Her shadow was a sneaky thing, not quite doing what it should. She couldn’t say how long it had been acting up. She had been slow to notice and slower to believe. The fleeting movements at the edge of her gaze were too easy to disregard, too easy to dismiss as imagination. When watched, it would settle back into its place, follow her movements with tame obedience.
Or at least, it did. Lately, it had been acting out more. Even as she watched it would twitch and struggle. She could feel it tug on her body as it fought for control, fought to lead her—where? She didn’t dare find out, for deep down, she already knew.
She felt the tug most strongly in the liminal spaces where death was closest. Near the fast-flowing traffic, near the echoing drop of a too-far fall, even in the rattle of a month’s worth of pills. Oh, the shadow pulled hard in those moments. It was a struggle to keep herself safely in the light, safely in control. Tiring, exhausting. But she kept up the tired struggle, knowing that giving in would be the last thing she would ever do.
Under a bright blue summer sky, I lie back in the grass and smile up at the sun. I feel the warmth of its kiss upon my cheeks and imagine it smiling back at me. I close my eyes, let my head drift to the side while feathery pieces of hair tickle my face, and I listen.
I hear life’s heartbeat. I hear the birds calling out to one another in their sublime chitter-chatter. I hear leaves dancing upon the breeze as each bow sways. I eavesdrop as the grass whispers its subtle secrets, feel the vibrancy nurturing each blade. I sense the fluttering of a dragonfly as it zips to and fro. Dragonflies always find me; they come to murmur their hello. I smell earthy soil, the heat only a summer’s day can bring, I smell happiness. The scent of youth and joy, love found and lost, only to be found yet again. I remember days gone by, ones in which I would run freely through a field and laugh, only to be captured, held, kissed, cherished. I lie upon the warm blanket of green and experience so much.
Some may say this is a waste of time, so call me a fool, but know – this is time. Life offers her abundance to us all; we’ve only to open our eyes, our ears, our hearts, and our souls to absorb it. I choose to cherish life and offer my abundance in return.
When the two teenage hot dog vendors laughed at Brandon Viktor, they stuck their tongues out. The thin, stoop shouldered 21-year-old Viktor took his wiener from its bun and bit a huge piece off. Everyone in Princetown thought they could make fun of him, but he still had a powerful chomp.
He arrived in town two months ago, after his mom kicked him out of the house. She gave him a thousand bucks, told him to adventure somewhere far away and find some meaning to his life.
Brandon walked into his tiny apartment. He got down on his hands and knees and inspected the couch. It looked pretty much the same. But the lamp. A chip out of the side. That wasn’t there yesterday. Brandon punched the side of the couch with his fist. “They won’t stop. They just won’t stop,” he muttered, holding his aching hand. Every day after returning home, something valuable replaced with a cheap replica. That, and the tongue teasing, and the surreptitious giggling. He’d already changed the locks three times.
Brandon went to the police station. The two female officers laughed, just like the hot dog vendors. He saw their protruding tongues. “Are you on any medication?” said one.
“No,” Brandon whispered. It seemed that the officer wanted him drugged up and compliant. Brandon wasn’t going down without a fight. He left the police station grinding his teeth and muttering “evil Princetown bastards.”
He opened his bedroom closet and inspected his collection of whips. He liked how the whips snapped. He often practiced flicking them, imagining his enemies flayed and under his power. Now, even here, replica whips found. Cheap imitations. A normal sheeple wouldn’t notice, Brandon mused, “they’re talking advantage of my sensitivity.”
He didn’t know why everyone wanted him out of Princetown. Possibly jealousy. People walked by him on the street, showing their tongues. Trying to make him think his member didn’t measure up. He sometimes stuck his own tongue out at them. Yet the more he fought, the more the persecutions escalated.
One day he lost his keys. He searched all around the neighbourhood, on the lawn, behind the toilet. He bought a carton of milk at the store, opened it for morning cereal. In the pouring white gush he felt something heavy. He upended the container and discovered his lost keys. Someone had broken into his apartment, grabbed the keys, then placed them in the very milk carton he chose at the supermarket. Brandon threw his cereal against the wall. The plate shattered. His favourite plate, the one with Darth Vader on it.
Brandon decided to change tactics. He’d throw a party. If he did something nice, something generous, maybe everyone would like him. After all, he’d been very insular. He hadn’t spoken to anyone but the police for many days.
Brandon took all his social assistance money and went into the liquor store. He bought a few hundred dollars’ worth of wine and spirits and beer. Then he made colourful posters advertising his free party. “Citizens of Princetown, come to Brandon Viktor’s apartment at 21-329 Gorgon Street 9 pm Friday til ? for a welcome bash. Free alcohol!”
People began arriving an hour early. Some folks seemed normal; some resembled the indigents living in the park across the street. They all acted happy. Brandon bought out his CD’s and played them on his little portable stereo. He poured drinks, served chips and popcorn. Everyone laughed, people exclaimed “Thank you.” “This is a great party, Brandon. It is Brandon, isn’t it?”
Brandon drank til the room swirled. Might as well celebrate the housewarming. He didn’t know when he got to sleep. Upon awakening, he staggered into the bathroom, peered into the toilet at a pile of wet paper. He peed and flushed, and the water swirled up over the edge. Plugged! Brandon quickly turned the water off, lurched out of the room and frantically inspected his apartment. What a mess! Empty or broken wine glasses everywhere. The flat screen TV gone, along with his toaster. The music player vanished. And those fabulous speakers! Brandon ran to check his whip closet. All the whips intact, but perhaps more were replicas? He sorted furiously through the collection.
“Someone will pay for this!” he muttered. “Princetown will not escape my wrath. Someone will be sacrificed as a message for these bastards!” Brandon stood on his patio, flicking his whips over the street.
He phoned his mother, spoke one sentence on her answering machine. “You can auction off my comic book collection, I won’t be needing it anymore. Love you, Mom.”
The next morning he bought a razor sharp carving knife with the last of his money. He stuffed the knife under his jacket, swallowed a number of pills to stop his terrible headache, and headed for the town park.
He hid in a bathroom stall at public toilets in a little used section of green space, and waited, crouched on the seat, the knife clasped in his hand. After a while, footsteps. Brandon listened and watched, peeping out from a crack at one side of the stall door. A six-foot tall, hefty shouldered young man entered. Brandon stood five foot five, weighed in at 136 pounds. He decided to let this guy go.
Ten minutes later he watched an older fellow, maybe in his seventies, fumbling to open his fly. Brandon quietly stood up, pulled back the stall door. The white-haired fellow started his business. Brandon leaped forward with the knife and plunged it into the old man’s side. A scream, and then the struggle. It was very, very hard to kill this guy. The old geezer wriggled like a worm. His attacker stabbed again and again. The man raised his arms then began to gargle and fall. Brandon left the knife sticking from the victim’s side and ran out, passing two small children at a nearby picnic table.
He started washing himself off at the nearby brook. Then he stopped, overcome by echoing voices telling him “The Victor, you are the Victor!” Like his last name. He sat back against a tree, laughing. He had taken revenge by killing a community citizen. He showed them who was boss. Princetown couldn’t fool with him. The police discovered Brandon there by the brook, giggling, waggling his tongue in their direction.
It wasn’t until a month later, while being interviewed in his cell for fitness to stand trial, that Brandon heard the details about his victim. The grandfather he murdered, Peter Van Sickle, had popped into the washroom after taking his two grandchildren to the park, allowing their mother a morning break. He’d driven in the day before from Oregon, to visit his daughter and spend a few days.
“He wasn’t even a citizen of Princetown?” said Brandon.
“Nope.” The interviewing psychiatrist shook his head. “Does that matter?”
Brandon gripped his head in his hands. “I killed an innocent man. I should have asked where he was coming from.”
The psychiatrist scribbled some quick notes. “Looks like you’re very upset.”
Brandon looked at the doctor through his tears. “I made a terrible mistake.”
At Brandon’s court fitness hearing, citizens of Princetown protested outside the courthouse yelling “Justice for Peter Van Sickle,” and “Put the monster away for life!” The hearing and the protests made national headlines.
“I can’t figure it out,” Brandon said to his lawyer. “They’re so angry at me, and the old guy wasn’t even from their town.”
“They say this crime took their innocence,” the lawyer said. “They say they’ve never experienced such a brutal, barbaric event in Princetown before.”
A frown played across Brandon’s face. He clenched his fists. “They made me do it. It was an act of self-defence. They should be charged with murder, not me. When we drove up in the sheriff’s car today, I saw their tongues sticking out.”
“We’re going to plead insanity,” said the lawyer.
However, to Brandon, it all made perfect sense, except for his one major error in judgement.
Born poor, I had no choice. My father sent me to be a homesteader’s wife. Each night, I was duty bound to lie with him, a business I truly loathed. He beat me after, as if I somehow failed him in the act. Six years, I survived in this miserable place. I bore his children, two girls of one torso, linked by bone and hip with arms apiece. When he saw them, he cursed and spat upon their little faces, forcing me to hide them from his sight.
They proved quick learners as they grew, I taught them how to hunt and how to kill, survival in this land of discontent. They shared two legs, yet possessed a willing heart.
Another night he dragged me to his bed, but I wailed and called out to my babes. Up did Mary rise to poke him in the eye, then smoothly did her sister Susie slit his bearded throat.
Mater has me cloistered in her potting shed. I’ve screamed until my throat is raw, but no one comes. Christ, she’s a bitch supreme. Tis true, I fed her stupid prize rose to the goat. The thing appeared to be a cross between a mushroom and an avocado, truly revolting to behold. Anyway, it was only for a lark, but the old bat took it seriously. Starlight sifts through the cracks between the boards. If I crane my neck, I can see the moon. That sluggish golem servant she’s made is a mess, with sand for brains. He brings me a crust of bread, a lump of stinky cheese. Now off he goes to gather kindling for our hearth. But wait, he’s not going to the house. Instead, he’s piling it high around my shed. I hear the scratching of a match …
The Eye Charles Gramlich
An eye opened in the forest, a red fleshy eye. Then another. And another. No one realized what they were, or what they promised. Just nature’s oddities, humans thought. People went about their business, using the world as they saw fit. But now the world was watching. It had been asleep for a few billion years but that long nap was over. How long before it opened its mouth too—and began to feed?
My Little Flower Lee Andrew Forman
Homemade medicine drops between your lips at my discretion. You are ill, that I know. No doctor need visit. One drop, two drops, don’t cry. Your beauty shines too brightly, attracts too many flies. Your protector I was, still am. I’ll make sure they can’t get to you, my dear.
The concoction, a recipe not my own. I paid in a back-alley shop, only known by rumor. Bones dangled from the ceiling and candles moved shadows.
I visit daily since you passed, watch this strange flower grow. I wonder if you hear me there, praying to your ghost. I stroke the petals and think of you—my little flower, how I loved you then, now, and forever.
The Blooming Kathleen McCluskey
The jungle swallowed him whole, the dense foliage closing in like living walls. Sweat clung to his skin as he pushed deeper, following the rancid stench that thickened with every step. Then, he saw it. A monstrous bloom, red and fleshy. It was huge, sprawled against the base of a gnarled tree. Its petals, speckled like diseased flesh, pulsed so slightly as if breathing. The center gaped open, a cavernous maw lined with slick, ridged folds. The air soured farther, thick with decay. Flies buzzed around something lodged within the gaping cavity. A bone, yellowed and splintered, jutted from the depths.
His stomach clenched. The camera in his hands trembled, the lens trained on the grotesque marvel. He had found it! His colleagues had mocked him, now here he stood in front of it. He raised his camera, sweat rolling down his fingers. The moment the shutter clicked, the petals twitched. A wet, sucking noise oozed from within.
A spray of warm, gooey fluid hit his arm and face. Searing pain flared across his skin, burning, eating through his flesh like acid. He staggered back, his vision tunneling as his nerves ignited in agony.
The petals unfurled and surged forward, grabbing him, pulling his collapsing body closer. Enveloped in the wet, pulsating petals, he writhed while needle-like spikes protruded from the fleshy walls. They pierced his skin and anchored him in place while the flower’s insides began to constrict. His scream barely escaped before the flower slammed shut. Muffled sounds of feasting echoed through the jungle.
By morning, the jungle was silent. The flower sat motionless, its petals gleaming. The only sign of what had transpired was the faintest smear of red on the tree roots.
The Flower Ear Harrison Kim
My flappy flower ear can hear everything, the tiny tendrils quivering, taking in all you say. There are millions of my listeners everywhere, as everyone knows by now. My spotted flesh and eardrum ring sit planted at the side of every dwelling and business, subway entrance and even on the trees in the park. All whispers caught. All words taken in and all discussions acquired. You might think you are saying nothing wrong, but fear not, I will decide for you. As my flaps flap and my circle thickens and thins over all my millions of ears, I ponder the value of your existence. Shall I approve of all the things you said and did? No, that is impossible. But there are minor sins and venial sins. Sure, if you embezzled a few dollars, ate all the red smarties, or cheated on your wife, more power to you. You’re a person after my own heart. But If you talked against me personally there can be no forgiveness. I have to say “that’s not very nice,” and show you the consequences.
If you see my flappy ear shimmering over your bed at night, you know it’s judgement time. Rise and clasp the blossom to your heart before it strikes. That way, things will go easier for you. Then the flower will either penetrate, gentle but keen as a razor blade, and become part of you as well as me, or it will suck its ring around your red centre and pull the organ out, chewing and absorbing your treacherous fleshy soul.
Red Spores A.F. Stewart
A starless night, black as pitch, so the red streak lit up the sky in brilliance and when it landed, the fireball exploded and engulfed half the woods in flames. Sirens screamed as fire trucks and police swarmed the scene, people yelling and pushing everyone back to clear the area.
In the morning, the black SUVs came with the scientists and the quarantine.
Then people started dying.
It happened swiftly, before anyone understood. The cough came first, lungs filling with blood, choking folks on their own fluid. Then the skin shrivelled, dehydration creating a thirst no amount of water could quench. The last stage was the bloating, where the abdomen swelled to twice its size before bursting, spewing putrid guts and crimson spores into the world.
But that wasn’t the worst.
Where the spores landed, plants grew within hours. Giant pulsing leathery flowers, spotted red, emitting a hypnotic hum, enticing people with their siren call. No one resisted, no one protested; we were willing prey. Yet, everyone watched in horror as it happened. The crunch of bone, the blood, their screams, your eyes fixed on your neighbours being eaten alive, knowing your turn was coming. I watched my mama die and it’ll be me soon enough.
I want to run away, to shriek, but I can’t. I stay in line waiting to be devoured.
The best I can do is record our story and hope someone finds it…
Once in a Lifetime Richard Meldrum
It was an invitation-only event. The rich, the well-connected and a rabble of assorted ‘influencers’ were asked to attend the blooming of the century plant. No riff-raff were allowed.
It was held at the Botanic Gardens, an elegant Victorian glass and steel structure housed in one of the city parks.
The invitees flocked to the event, despite the lack of canapés and champagne. This really was a once in a lifetime opportunity. The clue was in the name, the plant produced a single flower every eighty to a hundred years.
The cream of local society crowded round the huge plant, cell phones in hand, waiting expectantly for the glistening bulb atop the massive leaves to burst open in a cacophony of color and spectacle. The staff discreetly left the area and made sure the doors were closed.
Standing outside, they listened with muted glee to the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ from within. Then there was silence. After a judicious period, they opened the doors to see the pile of bodies. It was a well-preserved secret that the bulb released an air-borne toxin on opening.
The Bloom Miriam H. Harrison
She had first encountered it in her dreams. On those nights, the bloom spread wide and waiting like a lover. She was no stranger to the pleasures of the forest, of course. She knew the cold, slick touch of the naiads, the rough, knotty embrace of the dryads, the sensuous whispers of wisps beyond her touch. But this beckoning bloom was different, promising a singular experience, and she was woken each morning by goosebumps and anticipation.
So began her days scouring through the forest, sure that the bloom itself was more than mere dream. Journeying in and out of the forest soon seemed inefficient, so she gave up on returning home, sleeping amid the trees and stars, hoping that her dreams might draw her closer. And in those dreams the bloom waited, hinting at mystery and possibility.
Her life was lived between dreaming and searching. It was a strange sort of half life. But she did not fear death—she only feared giving up on the search. The search for something more. Something beyond the limits of her life as she had known it.
And so when she finally found it, it only seemed fitting that the bloom would smell of death. Not a threat, but a promise. As she gave her tired self over to its embrace, she felt the singular relief of yielding to the timeless unknown.
Le Fleur Elaine Pascale
One day, when the Little Prince was tending to his rose, he noticed another plant sprouting. “This is no baobab,” he confirmed, “it’s a seed from who knows where.”
The plant asked for a moment to ready itself, and the Little Prince dutifully turned his back. When the plant announced that it was ready, the Little Prince turned to see the most startling and strange blossom. Its petals resembled tentacles and its core looked like a widely opened eye.
The Little Prince could not help but fall in love.
The Little Prince said, “You should be careful, there’s a war on my planet between sheep and flowers.” The Little Prince examined the plant carefully. “And you don’t have thorns.”
“I don’t need thorns,” the plant sniffed, “I have teeth.”
“And what is the purpose of teeth?”
“It’s not a matter of importance,” the plant replied.
The Little Prince was confounded. For a flower, there was nothing more important than its thorns. Certainly teeth, being so rare, ranked even higher.
“My rose is not going to like this.”
The plant craned its petals to get a better look at the rose.
“She seems mean.”
“Flowers can’t be mean, they’re vulnerable. For instance, while I am talking to you, she could be eaten by a sheep.” The Little Prince wanted to look away from the new plant, but he was captivated.
“Or by me.”
The Little Prince found he had no choice. He was compromised by his affection for both of his plants. He began traveling the galaxy, bringing visitors back with him, to satiate the new plant and keep his rose safe.
Travelers beware: if you find yourself in a desert landscape and meet a child with golden hair and laughter like bells, run as fast and far as you can!
Though small, the key was heavy and intricate, almost needlessly ornate. Its tangle of curlicues wrapped and twisted like overgrown brambles.
“Are you sure this is the one?” she asked, turning the key in her hand doubtfully.
“Without a doubt,” the merchant said cheerily. “The key to the heart!”
“To any heart?”
“Perhaps not quite any,” the merchant conceded. “But most, by far.”
She remained unconvinced. “But how would I know?”
“The same way we know anything, my dear,” he laughed. “By trying, and trying again. It will not be long before you find its proper match. It is always nearer than you think.”
She was not quite sure that she believed him. But neither did she wish to leave empty handed. Not when there was hope for sale.
***
Trying proved to be a messy, uncertain process. True, the key fit many a heart. But so far those hearts seemed hollow, more show than substance. She tried each time to imagine she had found her treasure, only to leave with her regrets and that heavy key back in hand.
But worse were the hearts it didn’t fit. The hearts broken and bloodied by trying too hard. She stepped away from another still-writhing body and regretted the blood-stained key that had caused so much pain.
After a time, she stopped trying. She washed the blood from the key’s ornate tangles, polished it as best she could, hoping the merchant might yet buy it back. But she returned to the market only to learn that he had long since disappeared.
***
She wore the key around her neck, not knowing what else to do with it. Not ready to try, but not ready to part with the hope.
She pondered the hearts she had known. The empty disappointments. The broken, bloodied mysteries. What had she hoped to find there? What was it she was missing?
How strange to realize that she did not know. Did she even know the state of her own heart? Could she? Did she have the courage to find out?
Her hands shook as she took the key from around her neck. Looking in the mirror, she traced her fingers down from her clavicle, saw her own locked heart. She thought of the empty many. She thought of the bloodied few. Which was she?
The pain was worse than she could have imagined. Though small, the key cut deep. For a moment, she wondered if knowing was worth the pain. But even in the pain, she felt the contact, the release. She felt her heart opening.
She looked down to see herself, wide and empty and aching. But at last, she knew. She knew that she was empty. And she knew that there was hope. With that heavy key, she could begin to fill the emptiness herself.
Initially, my journey had gone to plan. It wasn’t until I was instructed by the GPS to turn off the highway onto a narrow country road that the problems started. Just as my tires crunched onto the dirt road, the clouds, threatening all day, finally released their snow. I checked the GPS and saw I had about fifty miles to go. I decided I could make it, as long as the snow didn’t get worse.
It got worse.
I found myself crawling along at about ten miles an hour. The snow was settling and the going was slippery. I had neglected to put on my winter tires and could feel the car losing traction and sliding dangerously towards the ditch. I slowed to a crawl, worried I might lose control. The wind buffeted my car, making the going even more unsteady. It didn’t take me long to notice my GPS had malfunctioned, it was showing I was still on the highway. My cell phone had no bars. I realized I had no idea where I was going. The road was too narrow to turn round. I decided to keep going, to try to find a house where I could ask for directions.
“Why the hell didn’t he just agree to meet me at the office?”
I already knew the answer; rich clients expected their architects to come to them, not the other way round. I had to drive out of the city to meet my newest potential customer at his country estate. He didn’t care if it was February or if snow was forecast; the planning meeting was scheduled for today. If I refused to attend; well, there were plenty of other eager, young architects happy to step into my shoes.
The road started to incline. I floored the accelerator to keep my momentum up. My car wasn’t four-wheel drive. I reached the top, just.
As I crested the hill, there was a four-way stop. There was a police cruiser parked up and a cop standing beside it, wearing a high visibility jacket. I lowered my window, feeling the biting cold of the wind for the first time.
“Is there a problem?”
“The road is closed. Please turn left and follow the diversion.”
His voice was strangely flat. I guessed he was bored.
“Thank you!”
There was no response.
I turned left and headed down the hill. A sign told me a place called the Witch’s Gorge was two miles away. As I drove, an idea dawned on me. I nearly slapped myself. I should have asked the cop where I was and how to get to my destination. Luckily, this road was a bit wider, so I could turn the car round, albeit with some difficulty, and head back up the hill. As I arrived at the top, I saw him still standing by the police cruiser.
“Do you know how to get to the Croxley house from here?”
“The road is closed. Please turn left and follow the diversion.”
“I know, you just told me. I just want some directions. I’m lost.’
“The road is closed. Please turn left and follow the diversion.”
“You just said that. Are you okay?”
I got out my car, thinking he was suffering from hypothermia or something. As I got closer I realized something was definitely wrong. The figure was lumpy and misshapen. Instinctively, I put my hand out. My hand encountered something that felt like straw. I used my cell phone to illuminate the face. A pair of very human eyes stared out at me from a mass of dried grass, topped by a police officer’s cap. The eyes were alive, full of pain and despair.
“The road is closed. Please turn left and follow the diversion.”
There was no mouth.
The next few moments were a blur. I vaguely remember running through the snow, jumping into my car and hitting the accelerator. The next memory was reaching the highway. I made it home in record time. I never did get to meet my rich client.
No-one believed me. I wasn’t sure I believed it myself. It took a few days for the news to emerge, but then it hit all the main outlets. Five abandoned cars, including a police cruiser, had been found near the Witch’s Gorge, stuck in deep snow. There was no sign of the occupants. The assumption was they’d left their vehicles and wandered off into the snowy wilderness. The authorities termed the search a ‘recovery operation’, meaning they were looking for bodies. I suspected they wouldn’t be found and I was right.
The road hadn’t really been closed. Something had set up the terrifying straw effigy, something that was smart enough to understand the prey it sought. Something had taken the eyes and the vocal cords from one of the victims and crafted a facsimile; something that was close enough to pass for a cop. Something that could fool us. The victims were sent down towards the gorge, and God alone what happened to them then.
I was grateful I’d escaped, but it was pure, unadulterated luck. What still keeps me from sleeping is the sure and certain knowledge that whatever killed those folks is, without a doubt, still out there.
Screaming….loud… the normal swimming pool sound, the splashing, leaping kids, the developmentally disabled, the laughing old men with hairy backs boiling red round the hot tub especially at mid-afternoon… but who is that average lean fellow feeling the jet fountain spray all over his bald head? Yes, some kind of officer of the law…looks like his compatriots are here already, laughing and joking with the differently abled children. Some kind of charity service. They do it once a month. A good gig on their 80 thousand a year salaries. Must be nice.
I’m forever nervous in the presence of the police. Ten years ago, I did something. Never caught. So, every time there’s aspects of the law in here it’s scary. Are they finally coming for me? I just act like all the others, nonchalantly enjoying myself.
I was the caretaker here, you see, ten years ago. There was an accident. Something to do with the chlorine. A pipe burst and the aroma escaped and burned a lot of people. Even the insides of their windpipes. Anyway, you should’ve heard the screaming then!
The investigation blamed a faulty valve. They gave the sufferers lots of financial compensation, including me. Of course, I know the reason for the fault. I’m much closer to pipes and chlorine and the pool surface than I am to anyone. The reason’s deep in my heart, now. I wanted them to know, to know who I was. That was my primary motive. To be recognized finally, in the greatest light, as a hero. So, to be a hero, I had to cause pain, chaos, even within myself, and then I had to right it.
What’s a wonder is that I’m still the caretaker, the custodian, the only one besides the lifeguard not moving or smiling, back here behind my office window regarding all the kids and parents. How they yell in ecstasy in the water! Splashing and thrashing, kicking arms and legs. Not unlike the throes of death sometimes. It’s a miracle to still be here, free and victorious, serving the public these many years.
The itching in my eyes all the time bothers me, and my skin, too, it’s always so dry, and I carry that pool smell. Even when I go to bed at night, the chlorine lingers, a constant reminder of where I’m from, who I am. It’s like I’ve become a Neptune creature over all these forty years. I now rather enjoy the daily chemical layering, and the memories from it, and hesitate to wash it away.
Yes, they still say hi to me, the ones who know me, and remember the accident. The others, the strangers, might turn their heads, or pretend not to notice my disfigurement. In the accident, my face burned and burned. What they don’t know is that I was very conscious of that faulty valve, and I purposely let it blow, I even tapped it a few times with my huge pipe wrench. Despite knowing the immediate pain that would follow, I looked forward to the long-term pleasure.
Life is so dull, so humdrum and low paid, that often the only way out is to tap at something. You don’t want to be caught; you just want things to change. And change they do. It takes a lot of will, but if you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything. At least, that’s what I discovered. So much sympathy that came my way. I rescued several children from the accident scene, despite my injuries, while fighting the noxious fumes. The parents still invite me over for visits and give me suppers. I saved an old man, and tended to the injuries of the young people, using my top notch first aid training, applying all the special breathing masks with consummate skill.
The city gave me accolades for that. My picture and story featured on the TV news, and a special medal made, presented by the mayor. For weeks, interviews and accolades, and visits to my hospital bed. So many flowers and gifts! And now I sit here behind my office glass, and watch, and listen to the joyful screamers. Wonderful to see the police helping too, heroes simply by default. I had to work for my victory, and I have paid the price, despite always, in a judicial sense, living free. My drooping mouth and misshapen face remind me of this. Every day I notice the mirrors, reflecting my scars, and more subtly and enjoyably, my deeds.
Opposites are sometimes compatible, overlapping. The bad and the good, the burning and the healing. I clean the pool, and it becomes dirty again. I release the gas, then rescue the victims. Screaming can mean pleasure, or suffering. The common sound has two opposing moods. As long as I’m here, I can decide, every day, which mood that the swimmers and bathers experience, and remember.
I hear it inside the walls. The scratching travels up and down, room to room, and I follow with ravenous curiosity. Lines in black marker sprawl across my apartment, tracking the paths it takes. They’ve begun to overlap.
Little gifts it leaves, but always when I’m not looking. I’ve yet to glimpse its form. I once tried, strained my eyes to remain open as long as they could. But eventually they grew heavy and took me to darkness. When I woke, a single tooth lay before me. I searched my mouth with a finger and found the gap.
I no longer wonder where the gifts come from.
I wish to meet my little friend, and the thought occurs—what if I leave an offering in return?
What might satisfy it? Show it I mean no harm, and only want to know my secret companion? I think on this a while, picking at a scab on my head, until the answer is revealed by an inner revelation.
I run to the kitchen, open a drawer, and take out what I need. It likes parts, as shown by the prized collection I’ve gathered on a shelf. And what better part than to show it I want to see?
I take the spoon, place the lip below my lower eyelid, and pray it will suffice.
They huddled together under tattered blankets, a mother and daughter hidden in the shadows of the abandoned building. Outside, the wind rattled against the walls and howled through the cracked windows; the noise drowned the rumblings of their hungry bellies. Weeks of running left them exhausted, yet neither slept. Fear kept them awake.
The girl whispered, “Was there ever a better world than this one, Mama? Grandma said there was. A place where we didn’t always run, didn’t hide. Where daddies and raiders never hunted and hurt us.”
Her mother squirmed. “Perhaps, sweetie. Once. I have vague memories, but they might be only dreams. If it existed, it was a long time ago and it’s never coming back.”
“Like Grandma?”
An intake of breath, a pause, and then, “Yes. Like Grandma.” There was a soft sigh. “What happened to Grandma is why we run, why I teach you. Now tell me the three rules.” She patted her daughter’s hand.
“Yes, Mama. Rule 1: Never trust anyone, not even if they’re nice to you. Rule 2: Try to be kind, but be cruel if you have to.” Her lip quivered. “Like we were with Grandma when we left her?”
“Exactly. She couldn’t keep up and leaving her behind distracted those raiders. Now what’s rule 3?”
“Rule 3: Don’t be weak. The strong live. The strong make it to the Promised Land. The strong dodge the raiders. The strong will be free. No masters, no daddies. No one to hurt us.”
“Good.” She tousled her daughter’s hair. “Never forget those rules. Never break them. If we’re smart, we’ll escape. Now get some sleep. We move out with the sunrise.”
“Tell me about the Promised Land, Mama. It helps me sleep.” The girl snuggled against her mother, burrowing into the blankets.
Words drifted on the darkness. “The Promised Land is a safe place, a place without raiders, or masters, or cruelty, where the fear of engines doesn’t exist. Women don’t have to worry there, don’t fear being hurt, or killed, or enslaved. We won’t have to run, or hide, or go hungry. It’s where we can be happy. Where we don’t have to live by the rules of men.”
The girl closed her eyes, dreaming of a beautiful land as she fell asleep. Her mother kept watch over her, listening for the sound of the raiders’ engines…
Weeks later, their long journey behind them, they left the wasteland and found a place of grassy scrub and a cracked road leading north. Taking her daughter’s hand, the mother squeezed and murmured, “We’re almost there, sweetie. Almost to the Promised Land, to safety.”
Two more days found them outside a neglected settlement, overgrown with vegetation and vacant of life. A broken fence surrounded rustic, disused houses and buildings. As they drew closer, they noticed an open gate crookedly swinging on rusting hinges. Walking inside, a faded sign greeted the pair, mocking them with the ruined, peeling letters: P R O I S M E D A N D.
The girl looked around and tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Is this it, Mama?”
“Yes.” The word cut cold in the air and held despair in its depths.
“But it’s empty, Mama. Where are the people? Where’s the Promised Land?” She stared at her mother, watching the woman’s expression harden. “Are we safe yet?”
“No.” The sound almost choked in her throat. “It’s gone. It’s all gone. There is no Promised Land, no safety. They destroyed it too.” She looked at her daughter as the sound of engines roared in the distance. “It was all a false dream. It was all for nothing.”
She bent down and tilted her daughter’s chin, staring into her eyes. “There’s one more thing to learn, sweetie.” Her other hand reached into her travelling bag. “Rule 4: Everyone lies. Even me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know, sweetie.” She brushed her daughter’s hair with her fingers and straightened. “I’m sorry, but there’s nowhere to run and hide anymore and I can’t go back.” She smiled at the confused child. “I’m so sorry.”
From her bag, she pulled out a pistol and shot herself in the head, blood spraying her daughter’s upturned face. The nearing sound of engines mixed with the girl’s screams.
Pen of the Damned 