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.
​

My sides ached from the laughter. Rebecca, my work bestie, was telling another one of her jokes when the text arrived. How cute. Mark was always thinking of me. “I know you're having fun, but don't forget you have a busy day tomorrow. Just thought I'd mention it. Love you.”
Rebecca had paused telling her joke and was reading the text over my shoulder. “OMG Leigh! Did he just do that?”
“Do what?” I asked naively.
“What an asshole. He's basically said you need to go home.”
I stared at the message dubiously. “He’s just being thoughtful, isn’t he?”
“Seriously Leigh, you need your head examining if you believe that. My dad used to say...”
And that was the trigger. “My dad used to say...”
Her words were drowned out by the memory of Dad flooding my senses. I could see his face, brow furrowed, eyes intent and piercing, wagging a finger at me. “Let me tell you this, young lady. Do things because you want to do them, not because someone else wants you to.”
Mark arrived in my life a few months after Dad passed. He made me feel alive again. Loved. That’s something I’d been missing, so I didn't notice Dad's words fading into the hazy shimmer of an old memory. Still there, but with the fragility even a gentle breeze could blow into nothingness.
Mark said I was his soulmate, and plied me with gifts and compliments. How could I not fall hard for him. So hard, I’d rather stay in and listen to him talking about himself than being out having fun with Rebecca. How could I have been so stupid? The manipulating bastard. Rebecca was right. My dad was right. I'd allowed myself to become a victim.
Rebecca's voice interrupted my thoughts. “You ok? You look like you've seen a ghost.”
“My dad. Oh, and Mark and I are done.”
The following day, Mark didn't fail to disappoint. The irony of only seeing the obvious when you know it's there. “You look tired. Next time, come over to mine and then you'll look much fresher for your meetings.” My dad's face loomed in my head, wagging his finger. A warm comforting feeling enveloped me, the arms of protection from beyond the grave. This was the kind of love I needed.
Life without Mark led me on an interesting journey. Rebecca had told me the best way to get your own back on a narcissist was to show them you thrive without them, you don't need them. So I did. We did. I cringe now about how over-the-top we were, and we made sure to post and re-post our exploits on social media. Mark gradually faded from my thoughts, but I clung to the memory of my dad like a life ring in a rough sea.
The still tender tattoo on my inner arm served as a permanent reminder. In a plain font it simply read, “My dad used to say...”
​

Whatever we did he always beat me. He was a year older than me, a year cleverer and a year stronger. I was his little sister, a mere twelve year old, not even a big teen on the way to being a grown-up, Half the time he didn't notice me so involved was he in his friends and games. I lived for the other half because my brother, besides being my worst enemy was also my best friend.

Our Mum said she thought she was the perfect mother when we were little as we played so well together. My brother had been my greatest protector and I his greatest admirer. But now competiton had crept into our lives. He laughed as he raced me around the house. He chuckled when he beat me at tennis.He chortled when he bowled me out on the first ball in our game of backyard cricket. He guffawed when he raced the length of the swimmng pool touching down when I was little more than half way.

"It's just a stage he's going through," Mum said. "He's only doing it to tease you. You're stll better than him in some things."

"LIke what?" I asked in despair.

"LIke writing and spelling and cooking."

But they didn't count because he had no interest in those things.

I knew I had to beat him in something, somehow, something he thought he was better at that than me. But what?

My time came one winter's night when the fire was roaring and spitting, the wind was growling at the windows and the rain was dong a tap dance on the iron roof. I could see my brother's brow wrinkled in concentration. Then I saw my chance. With a yelp of triumph I placed my last tiles on the scrabble board.

Finally I'd done it.
​

The man sat against the jagged rock, his fingers still stained with his wife’s blood. The sun hung low, and the dust stirred around him.

In the distance, smoke spewed from the house he once called home. Where the boy lived. His son. The one he would see hanged for her murder.

The man spat in the dirt. ‘I’ll burn it all,’ he said. ‘Even you, boy.’

His wife’s blood branded him the most dangerous of men, one who had nothing to lose. His grip tightened around the rifle as he stood and reread the telegram.

He gathered his gear, and a fleeting thought of his wife flashed through his mind. Her smile was like the last ray of sunlight before a storm.

He thought of the boy. Those eyes are empty of fear and filled with hate.

The horse was as thin and worn as the man. They stood as ghosts in a dusty wasteland. The wind kicked up, slicing through his tattered coat. He knew there was nothing left of him but revenge billowing through his veins.

He mounted the horse and rode through the night. Hours passed. The land stretched on.

When the town crept into view, a strange heaviness settled over him.

The wind howled through the street as he made his way to the square. And there, waiting, stood his son.

The boy’s hand rested on the hilt of his revolver. He didn’t tremble. He didn’t flinch.

‘I knew you’d come,’ he said.

His father’s breath steadied. This wasn’t the child he remembered. This was someone forged by hands that had struck too hard, too often.

‘You murdered her,’ the man said, spittle dripping into his beard. ‘Shot her down like a dog.’

‘I tried to save her,’ the boy said. ‘All those nights she begged you to stop. All the times I tried to pull you off her. I begged her to leave. Tried to drag her away that night. But the gun went off.’

The boy’s eyes drifted past him, as if his father no longer mattered. ‘I killed her, yes,’ he said. ‘But it was an accident.’

‘You can’t barter your way out of this, boy.’

‘I knew my fate when I watched my mother die.’

The man looked into his son’s eyes and, for the first time, saw himself. The quiet rage. The resolve. The inevitability.

The man raised his rifle.

The boy pulled his revolver.

Two shots rang out, almost simultaneous. The father felt the impact. The boy staggered. His gun fell from his fingers.

Neither moved.

A red trail trickled from the boy’s left eye like a single tear. The father’s bullet had passed clean through it.

The man brought a shaking hand to his face. His blood seeped through his fingers, pouring from the wound in his right eye.

The father dropped to his knees.

The boy collapsed with him.

Neither spoke. Neither moved.
​

When I met Beth at the casino for our regular tete a tete, I could feel the anger radiating off her, like pungent body odour from the armpits of a particularly unhygienic hobo.

“Carl’s been cheating on me, with multiple women too!” she seethed. She left a momentary pause to allow me to gasp dramatically, before finishing off with “And I want revenge!”

My meditation lessons have obviously paid off, because I replied “Well, you know what they say about the best revenge being a life well lived.”

“I’m not interested in the wisdom of the ancients,” she responded dismissively. “I just want to see a grown man cry.”

Well, Beth is my best friend, so we got a drink, sat at the Blackjack table and discussed the genesis of Operation Ballcrusher. This was Beth’s fifth choice of name, but the first that didn’t involve curse words, so I acquiesced to that charming little title.

We started brainstorming ideas for revenge. I had to gently but firmly guide Beth away from options involving outright criminality. Hit-men and assassins are all very well, but, as a natural redhead, I know that I wouldn’t look good in those orange jumpsuits prisoners seem to wear on TV dramas. Therefore, anything where a lengthy prison sentence was a possibility was immediately disqualified on the grounds of sartorial necessity.

We discussed the usual wronged spouse tropes – cutting up his suits (Carl only owned one, equally at home for weddings and funerals), painting something obscene on his car (Beth had co-signed the lease agreement), and throwing all his possessions out onto the street (Beth had bought Carl most of them as presents, so this seemed a little too much like self-harm. One takes pride in one’s taste in shopping, after all).

Eventually, just as mister Johnnie Walker had taken us past the ‘loosening up’ phase and into the ‘loud and raucous’ phase, a suitably depraved idea popped into my gently pickled mind.

“Why not get a tattoo?” I asked.

“How will that help? I don’t like marking my body,” slurred Beth in reply.

“Oh,” I grinned, “You won’t be the one getting the tattoo!”

Alas, poor Carl. We took him out two days later and got him blind drunk, then dragged him along, barely conscious, to a friendly tattoo artist that I’d once had a fling with. We had the word “Adulterer” tattooed on his lower stomach, so that anyone thinking of going further south would know exactly what kind of man they were dealing with.

Upon having his ‘sobering up’ shower the next morning, Carl discovered Beth’s handiwork. They separated shortly afterwards and I’m glad for my bestie Beth, because she deserves someone better. Someone who can romance a woman, who can take her to heaven and back between the sheets.

Carl wasn’t that man.

Trust me, I speak from experience!
​

REVENGE
The continuous ringing of my telephone woke me up. It was my uncle from thousands of miles away.
"Elizabeth is in a hospital in a precarious condition. She wants to see Andrew, who left home last week after a tiff with her. He is untraceable. Please come."
My uncle, who loved me like his son Andrew, had always turned to me in an emergency.
I assured him I would be with him soon.
He had taken care of me after my parent died in a road accident. My college days were coming to an end. I got my favourite job as a make-up man in the cinema industry and became much sought after. I was not worried about money as my father's life insurance had taken care of it.
Comparing her lazy son with me, my aunt had detested me and had told everyone I was a bad influence on him, but Andrew and I were close friends. We had studied in the same school and college. In appearance, we had many similarities except for his moustache and a deep scar on his temple. Some had mistaken us as twins.
My uncle heaved a sigh of relief when I landed at the hospital.
"Elizabeth has been asking for Andrew. The doctor says anything is possible if she doesn't stop worrying," he said.
Andrew had gone away in the past, too, but had returned after a couple of days. When he did not do so this time, she started imagining the worst possible things that might have happened to him.
Promising to return soon, I left after a while.
It was late at night, and the hospital room was dimly lit. Elizabeth was delirious and was mumbling 'Andrew...' repeatedly.
The door opened slowly, and a young man stood in the doorway.
"Andrew!" shouted his father, leaping to his feet. The patient stopped mumbling and seemed to be listening.
The visitor walked towards the patient, sat beside her, took her feeble hand and whispered, "Sorry, mom!"
She opened her eyes, raised her hand slowly, moved her fingers over the scar on his temple and moustache, and murmured, tears rolling down her cheeks, "My son!" She clutched his hand firmly and sighed loudly, a contented smile creasing her face.
"Go to sleep, mom. I won't leave you," he whispered again, stroking her head, his eyes overflowing.
Later, the doctor came.
He took her hand and suddenly changed his expression. He made some checks and shook his head.
"She is dead," he said.
Though my job didn't pay much, it helped me in making my aunt, who always hated me, die smiling.
Sweet revenge.
​