“That’s it Big Hat Bill, I’ve had it up to here with you terrorizing this here little town. I’m gonna put an end to it right here, right now, with a bullet right between your eyes,” the ranger said with his hand hovering just above his pistol.
Big Hat Bill stood opposite the ranger down the stretch of dusty main road with a big dirty grin and enormous hat. “Good luck with that, you know how many men like you have tried gunning me down?” He laughed with spittle spurting across his grotty whiskers. “I was on this land before this town even got built, I know all its nooks!”
“This town belongs to the people, you’re nothing but a crook Big Hat Bill!” The Ranger drew his pistol and fired.
The bullet flew through the gap that formed between bill and his big hat as he dropped to the ground, and seemingly disappeared into it, leaving only the large hat sitting on the dirt. The ranger ran up to the hat wide-eyed and lifted the hat to reveal a trapdoor and hidden tunnel.
“Big hat bill! You won’t get away that easy!”
Foul laughter echoed back through the tunnel.
With gritted teeth the ranger kicked up a cloud of sand. I was so close, he thought, That Big Hat Bill and his nasty tricks! It felt as if hot air pumped through his muscles as his arms shook. He felt his upper lip twitch as he clenched his fist– A shot ricocheted off the ground, wide-eyed he blinked at the smoking pistol still in his hand.
Shaken from his rage, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the main road. A woodchopper returned to his axe now that the commotion had eased down. The ranger scratched his chin. So, the slippery weasel’s got tunnels running all throughout the town. Tunnels are for rats, he thought, and I ain’t no rat. He’d have me out maneuvered in those tunnels, so I expect he won’t be coming out any time soon. It was too dangerous to follow him in.
The ranger paced before something nudged against his shin. No, to catch a rat you need… The ranger’s gaze slipped down to Bill’s beloved oversized hat still sitting on the ground, it’s size not so noticeable when Bill-less. The ranger smiled. The damn fool’s left me the perfect bait. All I gotta do is draw him out.
He approached the woodchopper. “Say, how much for all your wood and a box of matches if you got any?”
St Albans Line – Not in service
Altona Line – Not in service
Williamstown Line – Not in service
Sandringham Line – Not in service
Murmuring crowds gathered around the service screens at Flinders Street Station. Every single one of them read ‘Not in Service’. Had I known it would be like this I wouldn’t have slipped through the gates, I just wanted to take the train through the northern suburbs and get home. The myki inspectors were beginning to eye me. Surely there had to be something. I briskly moved to the windows overlooking the platforms. All were empty, save for one. Despite the screens, there was one train waiting at Platform One. It seemed an ordinary metro train, grey and blue, but the LED screen on the front read: ‘Service to the plains.’ Nobody was waiting to board it. Maybe I could board it, I thought. I looked over my shoulder, with a black scanning device in hand a man dressed as a wannabe cop was meandering over, trying not to spook me I suspect, too bad.
I scampered down the escalator to the train, a faint, “Hey!” called out behind me. The platform was empty, but the train was packed. I pressed the button, and the doors slid open, I maneuvered through all the standing passengers aiming to squeeze somewhere down the middle of the aisle with the hopes of blending. I settled on a position behind a heavy-set businessman who made a little wheeze with every breath. Peaking over his shoulder, the myki inspector paced the platform outside, shaking his head, speaking into a radio. An announcement played over the speakers of the train.
Could the fare evader please vacate the train immediately
I’d never heard anything like it and as if that would work. An additional inspector emerged from the bottom of the escalator joining the first in his pacing. I ducked behind the shoulder every time they passed by. They were looking more and more distressed. Before long, another five inspectors had joined them. They were overgrown flies swarming the platform, only growing in numbers.
Could the fare evader please vacate the train immediately
At this point, I couldn’t even look, I glanced around the carriage and felt a growing dropping sensation in my chest. The old woman with crooked teeth, the mother with her two boys with well kept teeth, the man with a lap of groceries from the butcher with oddly sharp k-9s, everyone was looking at me. They weren’t concerned though, they were all smiling, even in the reflection of the window the businessman flashed his teeth. I’d rather the dogs out there have me than whatever the fuck this is, I pushed through them all back to the door and pressed the button.
Nothing.
I press it again.
It doesn’t open.
The inspectors all swarm around the door, I hear their muffled and panicked voices commanding me to get off. I point at the button and shake my head, a swelling form in my throat. I feel the train jolt, one myki inspector holds his hand to his head and I watch as he slides away from view, the train pulling out of the station.
I watch atop the autumn hills, yellowing dry grass jostling in a warm humid wind. A Hills Hoist clothesline hysterically squeaks somewhere nearby. The setting sun creeps through cracks in the bellowing overcast sky. Smells like it might rain, but something else is coming. Dread pushes up in my chest in a tremor, the ground shaking under my feet. A loud scratching sound from far behind grows louder and louder. With a powerful gushing of air, it fast becomes a deafening roar. A wide stroke of decay courses past me, like a road forming over the slopes, the grass withers into black ash, ember flecks carried up into the air dissolve into tiny particles while the grass blades curl into the bare dirt. The dying path continues effortlessly past the horizon. This hallowed countryside once again the canvas to famine’s brush.
A long beard hung from his face like an old shag rug riddled with dust mites, look close enough and one might glimpse a pair of eyes peering out from it, though without the cheerful wrinkle lines that ventured out from his own. No, his eyes were the night sky, so dark that constellations of stars shimmered across them in parallel to the ticking of his mind as he pondered over old fantastic tomes. He could be heard from rooms adjacent to his study as his gown was so decorated in enchanted trinkets and jewels that every movement, every turn of a page was accompanied by a jingle. He always read his books laying on his belly, his gown bunching down to his knees as he kicked his muscular legs back and forth. Muscular because as you know, a wizard’s books and magical items are their most prized possessions, and Filgert the Wizard was no exception. He carried all his gigantic volumes, magic scepters and potions, hid them all beneath his gown and it was of no surprise that floors would crack beneath his feet.
Also, he smelled like woodchips.
With his vision framed by leaves of the bush, he watched the cobbled tower intently. An orange light flickered through the window from the top floor. His heart pulsed as a shadow glided across the light and a moment later the light extinguished. He pulled his dark hood over his head and slipped out of the bushes; his chance had come. With the delicate jostle of the pick and an accommodating click of the lock, the old wooden door opened askew. He snuck inside the musty foyer, the ornate rug softening his steps. Looking around the circular room, a table covered in nicknacks and clutter, a cupboard and a couple of old leather chairs by the fireplace – he knew it would be too valuable to leave haphazardly down here. He needed to venture up.
He had been hoping for a stone stepped staircase, but now inspected the wonky old wooden steps spiraling up to the next floor. Crooked and malformed, they looked as though they might scream under the weight of any boot, the original home alarm system and with silence being the priority of any burglary, a sense of dread bubbled in his chest. Closing his eyes and ready to flee, he took the first step; relief – all quiet. Another step quiet yet again. Again. He was beginning to see the next floor, bookshelves coming into view. The silence shattered a creak on the last step, and then a thump from the top floor. He froze on the step with wide eyes. He waited. Footstep after footstep across the ceiling of the room, then a creak on the top steps down. Someone was coming – He was coming. He had to decide now, up or down. UP or DOWN. Fuck it – up.
He slinked into the darkened library and pressed himself against the cool stone wall behind the side of one of the many dusty bookcases. Every step down there was creak after creak. He thought himself lucky to learn just how noisy the second set of stairs was without having to set foot on them. The steps ceased as he must have been surveying the room. Moments passed, gusts of wind passed, the panic lessened. The sound of stair ascension and a sense of relief. He fell from his hiding place onto his knees and took a deep breath.
A breath cut short with a loud thump behind him. Someone dropping onto the floor. The jangle of jewels and trinkets rang throughout the room.
…and the musky smell of woodchips flooded his nostrils.
Deep in the woodland the stone tower had long since crumbled beneath the elements, moss and ivy ran its original circular shape, half of its walls stood at a stumpy knee height, while opposite it skewed above, but only so far as to what was once a second floor. A cool draught swept through the structure and George pulled his brown coat tighter around himself. Through his round glasses looked up at what remained of the half-collapsed wooden floor above. A clatter followed by a coarse voice brought his gaze back down.
“You’ve visited me here every day since you found me, are you not afraid?” She sat down beside him.
He looked into her empty eye sockets where a small patch of clover had made their home and draped out in such a way, he thought, that made them look like green tears, “Do you mean me harm?”
“I’m sure if I did, I surely would have inflicted it upon you by now.”
He could not see her smile for the very fact, she lacked the muscles to do so, and lips for that matter, but over the weeks he had learned that when she smiled her shoulders would raise in a particular way. He knew she was smiling as she said that. “Then I will be happy to continue visiting. It must have been lonely before I stumbled upon you here.”
She stood up and began wandering around the room, the dagger wedged between her visible ribs glistened against a ray of light that cut through the room. She’d claimed that despite it having been the means of her death, she now fancied it as a piece of jewelry. Afterall, you might as well take advantages of the new avenues of fashion when spending your afterlife as an animated skeleton.
“Oh, I’m not so sure. There are many things to keep one occupied around here,” she said, “Critters like hares, birds and spiders. We all know each other, you know.”
“You can speak with them?” George’s eye sparkled.
“Of course, being undead had its perks! Would you care to meet them?” She held out her skeletal hand.
He grabbed it and stood. They did not release each other’s hand and seemed to pretend as though neither of them had noticed. Together they sauntered outside into the woodland and spent an afternoon chatting with the woodland locals.
A brisk gust carries the dry autumn leaves through the neighborhood. All the young trick-or-treaters scuttling down the footpaths in little masquerading gangs. They trample the lawns, battering every door with a demanding drum before presenting their baskets for handouts and leaving little time before hurrying to the next score – without thanks, no less.
Well, I’ve had it with these brats.
I close the curtain in the living room and pick up my knife. I plunge the silver blade into the thick orange skin of the pumpkin. I don it with two malevolent eyes and a crooked smiling mouth, I picture the warmth it will bring. Then, I attach a wheat sack for a body with sticks for legs and arms. The match ignites with the flick of my wrist and the candle mounted within its head bursts to life with a raging flame. I gaze upon the little fella, a little top heavy with its large head relative to small body. Eventually it manages to stand, catching its balance. Looking up at me, an orange glow flickers through its eyes.
With a small wispy voice, it speaks. “What will you have me do?”
I smile softly and place the box of matches in its hand. “I think you already know.”
Its mouth twists into a smile far wider than I had initially carved and bolts out of the room and down the hall. The front door swings open by a great unknown force as it sprints out of the house shrieking, “Yippee!” and cackling to itself.
First a squeal, a commotion breaks out and before long, the smell of cheap burning polyester and timber wafts throughout and the sound of screams echo throughout the street. I sit in the living room staring at the floor in silence and soon the neighborhood is quiet. Save for the crackling noise coming from the porch and little footsteps approaching down the hall. The little pumpkin kid wonders back into the room, and plops down in front of me.
“All done.”
Flames lick the edges of the doorway as the candle gutters inside its head. It slumps of onto the ground.
A snicker, a giggle, the flavour of mischief is in the air.
Silhouetted before the sun as it hurtles to the ground, a shopping trolley smashes onto the pavement. Among several others, the boxy metal grid crumpled right in front of the Woolworths automatic doors with a herd of fearful customers cowering behind the glass, unwilling to set foot beyond. They flinch as another trolley crashes into the pile and a roar of high-pitched laughter erupts from above.
“How long can this go on!” One customer says with a whimper.
“I can’t wait here all day; I’ve got ice cream in here.” Another customer holds up their shopping bag.
The manager stands at the front of the crowd holding out their hands, “We’ve already called the police. Whoever they are, they’re sure to run out of trolley’s eventually.” Another crash adds to pile.
The Woolworths car park floods with the orange glow of dusk as all the owners of all the solitary cars, unable to stand another hour, sit on the floor with shopping bags dripping from defrosted goods. They yawn and sigh as hundreds of bent trolleys scatter the pavement and spill out onto the road. The police never came, in fact, they haven’t seen anyone since it started happening.
Suddenly one of the customers jolted up. “Do you hear that?”
“No?”
“It’s beautiful. A breath of fresh air compared to that Woolworths radio crap. Coming from out there, you seriously don’t hear it?” The customer stands and heads for the door, ice cream dripping from their bags.
As the doors slide open, the manager calls out. “Sir! Don’t go out there!”
“It’s her! She’s singing it! She’s on my car!” Everyone watches intently as the customer crosses the threshold and steps out onto the pavement. Sure enough, a woman is leaning against a car, a twisted expression across her face.
A droplet of blood plops onto the customer’s shoulder. “Oh, she’s stopped.” They turn to face the door and look to the roof. They squint. “Little red hats?” Their eyes widen.
Long into the night, the customers watch on in horror as trolley after trolley falls onto the mangled body of the customer, their blood mixing in patterns with melted ice cream on the concrete.
The engine of the car is barely audible as I pull up to the peak of Mt. Scream, my passenger-to-be stands idly with their suitcase in hand. This will be my eighth vomit demon today. I feel a wave of tiredness flush through my face as I anticipate just how this job will end, for the eighth time today; 23-hour workdays are just so long, but I feel that they always seem longer the more I consider complaining about it. At least I have that one hour off to look forward to, though it’s such a short break it almost makes it all feel worse.
The door opens and a voice characterised by heavy slobber speaks, “You my uber?”
“The one and only,” I reply.
I check my phone while listening to the squelching as they slide into the back seat. The seatbelt clicks.
“Off to the acid pools?” I say.
“Yeah, got some guys I gotta vomit on before they dunk them in there for next couple of days.”
“Cool, cool, no worries. It’ll be about 20 minutes. Music?”
“Could you put on breakfast radio?”
I feel a twitch somewhere in my face as reach down to console. I glance at the time as I switch on the radio: 6pm of course.
We set off, I drive down the pothole-ridden road, bits of drool flittering about in the back seat with my face occasionally being graced with a fleck or two. I swerve the car back and forth around the flocks of imps feeding on the folks damned to be roadkill for eternity. A drop of sweat slips down my forehead as I focus on the road, I glance up at the rearview mirror and catch the eye of the passenger, a cruel expression across their slick face.
“Can you turn the heater on? The hellfire has been a bit cooler than usual today.”
I force a grin. “Of course.”
The car rolls up to the magma lake and we wait for a moment. Finally, a pair of giant talons grip the roof and lift the car up. My shirt is drenched in sweat as the heater is blaring and I look down at the Firey bubbling pool below. It’d be nice if I could just jump out, I think, but I’m already dead. The wheels touch down on the other side and I floor the accelerator, smashing through the twisted hollow woodland which promptly grows back over itself rectangle around its victims and as we burst through the other side a crowd of skeletons tumble onto the bonnet and then up to the windshield, which I promptly wipe off with the wipers.
The glowing green of the acid pools comes into view; I sigh a breath of relief. With the squeal of the brakes, the car pulls up and I smile at the passenger.
“Here you are.”
“Thank–” Their cheeks puff, a belch escapes, in an instant the windows are caked in a chunky green liquid. I maintain my smile, but behind my eyes any demon knows that my torment is going well here. I spend the next hour cleaning the car before moving onto my next customer – locally known as the gaseous demon.
With dusk in its final few minutes, under an overcast sky, the last of the workers at Cranbourne Gardens clock off and file out to the car park. The last worker locks the gate behind them and strolls to their car. They pay no mind to the only other car sitting across from them as they start the engine and the headlights flick on. Inside that other car, ducked behind the seats, Pearl holds her breath. The light of the worker’s car glides across the interior as they turn out of the car park. Pearl listens as the sound of tread rolling over the asphalt and the grumble of the engine fades into the dark. She wastes no time. Her back car door swings open and she gently forces it shut trying to make as little noise as possible. Slinking over to the fence she thinks, why go to collector’s corner or the bunnings plant section when you’ve got a botanical gardens just a few suburbs over?
She slinks through the threshold of bushes and brush surrounding the steel fence line. The spiked tips of the fence are no trouble for her. She climbs one of the many trees against the boundary and leaps the branches over to the other side. She’s in. Now to head to the rare plants section.
She keeps behind the shrubs she’d scouted out in the day. The unfortunate thing about security for these places is that even with surveillance cameras, there’s just so many places to obscure their view. She moves fast, weaving through the branches and keeping behind the leaves. Only a few sections to go.
There’s movement. She stops, eyes widening, she watches. Someone else with the same idea, she thinks. She can’t believe it, so little discretion– the figure skipping carelessly along the path in the dark before disappearing around a corner. Laughter echoes into the air.
At first, she felt her brow furrow. They were going to get caught like this. The CCTV will have already seen them. Crap. Police may already be on the way. She felt sweat forming across her body. She couldn’t risk it. She turns and heads back to the fence and stops again. Through the leaves she could see another figure, a different figure, skipping down the path, laughing. She shakes her head. Just how many are there? She keeps moving before suddenly there’s the snapping of a twig. A pale hand reaches out and grabs her arm. She looks up and gasps.
“Skip with us.”
The morning sun shines on the front gate as the worker slips her key into the lock. She walks in, puts her bag in the office, clocks on and heads out for her morning routine tasks. As she steps down the stairs to the main path, she lifts an eyebrow. Across the lake in the rare plants section, she’s sure she can see a woman, with a completely dead pan expression and heavy bags under her eyes, skipping along the path. She rushes down the steps and heads over. She arrives but the section is empty. She scratches her head and her gaze drifts across. A large plant catches her eye. Was this here yesterday? She leans down and read’s the label, ‘Donated to the Cranbourne Gardens by Pearl M.’
*The goosebumps theme song plays*
A ray of afternoon light beamed through the window and washed across the classroom, colouring all the children sitting on the floor in a hazy glow. The teacher stood at the front of her class in front of a blackboard that she crudely drew a beetle on.
As she drew, she spoke, “One hundred years ago the giant beetle –which was the size of the city– flew down from space,” said the teacher.
“Do beetle’s have toes?” asked the student.
She turned to the class. “Sort of, but when the beetle landed, funnily enough, one of its feet landed on a school just like this. Destroyed it instantly, but the government hadn’t been funding it properly for years and it was more or less falling apart behind red tape. So, everyone was pretty happy to see it knocked down!”
“But how can the beetle stand on a school when we’re on top of it?” asked another student.
“Well, you see, we used to build schools on the ground, would you believe it!”
All the students gasped.
“That’s right! When the beetle came it was right over everyone blocking out the sun across the whole city. If you looked up, all you could see was the beetle’s underside. And as you all know, plants need sunlight and so do we!”
“Was everyone mad at the beetle?” asked a student sadly.
“Interestingly, no. In fact, everyone was actually already pretty sick of the city, especially because the government was so disliked, and now all the plants were dead too. So, everyone, probably your great grandparents, packed their things and started the long journey of scaling the beetle!”
“My mum said my great grandma fell off when she was climbing up.” A student called out from the back.
“Yes! Many people didn’t make the journey sadly. Many people couldn’t climb the beetle and had to be roped up or carried on people’s backs. Which they also did with all the building material, livestock and machinery.”
The teacher stood up and walked to the window and gestured to the bustling city outside, a picturesque marriage of vivid wildflowers and ornate buildings, luscious trees and curving paths.
“When finally arrived on the beetle’s back, they got straight to work and began to build and that’s where we all reside today. They made buildings, farms and meadows. All on its back and the most fascinating part is that the beetle didn’t move at all until one day, when the very last person from the city finally arrived on its back, as if it were waiting– it took one great big step.”
Sounds of quiet amazement gushed through the students.
“Soon enough, the beetle was taking many steps. It was walking and the old city was left behind, completely abandoned. The biggest ghost town to ever exist.”
“Where did it take everyone?” asked a student.
“It was very slow going but eventually after a few years, when everyone had settled into their new home on the beetle’s back, another city appeared on the horizon. And exactly the same thing played out! Everyone from that city climbed on up and on it went, moving again, city to city.”
“So, it got everyone from every city?” asked a little girl at the back.
“One would think! But no. You see, after a while it reached a city that was already empty by the time the beetle had arrived, and everyone was so confused. But the beetle just simply walked over it and kept on going!”
“Where did they all go?” a student asked in bewilderment.
“Well, as it turns out, a year or so later something large came into view of the beetle-back city on the horizon. Anybody want to guess?”
“Another beetle!” a couple of students called out.
“Correct! All over the world beetles had arrived from the sky and everyone just loved them so much that they climbed aboard and built cities on their backs! And one hundred years on, it’s believed not a single human being lives on the ground anymore!”
I love living on the back of a giant beetle!
Light breezes sweep across the hillside, jostling the grass against the cobbled path. Insects flitter out of the way as Holly walks by, but the lizards basking on the sun-warmed stones don’t bother, it’s too pleasant a day to spend it hiding. She stops at the small wooden sign as she approaches the crest of the hill, the wicker basket hanging from her elbow sways with the weight of whatever wriggles inside. Sifting through her pocket she pulls out a piece of dried fish and slips it into the basket; she smiles as the wriggling gradually settles. She continues over the hill and the thatch roofs of the village come into view. She waves to the sweating farmers tending to their crops and they take the chance for a quick reprieve to wave back before returning to work.
The smell of freshly baked bread floods her nose. Entering the village, she dodges the children as they run past her down to the river, laughing and teasing one another. She passes the old woman hanging her linen out to dry. Looking up, the chubby tabby slumped across the windowsill behind a hanging pot of pansies yawns, stretches and adjusts before returning to his afternoon slumbering. She makes her way through the crowds at the town square where the market stalls are piled with vibrant fruits and crates of fresh vegetables. The venders call out claiming their produce is the best in the world and you couldn’t get a better deal. The clammer of the market fades as she turns down another street and up the wooden steps onto the porch of the post office where an old man sits on a rocking chair fanning himself with his newspaper. He looks up at her with his squinted eyes that widen immediately, he gasps and falls back on his chair.
The bell on the doorframe jingles as she walks into a cool storefront. An old woman standing behind the counter organizing a collection of letter looks up and adjusts the glasses from the end of her nose up to her eyes which widen as the old mans did.
“Your back!”
“And look what I’ve brought.”
She places the basket onto the counter and places her hand on the lid, the old woman peers over it. Holly lifts the lid and the woman gasps.
“Oh my goodness, look at him. Aww.”
The old woman offers her hand inside the basket and a tiny green hand reaches up and grips her finger.
“You can hold him if you like?”
The old woman lifts him out of the basket, its big bulging black eyes staring blankly at her and she nurses it. “Aren’t you just the sweetest.”
The door swings open, the bell jingles and the old man from the porch stands there, his face red and out of breath. “She’s back!”
“I know. Look.” The old woman gestures to the creature in her arms.
The old man rushes up, squeezing whatever breath he’d mustered out again. “My goodness! Is that a little green alien?”
Holly holds up her basket. “Yep, I found him in the woods.”
He turns to the old woman. “We’ll train him to deliver the letters then?”
“That’s right, he’ll be our little delivery man.”
“Fantastic!” Excitedly, the old man turns back to Holly. “Come, sit down. We’ll put the kettle on, you must tell us of your adventure. Not a detail missed, you hear!”
The old woman places the little alien back in the basket and pulls out a little blue postmen’s cap from under the counter and fixes it upon his bulbus green head. The group leave into the kitchen and while the little alien listens to the laughter and the kettle whistle, he crawls out of the basket and uses his powers to shrink it. Then he removes the fish bones from it, gathers the letters left on the counter and places them neatly inside. He hops down from the desk and the bell on the doorframe jingles once more as he heads out for his first round of deliveries in the village.
“Pest control says it’s not bugs or rodents in the wall but a secret third thing”
Telling
Larry had spent the past three sleepless nights blocking his ears to scratching and growling in the walls. The next day he called pest control, and the exterminator spent the afternoon inspecting the walls. The exterminator called Larry over and pointed at a seemingly blank spot on the wall. This was apparently where the sound had been coming from and according to the exterminator it was a very uncommon pest that was going to require a specific treatment to deal with. Larry gave him the thumbs up and stood by. He was surprised as the exterminator pulled from his bag, not any kind of poison or trap, but instead an exact replica of Larry’s house and placed it on the ground. The exterminator gave a little tap on the wall and a little version of Larry squeezed out from under the skirting board and rushed into the little house. Little Larry locked the door of the little house. The exterminator packed his bag, told Larry not to let anything happen to little Larry and left.
Showing
Larry rubbed the bags under his bloodshot eyes and yawned. The bedroom whirred with the hum of devices and repetitive knocking travelled across the walls as the exterminator placed his ear against the plaster.
“Anything yet?” Larry said.
The exterminator lifted his head and kneeled to his duffel bag and began rummaging through it. “It’s an unusual one, but nothin’ I ain’t seen before.”
“And?”
The exterminator held up his finger and Larry clenched his jaw before it relaxed and slowly gaped as the exterminator carefully lifted a small house out of his bag. The tiny hedges under the windows, the brown front door with a silver door knocker, even the little brick chimney was chuffing with smoke, that’s my house, thought Larry. Placed carefully on the floor the exterminator zipped up his bag, gave a little knock on the wall and treaded slowly over to Larry.
“Watch.”
Larry stared, as a little hand peeked out from under the skirting, then an arm, followed by the rest of the body. Larry’s eyes were wide, and he stammered as he spoke.
“That’s me.”
“Yep. And you’d be well advised to keep little you safe and sound.”
Little Larry made quick glances at the men as he scampered across the wooden floorboards to the front door of the tiny house. His tiny breath was fast as he shuffled around his pocket, a tiny jingle and a tiny set of keys was hurried into the tiny door. Larry listened as the tiny door slammed shut and the tiny click of the lock echoed throughout the room. Larry opened his mouth but managed a quiet gasp.
“Right! Easy done. That’ll be $1,400, I’ll head out to the van and write you up a invoice.”
The sun shone through the windows of the old church onto the happy couple. Winston felt the warmth of Samantha’s hands as they stood before the priest. His heart pounding against his tuxedo shirt, he felt all the eyes of his family and friends beaming onto him from the pews. He glanced over to the other side of the room, where seats for Samantha’s family were reserved; all empty. A layer of sweat estranged the couples’ hands as he tried looking over at the bridesmaid, hoping to discern what was going on, but he hold eye contact with them, in his mind he was looking into their eyes but physically his own gaze was confused, darting over their form. He shook his head and returned to his fiancé, her eyes glowed as she smiled, she was divinity to him. His nerves calmed and the priest asked the final question.
I do.
I do.
The priest stood silent. Winston waited. Isn’t he supposed to tell me I can kiss the bride? He looked at the priest and gestured, raising his eyebrows.
Tears slipped down the priest’s cheeks as he spoke, trembling. “Isn’t there someone you forgot to ask?”
Winston furrowed his brow, a strange whirring became apparent. He couldn’t place it. It grew from all around them, like a siren growing louder and louder. A flash of anger came across Samantha’s face as she released his hands. She looked across the room and stood tall as if squaring something up. The stained glass windows rattled in their frames against the growing noise that was easily ten times the power of a fog horn or a nuclear siren. The guests shuffled about in a panic, some held their ears and wept. Winston thought he could see blood seeping out from their hands. He stabilized himself on a wooden mantle as the walls of the old church began to vibrate under the intensity of the noise and dust and tiny stones began crumbling. The ground shook violently and he felt his eyes bulging in their sockets. He looked over at his wife to be, still standing looking over the crowd when a force of air erupted throughout the building, throwing him onto the ground. As air whipped throughout the room, there was no longer a room. In a moment the walls were nothing more than tiny particles floating in the air, the guests no more than fetuses in their wombs on the ground of an endless blank desert, the priest a mere bible floating in the air among the woodchips that were once the stage he was standing on only moments before.
But the sound had stopped. Thank god.
He looked at his bride standing on the sand, seething with anger as a pair of scissors descended from the sky, a white ribbon attached fluttering as it did. Gold text upon it read, “Angels do not.”
Good evening, and welcome to the news.
An elderly man has been left confused after the discovery of a letter etched into a welding mask, he came across the strange mask on the shore of a California beach this morning during a stroll. Surprisingly, the letter seems to offer a rather interesting explanation to rising ocean levels and the sudden disappearance of the polar ice caps that left experts baffled. The letter contained the following:
December 25th, 2024
What was once an ocean of ice in the north pole was now reduced to just a plain old ocean. There’s a swirling red and white post jutting from one of the remaining blocks of ice as it bobs along the water. The aimless post once signified the very north of the whole world, and more than that, everyone knew that if you saw that post, Santa was sure to be nearby. And there he is, floating face down in the water; the current bumping his body up against the remaining blocks of ice. The water’s still cold enough to hold off the decomposition. The gulls will be at him soon enough, if what remains of the elves don’t get him first. They’d be hungry by now. Their home, the workshop, split into pieces as the ice ripped apart beneath them a few weeks ago. I’ve watched them huddle on small ice burgs, some have formed highly organised tribes, other groups have already cannibalised each other. I’m sure they taste like sweets or gingerbread or something of that whimsical nature.
Now you may be thinking; that bloody climate change, nobody listened to the experts, and this is what we get. And that is true to a degree. It was already melting by the time I arrived, no doubt. But I’m an impatient man, you see and I’m sick to death of hearing about “The icecaps melting.” So, I donned my welding mask and gloves, packed a blowtorch and bought a cruise ticket to the north pole. I just wanted to get it over with already. I voyaged all the way up here and managed to slip away onto the ice with an emergency life raft. I’m bloody hoping by the time I get back, all I hear on the TV is, “The icecaps have finally melted, so we can all stop talking about it now.”
I don’t think I will be making it back.
In my blowtorching, I got carried away– I even destroyed my stolen raft and even if anybody knew where I was, all the ships don’t know how to navigate this new iceless landscape. It’s never been mapped out; they may never find me. I’m just going to sit here next to this bloody pole with Santa’s corpse flapping about in the water for entertainment until I starve to death. I don’t even have the luxury of freezing to death because of what I’ve done.
My impatience has won me a slow death.
“What’s the news, doc?” Minty said with a cough.
“Well, it’s strange.” Doctor Redford turned away from the window, silhouetted by the light. “We’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“I’m the first person ever?”
“There’s always a patient zero… but that’s usually for viruses and a virus your symptoms do not make.”
“Cancer?”
“Sort of.” The Doctor plopped on the chair beside the hospital bed and rubbed his eyes. “It’s definitely a genetic mutation.”
“The alien…”
“When you came in here blabbering on about an alien tour bus and being assaulted with a beam… Well, I thought you were experiencing psychosis from some serious trauma but-”
Teary eyed Minty shot up from the pillow, the tentacle filled lesions bleeding under his bandages. “You thought I was making it up?”
““The growths, the holes, your dna has been fundamentally changed,” said the doctor, “you’re not even human anymore.”
“I wasn’t making it up!” Minty said, then groaning in pain.
“There’s no known treatment, the best we can do is surgically remove the areas of concern but given the circumstances, we can’t account for what else might grow or how else your body will change.”
With bloodshot eyes, Minty lunged at the doctor, gripping him by his coat. “There’s a field, between Moe and Morwell, down McDonald Track!”
The Doctor struggled against Minty’s grip.
“A great big oak tree in the middle of it.” Sweat coated the patients face as his face muscles twitched and he spoke through clenched teeth. “You go out there, 10:22pm, you get picked up and figure out what the hell they did to me! Fix it!”
“I can’t just-” The doctor thrusted the patient back on to the bed, but he was limp; passed out. “I’m not just going to learn alien medicine overnight!”
Later that night, Doctor Redford parked by an inconspicuous field by McDonald’s track and sure enough, there was a great silver orb stationed next to the oak tree. A ramp extended from a brightly lit door, beckoning him inside.
I can’t see.
A river of stone snakes across the hills as the light leaks out from behind the horizon, casting the sky in deep violets and wisps of gold. Shrubs, trees and long grass seem always more abundant by the great flat rock’s sides; beyond is barren, the grass already grazed, and the hills walled with stumps and hard vines. Beside this winding rock is the best place- the only place, to call home. But it is a home we must share with giants.
My cousins, I can see them on the other side, digging and shuffling around. There must be plenty to eat on their side. I hop out onto the rock, the bumpy surface beneath my paws; it’s still cool this time of day. Nobody crosses when the sun is high, lest they scorch their feet.
I move cautiously, one hop at a time, hoping not to attract the rock giants. My nose twitches and my ear perk, I feel a tremble through the ground. By the white streaks, I wait. Where from? I watch on, my heart vibrating violently. I want to run, but which way? Something bright swings around the bends. Fast. Is it getting closer? It’s just a light. No?
It is getting closer. I see my cousins bolt away from the rock. I bolt but-
I can’t see.
The world flashes white. My lungs empty. I hear my bones crack against the giant. My body twists under its legs. It hurts…
I sit on the rock next to my mangled form. My cousins soon return and continue their scavenging- there’s no time to grieve when hunger follows you so closely. I no longer need share the road, nor do I hunger, I just sit and watch the giants roll down the river of stone with their blindingly bright heads. I consider them as they carelessly tumble over my corpse, they do not hunt prey for food; they never stop to eat. So, they must kill for fun. A short-lived joy, at that- they’re gone as fast as they come.
Bidding my family farewell, though they hear me not, I decide to venture away from the river of stone in my new form and into the hills. I’m no longer bound by my need to survive and pass through the stumps and vines with ease–
Fearlessly, I’m going to explore.
From her lounge, Lera kept watch of the pink glimmer refracting from the windowsill. A little shorter than a pinky finger, the tiny crystal man had been staring out the window since he’d arrived in the post. She gazed at the packaging torn open on the coffee table; promises of friendship and fun for years seemed to have emptied with the box. Enough was enough, she was going to befriend this little creature today… or it was return to sender.
She moseyed up to window and inspected the little fella. Her brow furrowed. Somehow, somewhere, he’d gotten hold of a tiny cigarette and was forlornly puffing on it as he stared into the distance.
“How you doin’ little bud?”
He took a drawn out drag and exhaled a cloud of glittering smoke. “They grow us in labs, ya know.”
She blinked at him. She knew this fact; it was proudly printed on the box in bold yellow text. “Y-yes,” she knelt so her face was his height, “It’s quite amazing really.”
“I’ll say.” He held his crystal hand upon the glass as he indulged his new habit. “You know what it’s like to yearn for home?”
She gestured to the room, “This is our home!”
“Ain’t no home to me…” he turned to her, his flat crystal face undecipherable, “this is the goddamn lockup.” He flicked the tiny cigarette butt right into her eye. She cried in shock.
In a moment, he leapt through the air right past her face, his body cracking upon hard floor landing, yet still intact. Before she could stand, he was to the door. “I ain’t even know you, lady!”
“Wait!” She cried.
It was too late; he’d slipped under and the chime of his feet against the floor grew quiet as he got further away. She got to her feet and looked out to the yard, holding her eye, and sure enough could see the pink spec fleeing across the lawn.
An elderly woman drives a delivery truck through the winding hillside roads of the rainforest
Rosie steadies her foot on truck’s brake, her bony hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, she tenses her body against the inertia of the turns. Squinting behind her glasses she flicks up the speed of the wipers. Reaching for the radio on the center console she pulls it to her wrinkled lips and holds down the button.
“It’s really coming down, innit Dais’,” she says.
She feels the old truck grumble beneath her as she holds the radio for some time. No response. She wouldn’t be more than a few bends ahead.
“You read me, Daisy?”
Her brow furrows as she clicks the radio back into place. She slows the truck to a crawl and leans forward until a glow crosses her face and fills the cabin. Her foot flattens the brake and a squeal whines from the tires. She hops down onto the road, the splash of a puddle dampening her trousers. The truck’s compressor hiss as rain darkens her shirt in flecks. She cautions herself to the road’s edge. She grips the part of the safety railing still in tact. Her lip quivered as she felt across to where it began to crumple and bent out across the sheer drop into forest below. Engine fumes flood her nostril as headlights highlight the swirls of smoke. Her face lit amber from below, she holds her hand over her mouth.
“Daisy…”
Jess pressed her paint spattered hands against the gushing wound. The cold concrete she leaned against somehow comforting in contrast to the burning bullet hole in her abdomen. Her laboured breath reverberated against the hard walls, she made an attempt at snuffing the seething pain by focusing on her blood spattered canvas now laying on the ground next to the tipped easel. The painting of the distant war bunker on the hill, as seen though the peepholes of the enemy war bunker across the way; more than a century since their conflict and yet a bullet had made its way into her body. The bunker on the hill had been built by english troops; occupied by a trio of marksmen, and they had spent the majority of their conflict trading fire with the enemy bunker Jess now bled in a century later.
“Any sight of those bloody rats down there?” said Captain Sladpole.
Private Jerome peered down the length of his scope, hoping to catch any sign of movement to fire on. “Nothing as of yet.”
Sladpole gave the privates shoulder a pat.“Keep on it, private. Only takes a moment.”
The bunker door croaked open and Cooper walked in, muttering something to himself.
“How went the patrol?” said Sladpole.
“Fucking smokes went missing. One second they’re right there in my hand and the next, fucking gone!”
“Well, let’s hope you’re better at keeping watch than keeping sight of you smokes.”
Cooper scoffed and waved them away like a bad smell and retreated to the sleeping quarters.
Jerome stiffened and leaned into his rifle. “I’ve got something here, Captain.”
The captain came down beside him, peering through binoculars. “I see them.”
“It’s a clean shot.”
“Take it.”
A blast ignited from the rifle, the recoil sending the soldier backward. The smell of gunpowder permeated the bunker. “Did I get him?”
The captain dropped his arms holding the binoculars and frowned at the private. “Way off, I didn’t even see the bullet land.”
“That can’t be right. It was a clean shot, I tell ya!” Jerome lifted the rifle back to his eye and could only see the other bunkers peepholes being well kept clear of.
“Take it easy, private, can’t hit them all.”
The private sighed. “Fucking hell. Bullet must have exploded mid-air or somethin’.”
That bullet now lodged in Jess’s bloodied abdomen caused her to writhe in pain on the dusty bunker floor. She rolled over and spied an abandoned pack of cigarettes. Might take the edge off, she thinks. She slips one to her lip, lights it and takes long drag. She coughs and splatters, these cigarettes must be a hundred years old, she thinks.
There was a metallic clank and clink from the cargo hold as the boat jostled under the night sky. Jack looked up at the dark streaking clouds that blotted the stars. He tightened his heavy wool coat against a brisk wind and made his way across the wooden deck to the bow. He surveyed ahead, the stark white of the sheer coastal edge was grey in this light and that grey raised the horizon to the seabirds flightpath. There was a flash halfway up the cliff face; small; amber; a lamp. Jack trained his eye on it, his mumbled counting in time with the flashes, visible in his fogged breath. The boat grunted against the water, the rocks at the base of the cliff were lapped with brine, and jack stopped counting and furrowed his brow. He rushed down the deck, a gold shine reflecting on his boats as he passed the hold’s trapdoor. He stumbled up the stairs where Potto, a small bald woman held the wheel of the ship.
“Somethin’ ain’t right. They ain’t givin’ the right signal,” said Jack.
Potto kept her eyes ahead. “What are you supposin’ we do?”
“We can’t afford to lose this sale.”
Potto tapped the wheel with her finger. “We turn back, we lose it anyway.”
“Shit.” Jack grabbed the starboard railing. “The payout could still be there.”
Potto turned to Jack and placed her leathery hand at the hilt of her blade. “No choice.”
“No choice.”
***
The boat rocked up to the base of the cliff below the flashing lamp, she fixed some rigging around a suitable rock to anchor the boat. Gazing up the chalk wall, there were shallow steps had been chipped out. She was familiar with them, they led up to an old cave opening that now glowed with the lamp that had been set down, fully ablaze; no more discreet flashing. A lamp, that considering the line of business, would have been extinguished by now were this the usual exchange. A shadowy figure emerged and stood, framed by the cave entrance.
“Just you tonight then?” called the figure.
Potto glanced at the golden glow that shimmered from the rim of the hold’s trapdoor. She looked to the figure and smiled, “Just me tonight.”
***
A rigid iron creak echoed against the cliff above as Potto grunted, pulling the heavy trapdoor open. Illuminated by the shimmering golden cargo she could now make out a clearer impression of the figure. A long-limbed, rat-nosed man with an impeccable set of teeth that seemed to glitter in the light.
“This all of it?” he said.
Potto side-eyed the man, he didn’t know the details of the delivery. “First of many.”
His eyes narrowed as he glanced through the door at every angle. “That so.” he said. “You mind grabbing one.”
His suspicion wasn’t unusual, but Potto felt her jaw clench anyway. “No problem.”
She lowered herself down the set of wooden steps and turned to the piles, reached out and grabbed one of the many glowing genie lamps. She turned back and lifted her foot to the first step. There was a heavy iron creak and the trapdoor slammed shut.
“Hey! What are you doing!” She stumbled back and tumbled into the pile of lamps with a crash. As she lay there in the hard pile, lamp spouts poking her in every which way she heard a muffled call from the figure.
“Sarge, get down here! We’ve got-”
silence
and then a thud.
Potto watched as sliver of red seeped through the edge of the trapdoor and began to drizzle down the wooden steps in a thick cascade. The trapdoor swung open and Jack stood there with a flattened rat-nosed man bleeding from the neck at his foot.
“Quickly, it’s a setup,” he said in a hushed voice.
Potto scrambled up the steps without a thought, still holding onto the lamp she’d grabbed. Jack kicked the rat-nosed man’s body into the hold and slammed the trapdoor shut.
“Let’s hurry up and get the hell out of here,” he said.
“No, there still might be what we’re owed up in the cave.”
“Are you insane. This place is crawling with fuzz.”
Potto pushed him aside. “We didn’t come all this way for empty pockets.” She clambered up the steps of the cliff, leaving behind bloody footprints in the white chalk. Made the final step into the glowing cave where immediately she caught sight of the little lantern sitting on its lonesome atop a wooden chair. Her eyes widened as she made out the sacks of coin piled behind it. She turned to face the entrance.
“Jack!” she called. “It’s clear, get up here!”
She felt a cold metallic tip press against the nape of her neck.
“Don’t be so sure.”
A silver corolla zipped down one of Scotland’s highways packed with a trio of tourists.
“Twenty miles to go!” Mick said, as he turned to Laila in the backseat.
“Yay,” Laila said, deadpan. “Can’t wait to walk around in a dusty old palace for 3 hours.” She glanced at the rear-view mirror where she caught Grace’s eyes staring through the back window again. “Eyes on the road, dipshit.”
“Yep. Sorry.” Grace said, gripping the steering wheel tightly.
Mick piped up again, “It’s not just a palace, it’s a place where sottish kings were crowned! There are grand gardens! And there’s even a hedge maze!”
“I just thought when we said we were going road-trip around Scotland, we’d visit the normal tourist destinations,” Laila said.
Mick scoffed. “Every primary school kid in this country have been to fucking lochness ten times over, where going to see the stuff people don’t even know about!”
Suddenly the car swerved into the other lane, they both grabbed the handholds on the roof as they felt their weight be thrown.
“What the fuck are you doing, Grace!”
“Sorry, we’re being followed,” Grace said with a tremble.
“What?” Laila turned and peeked through the back window, there was a police car hanging about a hundred meters back.
“Hang on,” Grace said as she she spun the steering wheel and they slipped off the main road and onto a winding rural road at speed.
“The police car?” Laila said.
“What the fuck did you do?” Mick said, his voice cracking.
The rental car revved as Grace sped up, the suspension barely holding against the bumpy rural road. The felt as though it might tip as she twisted around the bends. A siren began to sound distantly behind them.
“Slow down!”
“We didn’t have the money for the car,” Grace said.
“You fucking stole it?” Mick cried.
“They just left the keys on the counter!”
The car began to slow.
“Oh that makes it all alright then,” Laila said.
The car rolled to a stop right as the road came to a dead end.
“The road-trip would have been cut short.”
The siren grew louder until it was right behind them, and then silence. They listened to car doors opening behind them and the footsteps on the road approaching them.
“Now it’s going to end in jail. Good job,” Laila said with a cutting smile.
As I soar through the sky
I spy with my little bird eye
A pattern of coconuts and rocks
Laid out by a man nude save for socks
The island is small
The man lets out a call
So I angle on down
He greets me with a frown
“What’s the matter,
man nude save for socks?”
“I made this message to be saved,
but no one ever stops.”
I look at his message
made from coconuts and rock
I let out a laugh
“Well, what is it you mock?”
“A rearrangement your sign needs!
Sorry to say, it’s ‘O.S.O’ that reads!”
He cries and moans
after he checks it.
“My friend,” I say,
“I think you’re dyslexic.”
Embers flitted into the hollow twilight sky, a hot glow glazed the sweat on Kristina’s skin. An evening quiet against the rushing flurry of flame and crumpling metal. She glanced down at the short pointy eared figure at her side, he too silhouetted by the burning car, his tuxedo rimmed in orange light - it was Don Whisker, no doubt.
“Is this right?” Kristina asked.
The Don slowly looked up at her as sure as he could be and let out a meow of absolute certainty.
“You’re right. This was the only choice we had.”
She stared into the flames as she listened to the crunch of snow as the Don slowly walked away. She dared not look out of respect as the squeal of brakes sounded behind her, followed by a solitary car door thud. The rumble of the engine disappeared into the night and there she stood, alone. Properly alone now.
She began to walk, her mind was fuzz, her feet numb with icey sludge sticking to the sides of her shoes. She couldn’t tell if she was going to miss her sister or not, there wasn’t a choice, she told herself over and over. It was still as she walked under street lamps for hours and hours. Not a single brisk wind or nocturnal bird call, but it was cold. She thought about how warm it was in front of the fire and how much her body demanded she return with every shiver. She couldn’t return though, the life she knew was gone.
Finally, she arrived at the hideout Don Whiskers had arranged. An old concrete building downtown. She pushed up the door stiff with chill and made her way up the stairs, each step echoing across the hard walls. She reached the door with the Don’s characteristic whisker symbol marked across it and twisted the key in the lock. The clicking of the latch ringing out through the stairwell. She stood. Listened cautiously for a moment, then quietly slipped into the abandoned room. A chair sat by a window, and she took the moment to rest her tired legs. As she sat, she carefully surveyed the horizon to see if she could see any residual smoke, but it was gone. Her only company now were the array of buildings scattering the town and all their lit windows felt as though they watched her intently. She took the chair away from the window and waited for the new day.
We are in the op shop
my sibling and I
Assorted ceramics of colours
for us both to spy
In among the clutter
a cursed trinket of red
my sibling picks up
and is immediately dead
I can’t see their blood
on the carpet of red
But I feel how it’s wet
wet where they bled
‘They’ll think it was you’
I think a voice said
I look at my hand
It’s coated in red
With weatherboards of peeling paint and windows piling dust at the corners, Kirby’s old farmhouse quietly overlooked the fields of wheat, or what was supposed to be wheat at least. Rows and rows of crop branched out as far as the horizon, brittle and curled and blackened in an unrelenting dry spell that had gone on two seasons now. Somewhere nearby a windmill squeaked with every rusted rotation of its blades, like a breathless scream that pronounced itself louder for everyday its axle was left unoiled – for everyday Kirby couldn’t afford the oil no thanks to the drought. Kirby thought it could very well have been the scream of the fields themselves, or maybe his wallet.
As night fell, not even the cricket chirped anymore. Kirby wondered if God had cared that he’d not said grace with supper this evening, if the cunt had noticed at all. With hands gripped, Kirby knelt beside his bed as he’d done every night his entire life and closed his eyes.
Dear god, he thought, make no mistake, this is no prayer. This is goodbye. He choked, saying ‘amen’ had been so habitual throughout his life; but not this time, not ever again. Kirby slept somehow feeling lighter that night, as if a light rhythm lulled him into a deep and peaceful slumber, unweighted by the burden of higher power.
The morning light glistened against the droplets clinging to the dead crop and the ground was mud as Kirby walked out from the porch. He couldn’t believe it. It had rained that night! Could his parting with god have opened the sky for him, he wondered. Mud spattered as he danced, hoo-ed and threw his straw hat into the air.
He couldn’t say for how long, it could have been days, or weeks, but now Kirby sat a top his old farmhouse, his arms wrapped around his legs as the rain cascaded down upon him. He had nothing left. He flinched at every strike of lightning. The rain had never stopped. The water line lapping at awning was only getting closer and soon he would drown. I’m dead, this is the wrath of the lord, he thought.
Years later the corporation nearby resealed their dam and locals were shocked to find a structure emerge as water line lowered; an old farm house, experts deduced. The corporation assured everyone that it had not been inhabited at the time of the dam wall incident - the crop there had been untended to for at least two years before the incident, it was clear as the surrounding crops were reportedly dead all that time. Anyway, they announced they would be going back to selling their fresh collected bottled water 15% cheaper than before the incident and everyone in the local towns cheered! :)
VOICE: The following are relevant audio excerpts recovered from the corrupted ‘Sally Select Grocers’ security surveillance footage after the disappearance of several individuals last seen at this location - including the owner, Sally.
SFX: CLICKING of mouse and STATIC begins and fades
SFX: Florescent bulb BUZZING and FOOTSTEPS
-FUZZY audio quality-
SALLY: Hello? Can anybody hear me?
SFX: CLATTERING of products
SALLY: Oh god, I didn’t even know I sold these. What aisle even is this??
VOICE: That’s the owner?
VOICE 2: Yep, went missing on April 25th.
VOICE: She sounds like she’s not too involved with the store.
VOICE 2: The regulars indicated otherwise. Keep listening though.
SFX: GLASS KNOCK
SALLY: (Gasp) Oh god.
SFX: FREEZER DOOR OPENS & WHIR of freezer fans
SALLY: Are you okay?
RAYMOND: (Heavy breathing)
SALLY: You’re freezing! Are you trying to get yourself killed?
RAYMOND: I thought... I…
SALLY: I’m going call you an ambulance, okay!
RAYMOND: (Chattering) N-N-No service.
VOICE: Who’s the icicle?
VOICE 2: We suspect the 21 year old that went missing on April 25th
VOICE: The same day?
VOICE: Same day; different year.
SFX: CLICK
RAYMOND: You were the last person I saw before I got lost.
SALLY: You’re not lost, you’re in my shop.
RAYMOND: You’re lost too?
SALLY: I’m not. I’m just a bit… turned around.
RAYMOND: So you know the way out?
SALLY: What were you doing in the freezer?
RAYMOND: It had been so long, I just… I’m glad you found me.
SALLY: Come on, let’s get you out of here.
SFX: FOOTSTEP PAIR
SFX: STATIC CUT
SALLY: I’m pretty sure it was this way.
SFX: STATIC CUT
SALLY: I don’t remember there being an aisle of camping gear here?
SFX: STATIC CUT
SALLY: This wasn’t…
SFX: STATIC CUT
RAYMOND: They’re moving. Like, when we’re not looking, they change.
SALLY: I think you’ve been in the freezer too long.
RAYMOND: I’ve been here long enough to know.
SALLY: How long?
RAYMOND: I don’t know, a few months? It’s hard to keep track of time when the lights are always on.
SALLY: Months! There’s no way, one of my staff would have noticed you! We lock up everyday, do a full check of the store!
RAYMOND: I… don’t know what to tell you. You’ve been walking in circles same as me.
SALLY: We turn the lights off at night!
RAYMOND: They’re always on.
SALLY: Then we’re not in my store!
VOICE: Obviously you’ve checked the store?
VOICE 2: It’s been checked top to bottom several times, there’s no camping aisle and it’s as she says: lights out at night.
VOICE: So where are they?
VOICE 2: Someplace hooked up to their surveillance.
I’m cast in shadow as I look to the sky at the convergence of dark cloud; they swirl and swell as thunder shakes the bare soil beneath my feet. I’ve been watching for only a second, or perhaps since the beginning, though this all seems like the end. I think the thunder grew louder as the clouds tore open, a spatter of burning rain flecked my cheek. Wisps of cloud dispersed and I could see the great stone bricks plummeting towards me. I should run, I thought. I didn’t move. Couldn’t move? Simply stood. The grey shapes grew nearer. The first dropped only a couple of meters away with a deafening slam. The next fell the same the opposite side; tiny stone debris pelted me as the next fell perfectly in line beside it. Before long it was clear, the blocks were violently forming in a radius around me, building higher and higher. Finally, the thunder ceased and I snapped out of my daze. I could move again. I ran my hands along the circumference of the stone wall that had built itself around me; I was completely enclosed. But there was light, at the top there appeared to be no more than a pinprick of it leaking in; it was as if I stood at the bottom of an endlessly deep well.
For a while I sat, pressing myself again the warmth of the stone; somehow comforting. Then the thought of running my hands along the stone entered my mind again, no, something else, I felt something scratching from within my chest, an insatiable urge to grip the stones and climb! I shot up and clamped the edges of the stone and found some footing. One hand after the other, after the other, after the other. I was crazed, breathing heavy, my eyes were wide open; bulging, and I could feel my breath frothing the saliva leaking from the edges of my mouth through my clenched jaw. With every strained push I hauled myself up. But I knew, by the time I reached that pinprick of light, I would be something else entirely.
The concert hall was dark when a discordant chord struck behind the dark red curtains. Murmurs and whispers stirred among the audience, not too unusual for an intermission, but this noise took on a tone of concern. The curtain jolted as the electric motors kicked in and the chatter faded as a quiet whir filled the room. Slowly the thick fabric was drawn up, the base of the stage came into view, then the stage floor along with the piano legs, then pianist’s shining shoes leading up his black pant legs, to his waist, to his slumped back that lead directly into his head laying on its side against the keys of piano; his petrified wide-eyed expression staring out at the faces in the crowd. Screams echoed throughout the hall.
--- Later ---
The stage had been cleared and audience ushered out. The young theatre manager guided a woman wearing headphones onto the stage and into a lineup of people.
“What’s all this about!” The woman demanded.
“Thank you for your cooperation, please wait here moment,” the young man went on to address someone standing in a shadowy corner, “These are all the suspects you listed, Detective,” he said.
A tall figure emerged on the stage, her grey wisps of hair glowed against the light of the cigarette burning between her lips. “Thanks,” she glanced at the lineup of confused looking people, “this is the third case of a pianists being murdered just like this within the past three months.” She walked up and down the stage leaving behind a stream of smoke. “Seems to me, each of you got something in common.”
The head phoned woman scoffed, “Are you accusing one of us of this?”
“Sound engineer, right?” The detective flicked the cigarette butt at the corpse, still slumped over the piano, “That’s right, each and every one of you has been present at each murder.”
“Why on earth would I have killed him!” The woman cried. Others in the lineup followed in their displeasure.
“See, each of these pianists have something in common: they’re are highly aggressive players. Basically abuse the damn instrument. Must be tough for a sound engineer to manage all that noise.”
The woman scoffed yet again.
The Detective turned her attention. “Or what about you theatre manager?”
An older gentlemen dripping with sweat in the lineup gasped. “M-me?”
“Must be awful to your bottom line having to replace these pianos when they break under the pressure of these players?”
The manager loosened his tie as he spoke. “Oh, I suppose so, but the money they bring in easily replaces them. It’s no trouble to me.” He pointed at the janitor in the lineup, “What about him, he’s always complaining about mopping up all the sweat left behind after each performance!”
The janitor simply shrugged. “Most cleanin’ ain’t nice.”
The detective scratched her chin and eyed them all when suddenly a bump echoed across the stage. They each turned to face the grand piano to see a bald man crawling out from the piano soundboard.
The detective’s eyes widened. “Of course! The Piano Tuner!”
Lights from building windows and streetlights shimmered across the city skyline as the moon settled behind the largest skyscraper looking over it all. Known as the Curio, it’s an oddly shaped building that twists and curves along with variously angled reflective surfaces that gives the impression that its shape changes as the sun and moon move across the sky. The roof of the building is famed for the small woodland grown there; suitable for an eccentric building such as this. Tonight within a grassy glade of that woodland a group of figures in taupe robes appear to have gathered in circle.
A group of elites that meet once a month to discuss their secret operations across the globe. Foreign interference, government lobbying and what they call, “Money hacks” which really just boils down to overseas worker exploitation. Strangely a few seem to be missing from the group this evening, Looks like only lord Spencer, Mrs Priscilla and Sir Jones have neglected to show up tonight; perhaps too embarrassed about that screw up in London to show their faces.
A figure steps forward, clapping their hands together to gain the attention of the members. The chatter of the group fades as the figure speaks as they focus on the gleaming white teeth of the figure.
“Well, the night is young! Let us get on with the proceedings,” said Mr Donovan Smirk. “As per usual well discuss what made-up discourse we can get political factions arguing over for the next six months!”
“Ah, yes!” Business elite, Jonah Banks said, “I’ve been thinking getting them fighting over underage access to social media would keep them distracted.”
“Excellent Idea!”
A chuckle let out amongst the group, but Jonah suddenly frowned.
“Say, do you hear that?”
“What do you… wait, I think I can. A kind of—”
“Munch sound.”
“It’s coming from over there in the trees!” Donovan Smirk’s smirk had faded.
“Who’s there!”
The group approached the noise, feeling the thrum of their hearts as they pulled the bushes aside. Within the shadows of the shrubs they could just make it out; the sliver of red catching the moonlight through the canopy, and the sound of flesh tearing as wolves ripped at the bodies of members of the group that hadn’t shown up that night.
Long story short, the wolves chased the rest of the elite off the sides of the building and they all fell to their death — THE END
It’s just a high five. Yet his arm is gone; his arm is completely gone. Bones are shattered into splinters. Muscle ripped into bloody rosette. Was my swing too forceful? Was his arm too weak? He’s bleeding out before me. The flashing lights roll in. The paramedics rush to aid.
“What the hell happened here?”
“Just a simple high five.”
They work on the bleeding.
“There’s nothing simple about this!”
“I’m sorry, it was accidental!”
“Wait here for the authorities.”
Well that makes some sense; I’ve probably killed this guy. I’m going to prison probably. But I don’t want to. I look at my hand. It’s trembling after all this. I look at the paramedic. I raise my arm high. The swing cracks the air. Paramedic organs strewn all over. Now it’s time to run.
I hop the closest fence. Easy enough, just keep going. Fence after fence I go. An old woman waters flowers. She goes to scream out. She’s silenced by my hand. Fence after fence I go. A vicious dog attacks me. My raised hand protects me. Fence after fence I go. Finally, a man stands forth. He has bulky strong arms. Could he be my match? He speaks loudly and confidently.
“I’ve seen you on news!”
“You know what I’ve done.”
“Yes, I can do better.”
He flashes a smug smile. Who the hell is this? No matter, he will learn.
“I’m gonna five your high!” I scream, raising my arm. It lands with a bang. A sonic boom blasts out. The man unflinching and unmoved. He simply absorbed the impact. My heart sinks in terror. One moment, our eyes meet. His arm moves like lightning. I feel my guts burst. I’m launched into the atmosphere.
I am very very dead.
Alina’s fingers were numb gripping the frosted steel of the train’s roof. Her dark hair flecked with snow whipped in the wind as the train sped down the rail. She reached for the gun from her pocket. It was pleasantly warm from her body heat. She pointed it at the dark a few carriages down. Before anything, remorse nagged; hesitation over lasting elation. She couldn’t dwell on it, they’d had good times but she had no choice. She fired several shot into the dark.
Her lips were cold as the moments of silence past, the icy air blasting her relentlessly. Sudden flashes of light outlined the silhouette of a figure few carriages down. Trails of bullets ricocheted back at her in return. If she could just get a little closer, she might land a shot. She stood but immediately collapsed under the weight of her own body. Her leg wasn’t working, worse than that, it was hot and wet. Her leg had been struck by a bullet. The cold had numbed the pain, and the wound was already beginning to freeze over. Still, she needed to move up. She crawled across the carriage roof, leaving behind a crystallised trail of blood. Finally, she could go no further, she’d reached the edge. This was it. She fired another round of shot into the dark. The warmth of the guns ignition an unusual but welcome comfort.
She waited, listening to the wheels of the train scrape against the iron of the track. No shots returned. The snow fell throughout the night and numbness slowly etched across her body until finally she could no longer tell the dark of the night from the dark of her frozen eyelids.
Eventually, the train pulled into the station — end of the line. The conductor swept through carriages, assisting the passengers with gathering their things and seeing them off. When at last it seemed every carriage was cleared he couldn’t help but notice the two remaining suitcases sitting in one of the cabins. He carried them out to the platform, hoping to see their owners standing with a concerned expressions, but the platform was empty. He turned them into the fellow manning the station and thought somebody will come looking for them eventually. Of course, the snow-buried bodies on the train roof had no need of them anymore.
The bus driver laughed, “You forget something?” 😂
The passenger furrowed their brow and their eyes panned right searching for an explanation to the question to no avail. “No,” they said 😓 before drifting down the aisle and finding a seat.
The driver went 🤷♂️ and thought about how nobody in this suburb has a sense of humour these days. He shut the doors and the bus set off into the night. 🚌💨The light 💡 of street lamps 💡 glided through 💡 the windows 💡 as they made their way 💡 to the next stop 🚏
Somebody waited in the dark as the bus pulled in. The doors swung open and the bus driver went 😨 as the passenger boarded — it was the same passenger as before!!! “But didn’t you just get on!”
“Shut up weird old man 😏” they said.
“😰”
The bus driver gripped the steering wheel tightly as they took off from the stop 👊😖👊 Every now again they glanced up at the mirror at the three identical passengers, only catching sight of them with each passing streetlight 👀
As the night went on more and more of this identical passenger boarded the bus and bus driver felt the dread pulling at his guts 😥 👨🦲👨🦲👨🦲👨🦲👨🦲👨🦲👨🦲👨🦲👨🦲👨🦲👨🦲👨🦲 No matter how many stops went by none of them got off the bus.
At last they reached the end of the line and at this point the thing was at it’s passenger limit. This identical guy had taken all of the seats, and the rest were standing in the aisle. The bus driver got out of his seat and took a wide stance directed at them all.
“Right! End of the line! I don’t what kind of a joke this is but all of you need to scram! 🤬“
The closest identical passenger came up to him, looked him in the eye and placed a hand on his shoulder. 👁👄👁 “Just one more stop… you know the way already.”
Terrified the bus driver simply nodded and started the engine again and just started driving into the night until finally he had an overwhelming urge to pull over 😵 He stopped the bus and all of these weird guys filed out. There was an audible creaking sound from a door opening and the bus driver stepped out to see where they all went. It was a derelict abandoned house, boarded windows and peeling paint 🚪 He watched the last one slip into the darkness of the door frame and with his index finger gestured for the driver to come in. The driver felt compelled to follow, but first he closed the bus door. As the door closed, his reflection peered back at him...
ah, that’s right 👁👄👁
“Let us down! It’s been 40 minutes already!” The couple called down at their arch nemesis: the Careers man.
The Careers man cackled. “Nobody gets off the Ferris wheel until somebody from the carnival starts paying you!”
“Fine, have it your way!”
The Careers man simply twirled his evil mustache as he sat by the ride’s control panel, the original operator clearly gagged and bound behind him.
The couple called to the carnival goers on the ground. “Please, could you give us some money! We want to get off the ride!”
One carnival goer— a middle aged woman with an ice cream —looked the couple up and down, rolled her eyes and moved along. Suddenly the ride jolted, and they seemed to pick up speed. The couple laid sharp glances at the Careers man.
“Did I forget to mention, for every rejection I turn this dial and the ride will speed up!” He laughed, “Eventually the support beams won’t be able to cope with the speed and the ride will break off and roll through the whole carnival causing no end of chaos!”
The couple, sweat on their brow pleaded with the next passerby, another carnival goer, maybe a business owner, he was an elderly business man in a suit. He headed their pleas, stopped and began questioning them. “Why should I pay you? What skills do you have, what qualifications?”
“Well, I’ve got a degree in conservation!” One of them proclaimed.
“And I’ve got a degree in animation!” The other cried as their cart of Ferris wheel reached the apex of its rotation.
“Useless!” The man spat at the ride and strolled off as if the interaction hadn’t happened.
Another jolt and the ride sped up their descent, their guts lifting in their bodies.
“Does anybody here need people with conservation and animation experience?” they cried with their voices sounding distorted as the ride spun.
A woman with leathery skin and wrinkled squinting eyes peered up at them. “Why, I just so happen to be looking for a person just like that!”
“That’s wonderful! We’re happy to learn too!” The couple cry, had they really been saved?
“Tell me how many years of experience do you have?”
“About five.”
“Wow, very good! You guys have a real shot at me sending a dollar up your way.”
The couple hugged and cried with joy. But suddenly a jolt and the ride sped up once more, their brains slushing in their skulls.
“Unfortunately this kind Ferris wheel ride operator says he’s got the same qualifications as you but has just one more year of experience, so we won’t be progressing further.”
The Career man hopped off from the control panel and walked off with the woman, laughing all the way.
“Tough, better luck next time!” He called.
Their was metallic screech as the wheel tore away from its mount and began rolling through the carnival, crushing rides and carnival-goers alike— Including the business man and the middle aged woman. Eventually the bloodied wheel rolled out of the burning carnival and into the city where it leveled ever single building before it crashed in the ocean, the couple still trapped inside as their cart filled with brine and consequentially drowned.
However, Careers man became a world famous conservationist and saved many species and published some of the most influential environmental papers to date. Sadly Careers man would be perish protected a group of student as he heroically protected them from a viscous crocodile.
It’s sad that the couple died because of Careers man, "But I ain't spending any time on it because in the meantime, every three months, a person is torn to pieces by a crocodile in north Queensland."
Spitting rain darkened July’s black coat in spots and the gravel crunched beneath their large boots. They adjusted the Wick & Wax box of candles in their arms to free up an arm so that they could pull their headphones to their neck. The grumbles of thunder had always been a comfort ever since they were a kid. Closing their eyes they listened to their headphones turn their music into a high-pitched chirr as it played into the open air; the sound intermittently drowned out by claps and groans bellowing from darken clouds above. They walked and walked and the rain grew heavier, causing their dark makeup to run. It wasn’t the first delivery they’d made for their parents’ shop in the rain, and it surely wouldn’t be the last — it was better than the monotony of dipping wicks in wax all day. Better yet, the address on this order was of particular interest and it was one that their parents had been reluctant to allow them to do, not because it was dangerous or anything, but because they felt July was perhaps too eager to take it. It was an order for some kind of old abandoned palace; certainly haunted and full of bats. The owners haven’t been seen for years, but the order was one that was paid well in advance and ticked over by itself automatically. So once again a delivery is to be made and July had finally convinced them to let them deliver the order out of the city and out towards the old mining district.
A prolonged husky caw broke July’s trance and at last they opened their eyes. The road before them split into three and to the side, perched atop an extinguished rusty lamp post was a black raven. It jerked its head as it eyed the visitor and it scraped its beak against the peeling green paint. July blinked at the creature and turned their attention to the roads. Their parents didn’t mention this crossroads and each of the paths led into an indiscernible dark. They knew the mining district was east, so they shrugged and tried their luck, setting off into the shrouded dark. The sound of flapping wings echoed behind her.
They went on through the rain, holding a hand to their brow trying to distinguish what lay ahead in the dark. Another caw rasped through the air and a flash of lightning ripped through the sky, outlining in light the raven once more perched atop an extinguished lamppost ahead of them. July glanced at the road behind them: nothing but a curtain of rain against a wall of black. They frowned as they approached and the same three roads from before appeared yet again. They put the box of candles down and scrutinised the bird.
“Is this your doing?” they asked.
The Raven simply stared. Another flash of light rippled across the sky in the distance, revealing in bursts of light a vast range of various mismatched trinkets and furniture piled into spiralling towers and grand mountains — The raven’s nest.
A sense of dread began to squeeze at July’s chest. While it was undoubtedly cool, it was clear this wasn’t an ordinary Raven and there was something that it wanted.
Something moving just beyond the crossroads caught July’s eyes as they readjusted to the dark. It was as thin as an electrical cord, black and shiny and moved like a conveyor belt between the piles of knickknacks. They approached the oddity and looked closer. A thousand little legs undulated and scuttered along. Everybody in the land has encountered this creature before.
“Hello, are you the Infinitipede?” said July.
A small voice came from the segment of creature, though it was unclear where from specifically. There was no mouth to be seen. “In part, you might say,” said Infinitipede.
“Have we met before?” asked July.
“Perhaps another part of mine. I don’t recall you, a common social faux pas for me if you’ll forgive.”
“That’s okay. Are you stuck here?” asked July.
“I suppose I’m stuck everywhere. This part of me, where am I?”
“By some kind of crossroads. There’s a raven on a lamppost that’s hanging out here. I think you’re in it’s nest.”
“Ah, that must explain it.”
“You know it?”
“I know many places in this world! I am in most of them after all. It’s just difficult to keep track of which part is where.” The Infinitipede wriggled and writhed. “This is the Raven’s Crossroad, you see. The Raven, she’s a most greedy toll keeper as old a myself. I must be tangled through her nest here, how interesting! How delightful!”
“What toll? I don’t have any money.”
“Take a look around! She takes anything and everything so long as it helps her build her nest.”
“Okay. Thanks, Infinitipede.”
“See you around, I’m sure.”
July went back to the crossroads where the Raven groomed its silky black feathers, it cawed once more upon their return. They took stock of their things and thought of what that they might give: A box of candles? No, that needs to be delivered. Headphones? No, absolutely not. Boots? No way, those things cost a fortune. July stared at the bird and the lamppost, the lamp with it’s sooty glass walls empty inside. They fetched a single candle from the box, maybe just one wouldn’t hurt? The Raven watched closely as they opened the lantern and fixed the candle inside. As soon as they closed the door, the wick burst into a flame by itself. The Raven cawed and took off in a flurry of feathers down one of the roads into the dark and after it vanished from sight, the dark receded; it was the way July was to go. They picked up the box and followed along. As they travelled slowly the rain lightened and the clouds cleared and the raven was nowhere to be seen.
The day went on and eventually a rickety stone palace came into view on the countryside hills. Excitement swelled within July as the ivy covered walls were at their fore and they pushed open the gothic metal gates that released a grinding screech from its hinges. Down they stepped along the overgrown stone tiles, cracked and dislodged, each step leading to stairs guarded either side by two statues shaped to be Ravens. Up the stairs and suddenly July was before a great pair of doors, the timber chipped and scratched at the bottom as if stray cats had been desperately trying to enter.
They lifted the the doorknocker shaped like an imp atop a mushroom and the thud echoed throughout the other side. Of course the house was abandoned, July knew that, but they waited a moment anyway and then twisted the handle. The door creaked open revealing a great foyer, full of furniture covered in sheets stained in bat droppings. July dropped the box of candles with the pile of all the others that had been delivered previous, still untouched since presumably their dad had put them there. They looked around the room, great archways led to other wings of the palace and a grand stairway twisted up to the second floor. They couldn’t leave yet. They’d not come all this way not to look around.
The afternoon went on with July exploring the rooms of the palace, quiet as they went as to not awake the residences. It seemed each room was filled with colonies of bats sleeping and jostling on the ceiling. They wandered through dusty kitchens and dining rooms still with long since rotted plates of food set out upon the excessively long tables. There were study’s full of unpacked tomes and other rooms that the purpose of which eluded them as they’d have no use to any ordinary household. Eventually, they found themselves in a great bedroom with a curtained bed of an enormous size they’d never witnessed. They could see the silhouetted shapes of more bats twitching inside.
Suddenly, next to the bed a shape seemed to be warping the wall, making itself into existence. They got closer to inspect the strange sight. At last the thing took shape, it seemed to agitate the bats behind the bed’s curtain more and more. Corners began to form and some kind of reflective material started to solidify. A blast of wind expanded across the room and that was it; the bats shot out of the bed in a great swarm, swirling around the room in a tornado, each squealing and shrieking. July couldn’t believe it, but a window had formed before them, its glass panes dusty and grimed, distorting a figure that moved behind it. At last, there was a knock on the other side. July’s hand trembled as they reached down and unfastened the latch and slowly pulled it open, bats still making circuits around the room in a cacophony of noise.
A small wiry dog peered out at them from some impossible space behind the wall. July blinked.
“H-hello?”
The dog gave a little bark and dropped its head behind the window for a moment before coming back up with an envelope in it’s mouth. They stared and the dog urged them to take it with a light grumble. They took it from the dog and stared at it. Inscribed on the front was simply the word ‘Coffin’. The dog barked once more and July regarded it. It seemed to gesture at the window, so they closed it just as they’d opened it and the whole thing seemed to suck in on itself back out of existence.
July made their way out of the room, avoiding all the bats and hoping that would help them settle. They exited the front door and stood on the porch staring at the letter. It read:
Dear July Sherman
It is of my utmost pleasure to be contacting you as I understand that you are a passionate and budding coffin maker. I am contacting you in regards to an opportunity in relation to the construction of a coffin to quite unique specifications. If this letter finds you and you are interested in this proposition, please meet me at the Showgrounds just after dawn when the Carnival has departed.
Signed.
President Coffin
Light bled across the wet clay surface of the Beeac lake. Over and over, a flash of red, then of blue cut through the dark. An array of police cars and vans were parked before the grassy ridge that led steeply into the clay. It was a route the little jack russel had made down many times before; this was where Humphry buried all of his bones to dig up later after all. He sniffed at the ground at the boundary of all the activity, his little ears pricking up at odd scratchy sound of voices bleating out of radios from the uniformed figures. Things like:
“We’re going to be here all night.”
“There’s more than we thought.”
“Yeah, no, Smith’s confirmed they’re human.”
He looked out at the lake. He wasn’t sure what all the figures were doing and he was worried about his collection down there. It had been built slowly, but surely, year after from all the bones his owner had given him. It was important. sentimental. He wanted to get down there and make sure his stuff was okay but he felt he should be cautious given the usual way down was cut off by strangers and white and blue tape strung around everywhere. So he scouted along the edge, between the ridge and the endless line of barbed wire fences but there didn’t seem to be a way down.
A voice from emerged from the dark behind him,“I told you that owner of yours was up to no bloody good.”
Humphy turned and saw the familiar magpie sitting on the fencepost. “Kathy,” he said with contempt, ‘not here to swoop me again?”
“You can’t tell me you didn’t know.”
He didn’t feel like giving her the time given how she’d treated him early in the spring, so Humphry shrugged the bird off and went back to searching for a way down.
“I know what you K9’s sense of smell is like, you wouldn’t mistake it,” her squawky voice called out.
Suddenly a violent fluttering sound rushed at him from behind. He felt a sharp pain, before being sent off the edge of the ridge, tumbling down the steep gradient in the grey sludgy clay below.
“What was that for!” he cried.
The silhouette of the bird was ominous on the edge above, staring down at him with a glint in her eye. “I’ve watched many be brought into that house of yours and never come out. You know as well as I.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He did. He couldn’t admit it. It didn’t matter, he was already down which meant all he had to do was run. Run to his precious bones.
With his nose pointed to the air he followed the scent through the muggy air. But he knew all too soon that he was headed striaght towards the figures. These one’s were different, dressed entirely in white jumpsuits. He got closer and closer, the slim depth of water splashing beneath his paws and then stopped. Of course. It couldn’t be anything else. His bones. They’d found them and they were digging them out and putting them in labeled bags. There was nothing he could do. He simply watched from afar throughout the night, until they were done.