She told me to nick off.”

“I’m sure she wasn’t that blunt,” said The Old Lady.

“Near enough to it,” said The Old Man. “And so, what did you do?”

“Well, I let her alone, of course. Respect a lady’s words and wishes. Always. Never compromise on values. I wasn’t at all going to step on her coattails, and I sure as punch didn’t want to find out what would happen if I did. I can tell you right now, though. I knew right then and there that I was in love. No ifs or buts about it.”

“How long did you have to wait for that kiss then?”

The Old Man’s cheeks reddened like two cherry tomatoes as he thought of her.

“Too long at the time,” he said, nostalgically. “And not long enough in the end. You only get one first kiss. Every kiss afterwards is pure bliss. The first one, though, the first kiss is magic. I wish I could have held out longer. I wish I could have saved it to today.”

“I’m sure she feels the same,” said The Old Lady.

281

There was so much blood on the floor that The Old Man’s body was starting to slip.

“Her smile is incandescent,” he said. “Oh, if you’d seen it.”

“I can imagine,” said The Old Lady.

She was smiling herself. It was no easy feat, though, considering how things were. She knew, though, that he needed it. And besides, she felt the same way about him.

“I feel light. I feel dizzy. I think maybe I need some water. I might be sick. I had a fall, you say?”

“You did,” said The Old Lady, still gently stroking his face.

“Was it a bad one?”

“It was.”

“I’ll be fine in the end, though, right?”

“You will,” said The Old Lady. “You’ll be fine. We’ll both be fine.”

“Where am I again?”

“You’re at home?”

“Home?”

The place looked so foreign to him. Everything looked foreign to him.

“That’s right,” said The Old Lady. “You live here. You have for twenty-nine years.”

The Old Man looked estranged.

“Twenty-nine years? Well, that’s not possible.”

“Sometimes things don’t seem possible,” said The Old Lady.

“Even when they are.”

“But I’m only twenty-three. How is it that I could have lived in a house for twenty-nine years when I’m not even that old myself ?”

“You’re eighty-three,” said The Old Lady.

“Eighty-three? Are you bonkers? I’m twenty-three. I’m in college. I’m not an old man.”

He laughed, almost mockingly, and as he did, he coughed a clump of blood on the floor.

“Try not to get worked up,” said The Old Lady, wiping his face clean.

282

The Old Man’s expression turned. Gone was the veneer of joyful nostalgia. Gone, too, was the soft and placid look in his eyes.

Panic had set in. Dire and unmanageable panic.

“Where am I?” he said, jerking his head around.

The Old Lady, though, fought to keep him still, stroking his cheek and kissing his forehead.

“I have to go,” said The Old Man, desperate. “I can’t be here.

I don’t even know who you are. I have to go meet Marjorie.”

“It’s ok,” said The Old Lady. “Just rest.”

“No, you don’t get it.”

“I do. It’s fine.”

“No, you don’t. How could you? I don’t even know who you are.”

“It’s me,” said The Old Lady, softly kissing his temple.

“Please, you have to help me. I want to go. I just want to see Marjorie,” said The Old Man, crying. “I have to see Marjorie.

Please. I’ll do anything. I need to see her. Please. I don’t want to die alone.”

“I’m me,” said The Old Lady, again. “I’m Marjorie.”

“What?”

The Old Man’s fear had been trumped by confusion.

“What do you mean? You’re not Marjorie. You’re old.”

“You too,” said The Old Lady. “We’re both old. I am Marjorie. And I didn’t tell you to nick off,” she said. “I told you to smarten up.”

The Old Man’s face softened.

“Ha! You did.”

“You had a handful of comics and girly magazines. I told you that if you were going to talk to me, you’d best have something proper to say. Do you remember that?”

The Old Man smiled.

“I do,” he said.

“And what did you do?”

“I grabbed the first book I could that wasn’t a comic.”

“You were as charming then as you are now,” said The Old Lady. “You needed a little shove to get the message, but your 283

heart was pure. It still is.”

“We’re old?”

“We are,” said The Old Lady smiling.

“I can’t remember a day of it.”

“That’s ok,” said The Old Lady.

“Is this the first time we’ve had this conversation?”

“No,” said The Old Lady.

The Old Man laughed. It may, though, have been a passing sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s not your fault.”

The two sat there quiet for some time, both of them breathing heavily. He, lying on his back, his head perched on a pillow; and she, propped up beside him, gently stroking the side of his face.

“What was our life like?”

“It had its ups and downs,” said The Old Lady. “I wouldn’t, though, change it for the world.”

“Did we have children?”

“We did.”

“How many?”

“Five.”

“Five? And are they all grown?”

“They are. With kids of their own.”

“I’m a granddad?”

The Old Lady never tired of this part either. It was like every fact in his life were a present that he was unwrapping on Christmas morning. Each and every one of them a wonderful surprise, the kind he would never have expected. And all of them a piece in the puzzle that was his life.

“Did I love you?” he asked.

“Did you love?”

“Did I ever hurt you? Did I ever disappoint you? Did I ever let you down?”

The Old Lady wiped away one of her own tears this time and kissed The Old Man on the lips.

“It is you,” he said, mystified. “I knew it. I knew it all along.”

284

The Old Lady smiled.

“I love you, George,” she said.

“I love you too, Marjorie.”

The Old Man tried to reach out his hand, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Will you hold my hand?” he asked.

“Of course,” said The Old Lady.

“I don’t want to die alone,” said The Old Man. “You won’t. I’m here. I’m with you. You were never alone.

You were never alone.”

Then both George and Marjorie closed their eyes. He, squeezing her hand tightly, and she squeezing back. He, with blood gushing from the open wound on the back of his head. And she, with her hand pressed on the knife that stuck out from her side.

285

for jimmy

286