The Barbers

I’d been working at Joel’s Barbers for a few days, mostly sweeping the floor, washing the sinks and similar mundane things. I couldn’t complain; any work was better than no work. Likewise with money, although it would be a long while before I would have enough to buy a car. But I put up with it.

Thankfully, my colleagues were okay; Lily was twenty three, only a couple of years older than me. She was lovely, bubbly and energetic, and very, very attractive. We had a lot of fun, and regularly took lunch breaks together. Then there was Sean; he was the senior barber, and seemed much too serious about everything to fit in at a public establishment, but there we have it. He rarely caused a fuss about anything, normally getting on with his job and occasionally making small talk with customers.

Lauren was odd. She was too nice for anyone to dislike her, but she had a certain falseness about her that made us at least a little precautious, but we got on. Alex had been there for a week, and had already earned the reputation of the ‘darling’. She was eighteen, very shy and very pretty. Lily had taken Alex under her wing straight away, so she normally hung around with us.

Yesterday, as I was sweeping the particularly large amount of hair from under Lily’s seat, the bell on the door rang and every eye instantly darted towards the new customer. A thirty-something man with a mass of red hair perched precariously on his head. 

He strutted in and sat at the first vacant seat, next to Lily’s. Sean instantly strode over to his, and asked in a surprisingly chipper tone; “How would you like your haircut today?”

I glanced at Lily curiously, but she just shrugged. Lauren ignored them and continued filing her nails in her empty chair. Alex looked at me, and I found myself shrugging in the same manner as Lily.

Sean continued to make small talk with the man, and reached for the clippers. I watched with interest as I swept the floor. He went about the haircut with unusual precision, and I couldn’t help but wonder what was so special about this fellow.

After a while, I lost interest, and collected the trimmings into a pan. I took a last glance back at Sean, hoping for a clue as to his strangely social behaviour as I went into the back room to dispose of the hair.

The back had a water cooler, which I helped myself to. As my cup filled up, I yawned and thought longingly of my bed. Shaking my head clear, I went back into the shop, and slumped into one of the waiting chairs.

“Can I leave early today Sean? Need to pick up-“ I began my well-rehearsed excuse but he cut me off:

“I think we’ll all be leaving early today.” He turned to me and grinned. I frowned questioningly, and he winked at me. The girls all looked at him, but he ignored them and turned his attention back to his customer.

Sean lathered the man’s cheeks with shaving foam with an almost loving caress, and whispered; “Chin up, bud.”

The red-head raised his chin as he took the straight razor from the shelf.

Sean brought the edge of the blade to his throat.

He hummed a cheerful tune.

He grinned, and slashed.

            Blood spurted on the mirror, the floor and just about everything else.

He laughed manically. 

Michael

“You wanna talk to me about ambition, eh? Well, I got a story for you, pal; oh you better believe do I got a story for you. Let me tell you about this kid, Michael Capogliani. He’s one of them quiet types, y’know? Never said a word he didn’t need to, but my god you could see the fire in his eyes. That spark, y’know. A real goombah in the making.

“So this kid Michael, he’s waiting the bar for his pop at that nice place down on Third Street, just going on about his business, y’know? You wouldn’t give him a second glance; right? Nor would I, believe me. Yeah, so anyway, he’s at the bar when who should waltz in? That’s right, big fuckin’ Frank Coppa and his clan of goons. Real stunads, they are, y’know? Real fuckin’ morons, but what’re you gonna do, he’s practically fuckin’ royalty now.

“One of his goons, brain like a skulabast, he goes up to Mikey and says to him; ‘Kid, you know who we are?’ Real impolite, y’know? ‘That’s big Frank Coppa right over there, ya see him? Get off your bambino ass and get him a fuckin’ drink, y’hear me?’ I know, real fuckin’ douchebag.

“So Mikey just looks at him and nods his fuckin’ head. Not even a fuckin’ word, just nods his head and grabs a glass from under the counter. I tell ya, if I was him I’d have slapped the shine off of that ciuccio’s face, but then again if I was him I’d probably be dead. So he grabs a glass, pours a measure of bourbon and slides it over, smooth as balls.

“Few hours later, Coppa and his boys are drunk as hell and shoutin’ like it too, y’know? But Mikey’s pop, the guy who owns the joint, he calls up Don Solano and, well, he makes him aware of Coppa’s presence, if you catch my drift.

“Now the Don himself couldn’t make it, but lemme tell you one thing; he wants Coppa dead, real bad. I won’t get into the details with ya, but there is some real bad blood between the two of ‘em. Now back to Mikey; he might have the manners of a saint but he knows he’s better than waitin’ the bar, y’know? So he volunteers, ya hear me, he fuckin’ volunteers to get the job done. He’s got balls, I tell ya, a real Sicilian.

“So Mikey’s standin’ at the bar, just cleaning glasses or something, quiet at per, and then he walks over to that gaguzz’s table and asks if they need any more drinks. I’ll tell you now, they didn’t need any fuckin’ more drinks, but how can you call a man a man if he says no to a refill, right? So they all start yelling their orders, real loud and obnoxious, and Mikey just stands there, writing it all down before going back to the bar.

“Few minutes later, he yells over to the table; ‘I’m gonna need you to pay your tab, gentlemen.’ So Big Frank gets up, and Mikey pours his drink for him, saying something about giving him his drink first, out of respect. Frank starts nodding and grinning and laughing, he’s got this real loud fuckin’ laugh, but remember by now he’s real s’bronzo, y’know? Slurrin’ his words all over the fuckin’ floor.

“So then, Frank starts talkin’ ‘bout Don Solano, givin’ it the big one, y’know? Mikey just stands there, nodding and smiling. His goons are gettin’ impatient now, and a few of them start walking to the bar, but just then, Mikey pulls a little glock outta nowhere, y’know, skadoosh! He pops Frank right in the kisser with the barrel, and fires at each of the goons. Perfect shots, too; beats me where he learned to shoot like that; probably from his old man.

“So now it’s just Frank, standing there with that same stupid fuckin’ grin on his face, and Mikey walks up to him, pushes him to the floor and bam! His brains’re on the floor. It was beautiful, I tell ya.”

Familiar

Kings Cross station was crowded with masses of hurried Londoners, as was usual on a week day. I fumbled through my jacket, searching for my wallet and the oyster card within, and eventually extracted it from my inside pocket, amongst a pack of tissues and a few loose coins. One of the coins, a pound, dropped to the floor and rolled away, soon lost amidst the hundreds of pairs of shoes and boots and heels and the odd flip flop. I scowled, but quickly resigned to being a potential packet of sweets lighter. Somewhere in the crowd I heard, “Shit, a pound coin, look,” and shook my head ruefully.

I continued pushing my way deeper into the station, and finally reached the escalators that would take me down below into the underground. Taking a moment to rest on the descending metal stairs, I looked around at the swarming crowds, nonchalantly picking out a few interesting faces, as one generally does when taking the tube. A very pretty woman came up the escalators to my right; she had dark red hair and an enchanting complexion. She caught my eyes with her own, for a fleeting second, and I quickly looked frontwards.

Once I was sure she had gone past me, I sighed, and moments later reached the bottom of the moving staircase. I stepped off and, following the signs for the metropolitan line, made my way towards the network of tubes and tracks that would take me home. A few moments later, as I continued walking, I heard a muffled yell amidst the mass of people; “Shit, a pound coin, look,” and frowned. Turning my head towards the voice, I scanned the crowd, hoping to see a familiar face, but to no avail. I sighed again and continued walking.

I reached another set of escalators and once again descended further underground. Humming a tune quietly to myself, I observed the people making their way upwards on the opposing staircase, and spotted a young female with shiny, copper coloured hair. My eyes caught hers and, feeling a strange déjà vu, I gave her a small smile. She beamed back at me enthusiastically, and I felt a small lurch in my stomach. Shaking my head, I looked back down towards the bottom of the staircase, and soon stepped onto the metal platform at the base. A dull golden gleam caught my eye on the floor; “Shit, a pound coin,” I muttered, and attempted to land my foot on it, hoping to drag it along with me to a slightly secluded part of the station so I could pick it up. As I did so, I bumped into someone, and my Londoner instincts led me to apologize immediately, hoping to quickly move on without any conversation.

“Oh, sorry dear,” a soft, friendly female voice spoke to me. I glanced upwards and saw a beautiful woman with curiously familiar auburn hair and bright green eyes smiling at me. I may have stared slightly longer than I had intended to, and as I stuttered, “Oh, it’s- it’s alright,” she blushed slightly. I managed to muster a small smile of my own.

The War

For the men, women and, in far too many cases, children, all fighting for what they believe in. Or what they are told to believe in.

On a deserted street corner, there is a man dressed in old battle dress uniform, torn and frayed from years of destitution and degradation. He owns but a large rucksack and its meagre contents; a heavily chewed pencil, a steel mug stained by frequent use, another set of equally ragged clothes, and a photo of his mother. His straw coloured hair is matted by dirt, sweat, spit and blood; not all his own, but now part of the identity attached to him and thousands like him. Once a soldier of a different war, he stands small in a world not his own.

A short walk away, the man’s desperate calls for help are drowned by voices so booming and vehement they seem to blend into a crescendo. Thousands gather with picket signs and posters, demanding an end to the war that produced so many victims, it is a wonder that these afflicted and forgotten heroes cannot be heard amongst their fierce defenders. People protest, march, roar but their labours bare little fruit; the war rages on.

In the cold, dark depths of the prison cell almost half way around the globe, innocent civilians of the war-stricken land wait silently amidst clouds of fear and dread; will the hungry eat tonight, will the thirsty drink, will the tired sleep, will the ill be tended to? Deep down, they know the answers, but their spirit hangs on by a thread, regrettably reflecting their chances of survival.

On a dusty trail, a group of men in modern military clothing, carrying bags containing their government and military issue items of war, engage in conversation in a manner so casual, one would wonder if they were bothered in the slightest at the destruction they witness. But how can a man support the weight of his country, the love he has for the family he may never see again, the heart ache and sorrow for his fallen comrades, the bittersweet regret for his fallen adversary, without maintaining some barrier to protect his mind from caving in?

Back to the quiet, suburban safety of the first world, people sit in their living rooms, eyes locked onto their television. The familiar jingle of the evening news breaks the tense silence, before the anchors, not only of the news but of the public who hang onto their every word, offer them no reprieve from the fear that has plagued their hearts from the moment their loved ones departed to serve their country, their people, their family. For one woman, sitting next to the phone, telling her young child that everything will be okay as it begins to ring, her world is about to collapse.

“Mrs Doe? I regret to inform you…” The general’s voice joins the chatter in the room as more and more phone calls are made, all exactly the same. The men and women, in their positions of safety at the office, offer the same condolences and words of comfort, and listen in return to the same shocked silence on the other end of their line.

In a hospital, close to one of the battlegrounds, a group of doctors and nurses tend to the wounded. Their scars will remain, forever reminders of what they fought for, what they fought against. What some of their comrades are still fighting, what some will never fight again. Some men and women lie without limbs, without organs, yet they live. People might call them lucky now, but when these people sit at home, wherever that maybe, in the coming years, will they feel quite as fortunate?

Somewhere, a young person takes the biggest step of their life. They join the army, and, along with thousands of others, propagate the message of hope, of glory, of patriotism. The person is lined uniformly behind the others, and into them is bred the message that keeps them going. It is the fuel that drives them towards the light at the end of the tunnel. It gives them hope that everything will work out.

The political establishments all over the world communicate with concern and urgency, with anger and stubbornness, with fear and regret. World leaders debate and argue, trying to find solutions that please their subordinates, their peers, their bosses and their people. But, despite their apparent best efforts, they come to no avail, and the savage slaughter that plagues the world continues.

Soon, as the war grows and grows, the messages of hope for a better future fade into images of an unavoidable and inevitable dystopia. Cries for a saviour, in any shape or form, go unheard. No messiah stands above the rest; they all float in an endless chasm of destruction. The leaders find themselves as helpless as the rest as the world plummets into a dark abyss.

The war eventually ends, as colliding forces finally understand that their efforts are best directed towards the reestablishment of their own broken homes, rather than the continued destruction of others’. People all around the globe mourn for their lost, pray for the losing, but no one thanks the winners; they have lost as much as the losers.

Humanity breeds within every living soul, and the homeless, the prisoners, the protesters, the soldiers, the families, the public servants, the world leaders collectively grip upon the world they love and pull it out of the jaws of the dark abyss they were headed. They pour themselves into the world, into each other, and they rebuild an empire. But this is just the completion of a cycle; the world continues to turn, and the darkness once again begins to grow.

Endings

You’re seven years old, sitting in your desk at school. You stare out of the window, bored of the monotonous voice coming from the front of the classroom. Something about road safety and the like. Your cheeks are resting on your arms, elbows propped up on the scratched and bumpy surface of the table. The school bell goes, and you turn your head eagerly towards your teacher. She dismisses the class, and you run with your friends to the playground, without a care in the world.

You’re still running, on your first day of secondary school. You’ve made friends, luckily, and you’re playing football in the school field. Someone yells out to you; “Pass it here!” and you kick the ball towards the general direction of the voice. You aren’t looking where you’re going, and you collide head on with someone running the opposite way. You land on your back, dazed, seeing blurry shapes.

The blurry shapes take the form of stars, floating just out of your reach. You’re tired, but happy. You’re also drunk. Lying down on cold concrete, you groan loudly. A man’s voice calls out to you; “C’mon mate, eighteen shots for your eighteenth birthday! Only a few more left!” Booming laughter and a steady hand brings you to your feet, and you stumble forward.

You get out of bed, and stagger towards your ensuite bathroom, in your university halls. You reach the toilet and retch violently, spewing the numerous pints of last night into the toilet. As you brush your teeth, you stare into your mirror and sigh. In the corner of your eye you see another body on your bed. You go over to investigate, toothbrush still in your mouth. The body belongs to a very pretty girl. You shake her awake, and she turns to you and smiles sleepily. “Morning, babe,” she mumbles.

“I love you, darling,” that pretty girl says to you, now a beautiful woman. You smile, and tell her you love her back, twice as much. She kisses you, and you kiss her back before pulling her into a loving embrace. She leans her head against your chest, and for a moment you experience a perfect inner peace. You’re still smiling as you leave the house you worked so hard for, to go to the job you work so hard at. You reach the zebra crossing at the end of your road.

You sign a permission slip, and enclose an already signed cheque with it in an envelope. You give it to your seven year old son, and he hugs you tightly. “Thanks Dad!” No problem, you say back, and kiss him on the forehead as he runs to his mother’s car in the driveway. You sigh happily, and finish your tea.

Alternate Ending:

You’re daydreaming again, but a knock on the elbow brings you back to the classroom. The teacher is still talking about road safety, but after the bell rings, after your teacher dismisses you, after you look to your best friend and you both scream; “Finally, the weekend!” After all that, you reach the crossing at the front gate of your school, holding your mother’s hand. A football rolls onto the road, and you pull yourself free of your mother’s grip and run after it. You didn’t see the car. The driver didn’t see you. After that day, no one saw you alive again. 

Safari

A cool breeze swept through the tall, yellow grass, a short reprieve from the blazing African heat. The golden rays from the glorious sun shone over the great Savannah, inviting the hundreds of thousands of inhabitants to bathe and bask in its glow. Swarms of shiny bluebottles zipped through the air, joining the mosquitoes and dragonflies in the ever-lasting battle for food.  

In the beautiful aura of the grasslands, the sounds of wildlife echoed for miles. Harmonious mating calls of the antpeckers, brubrus and the quailfinches, just some of the songbirds that reside here; brittle clashes of antelopes ramming their antlers against each other, fiercely competing for their harem; the loud yelps and cackles of the spotted hyenas, ganging up ruthlessly on their prey.

A nearby herd of zebra grazed quietly on a particularly lush patch of bottle-brush grass, neighing and occasionally glancing furtively at any oncoming carnivores. Young calves took turns bathing in the amply filled water-hole, feeding at their mothers’ teats and playfully butting each other. The elder equines circled their perimeter, scanning for signs of trouble.

Only a few meters away, sheltered from the direct heat under the flat, expansive canopy of a thicket of acacia trees, a small group of people sat around their well-built and heavily equipped campsite. The little area contained five tents, circled around what was a campfire, and most impressively a little studio. Four of the shorter acacias in the dense copse had been draped with a mass of huge leaves and thin sheets of fabric. In the fort-like structure were 4 power generators, a couple of laptops, a collection of cameras, a few rifles and a cool-box. Parked next to the fort was a Land Rover Safari, with a convertible roof and an inbuilt tripod.

Michael Tawny sat in a circle around the ashes of the campfire, with his fellow travellers. As he absorbed the splendour of the Savannah, the wild sounds, scents and sights he had been dreaming of for years, he took a moment to enjoy the company he was in. In the tent to his left was Isaac Sahir, a tall, brown haired, twenty four year old journalist student, born and raised in England to Egyptian parents. Isaac and Michael had been neighbours and close friends for almost two decades, and both fell in love with wildlife after reading the limited number of animal books in their primary school classroom. Isaac was now working on a series of travel books, starting here in the Savannah.

On Michael’s right was Niamh Teagan, also twenty four and another close friend of Michael and Isaac. She was born in Ireland, and moved to London with her parents at the age of seven when she first met Michael and Isaac. Niamh worked as a freelance photographer, and jumped at the opportunity to join them in the glorious African grassland.

The other two tents housed Charles Blair, a forty-something filmmaker and good friend of Michael’s father, and his nineteen year old daughter Lily. Both were from Cape Town, and had ventured into these areas a number of times. Charles was also financing the trip.

“Everyone kip well, then?” Charles asked us, and the three strangers to southern Africa nodded tiredly. “Good, after breakfast we’ll drive out into the open, so eat your fill eh!”

“What’re we gonna be looking at?” Niamh asked curiously, eager to get her camera out and ready.

“I figure the herds will be a good place to start, so we shall definitely see something. Don’t get your hopes up for any real action yet, okay? I’ve spent weeks upon weeks out here,” he replied, smiling ruefully.

Michael grinned; “No problem, long as the weather stays like this. And that’ll be a while, right?” He looked between Charles and Lily, who both nodded reassuringly.

They sat and talked for another thirty minutes, about university, careers, travelling, and eventually Michael, Isaac and Charles loaded the large Safari with the gear, whilst Niamh and Lily hoisted the cool-box into the boot. They set out to the tune of songbirds singing merrily, giraffes munching from the tallest trees and bison chewing from the lowest bushes.

As Charles drove across the bumpy grassland, Michael helped Niamh set the two cameras up.

“This is incredible, no?” Niamh whispered as she propped the tripod up, not wanting to give away her awe at the surroundings.

Michael smiled and nodded. “It’s amazing. Beats London by a long shot, anyways,” he added, winking and turning on the video camera. “How d’you want them set up, Charles?”

“Just make sure the lighting’s good, atta boy,” he boomed loudly back at them.

Niamh climbed onto the back of her seat and started taking pictures of the landscape.

“Mike, point the camera over there,” Niamh called down, and pointed at a herd of buffalo, just about becoming visible on the horizon. “There, the buffalo I think.”

Michael pulled a lever on the tripod and the hydraulic piston supporting the video camera shot upwards. Michael sat on the back of his own seat next to Niamh, and directed the lens towards the buffalo.

“Can we get out of the car once we get close?” Isaac asked Lily, whilst Charles manoeuvred the Safari through a dense patch of grass.

“I suppose so, yes, but we mustn’t stray too far from it, yes?” Lily replied, smiling.

“Sweet!” Isaac pulled a pen and a notepad out, and started scribbling. “So, how many times have you been here, then?” He looked up at her,

“Why, am I being interviewed?” she smiled coyly.

Isaac raised an eyebrow, and replied; “Maybe, if you’re interesting enough.” He smiled back, and Lily giggled.

They drove for another hour or so, capturing the stunning landscape, from the endless acres of golden grass to the mighty and greatly varied trees that made the beautiful Savannah what it was. They saw huge herds of bison, buffalo, antelope and springbok, grazing and butting and running. Michael pointed out a pride of lions lounging lazily in the shade of a baobab tree, swatting half-heartedly at the mosquitos and flies circling them.

They parked the Safari under a baobab a few hundred meters away from the lions, and stepped out onto the Savannah the first time. Niamh helped Michael detach the video camera from the tripod, and they packed it into the case. Isaac and Charles pulled the cool-box out of the boot, and Lily helped them set up a picnic.

They had chosen a place with a spectacular view of the Savannah. Michael gazed around him in wonder, taking in the sheer beauty. From their vantage point, he could see everything.

He turned to Niamh next to him; “This’ll make a brilliant picture.”

“Too right! Here, take the camera, and don’t drop it,” she said, standing up.

A few leaves rustled in the tree above them, followed by a loud snap. They all glanced up, and saw a leopard cub staring at them from a long branch, like a deer caught in the headlights.

It stayed motionless, as did the four younger individuals. Charles was alert, however, and immediately began scanning the immediate surrounding area.

“Quick, back to the car, its mother will be close by.”

Michael’s heart started racing, as he crept back to the Safari. His eyes darted around until they found Niamh, who had taken the camera and was trying to snap a picture of the cub.

“Niamh!” he whispered loudly. “Jesus, c’mon!”

She ignored him, and concentrated on the photo opportunity. Michael jogged back and tugged at her arm. She sighed exasperatedly, took one last picture, before they both ran back towards the car. They were a few meters from the others, but nonetheless they slowed down, sensing no threat.

Then something yapped loudly behind them.

Howl

It was cold tonight, absolutely freezing. A chilling breeze blew past The Grey Wolf Inn on Station Road, adjoining the High Street of Brookfield. The branches swung, and shook, and snapped. Nearby, a fox darted across a streetlight, and slinked away into the shadows.

 Windshields were coated in icy dew, but dotted around on random cards were scratch mark, spoiling the smooth frost-like picture. The sky was dark and depthless, the stars twinkling carelessly, the moon waxing into darkness. In a nearby forest, a wolf gave a desperate howl. It echoed into the quiet sound of a sleepy hollow.

The Inn was full tonight, locals sharing a celebratory ‘end of the week’ drink. In the midst of the cheery chatter, three twenty year olds sat, visitors of one of their older cousins. Alex Newbury, along with his friends Niamh O’Connor and Seb Hassad, was visiting Sarah Newbury, having travelled along their town in their travels of Britain. The four sat in a booth, Alex, Niamh and Sarah drinking locally brewed cider, and Seb drinking Coke, since he was driving, and rarely drunk anyways.

On Sarah’s wrist was a charm bracelet, made of silver, with only one charm; a wolf with emerald eyes. The eyes matched hers, large and twinkling. Sarah was twenty three, and was Alex’s favourite relative; he didn’t have many, and she was the only one close to his age. They grew up together for years in London, but Sarah moved to Brookfield to study for her MSc in Organic Chemistry.

“So how’s your trip been, then?” Sarah asked them enthusiastically, leaning forward. “Met anyone interesting?”

Seb and Alex shook their heads glumly, but Niamh pointed out; “There was that bloke with the excessive body hair, remember?”

“He wasn’t interesting, he was obvious!” Seb protested.

“Wasn’t even trying to hide it,” Alex added, eyebrow raised.

Sarah laughed, and nodded her head expectantly; “Yeah those excessively hairy people, they turned out to be werewolves.” She sipped her drink. “Mostly harmless, now, only eat wild animals from the forest, which for some reason this town has an abundance of.” She frowned. “Still a bit twatty though.”

Alex and Seb laughed, while Niamh chuckled.

“Any plans for tomorrow?” Sarah asked, taking another sip.

“We’re gonna go to the forest, see if we can find anything interesting,” Alex replied, as Niamh and Seb nodded in confirmation. 

“Wanna come to mine for dinner? I’ll drive you back here after.”

“I’m up for it, but it’ll be late,” Seb said, pulling his oversized beanie down a little to cover his jet black mop. Alex and Niamh nodded in agreement, and Sarah grinned.

“Great, Lily’ll make cottage pie and we’ll pick up some drinks.” She finished her drink and said; “I’m gonna head back, gimme a ring when you’re back.”

“Will do.” Alex got up and hugged her. She hugged him back tightly, and whispered; “How’s things at home?”

“Fine. Well as fine as they could be.” He whispered back, and she pulled out and grinned.

“Good. Take care you two,” She smiled at Seb and Niamh. “Make sure Alex takes his insulin, and make sure you have jelly babies.”

They nodded and grinned, and Alex sat down as Sarah left.

“Wanna get to bed? Early start tomorrow morning.” Alex asked them both, with a hint of tiredness.

“Yeah, I’m knackered. I call a bed!” Niamh laughed. Alex and Seb looked at each other and yelled; “I call the other one.” Alex was slightly quicker. Seb scowled and stuck a finger up, understandably unenthusiastic about having to sleep on a sofa.

They finished their drinks and headed to their room. Outside, slightly closer to the Inn, another howl came, hollow and sore. It sent birds fluttering out of their trees, and several dogs found cause to continue the canine chorus. They eventually echoed into the nights, and in the morning, Seb’s car had joined the sparsely spread victims of paws on ice.

Later into the night, a new guest booked into the inn. He left a small trail of mud in his footsteps, with light grey hairs embedded in the clumps. 

Strawberries

It's been a while, yes, so here's something a little older to keep your beaks wet...

I could feel it coming on. The conversations around the house I was in continued, the familiar buzz uninterrupted. Everything moved in slow motion, every movement took an eternity. Every emotion, every hint of a feeling that attempted to squeeze itself into my brain seemed to last forever. I looked at Jen’s face, fleetingly we made eye contact, and my heart would pump for hours, or split seconds. Or maybe it was always pumping. Even when I broke the eye contact, however long it lasted for; maybe a second, maybe the whole night. Even when I broke eye contact, and stared at the ceiling, her bright green eyes bore deep into me. They transformed slowly into kaleidoscopes, and spun and spun and spun. Maybe the room and I were spinning and the eyes on the ceiling were stationary. My heart fluttered, and the eyes looked, for a moment, or a lifetime, sympathetic. Then the eyes vanished, and from when I looked at Jen up to right now, only a second had passed. But it felt like a week of spinning. Maybe it was a week, and it had felt like a second had felt like a week, because it felt so good.

I tried to smile at her, but the corners of my mouth took minutes to turn upwards. My cheeks felt like lumps of lead, that my mouth could only just lift. Maybe if I waved, I could let her know that I was feeling really happy. Then I felt my arm move, automatically, but at snail’s pace. It went level with my shoulder, above it, up to my lead cheek, to my ear, above my head. My hand was raised, immobile. This wasn’t waving, as far as I knew. I tried to think, waving is moving, and I felt each word travel from my brain, down my spine in a flurry of electric impulses. They branched off my spinal cord, and strolled lazily through a tunnel into my raised limb. Then my limb started moving, back and forth and back and forth. Finally, I’m waving. I almost felt my brain give me an apologetic look.

Suddenly I felt something heavy on my back. The buzz of conversation disappeared. A flat surface, crushing me until I was lying horizontally. It weighed the world and more. It was forcing me down. Or up. I couldn’t tell which direction gravity was forcing me, but I was in a dark place. There were small white dots, everywhere. I think I was in space. I think the earth was on my back, like a heavy backpack, and I was falling through space. I kept falling for hours. Or days. A long time, or was time relevant in space? Didn’t someone with a brilliant brain once say time was relative? So if that was true, how long had I been falling with this earthpack for? Jen’s face only seemed a few minutes ago, but how could I know? I blinked.

The buzz of conversation returned. I was back in the room I was in before, and I was lying flat on the floor. Jen’s face was an inch from mine, those bright green eyes spinning again. No, it was Jen this time. But it was still those eyes, the eyes that were glued to the ceiling. They slowed down, but they were still spinning. Just the opposite way, like a fan seems to do when it goes really fast. Maybe Jen’s eyes weren’t slowing down, maybe they were going a lot faster than before.

I tried lifting my arms towards the ceiling, but I couldn’t tell where my arms were now. They might already be at the ceiling, in which case I was wasting energy. Or they were far away from the ceiling, and my body, and had no chance of getting near the eyes. Either way, energy was being expended unnecessarily. This was bad. Or good. I would like to think it was good, because everything else was good.

Then I felt a warm hand on my right hand. I found my hand! And there, linked to it, was my right arm! Everything made sense again. I looked at my arm with positive delight, tracing it from shoulder to hand. But there was something holding my hand. Ah yes, the hand that had led me to my hand, and subsequently my arm. Whose hand was it? Maybe they had lost their hand, and it was my responsibility to give it back to them, the way they’d given my hand back. I spoke loudly:

“Has anyone lost their hand, cos I may have found it? It’s here, next to mine.” My words joined the buzz of conversation like an estuary on a river. But someone whispered in my ear: I think it was Jen.

“You found my hand. Thank you, I was looking for it when I found yours. We found each other’s hands. Hold mine; I don’t want to lose it again.” It was definitely Jen.

Her voice was hypnotic, and her hand was comforting, and felt like a chain between me and her. I searched the space in front of me for her face, but couldn’t find it. I looked at our hands again, and let my vision wonder from her hand to her wrist, to her arm, to her shoulder, to her neck, and there it was. Her face, those green eyes. I felt safe, and safe was a good thing to be feeling. She gave me a small white stick. It felt papery. Maybe it wasn’t a stick. It was burning at one end, and it smelled like strawberries. The end it wasn’t burning at smelled very much like strawberries.

“Have it, and we can keep our hands safe forever.” I put my lips on the non-burning-strawberry-scented end of the stick, and drew my breath in. The smoke tasted like heaven. I let my lungs greedily devour it, and I saw stars.

I gave Jen the stick, and she put it to rest somewhere out of sight. Then she put her own lips where the stick had been. The strawberry flavour returned.

Creationism

This is what I imagine to be the one true creationist story. Please do not be alarmed by historical inaccuracies. Enjoy!

The old bearded man sat in a leather office chair, you know, the spinny ones on wheels, at an oak desk, with a white laptop open and whirring gently upon it. Across from him sat his three oldest acquaintances; Time, Nature and Death. The old man looked at them over his glasses, and smiled with amusement as they whispered with each other.

“It’s not needed, it never has been before, and never will be.”

“It is, you fool, can’t you see he’s bored? We’re all bored!”

“I don’t know, there could be other ways of entertaining people, couldn’t there?”

The man cleared his throat for their attention, before eyeing the gold plaque on his desk. There was a small smudge on it. He frowned, reached for it and rubbed it with his sleeve until the word ‘God’ gleamed as bright as it had on its first day in existence.

“So, gentlelords, I see you all know why I’ve called you here today?” He raised his white eyebrows, his aged forehead creasing as he observed them. Time’s equally aged face reflected his concern at his creator’s idea. Nature’s youthful, chiselled face was enthusiastic, clearly excited with the Plan. Death’s face was sour, as usual, and he shook his head under his black hood, not happy in the slightest.

He smiled again at their divided opinions, before turning attention back to his laptop. He clicked his mouse a few times, and typed with lightning speed on his keyboard. When he was done, he turned the machine around to face the three Lords, and said; “It’s finally installed! Sim Life 1.1! A tech guy at Heavenly Games and Entertainment gave me the first copy. The angels don’t see this for a good few decades!” He grinned with such joy that even Time and Death could not help but become slightly intrigued.

Nature stood from his chair to get a closer look at the laptop, almost bouncing from delight. He took the mouse and started scrolling, his grin becoming wider and wider as he inspected the various features HGE had weaved into the software. God let him indulge himself, but warned Nature that only he was allowed to start the real game. He then turned to Time and Death, and asked them; “Do you really not have faith in my idea?”

Death became stony again, but Time voiced his concern; “I just think, what about imperfections? This is the first edition, there are bound to be flaws, right?”

God nodded; “Yes, this is not based on heaven, however I’m sure that nothing too drastic will happen.”

Time was not entirely convinced, but bowed to God’s will and kept his doubts to himself. Death, however, was not so ready to back down; “This is destined for disaster, God. I have never trusted those meddling fools at HGE, and I do not need more souls to harvest.”

“I have indeed catered for this too, Death. You shall have your ranks increased to deal with the added workload.”

Death had no reply to this, as he knew God would not hear it, so he grumbled to himself, still dissatisfied.

“Nature, are you quite done? I want to play now.” There was a slight impatience in God’s voice, and Nature jumped from the laptop into his seat; “Sorry, God. It looks brilliant, by the way!”

God smiled, and nodded; “Yes, I knew HGE would not let me down. Now, all of you back to your duties.” They all rose and departed through the door of God’s large office, leaving him to Sim Life 1.1. However, the topic of this discussion was not entirely as private as God would have wished.

…

Hours later, God had created the perfect world; beautiful creatures, stunning landscapes, magnificent elements of all life imaginable. The software was quick, no glitches, and he had taken careful time to iron out any flaws that could possibly arise. He stood from his chair and stretched, grinning with pleasure at his work. Then his stomach rumbled.

I think I deserve a nice snack now, he thought to himself, and made his way to the Heaven Mall.

…

Lucifer was a mischievous angel, and once he learned of God’s new game, he became jealous. Why should he get Sim Life 1.1 when we have to wait for ages? The jealousy turned to anger, the anger then turned to malice; I know just what to do!

Lucifer waited for God to leave for Shooting Starbucks, and crept into God’s office. It wasn’t even locked! Ha, the dangers of staring at a computer for too long.

Sim Life 1.1 was still on the screen, and he observed God’s creation. This looks beautiful, he thought. Then he grinned nastily; it would be a shame if something were to happen to it! He thought for a second, then, without saving the game, he closed the window.

Then he heard footsteps, and joyful humming. He froze, and waited.

As soon as God entered his office and saw Lucifer, he feared the worse, and as he shoved him away from the laptop, he saw what Lucifer had done. He roared in fury.

“LUCIFER YOU ARSE! YOU STUPID LITTLE ARSE! THIS IS YOUR END, YOU FOUL SWINE. TODAY, YOU SHALL RELINQUISH YOUR GRACE. NO MORE WILL YOU ENJOY THE BENEFITS OF HEAVEN. DOWN TO HELL YOU GO, BOY!”

Lucifer bowed his head, but as he was banished from Heaven his face was a picture of rage and jealousy. God looked back at his laptop and realized; he would have to start again. Banishing Lucifer did not quell his rage, and he again began to create a world, this time with many flaws and imperfections, taking out his fury on Sim Life 1.1. His mightiest creation, humans, were amongst the most flawed, and as he finished, he saved the file and clicked ‘UPLOAD’.

“So be it, I shall name you Earth, and those who act as Lucifer has acted shall be sent to dwell with Lucifer.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the real story.

Rock the Boat

I'll leave this for you to read. Enjoy!

James and Lucille finished packing their suitcases the night before their wedding. It was to be a small affair; family and close friends containing their joy within a small church, quiet and happy from lavish start to glorious finish. James had the honeymoon planned to perfection, where nothing could conceivably go wrong. No, there was no chance, whether fortuitous or otherwise, that events could deviate from the plan James had formulated in his romanticized-to-the-point-of-dizziness head.

On the day of the celebratory ceremony, James’ bride-to-be, Lucille, displayed flawlessness from head to toe. Dressed in virgin white, her radiant beauty illuminated the church’s deepest cracks and tallest crevasses. James himself was as handsome as he could have hoped, yet even he paled in comparison to his love.

With no time to change from their wedding attire, they made no effort to hesitate in departing for their so perfectly planned honeymoon. Later that evening, the newlyweds were consummating their marriage on a luxury vessel, off the coast of Calais.

That night, events took a turn most sour.

Lucille wrapped a silky warm robe around her modesty, and headed out of their cabin for a mug of warm milk. As she made her way to the thankfully-open restaurant, a shadow of foreboding menace began to engulf her, mixing fear with fantasy, jealousy with joy, anger with admiration of her dear James. Murderous thoughts consumed her soul, colouring it dark with wrathful wonderings.

Then, the thoughts vanished into the starry night sky, and Lucille was taken aback by such surely fictional thoughts. But the dredges of doubt remained deep in the back of her mind. She shook her head and continued on her path to the restaurant.

In the cabin, James took notice of the absence of the beautiful figure he fell in love with. I wonder where Lucille has gone, he mused, before deciding that he too desired a beverage before entering his first night of matrimonial slumber.

As James treaded the same path as his beloved, he too began to experience the invasion of foreign thought. Just why had Lucille taken leave from their cabin, without so much as a reassurance of her faithfulness? The same shadow that had taken his spouse as temporary prey began to seep into his own mind. His face contorted into rage until, yet again, the thoughts disappeared, leaving behind a very perplexed man.

James spotted Lucille idly chatting to a woman by the bar, and smiled; his suspicions were indeed, as he suspected, unfounded. He walked with a saunter rejuvenated by the confirmation of his wife’s fidelity, and embraced Lucille from behind, meeting her lips with a passionate kiss. She returned it with equal longing, and, forgetting their desired drinks, hastened back to their cabin.

As they slept in each other’s arms that night, their dreams were plagued by dark desires, murderous missions involving one another. They woke the next morning with not just space between them, but thoughts of betrayal and duplicity. They dressed in a stony silence, and headed for breakfast down the same route they had taken the night before. As they walked, the sinister shadow struck, and the dearly beloveds turned to face each other, mutinous rage painted on their faces. Lucille shrieked and screamed accusations of disloyalty, James returned with roars and bellows of treachery, and neither relented until they both simultaneously, out of pure chance, chose to take a step towards the restaurant. The rage vanished, replaced by a curious quietness.

James looked at Lucille. Lucille looked at James. Lust clouded their eyes, and again they headed back to the cabin.

Again they dressed in a cold hush, but opted for a different route to the restaurant. The coldness vanished, and they said not a word about the row, until they heard cries of a similar nature to theirs coming from the hallway. Then, a woman stalked into the restaurant, seething with anger, followed by a man, presumably her spouse, also inflicted with the rage he had been a victim to, not thirty minutes ago.

This happened twice more, and each couple affected by the mysterious occurrence would be overcome with passion upon entering the kitchen, and depart immediately. James and Lucille made note of this, and decided henceforth to never take this seemingly bewitched path again, despite the rewards they seemed to have reaped; it was simply not worth the cost.

The events had not escaped the attention, however, of the Captain, who immediately saw fit to investigate the corridor. He was not to be heard from for many hours.

That evening there was a ball, for honeymooners and experienced couples alike. James had made sure to tell Lucille that, amongst the surprises in store for her, there was to be an event of magnificent proportions, thusly she had packed a beautiful, emerald green ball gown. James himself sported a dashing tuxedo with a matching green bowtie; together they looked resplendent.

They, and all the other couples, dined on a delicious banquet, sampled glasses of splendid wine and champagne, and danced in the light of the full moon until the late hours of the night. The stage was taken by the most accomplished of musicians until the Captain made his final appearance of the voyage. He walked onto the stage to ravenous applause from the ballroom, but something was wrong.

The Captain’s eyes were dark and emotionless, and he stood centre stage with the disposition of a man void of all life. As this was sensed by the men and women in the ballroom, a hush fell upon them all. The vessel suddenly rocked, and people were sent stumbling; except for those who had fallen victim to the mysterious shadow. James, Lucille, and the three other duos all bore resemblance to the Captain, standing up straight and gaunt, whilst others were shaken to death by the ship. After ten long minutes, the nine of them stood amongst corpses, and nine nooses descended from the ceiling and wrapped around the necks of each individual.

Then, something clicked in James’ head, and he clawed out of the noose before it tightened. He turned to face Lucille, who had also awakened. The seven others had regained sense, but their faces, like Lucille’s, were twisted with fear.

James leapt to Lucille, and began to claw at her own noose, but it tightened persistently.

He tried to scratch through the knot.

He tore at it.

He chewed it.

It would not yield.

On the brink of hopelessness, James bit down hard onto the knot, and it loosened! He gasped, and ripped it loose from his beloved’s throat. Lucille threw herself at her saviour, her hero, her love. But they were helpless in rescuing the others, who rose towards the ceiling, hanged. The pure horror stopped both of their hearts, and they finally joined the mass of victims of the shadow.

The Interview

Something lighthearted and whimsical.

Today, I had to interview 3 people for a job that would make the lucky winner my supervisor. How it came to this, I’m not quite sure, but the task was pawned off to me after going through a long chain of lazy, self-righteous, stuck up superiors of mine. So now I had to do up the top button of my wrinkled shirt, tighten my tie and button my jacket. And, according to the girl in the cubicle next to me, zip up my fly. Terrific.

I’d be given a small office to do the interviews in, containing a desk and two chairs on either side. At least whoever had finally assigned me the task had the decency to make my chair slightly more comfortable than my opposing number. I sat, opened my briefcase and took three thin manila files out.

I opened the first file, and groaned. The first page read:

Sarah Greenfield (My ex-girlfriend, bloody hell…)

Unemployed (Ha!)

43 Brent Lane, London, E17 (Back with the parents, I see. Mooching bitch.)

07989 483 656 (Oh, so you’ve changed your number.)

DOB: 12/5/89 (This somehow makes you evil now.)

I thought wisely to get this out of the way first, so I stood up, walked to the door, poked my head out and called; “Ms Greenfield.” Her head rose sharply at the sound of my voice, and her face turned sour when she saw me. I smiled innocently, and motioned her into the office. Enter the dragon.

I sat back down on my chair and waited for her to walk in, and when she sat down, she stared at me for a good few seconds. I continued to smile broadly; I think I’ll enjoy myself now. I slowly flicked through the pages of her CV, leaving her to sit in what I imagined to be a painful silence. Occasionally I would tut at something I would barely even read, and glance up at her reddening face. Finally, as she cleared her throat, I closed her file and looked up at her, attempting and probably failing to look professional.

“So, it says here you’re unemployed. I do wonder, how did you come to find yourself in such a position?” I asked her sweetly. If looks could kill.

She muttered something under her breath.

“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.”

She cleared her throat, turning even redder, and spoke quietly; “Um, personal problems.”

“Could you share with me the details of these ‘personal problems’?”

She stared at me again, and I raised my eyebrows. “Ms Greenfield, please, if you expect us to hire you without assurance of complete honestly, I’m afraid to say you are severely mistaken.” I was enjoying myself now, and this must’ve been quite evident, as her face was now an unpleasant shade of scarlet. I moved on, not wanting to risk her reporting me.

“Now, what can you tell me about the position you are applying for? I trust you’ve done your research?” In truth, I had no idea what the position entailed, but she didn’t know that. She stayed silent, so I raised my eyebrows again, coaxing her into an answer.

“Erm, well, I know I’ll, erm, be supervising the, uh, the people, and er, checking their, um, their work and-“

“Yes, you clearly have an excellent understanding, don’t you?” I chuckled to myself, tutting and shaking my head in disappointment. I would’ve continued, but I didn’t want to push it. “Well, that should be all for now, I’ll let you know via telephone if you have the job or not. Thank you for your time,” I smiled at her pleasantly, and dismissed her. She got up, furious, and stalked out of the room.

Putting it out of my mind, I looked at the next two files. There was John Samuelson, a 43 year old man with plenty of experience in supervising doormats like myself, and Adam Marquez, a 25 year old Spaniard with a first rate education and a history of sucking up to his superiors, probably how he got to this interview. I called them both in, wanting to speed things along, and watched to see who would take the seat and who would stand.

Samuelson walked with a cane, but this apparently didn’t warrant the need for a seat, as Marquez sat down, oblivious to the now venomous stare he was receiving from Samuelson. I made a mental note to mark him down for this, then an idea came to me; both were suitable for the job, so I’d use the interview to decide which one I liked less. So far, Marquez was heading down hill.

I took out a small pack of sweets from my briefcase, and offered them one each. Samuelson declined, smiling in thanks as he did so, but Marquez grabbed both from my hand and threw the wrappers on the floor as he ate them. The outcome was becoming quite clear; this arrogant little swine was not getting this job.

I continued the interview, asking both of them different questions, and while Samuelson passed smoothly, his experience telling, Marquez was sweating within minutes, stuttering like Greenfield had been but under considerably less pressure. I concluded by offering them both a sweet again, and this time, they both declined. Samuelson had enough savvy to realize he has the job, but Marquez not so much; “Maybe when you hire me I’ll have one, eh?” He winked at me, and they both left. I sat for a few minutes, before writing the verdict on a small notepad and sticking it on the top of the pile of files. I dropped it off at my boss’s secretary’s desk, and walked back to my own cubicle.

The next day I was called into my boss’s office. I sighed; I guess Greenfield must’ve opened her mouth. I walked over and his secretary told me to go in. Dreading the next few minutes, I opened the door and entered.

My boss, Mr Robertson, welcomed me in with an unreadable face. He motioned for me to sit down, and as I sat, he started talking; “I didn’t know Sarah Greenfield was applying for the job.” He paused, observing me. “Had your current supervisor told me, then things may’ve gone quite differently.”

I’d stepped over the mark. What was I thinking, abusing power I didn’t even have? An incredibly stupid thing to do. But why did Robertson care?

He remained silent, studying the visible regret on my face with a stern look on his own. Then, slowly, he started grinning. “Ha! She told me how you conducted the interview, and I must say, my boy, good show!”

It turned out that she had once been involved with Robertson’s son, a while back, and that hadn’t ended too well either! I didn’t relax, unsure of what was coming next, but he then scanned over the files and nodded his head while doing do. “Yes, Samuelson does seem to be better suited, I think I agree. Well done, my boy!”

And that was that, I’d gotten away with it, out of sheer luck.

My first short story this year, not amazing but was fun to write. 

Dehumanized

Bit darker for you, and I'm sure there's a moral message in here somewhere. If you look hard.

Dehumanized

As I took in my surroundings, I couldn’t help but regret how it came to this. The squeaky, soft, brand new leather sofa; the hardwood floorboards, still shiny from polish; the cream coloured, spotless walls; the bright white ceiling; the luxurious, expensive rug, it all screamed at me with accusing fury.

The masterpiece of the room, a rather large flat screen television, completed with a surround sound stereo system, reflected back at me a guilty face with which my secret joy struggled. Did I deserve my fortune? No. Was this a concerning matter? Perhaps.

I thought back to last year…

“Sometimes, you have to be selfish. It’s your decision to make, but if you don’t decide today, I will walk away.” He gives me a hard look, brows furrowed and eyes deadly serious. This man could be heaven or hell.

In a moment of weakness, I sigh, and click my pen; “I’ll sign.”

His face barely changes, but he slides a folder across the desk. I take it, and extract a single sheet of paper, dated at the top; ‘5/4/09’. Reading it, it looks reasonable; I certainly have a good deal here.

I leave my mark, and instantly the weight of my decision sets up camp on my shoulders. I can’t go back now.

He speaks the last words of the meeting; “You’ll hear from me in a year. Until then, tell no-one.”

Then, out of the corner of my eye I saw a man. Through the glass screen door to my left, a man in a sharp suit stood, for a split second, before vanishing. Almost as if he dived into the ground.

Fear suddenly strangled me; was this time? Did I have to pay for my sins? I saw the man again. Fleetingly he appeared, until, like before, he was gone. But as common sense filtered back into my thoughts, I noticed something. Well, more so the absence of something; the snow outside was thick and heavy, and there were no visible footprints where the man had seemingly stood.

But once again, the man showed himself, as I glanced at the glass door. Then I heard footsteps, and my heart stopped. I froze in unadulterated terror. The room became hot, as if ruthless hellfire was enveloping me. I felt a hand upon my shoulder, and instantly, I knew; the man I saw outside was a reflection, and the true horror was within my guilt-ridden haven. I slowly turned to face him, and his eyes bore into me with such intensity that no amount of material wealth could vanquish. I had made a mistake, and it was time to pay. His lips formed a sentence:

“We dine in Hell tonight.”

Then the floor engulfed me, and I stopped breathing.

…

I woke up on a cold cement floor, the chills from the hard stone absorbing into me with ravaging earnest. I felt stiff and pained, and my right arm itched. I felt my flesh; my arm was covered in green pustules. The arm I signed the contract with, that godforsaken agreement that sealed my fate. I blacked out again.

…

“This man has shown remorse for his actions; however, that does not provide an excuse. I move that he provide service for the remainder of the century.” The next time I awoke from my comatose-like state, I heard a cool, confident voice spell out my future. Slowly, memories trickled back to me, and I thought instantly of my family, how they had no idea where I was; how they must be fearfully struggling with visions of my demise. I stared at the desk I was sitting at, as the cool voice continued, unbeknownst to me that I was now the focus of his speech. Then, everything became blurred, and I lost consciousness.

…

I woke up, drenched in cold sweat, shaking. My mind was clear now, and I regained full control of my body. The room I was in contained but one bed and a mirror. The mirror was cracked and scratched, and as I walked over to it, I could barely make out a reflection. I stood in front of it, squinting at a shadowy figure behind me. The image became clearer as the figure drew closer, until it was directly behind me, and I could observe the petrifying entity that would ruin me.

Whatever it was, it placed a cold, bony hand on my shoulder, and I found myself paralyzed in fear. I could not move, and this creature, this demon, was free to take his toll on me. Then, I felt a great weight lifted from my chest, up my throat, and out of my mouth.

A glowing, silver orb.

I watched it go, trying but failing to reach out for it. It floated over me, and into the hand of this thing. The figure enclosed the orb in its hand, and it disappeared. I collapsed, free from its control, but empty inside. In the short space of time, I understood; I would pay for my sins with myself. I had been dehumanized.

…

Again, I woke up, but this time, in my own bed, soaked in the same icy sweat, shaking and shivering. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table: ‘4:30am, 4/4/09’. I couldn’t believe it. The shock knocks me out.

…

“Sometimes, you have to be selfish. It’s your decision to make, but if you don’t decide today, I will walk away.” He gives me a hard look, brows furrowed and eyes deadly serious. This man could be heaven or hell.

I sigh, and remember the shadowed figure, my family, my soul. Second chances don’t often come along, but today it had. Was I ready to be dehumanized, for a year of wealth and happiness for my family? No, I could not take that chance. Then, I thought to what he just said; “You have to be selfish.” He was right; it would be selfish to deny my family the fortune they crave, to save my own humanity, but it had to be done. I shook my head, and walked off. In the corner of my eye, I saw him smile.

Cheers for reading!

Crosshairs

I'll start off with something a tad fast paced, maybe befitting a movie. Enjoy!

Crosshairs

I lie, prone, front down, and breathe calmly and deeply. It’s cold, so body stiffness could be a potential problem if I’m waiting for too long. I’ve taken precautions; balaclava, several layers, extra socks. My footwear has to be light, just in case I’m seen. Then again, it’s dark, and I’m wearing all black. Precautions.

“Any movement?” Eliza Stone’s voice in my earpiece asks.

“Negative.”

A pause. Do we continue the conversation, risking loss of concentration, or am I left to my own thoughts again. I wouldn’t mind a conversation with Eliza, even if it was a brief one. Better than ‘talking’ with James Payne, in any respect.

The pause continues, and I’m tempted to check my earpiece.

“How you holding up?”

I smile. “Just toasty, yourself?”

She chuckles; “It’s bloody freezing in this heated apartment. Sit tight, won’t be long now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Silence. Back to my thoughts. I look again through my scope, straight at the main entrance of the Domus Solis Hotel across the road. No movement.

I sigh, and think ruefully of the warm room Eliza and Payne were sat in, two floors beneath me, the gallons of coffee they were probably necking, the burger wrappers that probably littered the floor. I shiver, and my stomach grumbles. If only I’d won the damn coin toss.

I lie there for roughly another hour, with regular check-ups from Eliza every ten minutes or so. Still nothing happens in front of the hotel. Keeping my patience, I entertain myself by picturing the perfect shot. And the pay out that comes with it.

Then, I see someone walk out of the Domus Solis. He’s tall, wearing a black trench coat over a tailored suit. His hair is jet black. He isn’t our man.

He’s our man’s man.

He takes a pack of cigarettes out of his coat. I can tell he’s nervous; it takes him a few attempts to light the cig; his hands are very shaky. It might’ve been from the cold, except his face was a picture of panic.

“Eliza, look out the window.”

I hear a shuffling, through the earpiece.

“He doesn’t look too happy, does he?”

“Tell Payne to keep an eye on him, you come up here.”

“Alright, give me a second. James, take these.”

I wait for her, and in the mean time I keep a close eye on the tall man with the cigarette. He gets through it quickly, and pulls another one out. I hear footsteps, and turn sharply onto my feet, pulling a blade from my thigh. Precautions.

It’s Eliza. Her long brown hair is tied in a ponytail, and her bright green eyes are sharp and alert. She raises an eyebrow. Then I notice she has a knife in her own right hand. She follows my eyes, shrugs and says; “Precautions, right?”

I nod towards the hotel. The man is still there, on what I presume is his third cigarette.

“If I shot him, I’d probably prevent a whole load of lung cancer, y’know.”

“And scare away the money shot? I doubt his well-being is worth missing our payday.”

“We could try for both?”

“Let’s get the target first, okay? Then you can be a good Samaritan. Look, he’s going back in.”

I get back on my belly and position the scope. Eliza pulls a pair of binoculars out and lies down beside me.

The man’s gone from sight, but I wait with baited breath. I can sense something coming.

I try to gain a better angle, but nothing going. Payne probably has a decent view, being lower down, so I get his attention through the earpiece.

“Payne, try get a view through the hotel door. See anything?”

“I see Cigarette Man’s legs, just about. He’s waiting at the front desk, I think.”

“Tell me if he moves.”

But I don’t need him to say anything; Cigarette Man walks straight back out, followed by a man in a grey blazer and dark blue trousers.

 I smile. Our man. Al Dorston.

I grip my rifle, and wait for the two men to stop moving enough to get a decent shot. I get a good view on Al’s forehead, and I know it won’t last for long. I take a deep breath, and let my heart rate slow down. No point in wasting a perfect opportunity out of basic clumsiness.

My finger is on the trigger, and I empty my mind of everything but Al’s face.

His face, which was now looking straight at me.

I collapse flat on the cold cement of the roof, pulling a swearing Eliza down with me. We both lie perfectly still for minutes, not daring to see the damage. My heart is racing again.

Eventually I poke my head up, and sigh with relief. He’s still talking to Cigarette Man, apparently taking no real notice of Eliza or me. I re-aim the rifle, and speed through the preparation process. Deep breath.

Relax the heart rate.

Focus the cross hairs.

I squeeze the trigger.

He’s dead before he hits the floor.

The misty cloud of blood surrounds Cigarette Man, who is stationary with shock. Everyone else in the vicinity screams and runs, but he just stands there.

Then I have an idea. “Payne, you there? Your turn buddy, you can chase the sonofabitch.”

Eliza turns to me, incredulous. I wink, and she shakes her head. I hear Payne grumbling, but a few seconds later he’s out of the apartment block and sprinting straight to Cigarette Man.

But Cigarette Man regains his senses, sees Payne and runs. I smile; love a good chase.

He’s surprisingly quick for a heavy smoker, but the tobacco catches up with him, and within seconds he’s panting for breath. Payne catches up with ease, tackles him and wrestles him into a nearby alley. A minute later, Payne walks out. Alone.

He sees us on the roof and gives us the finger. I laugh, and Eliza joins in. Everything’s a lot funnier once we’ve won.

Thank you for reading.