Captain John Montgomery checked the control panel on the sleeve of his spacesuit for the third time. All his system indicator lights, with the exception of life support, glowed red when they should have been green. He was in a jam and he knew it.

Moments earlier, Captain Montgomery had taken his first steps outside the safety of the space shuttle as it glided silently in Earth’s orbit. His instructions had been clear:

1. Exit the spacecraft and secure himself to the shuttle using a tether.

2. Float or “spacewalk” to the end of the tether.

3. Detach from tether.

4. Engage the space-suit built-in jet pack and return to shuttle.

Steps 1, 2 and 3 had been carried out flawlessly. No issues. But now, he was in trouble. The built-in jets needed to propel him back the safety of the shuttle stubbornly refused to fire. And now, their failure to operate was causing him some concern.

He pressed his intercom button. “Houston, we have a problem. I am showing multiple spacesuit system failures. This includes my jet-pack. Do you copy?”

A distant voice in his headphones replied. “We copy that, Monty. We see your system failures down here and are working on a solution. Standby.”

“Standing by” Monty replied. What else can I do? He thought.

As he waited for Mission Control to respond with a solution, Monty stared at the shuttle. Normally, he loved the vastness and solitude of space but now, for the first time in his career, he was scared. To look away from the shuttle, from safety, from rescue, from life, could mean he never set eyes on it again, and his fate would be sealed. He locked his eyes on the shuttle’s crew entry airlock and tried to control his breathing.

A crackle in his ears. “Monty. This is Houston.”

“Receiving. Go ahead.”

“Ok John, our top engineers have come up with a workaround we need you to try. Power down all your systems. We know this includes life support, and reboot. Hurry John. You don’t have much time.”

Montgomery raised an eyebrow and thought, “Switch it off and on again? Really? And these guys claim to be rocket scientists!”

He looked at the power switch on his suit. Reluctantly, hesitantly, his hand moved to turn off his life support system, when suddenly his helmet filled with a blinding light and a deafening sound.

“Houston. I fear I’m too late. The Space Dragon has found me”.

“John. What are you doing? I’ve been calling you for the past 10 minutes. Your tea is ready and on the table.” John’s Mum had entered his bedroom, switched on the light and was shouting.

“I was just about to fix my spacesuit jet-pack and return to my shuttle.”

“Well, you can return to your shuttle after you’ve had your tea. And don’t forget to do your homework.”

Captain John Montgomery made one last call. “Houston. Can rocket scientists help with sums?”
​

In the Southern Ocean, between South America and Antarctica, there is an island chain called The Redlands.  Historically, few people have lived there because the climate is so harsh.  But with global warming, the ice and snow have begun to melt, and the population has ticked up.

The Redlands are a sovereign state.  In the 1800s, they belonged to England.  But as the British Empire began to unravel, The Crown let go of the islands, thinking them of no real value beyond a safe harbor for ships making their way through the treacherous waters of the Drake Passage.

Except for the crews on those ships, few people had even heard of The Redlands. That changed in 2026, when large deposits of the rare earth minerals scandium and yttrium were discovered just beneath the newly exposed surface of the islands.

The world took note. Many countries wanted those minerals. The US made the first move, extending a lucrative offer for mining rights.  China, Russia and Europe quickly followed with offers of their own.

But the 22,000 inhabitants of The Redlands weren’t interested. Concerned excavation would ruin both their land and simple way of life, they politely declined all offers.

This didn’t sit well with the American President, who angrily vowed to “get The Redlands, one way or another.”

Most nations no longer trusted the US. Even once staunch allies now saw America as a threat.

When they heard the US might “get” The Redlands, China, Russia and Europe decided they’d had enough. They jointly issued a warning that any invasion by the US would be met with a “swift and forceful response.”

“They’re bluffing,” sneered the President.

Then he ordered his military to take control of The Redlands. But the President had badly misjudged his counterparts. As soon as American soldiers set foot on the islands, China, Russia and Europe unleashed nuclear strikes on the US. America tried to mount a defense, but the combined attack was overwhelming. Within a few hours, the US was decimated.

When the dust settled, China and Russia divvied up America, on the eve of its 250th birthday; Europe stepped up as the new leader of the free world; and The Redlands remained undefiled.
​

As an editor, you come across a surprising number of people like Roger.

To be fair, we got off on the wrong foot. My publication, Saturday Short Stories, has strict submission rules, but there’s no charge to submit and there’s even the odd prize to be won.

Stories must be the correct length and submitted in exactly the required manner. There’s a little box at the top of the online Submissions form. There, authors must write the story title, then a comma, a space, the word ‘by’, another space, then their name. One false move leads to rejection.

Writers then have to paste the story itself into another box below the title. Further down, there are some further things to ‘certify’. Writers have to provide some personal stuff*, say they’ve written the story in the past week… and to state that they’re not using a virtual private network – a ‘VPN’ – or ‘hiding’ behind a remote ‘proxy’ server..

Roger called me ‘pernickety’ many times, particularly when rejected – but it’s my site. He who pays the invoices sings the song. I’d have helped him, but Roger was too mean to pay the nominal feedback fee of £5.00. Instead, he conducted a guerrilla war, posting rude comments about me wherever possible.

He kept entering competitions, though. His recent Christmas Contest entry was particularly nasty anout me personally. It got nowhere, of course; instead, the judges decided that the contest, and the prize of £50, should be won by a newcomer, Lavinia Ramsbottom.

I contacted Lavinia to arrange payment of the prize… and received a reply instead from Roger!

GOT YOU AT LAST! it said.  REVENGE IS MINE! PAY UP LIKE A MAN!

I was annoyed to be duped. It’s against the rules to submit a second story under a false name, and he’d also used a VPN to conceal his identity. Too busy, I’d let it through by mistake. But the judges had decided, and I reckoned it would be easier just to accept that, for once, he’d beaten me.
And I keep my word, so I sent him a PayPal link to download the prizemoney. I added the message

ALL YOURS, *ROGER*, YOU DESERVE IT.
​
Shortly after, I received a message from the server to say that he’d completed the download.
Reader, I’m not sure what your computing knowledge is like, but there’s a particularly nasty form of malware called the Editor Virus. Unlike most, it’s an ‘overwrite worm’ that not only wipes out a computer’s hard drive, it also overwrites its operating system as well. Put simply, the computer is totally destroyed and even the most advanced antivirus technology can’t undo it. The owner’s only consolation is that computers can be recycled for the precious metals inside.

Each time Roger switched it on, all he would see would be a screen saying

Which way is the wind blowing? A question ingrained in my being.

Today, disassociated, an offshore breeze transports me to a familiar location, one evoking the early stages of a long, arduous journey.

High on a dune, I’ve a view of a beach that’s deserted bar some children constructing an imposing sandcastle. The group’s elders supervise the build, while the youngest members ferry buckets of damp sand excavated from along the shoreline. They’re enjoying a warm summer’s day, but one among them flounders. An annual migrant to these shores, he’s his playmate’s cousin, and shares everything with me, but my age; and even on a clear day, a cloud shadows his every waking hour. Mirroring my own, it further signals the constant struggle and disappointment etched on his young face—the result of never measuring up to the expectations of someone who should care. 

A fantasy for some, but for me, everyday life. Changing perspective, I look out to sea, toward the horizon, and listen to the wave’s calming melody. But there’s no escape. A sudden screech anchors me to the past as a hysteria of seagulls circle above, their libretto echoing my distress. I wonder do they mock me, as they, like me, cry, but shed no tears.

“Let’s finish this, once and for all?” I scream, but the wind steals my anguish. Never mind. I’m prepared. I’ve chosen a vantage point, hunkered down among the thickets of marram grass that crown each dune. The sun rides high in the sky, directly behind me, a shield as I lie spread-eagled against the sand’s wind-etched contours, mapping every grain.

I’m a sniper and you’re in my sights. Steadying myself, finger hovering over the trigger, I gently apply pressure, but not yet enough to reach a point of no return. Tracking your every movement. Don’t rush, I tell myself. Wait. This has to be a clean kill, for both of our sakes—it’s the least you deserve.

You suddenly freeze, looking in my direction. Have you discovered me, witnessed a brief flash of what lies ahead? Your expression remains clueless and gives little away. Casting a line, you’re fishing in the dark, but I’m a wily old trout, and a life bruised by disappointment has taught me not to rise to your bait. Positioned deep among the margins, in the shadows of things yet to come, part of me aches to see you take cover, but this would only prolong our misery. 

This needs to be painless. For both of our sakes. My one-and-only gift to you, one of eternal youth. A single carefully aimed shot, and milliseconds later, an explosive vortex of salvation, will rescue you from a journey of despair that leads you back to this place. Fail, and my misfortune becomes your legacy, and you’ll inherit a far-reaching decision. Only I can save you from the torment.

We’ve never spoken, but let me ask you; I’m tempted. In my shoes, would you be too?
​

-Prologue-

The writer smoked his pipe and watched the news.

"The stocks of Brainshop tripled. Sales of the EGO III skyrocketed,“ the anchorman announced.

---

Josh sat at the edge of the curb - Main Street, Randolph, Ohio. It was a small town, about five thousand people, mostly farmers and small shop owners.

He lit up a Marlboro, smelled the gas from his zippo and inhaled. "What can go wrong, let’s try it.“ he said.

He got up, flipped the cigarette onto the street and entered the brainshop.

Josh had expected to see a salesman behind the counter, but instead it was Charlie, the girl from biology.

"Hey Josh.“ she said.
„Hi.“ he said, „how are you?“
„Fine. You want EGO?“
„What does it do?“
"It enhances. More focus."

Thirty minutes later he left the shop smiling.

Josh jumped into his Mustang, floored it, almost hitting another car.

He rolled down the window, inhaled the summer air and the scent of freshly baked bread hit his nose. Probably side effects. He never had felt that alive before.

He stopped at the gas station, went inside, paid and asked for the restroom keys. After peeing he combed his hair. That was the moment he saw it in the mirror. His face. Distorted.

"Maybe the focus kicked in.“ he whispered to himself.

Josh went back into the gas station. Everything looked red. His mind was racing.

Then.
His head.
Humming sounds. Like water boiling.

"Give me your shotgun!" He yelled at the clerk. Then Josh punched his face, broke his nose, jumped over the counter, snatched the shotgun and shot him.

Josh left the gas station, heading full speed to the other side of town. The Mustang was roaring even louder this time.

He finally arrived at that small wooden house in a middle class area on the south end of the city. Josh stopped his car, got out, ran towards the front door without even looking left or right and fired one shot at the door lock. The door burst open.

He went straight into the kitchen. His mother was watching her beloved gameshow. Josh aimed the shotgun: „Hi, Mother! Revenge, Mother. For letting him beat me! Every damn day.“

He shot six times, went outside, sucked in the summer air.

It tasted like rotten fish.

And it smelled like burning rubber.

He grabbed his gun, sat down at the curb, lit another cigarette, inhaled and pulled the trigger. His face blew half off and the cigarette landed on the other side of the street, drenched red but still burning.

-Epilogue-

The writer entered the post office.
"Another book for the publisher, Sam?" the clerk asked.
"Sure is, Rodney.“ he said.

The writer drove home, listening to the evening news on his radio.

"Folks get this,“ the radio jockey said, „Brainshop gives free upgrades. EGO IV for all customers. Now isn't that something folks? Isn't that something?“

The writer turned off his radio and smoked his pipe. Smiling.
​

A gallon of gas and a lit match. And this house would be history. So I kept thinking as I stood in the living room of the house. The house. I tried to think of it as just “the house.” The house I’d just bought. And—even after paying $190,000—the house I was sorely tempted to burn down.

This house was once a family home. It was built by my grandparents, and later my uncle owned it, until five years ago. That history left a lot of unhappy memories. So I was less than thrilled when Stacy chose this house.

Oh, well. This house was for Stacy to use, and it would work for her needs. That was all that really mattered. I was only writing the checks.

“I keep thinking of how ideal this house is!” Stacy said. “Good layout inside. Great location. It couldn’t be better!”

The doorbell rang. I winced. The sound of the 1950s tubular chimes threatened to pull me back in time. Back to when Uncle Roderick liked to sit in his favorite recliner and tell me that I was a loser.

I went to the door. It was Aunt Di.

“Kurt!” she snarled, as she stormed in. “You are back in town. You are the mysterious buyer of our old family home!”

“It’s not much of a mystery.”

“If I’d known you’d be the buyer, I’d have come over and lit the place on fire! Instead of seeing you get it!”

Funny how her fantasy aligned with mine.

“Who is this woman?” she asked.

“A business partner.”

“A business I wouldn’t approve of. I'm sure.”

I was sure, too. She’d never approved of anything I did. At one time, she said I’d never amount to anything. When I became a multimillionaire, she said I could have done better. Then, I was certain she’d be downright livid when she learned our plans for this house.

“Just try to keep the house nice. Your uncle’s nursing home uses this road when they take residents out. I know he always looks here.”

He’d hate looking at it very soon.

Aunt Di stormed out.

“I see what you mean,” Stacy said. “She is terrible.”

“She always has been. In fact, almost the whole family treated Mom and me like garbage when we had to move back here when Mom lost her job. They never had any compassion for anyone facing hard times. They also never forgot that Mom got pregnant with me and didn’t marry her creep boyfriend. Even though he was abusive.”

“Abusive boyfriend?”

“Yes. I never knew him, but I heard how bad it was. Which is a reason why I was so interested in helping you start this safe house.”

“It’s interesting that this house turned up like it did,” Stacy said. “It feels almost like a cosmic thing. A sort of payback to an uncaring family having their old home turned into a safe house.”

​

"How cold is it?" she asked.
"Minus fifteen centigrade? Minus twenty? Something around there."
"That's ridiculously cold. Are you sure? I was guessing more like plus 15."
"I didn't have a thermometer so I had to approximate using visual clues."
"What clues?" my wife asked.

I laid out my evidence in a reasonable and rational fashion.
"There was no queue. No joyous penguins awaiting their turn. No smiling polar bears already in the bath. And if its too cold for polar bears and penguins you know its pretty cold."
"Also, it wasn't snowing. Did you know the Antarctic is a desert because it's too cold for precipitation. We have no bathroom snow."
"Finally, I shivered when I put my hand into the water. I didn't cry out, but I did experience a physical reaction. That shows how cold it is."

"No polar bears?" my wife humoured me.

"I tell a lie, there was one polar bear, dressed in a bath robe, bobbly slippers and mittens. Muttering something about people jumping the queue. So I muttered something back about who's bath it was, and he wandered off with yet more muttering about a hot chocolate and marshmallows. He's coming back tomorrow and hoping for privacy."

I finished making my cup of tea, then added, "But I've got to go, the bath is half full of near iceberg-infested tap water. I don't want it to warm up, that would spoil the benefit."

- - -

This was my first experience of cold water therapy. Elite athletes do it. Elite military does it. So why not elite poets?

They didn't start as elite. Elite athletes do it as part of their training to become elite. Elite military do it as part of their training to become elite.

How can I resist the temptation? An opportunity to elevate my dubious, euphemistically encouraged, minor league efforts to near Olympian level. I can't wait for rhymes to flow and meter to combobulate after this intense training session.

Why not try it? Why not have a go?

- - -

Five minutes later I know answers to these questions. I'll leave the cold water to the polar bears. And possibly the poetry, too.
​