Break From Reality. Daily.
I watched through the window as the man who killed me fixed himself a sandwich. He smeared yellow mustard on the bread and piled on layers of pickles, ham and cheese. As he took a bite and closed his eyes in pleasure, I tried to figure out the best way to haunt him.
“Help yourself.”
“No, thank you.”
At this, Professor Donovan Lovok arched a brow. He had never known his colleague, the esteemed Dr. Ike Grant, to turn down a Bavarian tart. The good doctor had always been a bit of a glutton for the flaky pastry. He often blamed it for his ever-expanding waistline and growing waddle, usually while putting another one in his mouth. In fact, Donovan had gone out of his way to procure a box of the stuff on the way to work, knowing Ike was to stop by today.
Once upon a time there was a house—no, darling, not a haunted house, at least it didn’t have any ghosts in it. But it was a horrid house. It actually ate people! Just imagine that! A house where you walk in the front door and the entrance hall—much bigger than ours—is the mouth, and the house just swallows you up. I know, right? That must have been awful. Walking in the entrance and being gulped down, and never coming out because you’re in the house’s tummy and it’s digesting you, just like you digested that doughnut this afternoon. All white and doughy, and when you bite on it—SQUELCH! A load of red … jam squirts out. Eurgh indeed! No, I wouldn’t want to be a human doughnut either!
“Don’t wait up for me.”
Helene waved at her husband’s back as he disappeared down the hall before she closed the door of their tiny apartment. She looked around the sparse room with its secondhand furniture and nicotine-stained walls. A weak sunbeam struggled to make it through the polka dot curtains Helene had made from her prom dress, but the room was still dark.
Dark enough no one could see the tears streaming down her face.
Her grandmother was right. She should have waited for Max to graduate from college before they got married.
Marty was slow to wake, slow to rise on the morning of his seventy-fifth birthday. At least, he thought it was morning until he eyed the green 12:06 on his alarm clock. Instinctively, he rolled over and felt for Lori but the bed was empty and neat aside from the crumpled sheets on his side. He groaned into his pillow and listened to the quiet.
The hum of the fan, the rumble of cars a block away, his own inhales and exhales. He could almost feel the quiet house with its thick, cold walls closing in on him. He got up then, with the agility of a man much younger than seventy-five.
Barnard peered through his plexiglass cage window. Earth was billions of miles behind, just another rock in space.
Look forward, he told himself, look forward.
Tomorrow they would arrive on Cygna. Barnard could already see himself on his new home world, free to move about, breathe fresh air, delight in new friends.
In a shadowed corner of the hospital stairwell she sits, crumpled like a discarded wad of paper, arms wound tight around her legs to still their trembling. In time, when her fury is finally exhausted, her body will unfurl, its energy spent. This stairwell is her private refuge, where the sobs that rattle her body and cleanse her soul are heard only by the walls around her. Perspiration beads her forehead, a display of damp patchwork darkening her scrub cap. Her skin prickles beneath it, but she barely notices. She barely notices the smell of stale sweat seeping out from scrubs that should have been changed days ago, if only she had the energy to care. There is no one here to judge, but there is no one here to comfort either.
“Not that it matters anymore,” Michele said as if she were not alone. “But it is so nice out tonight.”
It was a clear night, without clouds or moon, and to avoid tripping on the rocky path, Michele pointed the flashlight at the ground ahead as she walked. As she hiked up the trail, the cold breeze that blew down the small canyon chilled the skin on her bare arms. On any other night, the black pitch in the canyon, the rustling leaves, and the scurrying sound of creatures in the brush along the trail would have frightened her. But that night, there was nothing to fear; she was calm, breathing in the crisp spring evening air.
I’ve wanted to do this for so long.
Gordon stood in front of the open hall closet, running his hand across the row of hanging coats, feeling their different textures beneath his fingertips. Scratchy wool, smooth poplin, the slippery impervious surface of a rain slicker. So many coats. Why did one woman need so many?
He removed his own charcoal-gray dress coat—his only dress coat—and shrugged into it, replacing the sturdy wooden hanger. From upstairs, he heard the click of the bathroom door, the ventilation fan firing up like a helicopter engine.
She was awake.
“Oh sweetheart, you look beautiful.”
Casey stood at the top of the grand art deco staircase, the “wow-factor,” according to the wedding planner, of Willingsbury Manor’s entrance hall. At the bottom stood her father, beaming up at her with eyes shining like his expensive new cufflinks.
Casey gripped her extravagant bridal bouquet, wincing as a thorn stabbed her hand through the itchy fabric wrapped around the stems.
The flashlight slipped from his hand, spinning like a lighthouse as it floated up and out of reach. It settled bulb-first against the reactor room bulkhead 40 feet above, plunging Lee into darkness.
“Touché you bastard,” he yelled to the wayward light. “But I really don’t have time for this.”
Time, Lee mused while unhooking his tether, had apparently conspired with the fusion reactor and flashlight to kill him. Over the past hour, his life horizon shortened from what once seemed an eternity to perhaps no further than this moment.
“Next stop, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,” announced the captain of the ship. The boat was filled with people; some were fellow classmates who attended my college. The rest were a bunch of unfamiliar faces. I sat on the edge of the boat and started reading the book that my professor gave me. I had to read a book about myths and legends for my criminal justice class. This book was all that I needed for my final exam.
The Crow King watches on unseen as the couple shuffle through the darkening woods. The woman is carrying a bundle; the Crow King knows what it contains.
The couple stop several times to rest, the woman finding a tree stump or flopping to the ground, laying the bundle down gently beside her. During the rest, they pray. After a while, the man takes hold of her hand and helps her up, and they shuffle on.
For the first time in over two months, I set the alarm next to my bed. The furniture store where I worked was finally reopening, so I was returning to work tomorrow. I had planned an early night so I would be bright-eyed and fresh-faced on my first day back, but between the anticipation and my lack of a sleep schedule over the past weeks, I hadn’t been tired. I stayed up way too late watching Veep.
I was finally climbing into bed when I remembered that it was trash night. It was tempting to just skip it this week, but I had cooked chicken a few days ago. I didn’t want to leave the packaging and trimmings rotting in the cart for over a week. I needed to get it wheeled to the curb. Sighing, I stripped off my nightgown and pulled on yoga pants and a t-shirt.
William Painton stood near the hoopla stall, scratching a circle in the dirt with the toe of his shoe. What if he could dig down in the dirt quickly, he thought, so quickly that he could jump in the hole he’d dug, cover himself with dirt and hide … and no one would know where he was … and Benny would go away and leave him alone.
“What d’you say, Painton? Hey! I’m talkin’ to you!”
William continued to draw the circle. Okay, the idea of the hole was far-fetched. But maybe Benny would get bored if he just ignored him. Yes, that was a good plan. Keep scratching the circle.
I stood at the patio doors, gazing at the compost heap in the backyard and trying to ignore my husband in the kitchen, as I waited to let the dog back in. I rubbed my twitchy eyelid and took a deep breath; in through the nose, out through the mouth. This was turning out to be one heck of a day.
“Me? I don’t know. Let me think.”
Taylor leans back against the wall, raising the stool on two legs. He stares at the ceiling and the fan whirring slowly, silently around.
“I suppose you’ve got to go with pleasure first.”
Day One
This is going to be great! My boss at the furniture store said she would continue paying us for as long as she could, so this isn’t much different from a vacation. I’m sure things will get back to normal soon. In the mean time, I can clean my house top to bottom and finally get everything organized. I picked up supplies from the grocery store yesterday, and I managed to resist buying any junk food, so I will be forced to embrace clean eating. I mean, I have the opportunity to embrace clean eating. I can get up early every morning and do yoga with the sunrise. I will come out of this self-isolation thing healthier and refreshed. For dinner: chickpea curry and quinoa.
“Friends, neighbors, business owners, listen up. We called this meeting to discuss how to organize the neighborhood yard sale, since Karen used to always handle that sort of thing. Now that her bakery has closed and she’s no longer part of the neighborhood association, we’ll have to figure it out ourselves.”
“Good riddance,” muttered Arlene. A few other people nodded. We were all sitting at picnic tables next to the community garden, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. I bent down to retrieve a refillable water bottle from my bag, trying to hide my face for a moment. I had come to hate these vapid women.
Five minutes. After 190 long years, just five minutes to go. I think I’m going to scream, I’m so excited.
There’s Thomas up ahead. In charge as always. Thank Madiba for him. We’ve needed someone strong like Thomas, and his father, and his grandmother, and his great-grandfather. To see us through this.
Purity’s at 98% out there, apparently — flat over the last ten years. Will never get any better, the scientists and statisticians tell us. So there’s going to be a risk, but if the Council says it’s okay…
Author’s note: This story is heavily based on firsthand accounts from family friends currently trapped in the Wuhan quarantine. Heavy coat. Gloves. Raincoat. Boots. Headscarf. Mask. They say the masks don’t help, but we still wear them. Comfort, perhaps. Comfort in the familiar. Comfort in fooling ourselves. “I’ll be back, Ma,” I call out. From…
Once upon a time there was a pirate — Pirate Pete he was called. Actually, his surname was Potter, so that would be Pirate Pete Potter, but he never used his full name because … well, pirates don’t.
Pirate Pete was an awfully nice chap and would have given pirates a good name if he hadn’t been the exception that proved the rule. What his gentle nature did do was make the running of his vessel — the Perilous Pinnace, which is a type of ship (you can look it up) — a tricky task. The crew took advantage of him something rotten, you see, so that when it came to duties on board — like splicing the main-brace, hoisting the yardarm and swabbing the deck, boaty stuff like that — the crew would just scoff at his orders.
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?”