My kidnappers threw me into a room. SMASH! My head crashed into the bedside table. I reached for a rugged, tartan blanket to cover the bleeding, it was snatched away by my kidnappers. “Drink up,” they snarled in unison, pointing at a mysterious, green and oddly familiar liquid. I strained. “No,” I replied weakly, and then one of them held me still. The other rammed it down my throat. I suddenly felt dizzy. I knew I was on my last legs.
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If only...  I found the WD40, the miracle lubricant of locks and bicycles, the renovator of garden implements, the curer of squeaks and groans. I bored a little hole just below my knee, where it grinds and crunches at the slightest bend. I eased in the delicate nozzle, then squeezed slowly, feeling the thin oil penetrate, sluice the dried bones, plump the desiccated ligaments, coat the flaccid muscles. I did the other one too, then tested them, swinging gently. There was no pain, no tautness, no ligamentous argument, no tendon screaming. Oiled, clean, smooth-running, agile and manoeuvrable, I sprinted up the hill.
John sat in the dimly lit room, staring at the bloody knife in his hand. Mary lay motionless on the floor, a pool of blood forming around her slashed throat. Adrenalin coursed through his body, washing over him, like never before. He felt – glorious.
He knelt next to her, taking her hand in his. “I love you so much! Too much. Now you’re mine forever!” Mary opened her eyes and smiled, sweet ruby glycerin dripping from her mouth. “Are you as turned on as I am?” John nodded, wondering how doing it for real would make him feel. I’m humming ‘Time Is on My Side’, keeping the beat with my left foot, while a woman takes an age at the self-service till. Not her fault – bless – as she has to scan... every... single ...item.
It takes longer now since everything’s been speeded up. I feel an arousal of indignation behind me. Another woman lets out a resounding sigh. I was thinking of pasta carbonara tonight. I’ve had the chance to change my mind. I’m no longer falling half in love with women on the checkout tills. ‘Where Do You Go to My Lovely?’ Now there’s another song. The teacher said, "Your homework assignment was to create a costume depicting your favorite storybook character and write a new story about that character. Who would like to read first?"
Dierdra, dressed as a fairy, walked to the front of the class and began her story. "Once upon a time, a young fairy looked in her mirror and combed her straight, brown hair. She wished she had curly, blonde hair." Dierdra stopped reading. She reached into her pocket, took out some fairy dust and sprinkled it on her straight, brown hair. The students gasped when Dierdra's hair turned curly blonde. Linc lay back in bed, surrounded by the things most important to him: his beer, housed at his feet in a trusty mini-fridge; his cold meds, a thick, syrupy, green clop contained in tall, trapezoidal plastic bottles; and his cache of illegals. He fingered the leather bag containing the pills and capsules and tablets. Linc glanced at his watch. He needed to get ready; the junior high would be letting out soon, and it was time to scare up some money.
They walked toward the swimming pool with little Johnny holding her hand and the sweet boy holding the other.
“When we get to the pool there will be a changing room for the boys and one for the girls,” said Little Johnny. “Why is that?” she asked foolishly. “That’s so the girls don’t see the boy’s private parts and the boys don’t see the girl’s,” he replied. Slowly the sweet boy said, “I’ve seen a girl’s private parts. “But it’s O.K he added quickly, it was my mom’s, and it was all covered up with hair.” The Ancient Sword has lived for millennia, from the ages of iron to the age where iron breathes. It has seen everything–every war, every birth and death of every nation, every messiah who claimed It to themselves, every prophet who cursed Its every existence. It has seen all.
This celestial artifact can do all things; It could breathe life into the most lifeless of all ashes, It could cure the deadliest of diseases, It could bring prosperity to all that’s living, but even with all its power, It still can’t understand why It is only used to kill. Morning! How did your date with Jake go Mum?
It wasn’t a date. Sorry, how was your evening? I didn’t recognise him at first. Oh God! Do you know what a Catfish is? Do you mean Dogfish? No, a person that pretends to be something else online. Oh no! I think he’d just remastered his photos a bit. What? Mum, I don’t know what you mean. You know like they did with ‘Psycho’ and ‘The Thing’ Mum! Did you have a good evening? It was quite nice, yes. And will you see him again? Of course I will. He’s upstairs. Freddie admired his new green coat. He wondered if the fairy godmother could reverse the frog spell but let him have a coat, for a human, in the same shade.
She was glaring. ‘That should teach you manners.’ Freddie croaked. ‘You should be sorry. If you don’t annoy other frogs, I’ll restore you in two hours. Avoid herons. They love frogs.’ Freddie gulped. How could he know the old lady he’d pushed over in his hurry would wield a magic wand? He watched her vanish. Another frog croaked besides him. Freddie, if still human, would’ve smiled. This frog was female. He came to her for love in the dead of night. Eddying up from sleep, she was aware of his presence; felt the bed dip as he joined her.
His breath was on her face; warm, real. She ran a finger gently across his cheek bone, traced lines of throat and neck. No word was exchanged as he took, and she gave. Afterwards, she drifted back to sleep, a ray of moonlight casting light and shadow across her beautiful face. Cupid, meanwhile, jumped onto the mantelpiece, stuck his leg in the air, and began grooming himself. “She’s coming. Bobo! Bless my squeaky wheels.” Lime paused. His head sank. “No, it’s not her.”
Bobo ignored him and continued rifling through the trashcan. “There’s no spark in that tin can head of yours.” Lime slumped. “Bobo’s a Nob-O.” Bobo rotated his head. “Lime, that’s a crime against rhyme.” He dug deeper. “Artificial intelligence my arse.” “I was her most prized vacuum cleaner until the upgrade.” “Our upgrades didn’t work though did they? Bonanza!” Bobo presented his treasure. “Here you go Lime.” Bobo carefully dribbled the precious liquid from the tuna can onto Lime’s squeaky wheel. “Hey Bobo. Look!” Squealing with delight, Sophie typed ‘The End’, then pressed Save. Five years, 82,371 words later, her manuscript was complete. This was it. The novel that would find her an agent, a publishing deal. The book that would sell millions, be turned into a film.
The tale of a woman teaming up with her father-in-law and his cat to solve murders. Sophie opened her social media account, ready to boast about her masterpiece. She wept as she read the posts about a celebrity author and his new, almost identical book. Sophie created a new document. Surely this next book would succeed. Jim stared at his wife's car in the driveway. His head throbbed. Ideas careened around his skull like marbles in a pinball machine. He needed a minute to gather his thoughts.
Karla's reaction was, given the circumstances, completely understandable. "What. The. Actual. FUCK???” The bumper was gone. The back seat was full of empty bottles. A lacy bra peeked out from underneath the passenger seat. The ashtray was inexplicably crammed with cocktail weenies. Jim opened his mouth, paused, and closed it again. Karla stared at him. Jim prayed that a lucid, reasonable explanation would magically appear. No such luck. Kicking stones into puddles so the sky's reflection splattered across the pavement, Amelia thought of her parents coming home from work to yet another frozen dinner accompanied by the obligatory row, and wished she could disappear.
'You look sad.' The voice was kind and she smiled at the man in the car that was cruising along the curb. Amelia saw him outside the school gates every day, waiting for someone who never came. 'Maybe a hot chocolate will cheer you up,' he added, sounding as lonely as she felt. 'Yes, please,' she replied, and climbed into the seat beside him. The toad peered down his glasses and saw the day’s newspaper.
Mammal Ambassador made into Rabbit Cacciatore, PANIC sets in amongst Reptiles, Birds and Amphibians. “Darling, you’ll never believe what’s happened to poor Flopsy. Get all the ambassadors on the line, we’ll have to act quickly and show a force of strength.” With this, he took a gulp of his tea, straightened up his tweed jacket, and put on his cap. “We got rid of eight lots of them, how hard is it to get rid of homo bloody sapiens,” he mumbled to his wife, and went to his office. Christa became a child psychic when she told Grandma about the boy she saw in the backyard, near the woods. “And, strangely, he had no hands,” she said.
Grandma gasped. “That’d be Jake Thompson’s kid. Died in ‘43 after his daddy chopped his hands off for steal’in a gold watch. Wasn't even real gold, poor kid. His daddy took off before they could hang him. You see anything else in those woods, you tell me. Ya hear?” Grandma said, and gave Christa a lollipop. Christa found all kinds of spooks after that. And ate lollipops til her teeth rotted out. What the fuck! Jason roars to the sky.
He is cold, alone, thirsty, hungry and scared shitless. This was supposed to be easy. He got this idea of a poetic sort of self-directed death from the internet. Off into the bush taking wild turns, keeping his eyes down for miles, to ensure he’d be way beyond lost. But he hadn’t counted on the unmedicated pain from his cancer, and the added torture of thirst and hunger. Now he knows the blog is wrong, but he has no way of posting his personal review online. There’s no wi-fi signal out here. Tonight was my first date with Bob, the award-winning playwright who put our town on the map. Quite a catch. Excellent listener, attractive laugh, bright future.
Over our dessert, I shared a photo of my pride and joy – Boo-Boo, my Cocker Spaniel. Bob winced. “I’m allergic to pet fur,” he told me. “Anyway, I’m not so much a dog person.” Immediately I knew we’d have no second act. Exit stage left. Claudia tackled her cluttered home with a zealous Swedish death cleaning, a Döstädning.
She joined the local online Buy Nothing group and freely gave away all the unused, unnecessary, impractical, worn and tiresome things in her life. She was feeling just dandy about the process and within the year had reduced her crowded hell to a minimalist heaven. She posted one final item along with a come-hither photo: "Pre-owned, fairly vintage, brawny but often boorish. Must be picked up immediately from front porch." That morning before Claudia had finished her first cup of coffee her husband was claimed and rehomed. My hygienist prods my gums painfully with something sharp, calling numbers to her assistant. They’re higher than she’d like. She paints my teeth purple to reveal my mouth’s remaining dens of sin, then I’m attacked simultaneously with a fire hose and suction pump.
But the worst is to come: the lecture. I floss daily, but with the wrong flosser. Same lecture each visit. I just can’t manage to do as she asks. Olivia is lovely. I’m grateful I can even afford a hygienist. But I have all my own teeth and I’m 93 shortly. I must be doing something right. "Meet me at the Thunderbolt Bar at eight."
“Okay,” I reply. He might have a compromise in mind. Or an immediate divorce. Aware of his dubious ways, I arrive a little early in a borrowed car and wait in the dark. On the way, I had placed a call from a pay booth. I see his car. He gets out after an inordinate delay. I can see a young woman sitting in the car, waving her hand passionately. When he comes out of the bar, the hooded man will see that his legs are in plaster for a long time. I’m ten years old, and my father takes me to the rec centre sauna during cheap swim. Speaks to the clerk in broken English, pays for admission and hands me the change.
These aren’t the banyas of his homeland – the one he left behind years ago – but the heat is the same. It keeps your lungs strong, your body resilient. I’m on the high bench beside him. Then when I stand and say I’m done he tells me to push. That nothing good comes easy. I sit – this time on the low bench by his feet. I sweat. I breathe. Rhonda was curious. “Did your niece get the free AI vaccination?”
“She’s so addicted to social media she practically had to,” responded Dena. “What’s that have to do with it?” “She made the decision after her two besties’ suicides. My niece became convinced that AI endorphin nanocytes would protect her. Now she follows the juiciest negative threads online without any self-harm risk. She’s permanently happy.” Dena continued. “Providing such a good example, all her friends have been vaccinated. They can be as mean on social media as they want and are never affected. It’s simply another way AI saves lives.” We drown in the details—what to wear to church, where to meet for coffee. “There’s a Starbucks on the corner where we used to sell lemonade,” you remind me, and I picture our homemade sign coming apart in some attic.
“You know another crew came in last week.” I nod. “More ruins to sift through.” What for? What is the precious thing we lose when the future rolls into town on a bulldozer? We would never been tempted to follow the crew out again if we’d known how much the map had changed, and how little we understood detours. |
