Break From Reality. Daily.
Dust motes floated in the air, tickling my allergies. The janitors hadn’t cleaned this old file room in years. Why bother, when no one ever came in here anymore? Except me, because my boss just had to have an invoice from 2013. As I pinched my nose to prevent a sneeze, I fantasized handing him an IRS audit notice and watching him break out in hives.
Throughout his life, Martin had been desperately disappointed in matters of the heart; he’d had a number of serious relationships and had been chewed up and spat out of all of them. In self-defence he’d chosen a solitude that had lasted years, a blissful time of total independence.
But as he reached middle age, the spectre of a lonely end-of-life reared its head and he came to realise that perhaps he needed someone. Because he worked from home and had no social life to speak of, it was difficult for him to meet women in the conventional way, so he did the fashionable thing and dipped his toe into the on-line dating scene. In recent weeks he’d had a number of quite … unusual experiences.
For three consecutive nights, Seth woke with a start. That in itself might have worried him because he was generally a sound sleeper, but the thing that scared him on the second night, and terrified him on the third, was the time that it happened: 1:11.
On all three occasions, he found himself staring at the digital alarm clock, the three red 1s glowing diabolically in the dark. On the third night he was so shaken that he got up, went to the study and switched on the computer.
“Can’t you shut that cat up?” Veronica asked.
Gertie was winding herself around my ankles, yowling. I picked her up and she started purring.
“Are you finally hungry?” I crooned. “Poor kitty. Let me get you some food.”
Gertie hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. We had arrived at the cabin last night, and she had gone directly from the carrier to hide under the bed. She had spent the morning cautiously exploring the space and was finally starting to settle in.
I got out a bowl and looked around for the bag of dry cat food.
Lawrence pressed the “prepare meal” switch and the processor whirred into action, mashing protein cubes into the paste that would be breakfast.
He left the machine working while he checked the meteorological forecast: minus 20 max, blizzards, improving over the next 24 hours. The snow had been falling on and off for two weeks now. The airstrip was covered, and tall drifts had formed on the north side of the main building.
He returned to the kitchen, adjoining the operations room, and switched off the processor. He pressed “deliver x3” and three plates rolled out of the base of the machine and onto the stainless steel bars that served as a shelf.
“Just a few more questions and you’ll be out of the hot seat!” the interviewer said.
I bet she used that line in every interview. She was being courteous, but without much enthusiasm. I wondered how many people she had interviewed today.
I smiled at her. My face was starting to hurt from all the smiling. The chair had made a funny noise the last time I moved, so I was holding myself stiffly, but trying to look relaxed.
Relaxed but with excellent posture, that is. My leg muscles were beginning to tremble.
“Mary? MARY!”
Mary gripped the side of the kitchen table. She’d been feeling so very tired recently, and now there were the pains in her chest.
“Coming, mother!” she called weakly.
You sit here, pumpkin, is that okay? So you can look round the restaurant. Comfy? Good girl. Now, let’s have a look at this here menu. Hmmm. Hasn’t changed. Let me guess what you’re going to have. Chicken nuggets, right? Yes, I know you like them! Mummy did, too. So nuggets and what else? Chips? They’re not very good for you, you know. But as it’s a special occasion … why not?
“Hey, Megan! Have you heard the story of the Pitchfork Killer?” Tate asked from the front seat.
I sighed and looked out the window as trees flashed past. He was driving too fast, and us three girls in the back seat were getting jostled together.
“Refresh my memory,” Megan said, because he so obviously wanted to tell the story. She was a good sport that way. She had lived here for nearly six months now, so she must have heard multiple versions of Pineville’s urban legend by now.
Steve turned around and smiled at her, adoration in his eyes. He used to smile at me like that.
“It was a dark and stormy night,” Tate said in a comic spooky voice and cackled. “The local loser boy had finally had enough. He was desperate hot for the Harvest Queen, and he decided that if he couldn’t have her, no one could. He took a pitchfork from his dad’s barn and set off for town.”
There were four playing.
The host, Adam, had made sure to sit with his back to the window, giving him a conveniently flattering glow around his head as the sun began to set behind the neighbouring rooftops. He had also placed an extra cushion on his chair, raising him slightly above the other three players.
To his right sat Alice. She was a secretary in the law firm where Adam was a partner. He called her “Wonderful Alice” at the office, attempting a play on “Alice in Wonderland” that didn’t quite work. But he did indeed think her quite wonderful and was hoping that this visit to his apartment would not be the last. Alice in turn felt a little uncomfortable — she’d thought it unwise to turn down Adam’s invitation, but was regretting that she hadn’t.
When I was in high school, I drove a sky blue Chevy Citation. The paint was peeling in places, but my dad assured me we could fix it. We sanded each of the spots smooth, wiped them clean with a damp cloth and sprayed on primer. While it was drying, we went to the auto parts store to get model-specific paint to match my car.
When we returned, we found that the paint all around the edges of the primer spots had curled into little ruffles.
My dad said, “Huh.”
For a moment, Aasfa is at peace. Holding her face up to the sun and the cooling salty breeze, she shuts out the ugly sights, sounds and smells that surround her.
She is back in her village. Her mother calls from the kitchen and Aasfa skips across the dusty yard, sidestepping the family hen pecking away at the scorched earth. “Help me with dinner,” her mother says. Aasfa fetches some grey water from the well and puts a pot on the stove to boil.
Later, after finishing the thin soup, Aasfa, her mother and young brother Ali remain at the table drinking tea. Not for the first time, Aasfa brings up the subject of the boat, and as always, her mother resists the idea. She tells her mother again that her uncles will help raise the fare. Her mother takes her hand and searches her face for uncertainty. Finding only steely resolve, she reluctantly nods her agreement, eyes closed tightly against the pain of being without her daughter.
“Will this take long?” I asked as I set a cup of coffee in front of the detective. I was careful not to let the cup rattle when it touched the table. “I have a tee time in forty minutes.”
“No. I just want to review your statement and see if you have anything to add.”
“It was two years ago.”
“Sometimes it’s worth taking a second look at a case after a little time has passed. People think of some detail they didn’t think was important before, or something happens to change their perspective on events. To be honest,” he said with a disarming smile, “I’m retiring soon, and this is one of those cases that always bugged me.”
Once upon a time there was a farm on which lived a widow and her son, Jack (no, not that Jack, another one — although their stories are quite similar).
It was a poor farm, producing each year a meagre crop of beans. The widow did her best to work the land and eke out a living for the two of them, but a summer came when there was a bad drought and things got especially difficult.
One day, the widow found a flyer in the mail-box at the gate of the farm.
“Magic Beans!” it trumpeted (told you). Planting the beans would apparently produce a prime crop, whatever the soil, whatever the weather.
I had been an artist.
In the slums, in darkness as black as our driven lust, I’d told my stories. And I can tell you, if wealth was measured by drops of crimson spilt in dark alleyways I would have been a millionaire.
The Bloody Painter, they’d called me. I liked to paint my victims afterwards, to show the world I was leagues above their average serial killer. I was an artist.
I love snow. In the winter, when I have a hot flash at night, I can strip off all my clothes, go in the back yard and roll around in a snow bank. Thank goodness for privacy fences.
In the summer, I am perpetually sweaty and red-faced, my lank hair stuck to the side of my head. I have to rely on air conditioning and fans, which are completely inadequate. I tried to talk my husband into installing a walk-in freezer in Jack Jr’s bedroom, since he was away at college now. Jack didn’t even look up from his Sudoku.
The last thing Sherri Larson needed was another storm in her life.
Huddled in the heavy darkness of what was little better than a metal box, Sherri wrapped her arms around her knees and willed her heart rate to steady. Just above her head, growling thunder reminded her that the danger was far from over. In fact, it was only beginning.
She should have known something was wrong that morning. The day had been bright and cloudless, but far too hot for late September on the Kansas prairie. Around noon, dark clouds had begun boiling on the horizon. Still, she’d never dreamed things could turn so deadly—not until the tornado sirens began screaming, and she’d seen the lethal wall clouds for herself, spinning relentlessly across the plains toward the small town where Sherri owned and operated a diner.
The private dining room, despite its sophisticated walnut accents and warm tones, was both stifling and somber. A fitting place for this particular family dinner.
Sliding open the paneled screen, a waiter entered the small space and set a plate of edamame down on the white linen tablecloth. He then stood waiting at the end of the table, clasping his hands behind his back.
Dennis Martinson dismissed the waiter with a wave of his hand, then picked up a pod and munched. He was a man used to getting his way, and he regarded his son with irritation, not hiding the disdain in his voice. “So, Adam, tell me again why you’re planning to leave the business?”
Scotland
April 1893
The hot air balloon approached the Isle of Skye carrying its pilot and two passengers. Sophie pushed back a bright red curl, adjusting her goggle strap. She increased the heat inside the balloon, the weight of her Tesla guns against her legs reassuring as they floated above Talisker Bay. The creatures would come into view any minute. She knew she brought her passengers to see them, but it never made it any less nerve-wracking to know that a paying customer could be decapitated any time.
I’ve been in The Room so long I don’t remember what it looks like outside. I think there were colors.
Here, everything’s white. The cement floor is coated with a glossy white finish that squeaks under our rubber-soled shoes. The walls, the plastic-covered mattresses we sleep on, the blankets they give us—all white. Even the lights, burning down from the high ceiling are white with no trace of the golden glow I almost remember.
We wear white jumpsuits, no pockets. There’s no place to hide anything here. Even the bathroom is just a screened-off area without a door, open at the top so our most private moments can be witnessed through opaque windows that stretch around the upper perimeter of The Room.
The jet of water hit me in the face. “Motherless son of a biscuit!” I got a hand between me and the water but dropped the pipe cutter. Whatever, I didn’t need that anymore.
“What did you do, Jim?” Fred demanded, his tone dripping with derision.
“Shut it off!” I shouted back.
“Where’s the valve?”
“To your right. By the shelf.” The puddle on the concrete floor of the laundry room grew at an alarming rate.
“How the hell am I supposed to reach it. You have the ladder.”
“Just jump!”
“Is there anyone out there? I repeat, is there anyone out there?”
The words had become automatic and no longer held any meaning for Karl. He sprawled on his back in the middle of the darkened control room, radio receiver clutched to his mouth. He stared up at the stars through the huge window above him as he mindlessly repeated the distress message.
He had been an astronaut for many years and had long since become accustomed to the sight of the stars, but now when he had little to do but look up at them and wait for death, he was reminded how beautiful they were. Their feeble light and that of the shuttle’s emergency power was the only thing that separated him from the true darkness that the inky black sky threatened.
“I repeat, is there anyone out there? Shuttle in distress, potential loss of human life.”
“Before you embark on your adventure, please hand me your phones and anything else you don’t want to get wet,” said the man in the sailor’s uniform. “We’ll protect your belongings while you navigate your way to safety.” He brandished a plastic bin.
James was tense.
When Hayley suggested they do an escape room, pride and insecurity kept James from telling her that being trapped against his will was essentially a waking nightmare for him. He could have said no, could have made an excuse, but he hadn’t quite figured out saying “no” to Hayley. He’d had no need to. He was crazy about her and so far “yes” had served him just fine.
Mama used that word all the time. Hearing it was just a regular part of growing up.
So I used it in Mrs. Moore’s class. Not on purpose; it just came out, you see, when I got frustrated with this kid.
As you can imagine, I ended up in the principal’s office.
“That kind of language is unacceptable, young lady,” Principal Maynard said, tapping his desk with his favorite blue pen, the one with Carver Middle School printed in white lettering on the side.
“I’ve phoned your mother,” he said, and was about to say more, but there was yelling coming from the receptionist’s desk, then Mama burst through the door.
How many times had I told them? They didn’t believe me. My whole family thought it was a phase, a childish trait. Every time I listened to them and forgot about it, I heard it again. It was loud and clear, unmistakable. Again, the knocking that came from inside my closet was not in my head; it was not my mind playing tricks on me. This was real.
I cried out for my mother.
Alice sank down into the deep-red, velvety, cotton-wool-comfy sofa. On a small table to her side were all the necessary provisions for an evening’s TV viewing: a bottle of Pinot Noir, some nuts, some chocolate, and a large box of popcorn.
Bernard was away at a conference for the weekend; he had his work to do and his hoped-for promotion to cultivate. He was a stickler for being active and ‘doing’ stuff, so this was Alice’s chance to be self-indulgent for once.
She sighed with pleasure at the prospect of doing nothing much at all and felt the stress ease out of her body, a stress caused by their recent move and a certain tension that had built up between her and Bernard. She shook her head now as she remembered the petty source of the tension: the sofa itself.
Why did I get a dog?
As I drove the streets of my neighborhood, scanning yards, I wondered how far Walter could have gotten by now. He could have gone down any of these side streets. My heart lurched. What if he changed directions and went the other way, toward the busy street?
Pema stared hard at the results as if the numbers might change, might realize the error of their ways and correct themselves.
They didn’t.
She ran the analysis again, watched as nutrient levels, base saturations, and mineral ratios spread across her handheld’s screen, held her breath again. Shook her head again. Phosphorus, off target. Not by much, but by now Pema knew that’s all it took.
The pathogen had spread.
“It’s an aggressive form,” Dr. Monroe said. His eyes didn’t waver; he was used to giving bad news.
“You’ve got about a year.” This time he spoke with a little more empathy, not nearly enough to soften the blow.
“So, you’re telling me I’m dying,” I said.
“I’m afraid so,” he said, scribbling something on my chart.
I would like it to be sunny there. Sun gives you vitamin … some-letter-or-other. But not too much, hey! Some sun — good; too much — bad! Wear a hat. Sunglasses. Factor some-high-number sun block. But yes, sun. Apart from the vitamin intake, there’s the sense of wellbeing. Apparently, the further north you are, like here, where skies are grey, days shorter, rain aplenty, the suicide rate is appalling. I’m not ready to go yet. Give me sunshine.
Eldrich Ainsworth wasn’t who he appeared to be. I was as sure of that as I was my name, which is Julie Koblowski, by the way.
He lived next door to me and my mother. Every morning I watched as he left his house at 7:30 am dressed in a black suit and dark sunglasses. He walked down to the bus stop on the corner of Clover and Pine, where he’d get on the number 5 bus. Then he’d return each evening at precisely 6 pm.
“I don’t trust him,” Mom said.
Which was a riot, because she had terrible judgment in men. From my father to the man who now lived in our house.
How did I come to be here? Well, let me prepare some tea and food while I tell you my story. You get settled by the fire; you must be frozen.
It was some years ago, I am not sure how many — it could be five or fifteen; time seems not to move here. Like you, I climbed that rocky path on the north side. Did they tell you down below not to take it? Yes, they told me, too. But my sense of adventure — and my pride, it must be said — got the better of me.
The prince fought valiantly and slayed the dragon. The princess wept for days. She loved that dragon.
She wept when he carried her out of the burning remains of the cavern, clutching the dragon’s last egg. She wept when he laid her in his carriage and took her on the long journey home. She wept when his servants tried to serve her food. She wept when they set up her tent to sleep. She stopped weeping when they tried to take the egg away, just long enough to go for the jugular.
The white cup was sitting on the table, a leftover dish from breakfast. It was the one with the black and yellow logo from a company where she used to work.
Who was drinking from it, me or him, she thought, but couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter now anyway.
The fight had been one of those lingering ones. You know, the kind that contained residue from previous fights, things said long ago that were never truly dealt with. All of it contributed to the explosion that eventually happened.
“That will be $9.80,” I said, as I glanced at the driver’s ticket. The toll booth felt like a refrigerator tonight, and I shivered.
The driver cursed as he unfastened his seatbelt and fumbled in his pocket for change.
“Where does this money go?” he asked. “Certainly not to the roads. I almost broke an axle on a pothole back there.”
There was a short spiel I was supposed to deliver in response to this sort of query, but I didn’t bother. I wanted to get this guy out of here, since I was waiting on a particular vehicle.
Ned was in his bedroom playing a video game with his best friend Harry when his mother poked her head round the door.
“Ned, you know old Mrs Wilson’s moving?”
Ned was a psychopath slashing up Harry’s characters and seemed oblivious to the interruption.
“Ned!”
“What?” grunted an irritated Ned.
“Don’t cry,” he told me. “I’ll let you go as soon as they pay up.”
“I’m not crying,” I replied.
“Oh.” He looked a little disappointed, though it was hard to tell behind the skull mask. “Could you cry a little? They tend to move faster if the hostage cries.”
I shrugged. “I could. Do you have some onion I can rub on my eyes?”
He thought for a moment. “I’ll be right back.”
There’s a little town between here and there. Don’t worry, you don’t need to know where it is; in fact I’m doing you a favor by not telling you where it is. Let’s just say, it’s the kind of town you speed by on your way to somewhere else.
This may seem like an odd thing but our story begins with a sock; yes, a sock. Just your typical cotton/spandex blend, like that one, lying over there on Danvers Road.
It was part of a pack of Hanes athletic tube socks, only $5.50 in the sale bin at the Walmart. Margery Morgan purchased them for her husband, Harry, a 50-year-old two pack a day smoker, and a rather despicable human being.
“I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with …” The boy searches the surroundings, lifts his face towards the sky, but forgets to use a distractor before blurting out: “C.”
“Oooh, that’s tricky, Porkchop. Er … could it be ‘clouds’?” The second boy punches Porkchop on his chubby arm.
“Ow, Mikey! What d’you do that for?!”
“You know — just because.”
My friend Dylan died today. It wasn’t a quick death; he’d been dying for years. Drugs had taken over his life, and no matter how many times he got clean, the demon always won him back.