tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78778565687990805822024-03-12T21:39:31.000-07:00The Fringe MagazineShort Stories, Flash Fiction, Poetry, Books non-fiction reference, music, art, photography, gardening, cooking, Self Help, architecture, design, biographies and roleplay games, Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Historical Romance, Paranormal Romance, Horror, Crime, Thriller, Comedy, Western.
We also publish Author Interviews, Paintings, Art Work, Art Work by Susie Wilson, and non-fiction articles.Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.comBlogger1460125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-40059116857833508672019-07-17T17:45:00.001-07:002019-07-17T17:45:09.186-07:00BOOK REVIEW How to Survive a Horror Movie All the Skills to Dodge the Kills by Seth Grahame-Smith<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsChLHaoqp-J2dtLJgGGGrFN7JZwHlgS8Iktz4AC_rDD2lmILtkZtyGDCFuNSobpKnQVXNzORVjjFP1T8Xhs7BKn1tLIkXtDx0vn23H_NHv4Qops6GXW__PCRltYhxYv_Fnue81dxVCs/s1600/cover167578-medium.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="255" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsChLHaoqp-J2dtLJgGGGrFN7JZwHlgS8Iktz4AC_rDD2lmILtkZtyGDCFuNSobpKnQVXNzORVjjFP1T8Xhs7BKn1tLIkXtDx0vn23H_NHv4Qops6GXW__PCRltYhxYv_Fnue81dxVCs/s320/cover167578-medium.png" width="228" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
BOOK REVIEW<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 28.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;">How to Survive a Horror Movie<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-outline-level: 4;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">All the
Skills to Dodge the Kills<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-outline-level: 2;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">by Seth
Grahame-Smith<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-outline-level: 5;">
<a href="https://www.netgalley.com/catalog/publisher/81772"><b><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Quirk Books</span></b></a><b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://www.netgalley.com/catalog/category/41"><b><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Horror </span></b></a><b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">, </span></b><a href="https://www.netgalley.com/catalog/category/34"><b><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Nonfiction (Adult)</span></b></a><b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Pub
Date 24 Sep 2019<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<h3 style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Description<o:p></o:p></span></h3>
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<b><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Written by best-selling author, screenwriter, and producer Seth
Grahame-Smith (<i>The Lego Batman Movie</i>; Stephen King’s<i> It</i>),
with an introduction by horror icon Wes Craven (<i>A Nightmare on Elm Street</i>),
this is a hilarious must-read for any horror movie fan...and it just might save
your life.</span></b><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
<br />
Are you reading this in a cornfield, at a summer camp, or in an abandoned
mental institution? Have you noticed that everything is poorly lit, or
that music surges every time you open a door? If the answer is yes, you’re
probably trapped in a horror movie. But don’t freak out—just read this
book! With it you will learn how to overcome every obstacle found in scary
films, including:<br />
<br />
• How to determine what type of horror film you’re trapped in<br />
• The five types of slashers and how to defeat them<br />
• How to handle killer dolls, murderous automobiles, and other haunted
objects<br />
• How to deal with alien invasions, zombie apocalypses, and other global
threats<br />
• What to do if you did something last summer, if your corn has children
in it, or if you suspect you’re already dead<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<h3 style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Available Editions</span><span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></h3>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">EDITION<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Paperback<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">ISBN<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">9781683691464<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">PRICE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
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<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">$14.99 (USD)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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How To Survive a Horror Movie is a revised copy of the book
first published in 2007. If you have a copy of the 2007 issue I’d say that you
wouldn’t really need to purchase the revised version. On the other hand, if you’ve
never read this before then definitely pick yourself up a copy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seth has a great sense of humour and it shines through in this
tome of surviving the common mistakes characters of modern horror films always
seem to make. It is absolutely hilarious, with advice like “The horror movie
day is still 24 hours, but 21 of those are night”, and “There are only three
months in the horror movie year, July, October and December”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We all yell the same things at the TV when watching horror
movies, in total disbelief at the stupidity of the characters making the same
mistakes over and over again leaving to their demise. Seth makes the same observations
with his trademark humour.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I’d give this book a 5 out of 5<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-36881272816746621342019-07-17T17:30:00.000-07:002019-07-17T17:30:03.603-07:00POETRY: THE OLD MAN WHO BELIEVES HE’S A VAMPIRE By John Grey<div style="text-align: center;">
THE OLD MAN WHO BELIEVES HE’S A VAMPIRE</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
By John Grey</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He rattles off the names –</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Dracula, Alucard, Carmilla, Nosferatu, even Vlad.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And he loves to tell their stories.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
To him, they’re forever sucking at virgin throats</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
or impaling the enemy on spikes</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
or clambering bat-shaped</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
up the sides of buildings.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He opens his mouth</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
as if to show his fangs,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
but those yellow uppers and lowers</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
are the teeth he’s always had.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And he raises his arms,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
bends fingers into claw shape.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
His eyes are red but un-glowing</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
from a life of alcohol abuse.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
“I don’t drink…wine,”</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
he says</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
as if he’s making some kind of joke.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Despite his severe arthritis, his cancer,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
he believes the undead dwell within him,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
even if he can’t get out of bed,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
go on a rampage,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
slake his thirst on whoever</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
accidentally crosses his path.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We can only feel sorrow for the man.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He’ll be dead soon enough,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
in his coffin, but as a final resting place,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
not a hideaway to get him through</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the fatal daylight.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
For now, he’s undergoing blood transfusion.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It’s the only joy left to him.</div>
Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-42084426925999657802019-07-17T17:27:00.004-07:002019-07-17T17:27:54.347-07:00POETRY: THE VICTIM’S GHOST By John Grey<div style="text-align: center;">
THE VICTIM’S GHOST</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
By John Grey</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
In daylight, your ghost</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
is barely visible.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My breath makes</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
more of a wisp.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You try to rustle the curtains.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But they don’t budge.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And forget that whisper in my ear.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My dog’s fleas make more</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
noise than you do.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
At night, your performance improves.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Set against the shadows,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
those threads of your existence</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
do stand out a little.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But the haunting needs work.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Your wails</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
would be much more impressive</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
if you could turn the volume up.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And what’s the point of having</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the right shape,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
if you don’t come</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
with familiar features.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
How about a splash</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
of blood</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
where the knife went in.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A grim gurgle</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
like the life</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
is oozing out of you.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
As the phantom of the one I murdered,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
you’re severely lacking.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I don’t see you on my conscience</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
anytime soon.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie Review and failbetter.Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-69131321387985693902019-07-17T17:22:00.002-07:002019-07-17T17:23:01.310-07:00POETRY: THE BANALITY OF DISCOVERY By Colin James<div style="text-align: center;">
THE BANALITY OF DISCOVERY</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
By Colin James</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The eyes are the window to the soul</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
not true. One of the first body parts to deteriorate.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Soon posthumously a gooey mess.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
No amount of mascara can help.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I would also skip the formal wear</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
casual always travels best.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Everyone is deserving of better.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A pauper's grave is no reason to despair.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Commiserate, we all have equals.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-37560508424149389222019-07-17T17:20:00.001-07:002019-07-17T17:21:00.650-07:00POETRY: THOSE WHO FORGIVE ARE BRUTAL By Colin James<div style="text-align: center;">
THOSE WHO FORGIVE ARE BRUTAL</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
By Colin James</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You had followed my ample derrière</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
through the maze of its solitude.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Every other viable congruent abstained</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
either swoon, albeit acknowledgement,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
or elbows like yon Grey's</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
dissuaded the same.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It was the kindness you offered me</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
that overwhelmed every little inch.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
While thoughts are foretasting,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
argue if you must.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Better that than not knowing if</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I have loved you enough.</div>
Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-92121626969507629012019-07-17T17:13:00.003-07:002019-07-17T17:14:46.666-07:00FICTION: The Girl I Wanted Murdered By Traci Kenworth<div style="text-align: center;">
The Girl I Wanted Murdered</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Traci Kenworth</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
I stared at my phone. Amnesty, don’t even do this. No further texts came. Shit. This couldn’t have blown up more in my face than it had.What did I do from here? Raindrops scattered over me. Time to move. I hurried to my white Malibu and slid inside. I checked my phone again. A groan issued from my throat. And I’d said what could go wrong tonight? Everything.<br />
<br />
I drove toward the south end of town where we’d agreed to meet. Hoping. Maybe she’d change her mind. Maybe this would all work out in the end. It had before after all. Yeah, but Amnesty had never been angrier. Nor ready to end their relationship. She couldn’t. I wouldn’t let her. Everything I’d become was because of her. I wouldn’t let her drag me down that hole again. I’d matured. Grown out on my own. I’d only come back to settle things. After all, that’s what the student/mentor ratio was supposed to do.<br />
<br />
So why wasn’t she playing her part? Drawing her last breath beneath my fingers? Oh, I’d set this right, all right. I paused at a stoplight. How much further? Maybe fifteen minutes. Was she even still at her house? She’d probably gone down to the ground. She knew what was coming.Who was coming. It wasn’t like I’d snuck back into town. No, I’d done it right. Announced my arrival to all our old friends. They’d had panicked expressions on their faces like I knew they would but that couldn’t be helped. They couldn’t interfere. Those were the rules. So who had broken them? Who had offered shelter? I’d get to the bottom of this.<br />
<br />
I pulled into the parking lot of Greggory’s. A nice, old fashioned bar. They still served peanuts and a dish of tortilla chips and salsa on the house. Anything else cost a whole body part. Especially the food. I shrugged. I was hungry from waiting out Amnesty. Time to refuel. I ordered a burger and fries. Onion rings and fried mushrooms to boot. Like I said, hungry. The burger was a greasy mess. Just like I liked. If you were going to slum, might as well grease it up while at it. I glanced around. Plenty of regulars. I wiped my hands of my napkins and pushed the empty baskets to the side. With a swig of my Budweiser, I targeted an individual.<br />
<br />
Strawberry-red hair, pale as a ghost. And able to shriek bloody hell. It would scare the others to see her ruffled. I smiled. I sat the beer down and approached her. “Melody. Long time no see.”<br />
<br />
“Lacey.” Her gaze blinked, widened. “Didn’t expect to run into you.”<br />
<br />
“Well, you know. When your prey goes to ground. You flush it out.”<br />
<br />
She backed a step, two. “What prey?”<br />
<br />
“Why Amnesty, of course.”<br />
<br />
“I—I don’t know where she is.”<br />
<br />
“Sure, you do. Or one of the runts in this place does.”<br />
<br />
She searched the area.<br />
<br />
Two big, brawny fellows came over.<br />
<br />
“You bothering, Melody?” the first asked.<br />
<br />
The other cracked his knuckles. “We don’t like that.”<br />
<br />
I smiled sweetly. “Really? How bout I bother you two instead?”<br />
<br />
They laughed.<br />
<br />
“Where’s Amnesty?”<br />
<br />
They glanced at each other.<br />
<br />
“Amnesty, who?” the first said.<br />
<br />
“Never heard of her,” a second said.<br />
<br />
I braced myself. “She’s 5”6’, brunette, gangly, scatterbrained.”<br />
<br />
The second leaned over me, his breath strong with alcohol. “Like we said, never heard of her.”<br />
<br />
I brought my knee up, right into his groin area. He buckled and fell to his knees. The first dived over him and grabbed me around the throat. “You bitch.”<br />
<br />
I butted my head into his. Stars swatted the air. I blinked and gave him a little space as he groaned. “I prefer to think of myself as a slicer.”<br />
<br />
He frowned. “A what?”<br />
<br />
“A slicer,” I repeated. “You know, it’s my professional trade. Slice and dice.”<br />
<br />
“Slice and dice what?”<br />
<br />
“You might not want the answer to that question.”<br />
<br />
“I think it’s time for you to leave.”<br />
<br />
Melody hovered in the background. “Don’t break anything, please. The boss’ll kill me.”<br />
<br />
“Then maybe you better back off your boyfriend and talk,” I said.<br />
<br />
She glanced between us. “Fine. Back table in five.”<br />
<br />
I patted the guy’s head. “Next time I won’t be so friendly.”<br />
<br />
He growled at me.<br />
<br />
I headed for the back table. When I pulled out one of the higher chairs, I glanced back at the occupants of the bar. Who here would get word to Amnesty? The two guys picked each other up off the floor and left for the back door. Should I follow? Too late. Melody blocked my vision.<br />
<br />
“Why you want Amnesty?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“Let’s just say we have an appointment to keep.”<br />
<br />
“You want her place in the hierarchy?”<br />
<br />
I shook my head. “Nah. Just her life.”<br />
<br />
“What for?”<br />
<br />
“It’ll boost my powers.”<br />
<br />
She glared at me. “So, you can take her place.”<br />
<br />
“I said I don’t want her position. Just her death.”<br />
<br />
“I think you lie.”<br />
<br />
I snickered. “I don’t care what you think.”<br />
<br />
She brushed off the table with her towel. “Can I get you something?”<br />
<br />
“Are we back to that?”<br />
<br />
She shook her head. “You’re insufferable.”<br />
<br />
“Amnesty taught me to be my best.”<br />
<br />
“Fool her.”<br />
<br />
I glared back at her. “It’s not that I don’t love Amnesty. I do. But, unfortunately, sometimes we have to kill the ones we love.”<br />
<br />
“Why?”<br />
<br />
“Let’s just say, it keeps life fresh.”<br />
<br />
She clunked a glass of water down. “How many times have you done this?”<br />
<br />
“Five.”<br />
<br />
“Five too many.”<br />
<br />
“Five just right. Until I need six. That’s why I’m here.”<br />
<br />
She shivered. “I hope Amnesty messes you up bad.”<br />
<br />
I chuckled. “She can try.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The bar emptied. I stood and sent a scowl Melody’s way. Tomorrow then.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The sun brushed the cot where I slept. Something slipped from my hipbone as I stretched. I glanced down. A note. “Meet me at Oysters. A.”<br />
<br />
So, the wolf had been flushed at last.<br />
<br />
Or should I say, rabbit?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I scouted the length of the shack called Oysters. I hadn’t been there since I was seventeen. And in love. Karadoman came into memory and I halted. Why had I let the past cause me to hurt again? Karadoman had known the price. He’d gave it willingly. Maybe Amnesty had come to do the same. I shook my head. No. She wouldn’t go so quietly into the night. She’d proved a fighter, all the way. No sign of brute force. Maybe inside then. I kept my back to the door as I entered, ready to flee if necessary. After all, it wasn’t my death I sought.<br />
<br />
I took a table and ordered a scotch on the rocks. A moment later, a cheeseburger and fries. Now, all that was to do was wait. Would she show herself? Or send another? I didn’t wait for long. She wore a gold dress down to her bare ankles. Wide hoops swung with her curly, bronze hair. She paused in the middle of the room, surveyed it, and spotted me. She gave me a curt nod and joined me.<br />
<br />
“Lacey,” she kissed my cheeks. “How are you?”<br />
<br />
“Not as well as you apparently.”<br />
<br />
“Sorry to here that.” She gestured for the waitress and ordered a Sunrise.<br />
<br />
“Anything else?” the waitress asked.<br />
<br />
“How about some gravy and toast?”<br />
<br />
I smiled. “Still like your comfort food.”<br />
<br />
She gazed me and eyed my meal. “As do you.”<br />
<br />
I shrugged. “You know me. I’m hungry before a mission.”<br />
<br />
“Same old you.”<br />
<br />
Two hulks entered the bar. They looked cousins to the ones from last night.<br />
<br />
“Yours?” I raised an eyebrow.<br />
<br />
She shook her head. “Melody thinks I need back-up.”<br />
<br />
“Do you?”<br />
<br />
Her smile half-lit her gaze. “I’m always ready.”<br />
<br />
“Good. It’ll make this easier.”<br />
<br />
“You sure?”<br />
<br />
“I like a challenge the best.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, I remember.”<br />
<br />
I sat back. “I remember how deadly you were with just your hands and legs.”<br />
<br />
“Still am.” She grinned. “Didn’t think age slowed me, did you?”<br />
<br />
“So, to the best reaper.”<br />
<br />
“The best reaper.”<br />
<br />
I glanced at her. “When do we begin?”<br />
<br />
“How about nine p.m.?”<br />
<br />
“Fine by me. Where?”<br />
<br />
“Outlier’s Bridge.”<br />
<br />
I paid the check. “Hoping I’ll be scared of ghosts?”<br />
<br />
“If that gives me an advantage.” Her lids half-closed.<br />
<br />
“Don’t count on it.”<br />
<br />
I slipped out of the bar. The two hulks followed. Halfway down the road, I elevated their spines.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The bridge was long and dark. I picked a spot about midway. Peering over the side, I remembered the tales of how many folks had taken their lives on these bridges. I shook the shiver from my flesh.<br />
<br />
“I never pictured us doing this,” Amnesty said from behind me.<br />
<br />
I turned. “Nor did I.”<br />
<br />
“So, why are you here?”<br />
<br />
“I need an upgrade in power. A demon told me the only way was through sacrificing those I cared about.”<br />
<br />
She paced the bridge. “Surely, you don’t care about me? We haven’t been in each other’s lives for ages.”<br />
<br />
“That doesn’t make the heart miss someone less.”<br />
<br />
She paused. “What if I could give you the power you sought without taking my life?”<br />
<br />
“I’d just have to come back another time.”<br />
<br />
“I see.”<br />
<br />
“Do you?”<br />
<br />
She shook her head.<br />
<br />
“It’s simple: your death equals my advancement. No power you can give me will equal that.”<br />
<br />
“Who told you this?”<br />
<br />
“Braxius.”<br />
<br />
She scowled at the name. “You’re trusting an old crossroads demon? Washed-up since the angel’s fell?”<br />
<br />
“He’s gotten sober.”<br />
<br />
“Doesn’t change his past.”<br />
<br />
“No, but he’s done his twelve steps. Can you say the same?”<br />
<br />
“What do I need to do twelve steps for? I’m not a drunk.”<br />
<br />
“You sure do pack it away. Along with the pills.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t you worry that defiles my person?”<br />
<br />
“If a demon’s not too picky, why should I be?”<br />
<br />
She thinned her lips. “And what does Braxius want in return?”<br />
<br />
“A jewel called the Cannalist.”<br />
<br />
She whistled. “Impossible to find.”<br />
<br />
“Not with your help.”<br />
<br />
“I’ll never reveal the location.”<br />
<br />
“Not while alive.”<br />
<br />
Her gaze lit. “Ah, that’s the play then?”<br />
<br />
I nodded.<br />
<br />
She waved me on.<br />
<br />
I circled her. Something stung me on the neck from behind. My body convulsed. “What?” I collapsed to find a needle hovering over me in the hands of two new goons.<br />
<br />
“Did we do right, boss?” they asked Amnesty.<br />
<br />
She grinned. “You did just right.” She glanced down at me. “See, Lacey, in the game of life, there are winners and losers. I’m looking at the latter right now. That juice you were shot up with will keep you paralyzed for 72 hours. Enough time for my enforcers to see you delivered to my estate where I have my own plans for you.” She nodded. “You weren’t the only one who made a deal with Braxius. He’s taken quite a liking to you and will pay nicely for use of you. Of course, he must also buy my Prex juice.”<br />
<br />
The End.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Author Bio<br />
<br />
Traci Kenworth Bio: I write all genres of YA. I live in Ohio with my son and daughter and four cats, chasing snippets of whatever story I’m working on at the time. I have been writing since I was old enough to hold a pencil. Writing saved me from a dark period in my life. I will be forever grateful to God for this. It gave me a way to bring in the light and conquer the darkness. That's the type of hero/heroine I write about. A survivor and those they love. I want to give others hope, and a way back when they think everything is lost. Some other things I enjoy: genealogy, riding horseback, and, of course, reading. I hope you will all follow me on my adventure of getting published.Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-29578293973547467632019-07-13T23:26:00.000-07:002019-07-13T23:26:15.887-07:00BOOK REVIEW: The Best Horror of the Year Volume Eleven - Ellen Datlow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbV73C_NVmo9FV_WRqX0PQt35eUeEkDXZexxNLz-jO4dV5xLFqJmnQqq7y4OXvZP1_9SCy_zbw49GJYlYWMQwS1_ea1uoPIOW8E_bzUj0Z7uBRaL4PHD9ttr31QC32PYMGmCO8P1UnXOk/s1600/51PUiYGxObL._SY346_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="230" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbV73C_NVmo9FV_WRqX0PQt35eUeEkDXZexxNLz-jO4dV5xLFqJmnQqq7y4OXvZP1_9SCy_zbw49GJYlYWMQwS1_ea1uoPIOW8E_bzUj0Z7uBRaL4PHD9ttr31QC32PYMGmCO8P1UnXOk/s320/51PUiYGxObL._SY346_.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
BOOK REVIEW<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 28.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;">The Best Horror of the Year Volume Eleven<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-outline-level: 2;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">by Ellen
Datlow<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-outline-level: 5;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><a href="https://www.netgalley.com/catalog/publisher/82391"><span style="color: windowtext;">Skyhorse Publishing</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-outline-level: 5;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Night
Shade Books<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-outline-level: 5;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><a href="https://www.netgalley.com/catalog/category/41"><span style="color: windowtext;">Horror</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-outline-level: 5;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Pub
Date 01 Sep 2019<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<h3 style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Description<o:p></o:p></span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">For more than three decades, Ellen Datlow has been at the center
of horror. Bringing you the most frightening and terrifying stories, Datlow
always has her finger on the pulse of what horror readers crave. Now, with the
tenth volume of the series, Datlow is back again to bring you the stories that
will keep you up at night.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; outline: none;" />
<br style="box-sizing: border-box; outline: none;" />
Encompassed in the pages of The Best Horror of the Year have been such
illustrious writers as:<br style="box-sizing: border-box; outline: none;" />
Neil Gaiman Kim Stanley Robinson Stephen King Linda Nagata Laird Barron Margo
Lanagan And many others<br style="box-sizing: border-box; outline: none;" />
<br style="box-sizing: border-box; outline: none;" />
With each passing year, science, technology, and the march of time shine light
into the craggy corners of the universe, making the fears of an earlier
generation seem quaint. But this light creates its own shadows. <i style="box-sizing: border-box; outline: none;">The Best Horror of the Year</i> chronicles
these shifting shadows. It is a catalog of terror, fear, and unpleasantness as
articulated by today’s most challenging and exciting writers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<h3 style="background: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0cm; outline: none;">
<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Available
Editions</span><span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></h3>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoNormalTable" style="border-collapse: collapse; border-spacing: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184; outline: none; width: 225px;">
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">EDITION<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
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<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Paperback<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
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<td style="box-sizing: border-box; outline: none; padding: 5.25pt 7.5pt 5.25pt .75pt;">
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">ISBN<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="box-sizing: border-box; outline: none; padding: 5.25pt 7.5pt 5.25pt 3.75pt; width: 119.25pt;" width="159">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">9781597809726<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="box-sizing: border-box; mso-yfti-irow: 2; mso-yfti-lastrow: yes; outline: none;">
<td style="box-sizing: border-box; outline: none; padding: 5.25pt 7.5pt 0cm .75pt;">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">PRICE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="box-sizing: border-box; outline: none; padding: 5.25pt 7.5pt 0cm 3.75pt; width: 119.25pt;" width="159">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">$15.99 (USD)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ellen Datlow has been at the forefront of selecting the
finest short stories in horror for decades now and her name alone sells these
Best Horror books. You know that only quality short stories are going to be
included in the volume, regardless of if the author is a big-ticket writer like
Joe Hill, Stephen King or a relative newbie in the industry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Best Horror of the Year Volume Eleven contains 26 top-notch
pieces of speculative fiction and vivid horror that will keep you awake at
night. As usual with Datlow’s collections, there is mention of other author’s
stories that just didn’t make the cut but are worth the read. Which is great if
you finish the book and are left wanting more because of the quality of the
writing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are quick reads starting at a short 1,700 words to decent
novelettes at 10,300 words. An interesting piece was written by four authors,
each with a different character’s perspective. The writers hail from all across
the world with ten stories by women and sixteen by men. Half of the authors
have never appeared in a Datlow collection before, so it’s great to see fresh
faces amongst those we already know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Themes range from two strangers waking up in an unfamiliar
room, naked and covered with blood with shredded clothes and body parts around
the room, to the unsettling story of everyone in the world suffering from uncontrollable
rage at the same time. A Post-apocalyptic story about a winter covered world where
survival and cannibalism are one and the same. Folk horror, cosmic horror,
postapocalyptic horror, cannibalism, urban legends and creature horror are some
of the themes covered in these twenty-six tales.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you have never read short stories before then I would definitely
recommend this collection to whet your appetite. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5 out of 5 stars.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-84134321735721057342019-07-13T22:31:00.001-07:002019-07-13T22:31:12.463-07:00BOOK REVIEW: The Legend of Diablo: The Devil's Revolver #4 by V.S. McGrath<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Book Review<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 28.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;">The Legend of Diablo<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-outline-level: 4;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">The
Devil's Revolver #4<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">by V.
S. McGrath</span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><o:p></o:p></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-outline-level: 5;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><a href="https://www.netgalley.com/catalog/publisher/64500"><span style="color: windowtext;">Brain Mill Press</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Independent
Book Publishers Association (IBPA), Members' Titles<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-outline-level: 5;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><a href="https://www.netgalley.com/catalog/category/35"><span style="color: windowtext;">General
Fiction (Adult) </span></a>, <a href="https://www.netgalley.com/catalog/category/36"><span style="color: windowtext;">Sci
Fi & Fantasy</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Pub
Date 17 Sep 2019 <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Description<o:p></o:p></span></h3>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Hell’s not so scary when you’ve been there twice already…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">It’s been three years since she lost her sister, Abby, to the
Division, and Hettie Alabama has gone rogue. Roaming the West with an outlaw
posse, robbing banks and stealing magic, she’s broken every rule she once
believed in. Nothing matters anymore but finding Abby.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Meanwhile, the world is on fire. Hungry for power, the Division
leaches magic from the vulnerable, with dire consequences that set Hettie’s
pursuit of her sister on a collision course with dangerous monsters and even
more dangerous men. It’s up to Hettie and her cursed revolver, Diablo, to find
a way to save the world—or end it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">The Legend of Diablo delivers an action-packed conclusion to the
Devil’s Revolver series steeped in violent history, dark magic, and hope that
demands an accounting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">A
Note From the Publisher</span><span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></h3>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">EPUB - 9781948559362<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">MOBI - 9781948559348<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">PDF - 9781948559355<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Available Editions<o:p></o:p></span></h3>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">EDITION<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Paperback<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">ISBN<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">9781948559331<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">PRICE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">$21.95 (USD)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The Legend of Diablo (The Devil’s
Revolver #4) is the fourth and final book in The Legend of Diablo series. Set
in the wild west of America in the 1890’s with a twist of the supernatural,
fans of weird west fiction will find this a great read.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">My favourite series of novels is
Stephen King’s The Dark Tower series, so I was immediately attracted to this
book based on the description. Anything with six guns and sorcery has to be
good, right. With organisations titled, <span style="color: black;">Division of Sorcery</span>,
The Blackthorn Rogues and Pinkerton Agency, you know that there’s going to be
some mischief afoot without even knowing what the book is about. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The main protagonist is a
strong woman with almost fatal flaws, Hettie Alabama. Unlike most traditional
western novels, plenty of the characters in this story were strong and smart
women. The previous three books in the series have had such strong inclusivity
and diversity that you don’t normally see in western novels, and that structure
continues in this fourth and final book in the series. It isn’t forced like you
see in some writing where the author just wants to make everyone from a diverse
background at the expense of the actual plot or pace of the story. This novel
flows naturally with well developed and believable characters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The story starts with Jane
Pinkerton of Pinkerton Detecting Agency after the blood of Hettie for her
murder of a large number of agency staff and police but having to take on other
cases until a later date. The first case being one relating to The Devil’s
Revolver. The Devils Revolver is a mystical firearm that was reportedly
possessed by a demon, Diablo, which took over the wielder’s soul. It’s not long
before the two main protagonists paths meet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">McGrath’s character
development is excellent and even if you haven’t read the previous books in the
series you will still enjoy reading this novel on its own. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is full of action and flows along at a fast
pace. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">If you haven’t read the
first three books I’d highly recommend reading them as well as the series is
just brilliant and if you enjoy this book you will love the rest of the novels.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">4 ½ stars out of 5<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-81351605790158376032019-07-13T21:12:00.000-07:002019-07-13T21:12:19.336-07:00BOOK REVIEW: Monsters and Mythical Creatures from around the World<br />
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BOOK REVIEW<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 28.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;">Monsters and Mythical Creatures from around the World<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">by Heather
Frigiola Illustrations by Sky Cybele<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><a href="https://www.netgalley.com/catalog/publisher/69481"><span style="color: windowtext;">Schiffer Publishing Ltd.</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Red
Feather<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><a href="https://www.netgalley.com/catalog/category/36"><span style="color: windowtext;">Sci
Fi & Fantasy</span></a></span></b></div>
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<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDn5eqLV0ngGUZAWA6W76kxX89EfhPctvnJPKF219zGPRaFsV8XD-v0NiOEh4FQf76zIuLhqM-5VBU6JHjUdH4jFphuVFq5y7q8y59dEg1QvIohVKg6N_1ar6bmdgDAnCSQ3kOGuI77g/s1600/cover169705-medium.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="385" data-original-width="255" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDn5eqLV0ngGUZAWA6W76kxX89EfhPctvnJPKF219zGPRaFsV8XD-v0NiOEh4FQf76zIuLhqM-5VBU6JHjUdH4jFphuVFq5y7q8y59dEg1QvIohVKg6N_1ar6bmdgDAnCSQ3kOGuI77g/s320/cover169705-medium.png" width="211" /></a></b></div>
<b><o:p></o:p></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;">Pub
Date 28 Nov 2019 <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Description<o:p></o:p></span></h3>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Mythical creatures are cultural artifacts—creations of the human
imagination from all around the world. From terrifying monsters to sacred
mystical beasts, weird-looking humanoids, magical birds, and many other
fantastic beings, the mythological creatures in this book are sure to enchant
and amaze! Discover myths and legends spanning from ancient times to modern day
from every corner of the globe. Learn the cultural origins of 240 different
mythical creatures, captured in ten chapters and 100 colorful illustrations.
You will find terrifying bogey monsters as well as benevolent guardians. Meet
creatures that symbolize obstacles to overcome, ones that explain the
occurrence of disease, some that ward away evil, and others that were created
simply for amusement. Explore mythology from the Middle East, Africa, India,
Japan, Mexico, Europe, Polynesia, and beyond. This guide is a ticket to travel
the world and discover its strangest magical beasts from the safety of your own
home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Available
Editions</span><span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></h3>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">EDITION<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Hardcover<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">ISBN<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">9780764358425<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">PRICE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #777777; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">$24.99 (USD)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Monsters and Mythical Creatures From Around The World is a
220 page tome of nicely illustrated creatures from the folklore and mythos of many
cultures from everywhere on the globe. There are 10 chapters of around twenty
pages each covering a different region of the world, with one chapter solely
covering Ancient Greek and Roman mythos. A total of 240 creatures are explored
beautifully through well written and illustrated entries.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The title Monsters and Mythical Creatures could also have
included Gods as they are also represented within this tome. I was quite
impressed with the inclusion of the Pacific Region Mythology, which is often
overlooked in many books on world mythos. The inclusion of the Drop Bear and
Rainbow Serpent was an absolute surprise and delight to come across.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Overall, this was a well presented and unique book on
Monsters and Creatures of the World’s Mythology.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-20857283572907888662019-07-13T20:22:00.002-07:002019-07-13T20:26:44.534-07:00BOOK REVIEW - Graphic Novel - Tramp: The Trap by Jean-Charles Kraehn and Patrick Jusseaume<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkSXdpYpogn4fsVzVxltJW0d9yoICxo8qBPJO_z7-403az3PjOjFM4ruLRQ7RSnDGL7KqlwuV3gFUPFqziuEqjzHpv_QdL8UFba3CXWUz4JTjbMNOpoZzSnsk8txI-n_iljFodBaZ8fJQ/s1600/cover169420-medium.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="255" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkSXdpYpogn4fsVzVxltJW0d9yoICxo8qBPJO_z7-403az3PjOjFM4ruLRQ7RSnDGL7KqlwuV3gFUPFqziuEqjzHpv_QdL8UFba3CXWUz4JTjbMNOpoZzSnsk8txI-n_iljFodBaZ8fJQ/s320/cover169420-medium.png" width="242" /></a><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">1. Tramp:The Trap<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 18.0pt;">by Script
by Jean-Charles Kraehn / Art by Patrick Jusseaume<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="https://www.netgalley.com/catalog/publisher/82750"><span style="color: windowtext;">Europe Comics</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="https://www.netgalley.com/catalog/category/6"><span style="color: windowtext;">Comics
& Graphic Novels </span></a>, <a href="https://www.netgalley.com/catalog/category/35"><span style="color: windowtext;">General
Fiction (Adult)</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Pub Date 18 Oct 2017 |<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">The Tramp graphic novel is
an adults only comic with some pretty violent themes and scenes set in 1949<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">The storyline is about a shipping
tycoon, De Trichere, who has lost wife in the recent war and is dying of
cancer. He is concerned about the future of his pianist daughter has lost her
legs and is wheelchair bound. The unscrupulous businessman is said to have an
almost incestuous passion for his daughter even though he never showed her
anything but distant fatherly authority. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">As a result of the war, De
Trichere’s business is in severe financial difficulties and he makes some
rather terrible decisions that set the theme for the rest of the story. He buys
a decrepit shipping boat, tries to bribe an inspector and that’s just the start
of his poor decisions. Unfortunately for De Trichere, his secretary has a good
moral compass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">The story is slow to start
but has some great visual effects with the colouring to emphasis the mood and
feeling of the scenes. The colourist does a great job with changing the use of
dull and bright colours to add to the atmosphere as appropriate to the story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">I will say that there is a
rather violent torture, rape and murder scene that, while in character of the
villain of the story, could have been left out as it seemed a bit gratuitous. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Overall, the story was
interesting and after a slow start, well-paced and drawn. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">I’d give it a 3 out of
5 stars.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-49483199981706424952019-07-13T19:05:00.003-07:002019-07-13T19:06:13.040-07:00FICTION: Yorn by Scott Wilson<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Yorn <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
By Scott Wilson<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Chapter One – The
Creation<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yorn has always had a special place in the heart of the
Great Creator, who kept the hollow planet on an ebony stand, he called The
Great Axis, in The Study, right next to his autographed copy of The Hitchhiker’s
Guide to the Galaxy. You see, Yorn was not just one world but two. The outside
of the planet was your typical eighty percent ocean, nineteen percent land and
one percent whatever it wanted to be identified as, you know, to keep those
pesky elements that don’t identify as land or water happy. The part that the
Great Creator was particularly happy with was the second world on the inside of
globe. The Great Creator, or GC as his followers called him, thought he was
being quite sneaky by having a fully, self-contained second planet inside of
the other with its own sun, ecosystem and very pleasant environmental
conditions. Now the very ingenious part was how instead of polar caps at each
end of the planet, there were large holes that a beautifully crafted,
intricately engraved ebony stand slotted into to keep the planet stunningly
displayed in The Study.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It wasn’t that the rest of the planets the GC had created
and thoughtfully placed strategically throughout the multitude of universes
weren’t well designed or beautiful in their own special way. It was more that
once the GC had decided the universes were finished, he could be a bit more
flamboyant with the last world he designed. So impressed was he with this last
world that he couldn’t bear the thought of putting it out in the universe for
anyone to play with. What with every creation he made deciding that they had a
better idea how each world should look and smell for that matter? No, Yorn was
to stay just where it would remain unchanged and exactly how its maker designed
it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Great Creator’s son had also been warned about playing
around in The Study, so there were no worries about Yorn being turned upside
down on The Great Axis as a practical joke. No indeed, GC’s son, Eric, knew he
was not allowed in The Study without GC being there to supervise him. That’s
not to say that Eric never spent time in the study, helping his Father with all
important planetary and universal problems that arose daily. Eric was probably
in The Study more often than not, but never on his own.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yorn was populated, both inside and out, with a most
excellent choice of friendly and colourful creatures of all kinds, and of
course a scattering of humans as they were still the GC’s favourite creation,
despite being more defiant than thankful for their existence. The Great Creator
was satisfied that everything was now perfect with Yorn and he could finally
relax, not having to ever make another planet or universe again. The Great
Creator was looking forward to letting everything run its own course and spend
some quality time with Eric and doing typical Dad stuff around The Mansion.
Everything was good.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well everything would have been good if the Great Creator’s
cat Oscar hadn’t snuck into The Study, just as the GC closed the door on his
way out to morning tea. You see, Oscar was a typical cat and didn’t play by
anybody’s rules except his own. And a cat’s rules were usually made up on the
spot, depending upon what sort of havoc they could cause at that given moment
in time. Unfortunately for the GC, this moment in time was supposed to be one
of peace and relaxation, but Oscar had other plans. Once The Study door was
shut, Oscar proceeded to jump up on the Great Creator’s desk and looked at Yorn
with mischief in eyes and contempt in his heart. Now the Great Creator’s desk
was situation right under the large double window in the study. Usually, this
was the best place for the desk as the windows let in just the right amount of
fresh air and light to work by. Oscar loved the window to as he could jump
right up onto the Great Creator’s lap, then unexpectedly onto the windowsill at
any given moment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Meow,” Oscar said, looking from Yorn to the window.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked at the window, then at Yorn, then at the window
and once again at Yorn. His paw twitched. Even if cats weren’t compelled to
knock everything off the table, bookshelf, or in this case desk, Oscar just
couldn’t resist the temptation to tap Yorn softly with his giant, fluffy paw.
Yorn spun slowly on The Great Axis, pleasing Oscar but not quite enough to
leave it at that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Meeeoooow,” Oscar said as The Study door opened.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Great Creator’s jaw dropped and eyes opening so wide
that most of the universe was given a bright flash of light akin to a giant
solar flare.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t do it,” the Great Creator said sternly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Meowww?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m not joking.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oscar shrugged his shoulders and turned to jump off the
desk. Unfortunately, his large, fluffy tail never seemed to go in the same
direction as the rest of his stocky body and caught in The Great Axis as it slowed,
almost stopping.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“MEOW!” screeched Oscar.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He scurried off the desk, pulling The Great Axis with him.
If you asked the Great Creator what happened next it would be unclear but went
something like this. Yorn bounced off the desk, onto the mousepad, then spun on
the spot twice before gaining momentum then flew out the window.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chapter Two<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Council for the Shire of Lesser Yorn held an emergency
meeting in the town hall immediately after the world stopped spinning and all
council members were able to stand upright without feeling the pressing need to
topple over straight away and vomit on the way down for good luck. Truth be
told, it was the most humorous meeting ever held by the Council. Every member felt
and acted like they’d just woken up from a night of heavy drinking, as did the
citizens that were able to find their way to the town hall. Approximately half
of the town’s population were still staggering about the streets bouncing off
one another and anything else that happened to be anywhere near them. Nobody
knew what had happened, but everybody had felt the same thing, well everybody
except young Bob who was making love for the first time and thought that Yorn
moved for just him at that particular moment in time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chairperson Councilwoman Shirley Galsworthy picked up the
gavel to open the meeting but had trouble determining if she had picked up the
official gavel or some rubber toy that seemed to bend and wobble all over the
place. Galsworthy also worried how hitting the gavel would affect her head, as
it was still throbbing and swirling around like a carousel. She decided to risk
it and managed to tap it on the lectern quite harshly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Order, please,” Galsworthy said softly, almost like she was
testing her voice for the first time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“ORDER!” she said quite loudly the second time she spoke.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Slowly, the shaken citizens of Lesser Yorn stopped wobbling
about and found seats wherever they could, be it on an actual chair, what
looked like a chair or the floor if they happened to tumble over from
dizziness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thank you,” Galsworthy said. “I’m sure everybody has the
same question as The Council does. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What the hell just happened?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A murmur began from the crowd.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I for one, have absolutely no idea,” Galsworthy said. “It
seemed like the world spun around, quick as you like, turning from day to night
to day and so forth.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“…and like Yorn dropped out of the sky too...” someone in
the crowd yelled.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, and like the whole planet dropped suddenly like it had
been knocked off its stand,” Galsworthy said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We will be getting our best astronomers onto it once they
can be found,” Councilman Hershel Rowdybottom added.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“All we can say at the moment is the council will be setting
up a committee to assist with disaster relief immediately. We will continue to
investigate what has just occurred and send crows worldwide to determine if
this was a global incident or just a local issue,” Galsworthy said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-25261437761585985522019-07-11T09:18:00.001-07:002019-07-11T09:18:05.108-07:00The Fringe Is BackAfter a decade in hibernation, The Fringe Magazine is back.<br />
<br />
We will be accepting submissions for short stories and flash fiction again as well as soliciting book reviews.<br />
<br />
Without Adobe Indesign software to produce our monthly pdf magazine the format may look quite different, but we will give it our best to produce a quality digital magazine.<br />
<br />
Spread the news and submit your stories.Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-76414666355155299182011-11-28T16:47:00.000-08:002011-11-28T16:47:31.344-08:00The Fringe Magazine In LimboHi all<br />
<br />
My laptop was stolen two months ago, and with it all of the data used for this ezine. Unfortunately this means that I've lost all of my contacts, loggins, lists of books sent to us to review, list of review books sent to which reviewers etc.<br />
<br />
My email account was also hacked, probably from the culprit who nicked my laptop. So I can't even access the emails to get this information, or any emailed submissions. So if you haven't had a reply to an email, it's because I haven't got it.<br />
<br />
Without a computer, I've been unable to update The Fringe Magazine for some time now, so many apologies to those who I've not responded to. Once I can source a new computer I'll get the ezine up and running again.<br />
<br />
Hope to be back soon.<br />
<br />
Cheers<br />
The Fringe MagazineScott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-84190374981158102062011-10-20T21:29:00.001-07:002011-10-20T21:29:36.513-07:00FICTION: First Words by Samuel Eden<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The ship swayed and creaked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He feels every bit of it in his body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taking no chances the crew, damnedable pirates, have chained him with no give.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Legs bound in a kneeling position, arms chained to either wall crucifying him to the ship like a perverse figurehead, he’s been their captive long enough to have forgotten the feel of kindness.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It is a small blessing that their fear of him keeps his gag in place at all times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It keeps them from coming anywhere near him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The captain learned a long time ago that he gleans all he needs to live from the moisture in the air, the brine in his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During storms, when he is strongest, the captain posts guards with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t look at him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A terrible hope fills him today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the movement of the ship and the crew’s curses, he knows that they’re being pursued by another ship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This ship is a runner, fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’d be little concern of capture if the ship did not gain its quickness from being light, gain its lightness from having little room for armaments or supplies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The pursuers have had them going for a week now and they’d been out of port for at least a month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knows from the panic in the crew that the food is all but gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon they’ll be too weak to load what small guns are aboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d be surprised if they could remember how to sight the cannons it’s been so long since the captain has ordered them used.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His hope stems from the pirates’ desperation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If they succumb to practicality then they’ll come for him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With frightened hearts and shaking hands, they’ll undo his chains and he’ll get to spend some time under the sky instead of under foot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So he waits for their desperation to bloom practicality.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It does not take long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first mate comes with three guards and the keys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is always the first mate that comes to get him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The captain coming himself would make him a person that the captain fears, he wouldn’t last long once that got out among the crew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first mate is the only one he trusts with the keys to his chains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The captain wants to see you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He speaks with a unique accent that comes with the ship’s pidgin of French, Spanish, and Greek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His ears hear the gibberish, but his mind provides him with the meaning.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Slowly, they unchain his arms from the ship and secure them behind his back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The guards are afraid to touch him, unsure whether he’ll break or they’ll be infected with something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It strikes him as odd how religious some of these men are.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Coming onto the deck, sea spray hits him in the face, covers his bare chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He instantly feels more alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stands taller, muscles flex, the chains bite into his skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They take him to the captain, standing at the aft of the ship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stands beside the captain looking out at the wide ocean, the only thing marring their perfect view of the horizon the pursuers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first mate and guards fold themselves into the three other men standing around them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">The captain just stands there for a few minutes, ignoring him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This too is done to show the crew he will do this in his own time, to show that the man he keeps below decks does not frighten him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Around the gag, behind the locked mouth plate, he smiles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only he and the captain know what he is, and he knows that the captain is frightened of that.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“I have use of you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From under his coat he draws out the key that only he is allowed to keep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He inserts into lock for the face plate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If you hurt this ship my men will stab you and you will die before you can swim for freedom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like always, yeah?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">He nods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s always the same threat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It vaguely occurs to him that this is only a half life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then, the spirits would kill for half a life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The plate falls away and he spits the wooden wedge from his mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">His tongue sticks out, tasting the salt in the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He flexes his jaw, taking in the blue sky, the white clouds, the gentle waves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He smiles at the captain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other than the crew’s swords there is very little compelling him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">Finally, the captain’s annoyance at the delay shows on his face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He focuses on ship on the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tries not to think of the men on the ship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knows he will have to answer for his actions one day, but he’s trying to postpone that day for as long as possible.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wind stops, the water flattens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All around the ship, a calm settles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The crew has stopped its work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">FLASH!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>BOOOOOOM!<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“AH!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence jumps awake in the back of the cab.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cabby swerves.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“Whoa, buddy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“I’m fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sorry.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cabby’s eyes dart from the road to the rearview mirror and back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m okay.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cabby’s eyes return to the road and stay there, Lawrence was prepared to keep reassuring him for the rest of the drive as long as he didn’t take his eyes off the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“That jetlag’s a bitch, isn’t it?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“Yeah, jetlag.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t really feel like talking so he looks out the window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What he sees unsettles him so much that he almost closes his eyes again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outside the cab desert stretched on for miles.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">When he’d met the cabby at the airport he’d been fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’d been in the middle of a city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He preferred the buildings and people to the endless dry expanse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tried to think of it as a sea of earth but it just made him queasy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He can’t help it, he closes his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“We’re almost there,” the cabby rouses him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“How long was I out?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“If I’d of known I wouldn’t have let you sleep at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You wouldn’t believe how many people fall asleep in my cab from the airport.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cabby keeps up a steady stream of chitchat for the next few minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence doesn’t say much, but he’s glad for the distraction.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“Here we go, buddy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pulls up in front of an independent diner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence can tell the sign was made with care when it was painted, years in the desert sun has faded it badly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They got good food here?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“I don’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is my first time here.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pays the fare and steps out of the air-conditioned interior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His lips are immediately dry and cracked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The heat cuts him to the core as fast as it dried his lips, the urge to speak rises in him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He needs to escape this heat, he’s drowning in dryness.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">He rushes inside hoping that they’ll have air-conditioning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No such luck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The interior of the restaurant is as faded as the exterior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He seats himself, impatiently tapping his foot waiting for the waitress.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">He can hear the sound of the wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not the dry, lifeless wind of the desert, but the damp, alive wind of the storm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s calling to him, begging him to call out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He licks his lips with a tongue he can barely feel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">He can’t help himself, the desert is antithesis for him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why had he decided to come here? To satisfy some adolescent curiosity?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He takes one long, shuttering breath.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“What can I get you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“Ah.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His eyes fly open, a thirty year old juicy fruit goddess stands before him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“A pitcher of ice water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“You need to order something if you want to sit in here, honey.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She says it as if there’s more than a marginal difference between inside the diner and outside the diner.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“I really need some water.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“You need to order…”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“The special, two of them, just bring me a pitcher of water.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His throat feels so dry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has to speak now before he loses his chance.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">POP!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How you want that cooked?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her artificially flavored breath hits him in the face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His hands are shaking.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“I don’t care!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just bring me some water.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“Hmph!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With blurry vision he watches her flounce back to the kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He grabs the edge of the table to steady himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s clenching his jaw by the time she comes back with a glass for him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">He swallows half of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cool liquid fills him, calming him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Vision clears, hands stop shaking, the urge lessening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The torrent of wind in his ears shifts to a gentle breeze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How close had he come?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">The waitress turns to leave again, he grabs her arm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Can I get you anything else?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She says it in such a way that makes Lawrence wonder if it’s actually a question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She tired of him he can tell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s too used to bullying the locals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t trying to be nice to her, he just takes out a fifty and lays it on the table.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“This is your tip if you keep bringing me pitchers of water.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her eyes gleam slightly as she stares at the bill on the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slowly she puts the pitcher on the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Thank you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">He drains the rest of his glass and pours another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He finishes this one in three huge gulps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t feel as trapped now, his breathing has evened out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He fills the glass a third time, finishing off the pitcher, but only sips this one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple minutes pass, the waitress brings his two specials and another pitcher.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">Lawrence only picks at his food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Between the desert and the age of the equipment in the diner the food is completely dry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mainly he just cuts up the food and moves it around on his plate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">Mainly he watches the people in the restaurant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He immediately discounts his waitress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seeing her move around the diner, speaking with her, she’s spent most of her life trying to get away from this place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a pity that she’d never really feel like she belongs anywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">An old man sits in another booth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is weathered, his countenance telling the story of a life in the desert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the heat of the day he’s drinking coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence would have considered him a likely candidate if his research didn’t tell him he is looking for someone younger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides the old man doesn’t look like he belongs here, only that he’s gotten used to living here.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">It’s an old style diner setup, so Lawrence can see the cook behind the half wall separating the kitchen from the dining area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cook would be a wonderful job for who he’s looking for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The heat rising from the stove providing a fix for the cravings while at work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though nothing compared to the natural heat of the desert it would do while at work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately the cook is wearing a sleeveless shirt that’s plastered to his body with sweat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">Lawrence’s heart falls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s not close enough to the cook to pick up a flow from him, but the fact that he’s sweating tells him all he needs to know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s possible his sources were wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not easy to track a Bearer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The burden/gift they bear making it too hard to get a fix on them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">He’s about to get up, throwing the contents of his glass down his throat, when the kitchen door swings open and a young man steps through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence puts his cup down and watches him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something in the way he moves is different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">Somehow his movements come off as light, almost bouncy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even just clearing dishes from tables, his movements are quick, precise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wears a t-shirt, jeans, and boots, all are cheap, but he still has an air of status.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence notes that he’s not sweating.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">He looks up, checking for more stray dishes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence motions him over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You finished with this, mister?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence inhales and catches the scent of aged stone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“We need to talk.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He boy smiles at him, Lawrence guesses he’s only about seventeen, nineteen tops.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“Sorry, mister, I’m just here for the dishes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll want to try Craiper St. around ten tonight.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He grabs a plate, Lawrence grabs his wrist.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">Sun…Heat…Dry…Sand…Lawrence pulls his hand away, palm red.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perspiration stands out on the young man’s brow now, fear in his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He slides into the booth across from Lawrence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence pours another glass of water and waits for the boy to say something.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“Holy shit.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence couldn’t agree more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hadn’t known quite what to expect, but that was intense.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“Tito, what the hell are you doing sitting down?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The waitress clearly needed more to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“I’m…I’m taking my break,” he yells back.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“The dishes aren’t going to wash themselves.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“I’m on break!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She throws up her hands and goes back into the kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tito smiles at Lawrence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Let’s go outside.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence downs his water and follows him out and around the diner.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“Who are you,” Tito finally asks when they’re alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“I’m, Lawrence Evans.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence doesn’t try to shake his hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He isn’t offended.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“I’m Benjamin Fuller, but everyone calls me, Tito.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now who the hell are you?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a fair question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If he doesn’t know what he is then he’s probably really freaked out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence can’t blame him, he’s been there.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“I’m your Twin.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“Ha, not likely, man.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tito looks skeptical, very skeptical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s at least fifteen years between them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while Tito isn’t a full blooded Mexican, Lawrence can tell at least one of his parents is, while Lawrence couldn’t be more white without being an albino.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hard to believe.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“I don’t mean biologically.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean spiritually.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tito’s face is instantly serious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You can feel it, can’t you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That subtle, tickling at the back of your brain that makes you feel like you know me, even while at your core I unsettle you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“Yeah.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tito is breathless.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“You’ve been having the dreams since you’ve been thirteen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dreams of other people’s lives, dreams of times long past, dreams that are so real that you feel like you’re living them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“Yes.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tito looks so relieved that it breaks Lawrence’s heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knows what it’s like to finally have this explained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence had spent three years in a mental hospital trying to deal by himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tito is a strong young man.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“Where is there open desert?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tito points down an alley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence starts walking, Tito doesn’t need to be told to follow, he falls into step next to Lawrence careful not to touch him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">They come out the other end of the alley seeing open land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For Lawrence it’s as close to nothing as he ever wants to get.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Longing fills Tito’s eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“I want to share something with you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watch out there.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence takes a deep breath and centers himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The urge to speak has been growing since they stepped out of the diner, the dryness creeping in to all his dark places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">Tito’s hands fly up to cover his ears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Ah!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What the hell?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>FLASH!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>BOOM!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thunder cuts off any further curses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tito’s gaze is drawn out to the desert, where black storm clouds have formed out of nowhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fear is back in his eyes, he retreats till his back hits the wall to the building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What have you done?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“I spoke my Word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re Word Bearers, Tito.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have your own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you feel it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deep in core.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence can see he’s confused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s frightened, overwhelmed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>FLASHBOOM!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You can stop this, Tito.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Go ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Say your Word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to hear it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“I don’t…I’m not sure.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Confusion and fear war on Tito’s face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence hopes he won’t run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t mean to scare the boy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“Of course you’re sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ve known it for centuries, you just haven’t spoken it yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m here with you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His first step is hesitant, his second is firm, his third is confident.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawrence realizes he’s holding his breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tito looks up at him, he nods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tito fixes his gaze on the storm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";">“<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s as quiet as Lawrence’s Word is loud, but no less powerful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s so beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Lawrence watches the storm clouds dissipate a tear rolls down his cheek. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-37944728604851760722011-10-20T21:21:00.000-07:002011-10-20T21:21:18.622-07:00FICTION: BEHIND WHITE CURTAIN by Valery Petrovskiy <br />
Dad suffered even from a sight of blood, and he never killed a hen nor slaughtered a pig. But I was aware that once he had donated his blood in the name of my Mum still, because she’d had a narrow escape on an operating table then. <br />
<br />
With me a doctor would have my blood tested in a moment: one, two and it’s done. But first they make you ready for rather a time: take a seat, then have a proper finger chosen, though it is always just the one, then they wipe it with spirits until take somewhat sharp like a mini-scalpel. Not everyone can stand the procedure, but I was not against it when a doctor suggested me having my blood tested. She was a likable one, youngish for her age, not married or divorced, probably. And she had no child, I felt it immediately, she had such a look, barren if you want. <br />
<br />
Possibly for health reasons she could not bear a child or she didn’t find a right man. Or she could have a particular blood group not to have a child with anyone, that’s why she employed at a doctor’s consulting room to make blood tests. And she urged me to have my blood tested. At first I didn’t mind it, the right thing it is, still she didn’t ask my permission. “Just let’s have your blood tested”, she said and left me. She had many things to do I suppose. In doctor's smocks they walked hither and thither all the time at a clinic there talking over the heads of those waiting, as if one was dead already. And I was still alive and a nurse was preparing to have my blood tested. <br />
<br />
While she got me ready she was chattering. She said that men were afraid of blood testing nowadays. More and more they refused to do it and ran away sometimes seeing a drop of blood. And one had nothing to fear, there was a couch behind the curtain in a special emergency to lie low, in case one fainted. She pulled the white curtain aside and showed me a couch with dark green leatherette and I shivered all at once: what for they needed my blood? She suggested me taking off a jacket and rolling up my sleeve, left or right one, I don’t remember. But I was frightened to throw off my shoes, she insisted on. I ever had my shoes clean, but one was not allowed to enter a treatment room in boots. With no shoes I got frightened. <br />
<br />
It happens so while walking by oneself at an unknown place at night and still not scared. Nothing to fear of in spite of a dark night until you stumble and then your confidence is missing. It’s off as if left at the same spot one had stumbled over. And then it all changes: the moon is from the other world, unknown and unfriendly. <br />
<br />
And so it was with me: while shod I was not afraid, may be because in shoes I could take to my heels at any moment. And the nurse was harping on the same tune that the men had made off frightened to get their blood tested. Well, what on Earth they do there with bloody blood! <br />
<br />
…So I made off there in somebody’s shoes for the better. I looked round, nothing but mud in the street, I don’t know why, and I went along to a fellow of mine. We had been in the same class and I never saw him since, but I headed to him. And he had married my classmate then, Gahla. And I never was to their place, that’s why I made my way for them may be. So many years passed, and my Dad was two years as dead. <br />
<br />
I tramped to them in dirty boots I don’t know whose but I didn’t take them off. And it didn’t seem neat around, gloomy, the floor boarding was like unpainted in dusk, but it couldn’t have grown dark yet. And there was somebody sleeping over there, half-dressed, his back bare. He was lying with his face down right on the floor, not drunken they said, but of grief. His wife had passed away; she had died right in a hospital there because of heavy bleeding, and doctors couldn’t but help her. And he adored her. <br />
<br />
Then I saw that it was my Dad there, I knew him by his back, a lean one.<br />
<br />
My Bio:<br />
Mr. Valery Petrovskiy is a journalist and short story writer from Russia. <br />
Не is an English Department graduate at Chuvash State University, Cheboksary, graduated in journalism at VKSch Higher School, Moscow and in psychology at Kazan State Technology University. He has been writing prose since 2005. <br />
Some of his writing has been published in The Scrambler, Rusty Typer, BRICKrethoric, NAP Magazine, Literary Burlesque, The Other Room, Curbside Quotidian, DANSE MACABRE, WidowMoon Press, PRIME MINCER, Apocrypha and Abstractions, The Legendary in the USA, and in Australian “Skive” and “Going Down Swinging” magazines. <br />
At the moment he is writer-in-residence at Marco Polo Art Mag.Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-24733000143616491392011-10-20T21:19:00.000-07:002011-10-20T21:19:10.369-07:00FICTION: Returned to the Dark by Nicky Ellam<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Returned to the dark<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: center; text-indent: -18pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">1.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">The Others.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">It’s dark in here. That’s because I live at the bottom of the jewellery box along with the other outcasts: the tangled necklace with the broken lobster claw and teddy pendant she got for her eleventh birthday, along with the bracelet that’s missing a couple of gem stones. She always says she will have them repaired but never does, preferring to spend the money on more fashionable pieces instead that imitate Asian and Oriental designs. An untrained eye might imagine that they were found by a back-packer on their travels, but they weren’t. They can be bought from any shop on the high-street, and are merely echoes of worlds she’s never seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Not all of us down here are broken though. I’m not, and neither is the engagement ring she got from Mark, (who eventually cheated on her with Shannon from Reception,) or the belly bar she took out when she put weight on and decided looked too young for her anyway. The ones at the top who get worn more often pity us, (‘how boring it must be,’ they say to each other in whispers they think we can’t hear, ‘being cooped up down there, month in, month out,’) but in a way they’re jealous. As I’ve said, you could buy them in their hundreds if you wanted to, and they are without sentimental value like the childhood necklace or the belly bar that reminds her of her wild teens and early twenties. They’re easily replaced and she gives them away when they become outdated- or chucks them if even her younger sister and the charity shops say no, thanks. She doesn’t like Mark’s ring or me, so it isn’t often that her fingers dig through the chunky bangles and strings of beads to bring me to the surface. It happens maybe three or four times a year when she has arranged to visit The Matriarch. The ring doesn’t even get a look in. Why Mark wouldn’t let her give it back to him so that he could give it to someone he did love is beyond us; at least that way it would have been enjoyed. All the same, seeing as I’m an heirloom and the ring is eighteen carat white gold with a diamond the size of her little fingernail, we’re here to stay. We’re what she calls “investments.”</span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Perhaps you imagine I get bitter when the voices of the favoured ones float above my head, chattering away about their ventures out of the box: days at work, dinners, dates, parties and who was there, who wasn’t there, what she wore…you get the drift. Or worse, maybe you feel sorry for me. I’d rather you didn’t. Pity the rest but not me. I’m not so keen on their weight pressing down on me but I don’t mind the dark. In fact I quite like it. It reminds me of home, my real one, from before I met people. As for being bitter, you can rule that out. I’m a pearl, darling; it’s not in my nature. You lot have seen me as a symbol of love for thousands of years and I do try to live up to my name by being kind- although I cannot help but wince sometimes at the irony, given that the first person I ever met died. Don’t look at me like that; it wasn’t my fault. But that’s why she doesn’t like me. All the same, when you’ve being kept in a family for over a century you do take an interest in your present owner, even if it’s not reciprocated, so I enjoy listening to the young ones’ gossip. Let them have their fun while they still can. The best they can hope for is a place in a child’s dressing-up box in just a few, short years so they might as well enjoy it. </span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: center; text-indent: -18pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">2.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Memories. <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">I might be old-fashioned and be from a past that she and you would rather forget, but I’m not like your kind. I will endure and outlive the others, her- even you. And I never forget. My memory doesn’t grow weak with age, it gets stronger. I can still smell what my home was like; still feel the movements of the person who found me when he panicked and rushed too quickly to the top, and the urgent, grasping hand of the first, but different person to ever touch me, as though I’d only stopped smelling and feeling them a minute ago. The memories of my owners and the events in their lives play like the films you are so fond of; the moment when her grandfather proposed to her grandmother, and the christening of her mother, they are all here ready to be relived whenever I choose. The stories I could tell you would<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>fill every evening of your life and I would still have more secrets to share, so I don’t begrudge the others their moments. Being 130 years old is not without its perks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">No, it’s not jealousy or bitterness that concerns you when you’re an heirloom, but preservation and stability. It is an unspoken rule that I am passed onto the nearest living woman in the family, and there have only been two times when I have not been passed down either to a son’s wife, sibling, or in the more usual way from grandmother, mother to daughter and so on: the first time was in the 1940’s when my owner died childless and I was given to her niece- (my current owner’s great-grandmother.) The second was ten years ago when the great-grandmother’s daughter skipped her own daughter and passed me down to her grandchild instead, and so here I am. Both times were disruptive and it’s not something I’d like repeating too often, although I fear it will happen again. I know your standards are different, but when an owner approaches thirty and shows no sign of wanting to settle down with someone and have children, you do get a little worried. She hasn’t had a steady boyfriend since Mark, and they split up over three years ago. </span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">What’s the matter? Oh, I see, you’re trying to work it out. I know, family trees are so confusing but try to keep up. Maybe telling you their names would have made it easier, but as I’ve said, stability and preservation are the keys. You do not hear of farmers giving names to their livestock because there is no point getting attached when they will only be sold, or worse. It is the same with me: they will all pass on, leaving me behind and I have too much time to want to spend it all grieving. You will never hear me say their names. Take an interest, certainly; empathising with their joys and sorrows goes without saying but I will not love them. It’s not worth an existence of endless heartache. It’s funny really, in a desert-dry sort of way: A pearl that cannot love.</span></span></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: center; text-indent: -18pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">3.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Before she grew up. <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">I suppose you think it strange that her grandmother, (or The Matriarch as she jokingly calls her,) skipped a generation and gave me to someone who doesn’t like me, but it never used to be this way. When she was little and used to visit her grandmother she would ask, (very politely after giving her a peck on the cheek,) if she could play with her jewellery box. The answer was always yes, and she would very carefully hunt through the diamonds and gold to find me, pin me to her jumper and wear me for the rest of the time she was there. It became something of a ritual, to the point where her grandmother began to pick me out herself and would put me on the coffee table ready for when she arrived. When she was eighteen, The Matriarch had a heart attack, and fearing that she would never leave hospital, insisted on the girl’s mother driving for two hours to get me, so that she could give me to her personally before it was too late. They were very close, and still are in spite of the distance, for she survived against all the odds. Whenever she goes to see her she always comments on how lovely it is, seeing her granddaughter all grown up, wearing her old brooch that’s always been her favourite. And I was for a time. Traditionally I was only worn for a special or significant occasion, but when she was at college I had the strange but enjoyable experience of being put in her pocket and going with her, and if she felt nervous about something her fingers would slide down to stroke me. Normally I hated people manhandling me, but I didn’t mind in her case- it was better than her biting her nails. It was almost as if she thought that having me with her would stop something bad happening- and I have been viewed as ‘lucky.’ Stop sniggering, it’s true. In the days of knights and sword-fighting, we would be worn when the rich and noble went into battle because they thought we would protect them from harm, so don’t laugh at her. It felt good, being wanted, and I have to confess I came in danger of growing affectionate towards her- until she found out from one of her friends about the divers who took me from my home. </span></span></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: center; text-indent: -18pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">4.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Coming out of the dark.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">You don’t like being reminded of your past- those days of glory when Britain ruled half the world. I think that’s why you apologise so much, and give more than you can afford to charities trying to save the poor and starving around the globe. It’s almost as though you’re trying to make up for all the wrongs done before you were born. And I’ve tried to avoid talking about it in case you ran away- I get lonely sometimes and it’s nice having someone to talk to. But you can’t run forever, things have to be faced eventually. Some of you may already know and may already be trying to shut out the sound of my words by turning your thoughts to the plans you’ve made for the weekend, but there’ll be a lot of you who don’t. There are lots of happy anecdotes from my owners’ lives I could have told you but this is the one you need to hear: My story.</span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">We are not like your kind, but there is one thing we have in common: just as you can’t remember coming out of the womb, we don’t know what it was like being a grain of sand or piece of shell squeezing our way inside an oyster and hardening; all I remember is being. There were no thoughts, for when you live inside a shell there isn’t a great deal to think about- nothing happens. That probably sounds dull to you but there was no sadness, no pain or death. It was peaceful, just being. I didn’t know this at the time but even nothing has to come to an end eventually: the day would always have come when I would be found. It will be hard for you to understand what it was like being taken out of water, hearing sounds, seeing colours and light- all for the first time. On paper it sounds great, this explosion of life, but the reality was frightening- and even fear was something I had never heard of or felt before. Maybe that’s why your newborns usually cry when they come out, because they’re scared and want to go back. I’m trying to think of ways to describe how it was to you, and the only way I can think of is for you to imagine an ancient Egyptian being placed in the middle of a supermarket. That might give you a better idea, but even that doesn’t come close. </span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">I’ve learnt a lot since then- (I’ve had to, I didn’t have any other choice-) but there’s one thing I’ve never been able to get my head around, and that is time. Your lives are ruled by clocks and diaries telling you when deadlines or birthdays are due, but when you have so much time whole years, even decades can pass you by. Forgive me then, if I am a little hazy on dates. What I can tell you is that I was brought to the surface in the late 1800s, which makes me special. There aren’t many of us that come from nature now. Most are made by man in bulk on farms. Things changed. You suddenly became concerned about human life and diving equipment got better. Both meant that the world’s poor no were no longer forced to hold their breaths for hundreds of metres when they dived to the seabed to pick up our shells, risking death by drowning or attack from sharks. At first I thought these people were slaves because I failed to understand why they would choose to do such dangerous work. But I came to realise that slavery comes in all sorts of guises if someone’s freedom is to choose between hunger and work that might kill them anyway. I don’t think anyone knows how many thousands died in the name of my beauty and what I am supposed to represent: love, luck and protection. Yet none of my so-called attributes were able to comfort the diver who found me or save him from blacking out when he ascended. </span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">So now you know why she stopped liking me and keeps me hidden, apart from when she visits her grandmother. It’s all very well for her to hate the history I’m associated with, but she doesn’t realise that the lovely clothes she wears have voices of their own; shadows of people are woven into their fabrics and they never stop talking. There’s so many of them all speaking at once that you can’t actually hear what they’re saying, it’s just noise, which speaks for itself. You don’t need to hear their words to understand what they mean. They all come from foreign countries where labour is easy to get- how else do you think she is able to get them so cheaply? I won’t deny that my story is sad but I have a lot of memories that would give me joy if I allowed myself to feel. Listening to the stories of the living is a lot worse; they’re not just full of sadness, there’s also anger and it surrounds me when she takes me out of the box. You can hear it in the suitcase she flings in the boot of the car, and in the silence behind the news reports on the radio she listens to when she’s driving; those headlines speaking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">about </i>them, but not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for </i>or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to </i>them. It’s too much to cope with and I spend those visits wishing they were over. I’m always glad when we get back and she returns me to the dark. </span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div>Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-2624612812050096212011-10-20T21:16:00.000-07:002011-10-20T21:16:26.524-07:00FICTION: I dream of Past Futures By Thomas Ecclestone<div align="center" class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I knew that someone important was going to walk into my life at 12:15, just after I normally drink tea and prepare for an slow day working on the horoscope. Now, maybe you might not believe me. After all, I am a professional charlatan. But I knew something was up, because for the last two weeks every prediction I have made actually worked out.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It started when I saw Mrs Henderson. She was a fat woman, an unpleasant woman, a great client. Like most people who wanted a reading, she didn't want the truth. And normally I didn't give it to her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Now, Mrs Henderson, I have a treat in store for you,”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What's that, dear?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I've managed to get hold of some fine English tea. Instead of our normal, I thought we might enjoy some tea reading.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I pulled out the equipment. It was a plain set. It looked like bone china, but was made in china for a very low price. Mrs Henderson looked impressed anyway. She had a lot of money, and not a lot of sense.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway, I started reading the information contained in the tea leafs. And then the world went blank. When I returned to the world, Mrs Henderson was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I walked out of the shop I had rented, and another of the shopkeepers came up to me. He was normally an quiet, amicable chap. This time he looked like he wanted to throttle me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What did you do to Mrs Henderson?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Pardon?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She came out of here. Howling and crying, like you'd tried to kill her.” he put his face up to mine, “You ever do it again and I'll..”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don't know what you're talking about,” and I backed away from him. He stalked off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walked back to my shop, ready to wait for my next appointment.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mrs Abbot didn't come. She left a nervous message on my answer phone. At the time I didn't realise why. Because I had no other clients for the day, I went home.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That night, I woke up by the loud knocks on the door. I stood to my feet just in time for the door to be broken down.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Police! Get on the floor! Get down!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He was aiming the gun right for my head. I dropped down, lay on the ground, and my arms were taken roughly behind my back.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'm putting you under arrest,” he said, then read me my rights. He bundled me into a police car.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why am I under arrest?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Attempted murder,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My mouth opened wide. It was such a shock, it seemed like I'd just been told I was about to die. And then. Then I was in my bed, looking at the ceiling. The police officers had gone. But it felt more real than a dream. It must have been a dream. Yeah, that was what it was, I convinced myself. Although I should have known better.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In Ireland you can make a full time living as a psychic. less so in England. The English wouldn't even pay you if you could predict the lottery. So I also work as a pitchman. Which, if you think about it, is just another way to make a dishonest buck.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I walked to the nearest boot sale, and set up. It isn't too crowded in the morning. And everyone is busy. So I crawl in through the hedge. They don't know that I'm there against the rules. I set up. My table is old fashioned. A suitcase with legs you fold out. Like the true pitchmen of the 50's.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My pitch is the worm. They wiggle around my hand, like they are alive. The fools in the crowd gave me money. That is what they are for.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They'll never get the thing to work on their own.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And just as I am about to end the pitch I saw her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She had the longest blondest hair this side of fairyland, and her smile lights up the room like a flashlight. And I knew I am meant to talk to her. Just now.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hi, miss, can I interest you in...”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She walked off. I had the sense she is in trouble. She was poorer than she used to be, her clothes were expensive, but last years fashion. I had a feeling I will meet her again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I went home.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was another mistake.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I got there, there was Mrs Henderson and her husband. Their eyes were red. They had been crying. I couldn't understand what they were there for.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How did you know?” Mrs Henderson asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Know what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How did you know Keith was killing himself?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My mouth opened wide. I felt the highest possible shock. Mr Henderson was glaring at me. Like I was responsible.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'm sorry... what are you talking about?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And they told me. How I had made such terrible predictions. That Keith would kill himself. And that Mr Henderson and Mrs Henderson would be next.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I managed to get them to leave. At first I thought that the gossip would help me. But the truth is, no one wants to go to a psychic that tells them the truth. Life is hard enough. You go to a psychic to hear lies.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The phone went silent.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I made some money as a pitchman, so it didn't affect me too much. But I kept on having bad dreams. I kept on seeing people I knew in them. Not just that, I saw how they died. Their pain. And I started to write down what I saw. In a book by my bedside cabinet.</span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The extra time I had meant I was drinking more too. It was like I'd been cursed. But the worst was the Christians. They decided that these dreams were inspired by Satan. They set up the picket line in front of my office. I started to think I should simply leave.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I waited a day too long. I bought the ticket for Thursday.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On Wednesday, the cleaner came in. She was a nosy parker. And no mistake. Her husband had died a few years back, and she was interested in everything. While it's not the way she put it, she was very interested in the diary.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Which she opened.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And read.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All the details of the different murders and deaths I'd seen. All the factual details that no one else other than the murderer could know. She took it to the police, and they read it, and they got their warrant.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I arrived back at the normal time, and nothing was different. The book was there. I didn't notice the surveillance cameras. Not at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They broke in that night. It wasn't a dream. And I looked <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>up to them bleary eyed, a gun pointing in my face, and swore.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At least that made me feel better.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They dragged me towards the back of the car, and I noticed someone had decided to give the press warning. So it was very public. Once in, they took me right there. And kitted me out in fetching jail clothing, since I was still in pyjamas.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The waiting began.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This was the first time I was in jail, and I can tell you it is not as bad as some people say. There is an odd vinegar smell, hiding other bodily fluids. And it is never quiet. There is always shouting going on, and doors slammed. But it was no worse than some hotels I've been in while performing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They took me out to the interview room.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Interview starting at 1:12pm”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I looked across at my lawyer. Short, thin, balding and bored. The police officer had my diary in front of him. He picked it up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So, anything you want to say? About the contents of this book?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nope.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I smiled at the officer. He leaned back.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“In it, you've got the details of dozens of murders. Information the police hasn't released to the public. Information... dare I say it, in some cases that the police didn't even know themselves.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So? I'm doing research for a book.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How did you know these things?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He pulled out the diary, and started reading about a murder that had taken place yesterday. I listened without much<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>emotion showing. Disgusting stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How did you know this?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Since when is knowing stuff a crime?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not reporting to the police is obstruction!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I leaned forward. “I'm a psychic. I... can see what has happened. What will happen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The police officer laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What were you doing between 11:12 pm and 11:31 pm last night?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“In bed. Like all sensible citizens.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The police officer stood up. He was ready to terminate the interview, and to be honest, that didn't seem to be the only thing he wanted to terminate.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I guess we'll hold you in custody until we conclude our investigations.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My lawyer coughed, “What are you holding him on?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Obstruction of justice.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And that was it. That was the full content of the interview. I was hustled off into the cell, and ended up waiting for days. In telephone conversations with friends, I knew the police were digging up my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was given a notebook, and a pen, and I continued to write down my dreams. I thought I might as well. The police would search my cell every now and again, and confiscate them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This went on for two weeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They even moved me to solitary. Made sure no one could be feeding me this information. Or, presumably, that I wasn't ordering the killings. But the dreams continued. They were getting worse and worse. Every morning I woke up feeling like I had not slept.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They brought me to the interview room.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How do you know these things? You --”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'm a psychic.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And the police officer deflated. it was like watching some kid letting go of a balloon. I tried not to laugh at him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We've done tests. it's obvious that you weren't involved in several of these cases - the killers have confessed, given evidence we've obtained from your diary.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good for you,” I said. My smile was lopsided.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So I guess we have to assume you were not involved in any of the murders.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We're not going to let you go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My lawyer stood up, “You've said yourself that he's not guilty.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He is a material witness. To dozens of crimes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He was not even present!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We've made up our mind.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I guess at least things looked up, because they took me from prison. They drove me along country lanes, towards a building. I can't tell you precisely where it was. It just looked like an old school to be honest. You'd never have guessed it was an intelligence headquarters. They bundled me out into an empty building.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A hatch opened, and they took me underground.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You've heard of the secret prisons. Well, they are true. They dressed me up in a uniform, tagged my ankle, and locked me in a cage. The only thing they gave me was some paper and a pen to write down my dreams.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At first I got really angry. But the days passed, and it became obvious they would never let me go.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometimes people came to research me. They put me in scanners, and gave me all kinds of medical tests. The results were unsurprising. I was just a normal, healthy individual.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They also asked me to look at foreign bases. But it didn't work.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I guess I just have a tendency to see violent crime.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And that was how it seemed I was destined to live for the rest of my life. Until I started to hear the voices. They were low. Just like someone was talking in the next room. Distant. And I couldn't make them out.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I told the guards, but they thought I was having a joke.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That night I was tossing and turning, and I heard someone shout out my name. I woke up. No one was there. Then I tried to get asleep again, and managed it. But the voice was insistent.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What is it? What is up?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nothing answered me. The guards walked past my cell. But with the dreams and the voices, I was getting no sleep. It started to affect me so badly I would not even eat food.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Within a few days I was exhausted. Mentally and physically drained. And I guess that is what the creatures wanted. Because soon they broke through. It's hard to tell you how it felt. But if you have ever had a moment of shock, when you suddenly feel like you aren't there, you'll know.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Find my killer,” the voice said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What? Who are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Find my killer!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Over and over again. Until I finally broke down.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'll find your killer... but who are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He said his name. And then the voice faded away. But I knew I had to do precisely what he told me. I'd go mad otherwise. Maybe I was already mad.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But how could I do that when I was locked up?<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The opportunity came sooner than I expected. My handlers were getting anxious. I was producing less predictions than normal, and the federal conviction rate was plummeting through the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So they came to me to find what was wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The handlers looked like model citizens. Dark suits, a man and a woman dressed formally, like they were lawyers. They flashed their badge to me. I don't know why, the fact I was in a prison gave them away.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What's happening, sir? Why have the predictions stopped?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I guess...”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>my voice faded off. The two police officers leaned forward. They looked like they were hanging on every word.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It's the voices.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The police officer fell back. You could see him working it through in his mind. Despite the success of my predictions, he settled on the conclusion I was mad. After all, psychic phenomena were impossible. He'd read that once.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What voices?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The people who were murdered. one of them is speaking to me. He wants his killer caught.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why doesn't he tell you who the killer was, then?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I scratched my head, “I guess he doesn't know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, who was he?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I shook my head. But that night, I was thinking about it, and decided that I had to ask. Had to have a conversation, if only for my sanity. When the voices started up, I leaned forward in my bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Find my killers.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I asked the question again. But he would say nothing of use to me. he would only repeatedly ask me to find his killers. Not very useful. Eventually, I managed to coax his name from him. Nigel. Not a very good name for a joke.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So I got the police officers to run a search on him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That was the strange thing. No murder victims of that name came up. Not any time soon. But a week later, a Nigel disappeared. And I realised the truth.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who killed you, Nigel?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I looked through the court reports. He had been killed by stabbing. They wouldn't let me out of the jail. So all I could do was read the files they brought on him. And I got the feeling that many of the details had been redacted. it was like looking for a haystack in an elephant: messy and not very satisfactory.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What I noticed was that Nigel had been a computer consultant for a large security firm.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The dreams were constant. Interrupted by ghostly voices. But because I was acting, they were less disturbing than they had been.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I read through the files of the security firm.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There were only two people I decided who could have done it. They both had a great deal to gain. At the end of the day, though, there is a limit to what you can do from inside a jail cell.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So I did the only sensible thing I could do.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Get a Ouija board.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The guards looked sceptically at me when I asked for it. But I was responsible for half the murder arrests in the district for the last six months. So they eventually gave me what I wanted. Especially when I refused to furnish them with any more information.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I don't know if you have ever been to a proper séance. Well, to be honest, most of the time the knocks are from the medium. But this time it was different. Within moments of the séance starting, I was aware that the room was colder.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hello, is anyone there?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And the board spelt out yes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you the voice that keeps speaking to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What is your name?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>N - I - G - E - L.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>F-I-N-D M-Y M-U-R-D-E-R-E-R<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>O-R E-L-S-E.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I drew my breath in. “Nigel, do you know who your murderer is?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>N-O.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then the entire board lifted off the table, and flew towards me. It hit the wall a few inches from my face. The room warmed up again. The presence was gone. For a little while.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The guard opened the door. I knew he must have been watching the CCTV. His face was pale.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How did you do that?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I didn't” I replied. I knew that he didn't believe me. But he would have to show more senior people. And I knew they couldn't afford to risk me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I went back to bed. For the first time in weeks, I had no bad dreams. I guess Nigel knew I understood his message. I slept very soundly. Until the next morning. But my guards didn't really understand. Or they did not want to understand.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They decided to cut me off from the outside world.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My handler met me in the interview room the next morning. He looked tired. Besides him sat a man I hadn't seen before. He wore the cleanest, most expensive suit I had seen during my stay at the states pleasure.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We want you to stop going after Nigel's killer,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But... If I do that, I'll never have peace.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Carry on like you were. Tell us your predictions. But no wild goose chase.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The man stood up. He walked out of the room. Measured, and without menace. But he didn't seem to be a man used to dealing with no. My handler shook his head.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'm afraid you made a mistake.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He didn't need to tell me the consequences. All of a sudden, I was put on suicide watch. Woken up every thirty minutes to see if I wasn't dead yet. The heating in my cell surprisingly broke. I knew I was in their hands totally. But I never realised what it was like to displease them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But they had made a mistake too.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You see, Nigel might be a ghost, but that doesn't mean he is stupid. He can see what is happening. He knows they are stopping me doing what he wants. And this gets him angry. They first times he acted, it looked like coincidence. The guards chair would tilt under him, depositing him on the floor. Or cups of coffee were not placed firmly enough on the table.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I could feel Nigels anger growing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It burst forth on the Friday evening. The guard sat down outside my cell. I could feel the room getting colder.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You'd better watch out,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you threatening me?” he said, pulling his tazer out.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not me. Nigel. He's here. Can't you feel him?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The guards were spooked by me. They knew that I was able to see things they could not. But although the guards face became pale, his hand on the trigger was steady and firm.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then, behind him I could see his chair rising off the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Get away!” I warned.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was too late. The chair slammed into the guard. He dropped to the floor. Then I saw the guards keys float from his pocket. My cell door was unlocked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank you, Nigel.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I walked over to the guard, stripped his clothes off, and changed into his uniform. I thought I didn't have much of a choice. If I didn't do what Nigel wanted he would kill me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So, I walked towards freedom.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Every door I came to slid open without me doing anything. It would have been creepy if I didn't know what was happening. Soon the alarms started to ring out. People would be grabbing their guns, getting ready to shoot me. I could feel my heart trying to escape from my chest.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I soon arrived at fire exit. It opened in front of me. I climbed down some steps. Below me, I could see coppers swarming. I continued to walk down. One of the coppers recognised me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Stop!” he shouted.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I ran in the opposite direction. He took aim, and I could hear the gun explode behind me. But the bullet didn't pierce my skin<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>like I expected. Instead, it ended in the ground. I reached a police car, and the engine came on without anyone doing anything.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then I started driving.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The police radio came on, and I could hear them putting out an all points warning. They were to capture me. Dead or alive.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I turned into a shopping centre, and got out.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then I lost myself in a large crowd.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For the moment I was free, but I needed to get into fresh clothes, that weren't so distinctive. I walked over to a cash machine.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nigel, make this machine give me money.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And, somehow, he did.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then I went into a store and bought black trousers and a white shirt. Got changed. And walked out of the shopping centre, expecting to be caught at any time. In my pocket there was five hundred dollars. That was all I had in the world, except for an insane ghost.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I decided it was time to go to the library. After chatting to the librarian for a few seconds, she walked me over to a computer which had copies of the local papers for the last twenty years. I typed a search. At first I found nothing, but as I expanded the search back I found him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nigel Slater.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>According to the interview, he was found murdered in his bed. He had been asleep. His wife had been charged and convicted of his murder. But she said she was innocent.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I opened up notepad.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Is that you? </i>I typed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was expecting him to answer, but still shocked when he did. <i>YES. </i>came the response.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Did your wife kill you? </span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";">I asked<i>.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>NO.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Who did kill you?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";">Nothing came in response. I knew that would happen. It was too much to hope for. It was getting late at night. The librarian was fussing near me. It was time to go.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When you are a fugitive, it isn't as simple to find a place to stay as booking a room in a hotel. I walked round, looking for an empty house. It took me an hour. Occasionally a police car would go past. It made me nervous.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eventually I found the house.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At one time it would have been a posh bungalow. But whoever had owned it had been taken to a care home, and it was covered in weeds and neglect. I walked up to the door, and it swings open. That is one of the advantages of your own private poltergeist.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Inside it was a mess. But dry and water proof. There was a wood burning stove in one room. The power was off, and Nigel didn't turn it on. But the water was only off at the mains. It was easy enough to get it working again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I fell to sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the morning I would have to start the process of searching for Nigel Slater. I knew roughly where he lived. I fell asleep, and woke up hungry and cramped.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Outside, I could hear rustling. I peeked through the window, and could see a man dressed only in black. He looked like he was not very friendly. I ducked down, but he must have seen me. He edged towards the door. It was locked, but he slammed it open.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where are you?” he shouted.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I hid behind the sofa. it didn't help. He walked towards me. I noticed he had a poker in his hand. There was no way he wouldn't find me. I stood up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What are you doing?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'll ask the questions. This is me Nan’s house.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I looked over at him. He had a long scar down his face. it seemed like he was used to trouble. And he was straining to start a fight.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I... am homeless. Just looking for a dry place to sleep. I haven't done any damage,”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You'd best get out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I did what he said. He followed me. I thought he might hit me at any second. or recognise me. They must have put my picture out into the news by now.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And stay out!” he ordered, slamming the door behind him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I sighed with relief, but knew that my location might be passed onto the police. I decided it was time to get out of the town. I caught a bus, and tried to hide my face. Since I hadn't had a bath for a few days it was easier than you might think. People did not want to look me in the eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I arrived at Nigel’s house six hours latter. It was a solemn house. A plane front garden laid to grass, brick frontage, and white windows. It didn't look like anyone had ever cared for it. It looked like it was a place to sleep and not to stay.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It took me a few minutes to settle down, and watch the street. There was nothing extraordinary about it. A few people walked past, taking little interest in the stranger. After watching for half an hour, I knew there was little information here for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Talking round the local shops I found out that Nigel had been a quiet man. Few people knew him, past his saying hello. he didn't seem to have been involved in anything wrong. or indeed in anything at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Who would have killed such a man?<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I decided that there could only really have been one source of trouble. He must have found out something at work. Something that made him worth more to someone dead than alive. I got some annual reports from his company and studied them. Amazing what is available on the internet these days. There was little of interest.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was a security IT company, did audits, checked companies could not be hacked into. While Nigel must have had some skills to work there, it was hardly the kind of company people would kill for.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was only one thing for it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I applied to work at Nigel’s company as a cleaner. it was a big risk. I supplied false references, and knew they would not check them for months. That's the thing about cleaners. No one takes any notice.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So I got the job, and examined the work place thoroughly. It looked like an office. The computers were always on. Once or twice I looked over the shoulder of someone working but it was all gobbledygook to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How am I supposed to find your killer, here?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No one responded.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To make it worse, I saw my face on the newspaper when I went for food. Sure, I looked a lot different now. I had grown longer hair, a beard, and was thinner. But it was still me. I grew suspicious of other people.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sooner or latter I knew I would be caught.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then came my big break. Several people were working in the office late. I overhead them speaking about a billion dollar deal. The company was getting bought out. I checked the internet, and there was something in the trade section.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That night I took a great risk.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The routine was the same every day. But one of my colleagues had not turned up to work. So I was asked to clean the main office. I did so. But I did more than that, I broke into the file cabinets, and started reading company secrets.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn't find my smoking gun, but I did find out that Nigel had been working on a project for the government. A project named Sigma.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Every moment I was in the office was I risk, so I couldn't read for long, and went back to work.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But that didn't save me for long. The next day I arrived at work a few minutes earlier. Something told me that things were wrong. The security guard on the gate was new. He told me to go out to the bosses office.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I walked, I felt a tug on my arm.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I walked into a small lab, and looked around. There was a window, and I tried to open it. In the distance I could see five police cars. The window wouldn't open.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was only one way out. And I knew that by now, there would be police officers between me and the door. I looked round to find a chair. Then used it to break the window. The alarm went, and I slid through the empty hole. But I caught my shoulder on a shard of glass. I was bleeding. The police gave up their pretence. Dozens of sirens started up, heading towards the building.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I ran through a green space. I knew that there was only one way out of the compound except the front gate. A hole in the fence I had noticed a few days earlier. But over head their was a helicopter. Although I ran like the wind, it wasn't enough. I could hear the police men getting closer and closer.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Police! Stop!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I turned around and saw two police officers. They both had guns pointed at me. I raised my hands, and they soon had me on the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You're under arrest.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What for?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Everything.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A few moments latter, they had me in the back of a police van. I knew that this time it would not be so easy for me to escape.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In short, I thought I might never find Nigel’s killer.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I arrived at my destination a few hours latter. This time they were taking no chances. I arrived at a super maximum prison. Surrounded by barbed wire, dogs, and armed police officers it was obvious I'd never get out.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They locked me in my cell.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That night, I had bad dreams, and for once they were not caused by Nigel.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The next day the interrogation began. Again and Again. Asking me where I had gone. What I had done. I eventually broke down and told them everything. But that didn't stop them continuing. Maybe what they were doing was no crime. But it was a form of torture.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Each night, I ended up in my cell. They checked me every day. A suicide risk. Apparently.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eventually, the interrogations stopped. They gave me paper. They wanted to go back to how it used to be. But by that time I had got so angry, even when I did have a dream I kept it to myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It could have stayed like that for years.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But Nigel had different plans.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wasn't there. So all I can do is repeat the report that was made to me. No guarantee it is what happened. Apparently the director of the FBI had been having an extramarital affair. He was in bed that normal, and engaging in exercise at the same time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Until, the lights went on.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This was not expected, but what was even more unexpected was the windows opening wide. And the explosions of a gun. The director of the FBI's gun.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No one was hurt.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But the first cop on the scene saw the assistant director of the FBI naked, with a mistress, after he had fired his gun. And the only sign of what happened was the NIGEL written on the wall in chalk.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No, I don't know where the chalk came from.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I do know that it made the national news. The assistant director of the FBI resigned. And, to be frank, most of the people in the FBI did not care much about that. But it was fair warning.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The director of the FBI came to me once the hullabaloo had died down.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He didn't seem to be exactly happy about what had happened. In fact, he stormed in to the visiting room, and let loose a barrage of swear words. I sat there passively, listening to him. When he calmed down sufficiently, he sat down.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What was that about?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The director of the FBI glared at me, “Congratulations, your stunt cost the FBI one of its ablest staff members. Plus causing me --”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Again, what are you talking about? I'm in prison. Unless you hadn't noticed. I can't do any stunts.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He explained what had happened. I admit, it was hard for me not to laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, Director. Nigel is not in my power. And - well maybe it's not my place to say anything...”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Doesn't stop any other fool doing it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nigel was right. All he wants is his murderer found. But he isn't going to stop. Not until that is done. Not even if he has to kill someone else to do it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you threatening me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No. I am not. Nigel is a threat to you. If you stand in the way, that is. He is a ghost. What can you do to get rid of him?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The director of the FBI thought for a few seconds. An hour latter, a priest turned up with bell, book and candle. it didn't work spectacularly. The power went off, the candle blew out, the bell rang, and the book was thrown across the room.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I guess it didn't work,” I said smugly.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The director gestured to the mirror and two toughs walked in. They carried some rope. They tied me to the chair, and lifted a cosh over their heads.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You can stop Nigel. Or you can suffer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then all hell broke lose. The cosh swung back by itself. it raised into the air, and came down, laying out one of the thugs. The other caught me a glancing blow, but something unseen lifted him from the floor and threw him against the wall.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You have a choice. Director. Help find Nigel’s killer. Or, I think, Nigel will chase you down and gut you like a fish.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The directors face was pale.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Which one do you choose?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You're threatening...”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I am making no threats. Just telling you how it is.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eventually the Director settled down again. He sat in his chair, silently looking at me. I wasn't a pretty picture. Thin, and in prison coveralls. I must have looked like a real criminal.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“OK. You have a deal.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You're going to help us?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They let me go that afternoon. Put me in a suit, and told me I was seconded to the FBI. I was even given my own agent. He was tall, thin, and looked every inch the government man.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sir, what are your orders?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know the case?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good. Well, what do you suggest first?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The agent shook his head. He gave nothing away. That was when I knew he wasn't sent to help me. Just to keep an eye out on me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nevertheless, I decided that I could use him. Like he wanted to use me. I looked over to him, and told him to get a warrant. We were going to search Nigel’s company. And read every damn bit of paper they had about Sigma.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn't expect him to do it, but we were driving out a few hours latter.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When we arrived at the door, they had their lawyer sorted out already. Someone must have leaked it. He looked like he had cost a lot of money.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'm sorry. You can search the company. But you can't take the papers.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why not?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They are classified. National security.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He handed over the document. I couldn't read it, but the FBI agent looked like he was eating his liver.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fair enough. I'll tell my bosses. But in the meantime, I wonder if you can answer some questions?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Pardon?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'm afraid we have the right not to incriminate ourselves. We are asserting that right. Both as a company, and as individuals. So, no, you can ask any questions but we will not answer them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The search was pointless. But we went right ahead. If only to annoy them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was surprised when I found the clue. It was something no one else would have noticed. A single envelope in the bin. It contained an address. I think Nigel must have been helping me. I was drawn to it. But the thing I noticed was the fact the address had a Sigma stamp.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn't let on what I had found. Just stuffed it in my jacket pocket.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once we were out of the building, I decided to break away from the FBI agent. I knew some things would work better on my own. it was easier said than done. When I tried to go for a walk that night, he insisted on staying right by me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I finally decided to crawl out of the window that night.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Getting to the address was difficult. I didn't have a car, I had to take the bus. Most of the journey there wasn't even that. And it had began to rain. I must have looked odd, walking around town that late at night, soaked. In fact, I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>surprised no copper stopped me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I arrived at the address just before five.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I looked at the building, wondering how I would get in, their was a cough right behind me. I turned round and saw the FBI agent.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I thought I'd got rid of you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It isn't that easy,” he said, smiling thinly.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It's not like you can help me here. I'm gonna break in.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The FBI agent shrugged, “How good are you at that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good enough,” I said. Knowing I was lying as I said it. It wasn't like it was my strong point. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The expression on the coppers face showed he thought not either.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So I walked towards it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He stood there behind me his mouth opened, as I shimmied the lock. it opened. I walked in. This was a mistake, I didn't notice the small CCTV camera, the camera that was hidden in a plug socket. But it was sending my picture right up to the security office.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They were phoning their security company within minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I worked quickly, going up the stairs to the office. I don't know what I had expected to see. But what I did see looked just like any other office. Even down to the half drunk cup of coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was dark in the room. Suddenly the lights went on. I looked behind me, and two armed security guards were pointing their weapons at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I raised my hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I surrender” I said.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A pity,” said one of the guards, as he hit me hard on the back of my head, and I fell down unconscious.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I woke up in the boot of a car. I could feel the engine running, and smell burning petrol. It was pick black. The car started off, bumping along the ground. Hitting me from side to side.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My hands were tied behind my back. It was lucky I knew a little magic. I got the knot loose without much effort. Then I grovelled around the car to find something, anything that could help me. There was a wrench, which I picked up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Soon the car stopped.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I put the rope around my wrists, hiding the fact I was loose. And put the wrench in my pocket. The boot of the car swung open. One of the security guards lifted me out of the boot. He was covered in muscle.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The boss wants to speak to you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who’s that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Slater. Nigel Slater.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My mouth opened wide. That was the last thing I expected to hear. They marched me along the ground and I saw him for the first time. Nigel. Alive.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why are you looking into my business?” he asked,<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Err, because you asked me to?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nigel smiled, and raised his hand. The security guard gave me a wallop. So hard I could almost hear my rib cage cracking.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Try answering my questions without the jokes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'll try. You see, though, my answer wasn't a joke.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then the room went strange. Something turned the lights off, and opened the windows. It even raised a chair off the ground. The security guard looked worried for the first time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nigel... meet Nigel.” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What on earth?” He asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“For the last month, I have been searching for the person who killed Nigel Slater. You, sir, are Nigel Slater. But it seems your ghost hasn't got the information you are alive.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This is preposterous.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Indeed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I looked around at the furniture. It was hovering. But Nigel had stopped moving it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I guess the question is... who killed you, sir? Who would want to kill you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No one! I am just a computer hacker.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your ghost would seem to disagree.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just then the FBI agent rushed into the room. He had his gun out. Pointing right at Nigel. Who looked shocked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Agent, please put that down.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But, you're in danger, sir!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don't think so!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The agent put his gun down, and Slater sat down. He pulled a half drunk glass of whiskey from his desk, and sipped it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sir, stop drinking that!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I noticed his voice had started to slur. It seemed like he was finding it more difficult to stay awake too. I did the only sensible thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Call an ambulance!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But it didn't work. By the time that the ambulance arrived, Nigel was in a deep coma. It took only a short time after that until the first homicide detective got there.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'm sorry, Nigel, I should have realised what was going to happen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But the truth is, it was fate. No ones fault. Except the murderer. After all, how can Nigel Slater’s ghost come into my dreams unless he is actually killed?<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“One good thing about this, sir,” said the FBI agent.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What's that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Now the murder has happened, maybe their will be some clues.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Maybe. Maybe there are some clues right in this room,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What happened next surprised me. The cops arrested me. Told me I was being held on suspicion of murder. I told them not to be idiots, but they wrote it in their notebooks and not their minds.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I guess the only thing that saved me was the way the FBI agent had been there.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Even so, they only released me after a day.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By that point the clues would be getting stale, so I drove right to<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the company. But they wouldn't let me in. it was a police investigation, they said. No dice.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So I did the only thing I could think of.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I called the FBI agent and asked him to run the full scan on Slater. By the time he had finished I would know every single family member. And all I had to do was interview them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He came back with a mother, and a father, both dead. And nothing else of interest.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bugger.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The only clue left<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to me was Sigma. The company was closed for a few hours, but the managing director wasn't. Again the FBI came to my rescue. They had the address, and I wasn't afraid to use it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I guess you should come with me,” I told Mr FBI.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“For backup?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“For your warrant card.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We walked up the garden path. It wasn't the most luxurious house that a managing director had ever lived at. But I knocked on the door anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A man opened it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We've been waiting for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I walked in. Behold, the group was all there. The director of the FBI himself. The attorney general. And a four star general. I could feel the back of my assistant straightening up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I won't introduce these people.” the managing director said. “But you have some questions for me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I opened my mouth. To this day I still don't know why I asked it. “Who killed Nigel Slater?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why, I thought that would be obvious.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Managing Director pressed a button on the TV. It switched on. Nigel Slater’s office. I saw him pick up his glass. Put the chemicals in it. The MD fast forwarded. Nigel killed himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Any more questions?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why did he do it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Managing director leaned back. He looked old at that moment. The simple question aged him a dozen years.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sir... if you knew the answer to that question, you'd follow Nigel’s lead.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I could feel the room getting colder as he spoke. Nigel was listening. He was getting angry.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sir, I have to insist. it isn't just for me. In fact, it is not about me at all.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“OK. What do you know about Nigel Slater?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I shook my head. Damned little, I realised.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He was a genius. A certifiable Genius. Of the insane variety. We hired him to do a job of work.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What job?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oil. We got him to produce computer models. All the oil reserves. He was so great... well, he could produce a program that told us exactly where oil was, just from satellite images.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Worth a fortune.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Worse than that. You see... he found the mother load. Trillions of dollars of oil. All in one place.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But why would that cause him to kill himself?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Because the only way we can get it is global thermonuclear war,”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He pressed a few buttons, and the map showed up. Right there. Right on Taiwan’s borders. I could feel myself about to vomit.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“China?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. If we try to get the oil rights, China will go to war. We'll back Taiwan. And then... Kaboom!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But surely we can just keep it secret?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That's what Nigel tried to do. From the look of it, that is what he is still trying to do.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But it might be too late.” I guessed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Someone may have leaked it to the Chinese,” the managing director said,<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The director of the FBI smiled at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We think you must have done it,”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just at that moment a dozen armed guards came into the room. Their guns were pointed right at me. I raised my hands, and was soon plunged into the carpet. They searched me. Didn't find anything interesting.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If I were guilty, why would I warn you of Nigel Slater’s death anyway?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You didn't, son. All you did was lead us on a wild goose chaise.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But...”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. But I don’t think you did it. I don’t think you were that smart. But I don't know what this being who calls himself Nigel Slater is,”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn't struggle. By now, them putting handcuffs on me was almost routine. I just wish I had been able to continue my life as a charlatan.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He's a ghost”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A ghost from the future?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn't know what to say to that. it was true. it was obvious when you think about it. Nigel had told me he was murdered when he was still alive. but no one ever said the soul was bound to the arrow of time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Which was in any case about to start running out.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The phone started ringing. The director of the FBI picked it up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sir? yes, sir. I'll bring him right back with me,”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He beckoned to the armed guards to pick me up. Soon I was in the back of the armoured limo.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Take me to the white house.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Within a few minutes we had picked up an escort. From what I could tell, they had closed the road down. Only we were travelling that evening.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What's happening?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“China has just issued a press release. They are starting military exercises. 100 miles from the coast of Taiwan”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I gulped. It looked like things were just about to head for the worse. The trip to the Whitehouse was the most fraught I had experienced in my life. The director of the FBI was reading faxes and emails in the car. His face was getting more and more pale.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We have very little time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I guess... we need Nigel more than ever.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Pardon?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We need to convince the Chinese this is all a hoax.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It seemed obvious to me. But the mouth of the head of the FBI opened wide in shock.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And how do you propose to do that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I guess like the English did in WWII. With disinformation. We need to get an Chinese agent and feed him bad info. And I guess Nigel might be your best hope for that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What do you mean?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He is our only invisible agent.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I guess the FBI director caught on quickly. Because he could go anywhere, Nigel could listen to the Chinese chatter. He could find Chinese agents. Maybe he didn't know Chinese, but he knew enough to listen in to the English language conversations.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It wasn't a new concept. The CIA had investigated it in the sixties. But they didn't have a real life ghost, so their experiments failed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This time we had a real ghost. I asked them to pick out the Ouija board again. The séance room was a sight you had never seen in your life. The president and the director of the FBI holding hands, in a dark room.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I put on dramatic music, and we began.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nigel. Nigel. Are you there?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>N - O.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He's always a joker. Nigel, Did you hear what we were planning?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Y - E - S.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And you'll do it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Y - E - S.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The president of the united states shook his head. You could tell he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He got up from his seat, and you could almost hear his bones cracking.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We don't have long.” he said, scratching his head.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Over in the corner of the room I could see a computer with satellite images. I could watch the Chinese fleet mobilising in real time. The number of dots that represented aircraft carriers alone was scary.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think we have a week. If that.” I head the director of the FBI's bass tones say.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It will only be a few days before we have to mobilise our own navy.”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The wait was excruciating. But suddenly five hours latter, the board started spelling out a name. The FBI director went to work. Within minutes they had the file out. He didn't look like what you would expect of a Chinese agent. He had long, blonde hair, was dressed in a respectable suit, and had a respectable job.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He worked in the old navy base. His job was to work on the files, reading sensitive military information. Including information about resource allocation. Once they checked his bank account the truth became obvious.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He's our man. He's the one that leaked the Taiwanese oil. It was restricted to only a few dozen agents.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I shrugged, “How do we proceed?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The FBI director stood up, and paced down the long thin corridor. Then he arrived back in the meeting room with a young woman. She was dressed in military uniform.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think it's time to fill you in,” he said, and then told her everything we knew. As he told her the story, her eyes got wider and wider.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What do you want me to do?” she asked at the end.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It's time for you to give a disinformation campaign”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He explained the plan. It was simple. The Chinese agent needed to think it had all been a hoax. But for that to work, he would have to eat a pack of lies.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The exercise started two hours latter.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wasn't there, so I can report only what I have been told. The female agent I had been introduced to worked in the old navy headquarters. She worked in the files there. It is a room full of top secret papers. Room might be the wrong word; it was the size of an aircraft hanger.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She worked there, and had spent months being bored. So naturally, she had struck up a conversation with the handsome blonde military attaché. And, the conversation was reciprocated.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It did not go unnoticed on the reports by the taciturn, tall supervisor who ruled the old navy headquarters. He had put it on the computer, like a good agent, and the computer had spurted out this report on command.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The director of the FBI looked at her. She didn't look like much to put the freedom of the world onto. But she was eager. And after being told what to do, she didn't complain. She saluted.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She was the best chance.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I stood at the back of the room, watching the Director of the FBI feeling out the officer, and knew I would have to talk to Nigel alone. I didn't trust her. She looked too good to be true with her starched uniform and willing smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nigel, Keep an eye out on her,” I whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The new agent went into a staff car, to be driven to the headquarters. She looked very lonely in the back of the car. Meanwhile, we walked to the operations room. There was a banks of monitors the length of the room. We could see satellite images of the build up of the Chinese fleet, as well as real time updates of our spies.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The FBI director looked over at me. “Don't tell anyone what you see here,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I nodded. Then looked back over to the screens. I could see our agent depositing the papers in her draw. She phoned up the Chinese agent, and set up dinner. It looked like a glorious feast. Roast duck, with all the trimmings.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The doorbell went. She walked over to it, and opened it. She said something, and the Chinese agent walked into the room. After ten minutes of conversation, she walked away. To go to the toilet.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If we still had any doubts about the agent, what he did next would have dispelled them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He walked over to the draws, and started rummaging. After a few minutes he found the file our agent had left. He took out the smallest camera you have ever seen, and clicked the image. After that, he put the files away.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We have him,” the director of the FBI said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After he left, the confirmation came thick and fast. The Chinese fleet disbanded. It was amazing to see, but they split up within a matter of hours. Soon the sea around Taiwan was empty except for commercial shipping.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I guess when they found out it was a trap, they didn't want to go to war for the sea bed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I looked over at the monitor, “But what happens when you start to drill the ocean?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We won't. Not for many years,”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I guess that if this had been a story that would be it. I would have been given a party, a celebration, and been allowed to leave. After all, I had saved the day. Well, Nigel did leave. I haven't heard from him since.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I knew too much.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After they had finished celebrating, a guard collected me, and drove me in a prison van to here. It is a cold concrete cell. I am allowed a TV, and to write carefully vetted letters. I'm not sure how I will post this, my story. Maybe I will write it under the postage stamp.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I guess for an old crook like me, it is fair. But I wish I had been sent to jail for something I did. And not for some trumped up terrorist charge.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometimes they come, ask me for help on their investigations.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="Standard" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Maybe one day I will give it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
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</div>Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-1335808500121766052011-10-20T21:11:00.000-07:002011-10-20T21:11:22.256-07:00FICTION: In a Flash By Katrina Erickson<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My knees ached after climbing up two miles of slippery shale to the top of the mountain ridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had left me puffing and silently cursing General Miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like any good member of the military, you have to confine these thoughts to your head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can’t go around bad-mouthing your commanding officer, no matter how dead the fellow was (100 years or thereabouts), or how alone you might be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would be setting a bad precedent.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Carefully laying down the signaling equipment, I sat on a convenient rock and tried to catch my breath while rubbing some of the pain out of my knees and wincing at the thought of the walk back down to my Geo Metro currently baking in the sun at the bottom of the hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I get back this afternoon, the inside of the car would probably rival the temperature on the surface of the sun.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The view across the valley was worth it though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My equipment would easily send messages to the ridge that lay a number of miles away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The clear air and the low humidity meant that I could probably send a message farther, but there wouldn’t be anyone there to confirm the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Technically, of course, there wasn’t anyone over there to receive my signaling today, but I was <i>reenacting</i> a time when there had been someone there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, someone had been there over a hundred years ago when they were using heliographs like mine to signal the whereabouts of the local Native population, when such a thing was a concern anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pushing that thought from my mind I stood up and carefully dislodged the tripod from the rest of the equipment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next half hour was spent putting things together and adjusting the mirror and signaling attachment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could feel my face turning redder under the midday sun as I flipped the screen back and forth sending flashes of light across the valley to the adjoining mountain letting anyone over there know the status of the area in relation to the likelihood of Indian raiders: “All Clear,” my mirror flashed in the sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After every message I used my spyglass for the regulated amount of time to check for an answer from the other mountain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could just make out the barren scrub landscape that matched the look of the ridge I was standing on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every so often there would be a hint of movement that might be a rabbit or bird, but never any glints of a mirror.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The afternoon sun beat down, the air still and silent in the heat as I picked my way down the slippery gravel slope clutching the heavy wood and brass equipment to me as my steps dislodged showers of stone down the hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stopping to wipe the sweat making its way out from under my hat and down into my eyes, I paused and squinted through the heat across the valley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first I thought that I had gotten heatstroke, my brain fried under my blue wool hat, but from the far slope I saw them, bright white flashes coming from the crest of the ridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was reaching for my code book before realizing that the light was signaling just two words over and over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two words I didn’t need to look up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A chill ran through me, the sweat turning to ice on my skin at the message sparkling at me from the barren mountain top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The silence of the afternoon was interrupted by the sound of a little cascade of rocks somewhere near me and I was painfully aware of just how far my car was down the treacherous landscape.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Through the heat and the years the message glinted, “Beware Apaches -- Beware Apaches -- Beware…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-21774839959533441912011-10-16T17:49:00.001-07:002011-10-16T17:49:37.744-07:00FICTION: Aaron By Angel Johnson<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda scurried through the house in preparation for her latest juvenile delinquent: six year old Aaron Richardson. She placed a padlock on the drawer containing the knives. She stroked her hip and felt the budge in her jeans pocket from the half dozen keys crammed inside. She inhaled. She let her eyes scan the kitchen in search of anything flammable that she could have possibly missed. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">There is no such thing as a bad child, Linda told herself. Every child deemed bad was not actually bad but, in fact, heartbroken. Unlike adults, heartbroken children can be repaired. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda knew that brown children having potential to be nothing but a product of their environment was the main cause of many problems in the black community. Violence, poverty, gangs, and drugs all stemmed from children who didn’t have the right training as they went into adulthood. Everything starts with the children and if any betterment of the community would occur, it would begin with them. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda ran back into the guest room, which would be Aaron’s room, in order to check that all the windows were locked from the inside. That way, she could set the alarm and it would go off if the windows were opened. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Aaron’s room was fully loaded with the latest video games, a flat screen television, and a chest full of toys and action figures. After bouncing around in the foster care system for extended periods of time, most children enjoy a little fun. Little Aaron was removed from his home due to abuse and neglect so she had no fear of spoiling him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda picked up a stuffed panda from a large bin of toys and cradled it in her hands. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">What type of child would it be this time? she wondered. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He was exhibiting violent and self destructive behavior. So he was either the disobedient child who believed that he was grown and could no longer be disciplined. Or was he a child that had experienced horrible things and had to regain his childhood innocence? Linda had known them all and addressed many of their issues in the latest book she had written, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lost Innocence: Teaching the Abused Child How to Be a Child Again. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The doorbell rang and Linda ran in response to it. She moved fast because she was an athletic woman who spent the majority of her days walking swiftly or running in a full sprint. She was an attractive woman despite a long scar just above her right cheekbone. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It was this scar that reminded her of the most valuable lesson from her first year of being a foster parent; never underestimate the emotions of a distraught child. That was also the year that she learned to lock up all sharp objects just in case. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">When Linda opened the door to greet Diane, she was surprised to see her disheveled. Her mascara was smeared. Her hands were shaking. Like Linda, Diane was an organized and energetic woman. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda stepped back and gave Diane a slight smile. It made her very uncomfortable. She began to frown while she listened to Diane rant. Diane was hysterical.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“It is one of the worst cases of abuse I’ve ever come across. Very bad. His mom suffered from mental illness. She had these violent outbursts. The paralysis in Aaron’s legs. I think she did it. They say she tried to kill him. She was convinced he was the Devil.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda attempted to process the incoherent mess coming from Diane. She was beginning to get annoyed. She wanted to stick to the facts. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Paralysis?” Linda replied. “There are stairs throughout my home I do not have the proper accommodations if he cannot walk.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh yes,” Diane replied. “He has a slight limp, but he walks. He also kicks, hits, and destroys. He is unusually strong. The only thing Aaron doesn’t do is speak.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda stood pressed against the front door listening to the Diane’s warnings. The conversation was intended to discourage her, but instead it only made her more interested. It had been a long time since she had been challenged by a child.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“That is quite typical,” Linda responded. He needs to learn coping mechanisms. I can teach him that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Honestly Linda,” Diane pleaded. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“By the time I got to him, it was too late. No one has ever kept him more than a couple of days. That child is a lost cause. Keep him heavily sedated. I don’t expect you to keep him for more than a couple of days.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“It will be fine,” Linda assured her. “Aaron will stay here for at least two weeks. Fax me a copy of his doctor’s statement.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“No,” Diane replied urgently. “I know you want to fix this child and write about it in your next book but you cannot fix this child. There are not enough drugs or therapy in the world to fix him.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda moved towards Diane with her hand on her hip.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh yes,” Linda said. “He can be fixed and I will be the one to fix him. He is a six year old child. I can guarantee you that there will be vast improvements in Aaron’s behavior in two weeks. Mark your calendar.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“That’s no child!” Diane yelled. She had begun to clinch her fists. “Aaron is no child.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Ten minutes later, Linda was alone with Aaron attempting to figure out what Diane had been talking about. Aaron was a tiny little fellow. Obviously underweight. He looked to be four years old rather than six. He had a slight limp and had difficulty standing upright. She helped the child into his seat at the kitchen table.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda’s first endeavor would be to find a nutritious food that the child would actually eat. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Aaron,” she said. “What would you like to eat for lunch?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Aaron growled. It was a low, raspy sound. The growl was of an abnormal pitch, much too low for a child of six. The child’s voice could possibly be the factor that unnerved Diane. She deduced that due to the child’s lack of pitch control, she should not rule out the possibility that Aaron might be autistic.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda also noticed the pungent odor coming off the child. Not the smell of sweat or urine which was the usual scent. It was something else. Something very sour. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Little man, would you like a grilled cheese sandwich?” Linda sang. She always raised her voice three octaves higher when talking to small children. Studies confirmed that children find it soothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s delicious, Aaron. You know what? I’ll have one too.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda took a large lead skillet out of the cupboard and sat it on the stove. She turned her back to the child and opened the refrigerator. She had to kneel down in order to reach the bottom shelf. It was possible that she was out of butter and might have to make do without it but she definitely had bread and cheese. She had just located the butter when she decided to look back and wave at Aaron.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she looked back, she noticed that Aaron was no longer sitting at the table. This was odd. She had not heard any footsteps at all against the hardwood floor. Surely a child who walked with a limp could be heard against floors. Where could the little boy have gone that fast without making any sounds?<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda ran in search for the child. She sniffed the air as she walked but the child’s smell had already permeated throughout the house and never lost its intensity. Upon entering each room, she stopped and listened for footsteps. There was one privilege to having a house with no carpet. If she listened carefully she will know the location of everyone inside the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Five minutes later, there was still no Aaron.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Hide and seek, Linda thought. Aaron thinks this is a game. She created a new rule in her head while power walking through the house. Never turn your back to a child within the first two hours. He might just disappear on you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Before she knew it, Linda found herself back in the kitchen. She had opened every closet and peered under every bed and was still unable to find the child. Undoubtedly, Aaron was still in the house because she had not heard the alarm. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda decided to wait and listen. If the child did walk off and accidentally got lost on a mission of discovery, he would probably return to the place where he started. If the child is playing hide and seek, he will eventually give up when he discovers that no one is seeking him. She listened carefully but still did not hear anything.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A soft thud. Linda heard it but could not identify where it came from. She looked around the kitchen to see who was approaching. There it was again, except this time it was not one thud but many. It was not the sound of footsteps but as if someone was pounding against the floor. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She was not aware of leaning down and pressing her ear against the floor but she was kneeled down and listening. The floor vibrated underneath her hands with each passing thud. The last sound she remembered hearing was the heavy smack of the lead skillet against her skull. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">When Linda opened her eyes, she saw little Aaron crouched over her growling. He was drooling and she assumed by the puddle of saliva on her shirt that she had been out cold for quite a while. She felt a searing pain at the back of her head. There was a ringing in her ears. It was possible that she had a mild concussion from the blow. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda tried to get up but the pain was too great. She touched the back of her head and felt the warm blood on her fingertips. She attempted to use her arms to hoist herself into an upright position but her body had never felt heavier. She didn’t understand how a three foot tall child with a limp could manage to run up fast enough in order to hit her in the head with a skillet. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">As Linda struggled to lift her weight, Aaron put his tiny arms around her. Grabbing her by the torso, he leaned back and she was able to sit upright. She looked into the child’s eyes and gave a faint smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Empathy,” she said. “What you just did Aaron was empathetic. You just helped me sit up, little man. That means you’re not psychotic.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda laughed as she dragged her body across the kitchen floor towards a chair.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">This child is not a lost cause after all, she thought. Aaron and I have just made a major breakthrough. This little black boy will not end up working in the streets as a drug mule. He is going to go to first grade and play video games.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">#<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It was later that night when the second incident with Aaron occurred. Linda awoke to screams coming from the little boy’s room. She was exhausted and had to fight to wake up because she had taken some Percocet for the pain in the back of her head. She had tucked little Aaron only few hours ago but she knew that interrupted sleep was a part of the process. Night terrors are typical of children transitioning from an abusive environment. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda was surprised by the manliness of the little boy’s choked screams. It was as if it was not a little boy screaming at all. Linda shook off her uneasiness because she had not yet ruled out hearing impairments that could cause the abnormal pitch in the child’s voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Coming down the hall, Linda put her hand over her mouth gagging. She had just bathed Aaron earlier that evening but the child’s smell was stronger than ever. It crawled into her mouth and down her throat leaving an acidic aftertaste. The smell reminded her of one thing and until now she couldn’t remember what it was. Now she could name it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It was the smell of rotting flesh. Linda had only smelled it one time in her life, quite early in her career. Her subject had died and remained undiscovered for over a week in 90 degree heat. At that time, the smell let her know that there was death on the other side of the door. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda wouldn’t have to be concerned about something as horrific being on the other side of Aaron’s door. He was still screaming as loud as his little body would allow. Even louder. Linda knew it must have been one hell of a nightmare for the little boy to scream like this. He screamed as if he was in physical pain, but she knew that emotional pain can hurt more than physical pain at times.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The room was on fire. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It wasn’t until Linda felt the hot doorknob that she smelled the smoke. Linda questioned the plausibility of this. Surely she would have discovered matches on the child when she tucked him into bed in his pajamas.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Fire, Linda thought. How is that possible? Pyromania, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t believe this.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She began kicking at the doorknob hard until it broke off and the door flew open. There was a perfect circular ring of fire surrounding the child’s bed. Linda drew back as the clouds of smoke billowed towards her. She ran into the hallway, switched on the smoke ventilator and grabbed the fire extinguisher. The boy’s tiny body was convulsing on the bed. His arms and legs jerked wildly.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Seizure, Linda thought. No one told me he was epileptic. This changes everything.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“How are you doing my little firebug?” Linda said. She sprayed the fire extinguisher following the trail of fire around the bed. White foam stacked everywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Stay calm. You’re going to be fine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda leaped onto the bed on top of the child. Grabbing him by his hips, she turned the child’s body on his side. She scanned the child’s hands for any visible burns. The perfect circle of fire required an accelerant. The child appeared unscathed. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s going to be okay little man,” Linda cooed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It will pass. Was this just an elaborate rouse so that you could get to ride in the ambulance?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Aaron shrieked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Oh, that child’s voice, Linda thought covering her ears. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No,” Aaron said. His facial expression had shifted and the scared little boy that lay moments ago had completely left. The boy’s seizure had passed and someone else was looking at Linda through Aaron’s eyes. This child was not Aaron, but someone new. If there were two distinct sides to Aaron, this would imply MPD. A dire diagnosis for a six year old child. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It also occurred to Linda that the child could speak. The word “no” is a word. It may be the simplest word of all but it is indeed a word. The child could speak. He had been faking mute the entire time. The thought that little Aaron was faking a disability made Linda angry.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Since we know you speak now Aaron, answer me this,” Linda said. “How did you manage to start the fire?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda grabbed the child’s wrists and leaned down on top of him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Tell me about the fire Aaron,” she yelled. Linda would never dream of yelling at Aaron before, but if Aaron had been pretending to be disabled all this time, he needed to be yelled at. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">When Aaron was still unresponsive, Linda decided to try another approach. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Child,” Linda said. “What is your name?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda had learned this tactic from working with a teenage girl during her second year of graduate study. Each persona had a different name.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“I am the Devil,” Aaron responded.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay,” Linda said with confidence. “You are the Devil. Did your mother tell you this?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes,” the child responded. “I am from hell. The fire that never shall be quenched.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">His facial expression remained unchanged. This was a new personality altogether. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">That phrase is straight from the Bible, Linda thought. Yet it applied directly to the question that was asked. He is quite possibly gifted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda decided to do some research after bringing Aaron home from the hospital and tucking him safely into bed. She rummaged through stacks of books and articles looking for any cases on children with demonic possession. She knew that Aaron was not possessed by the Devil but that wasn’t really the point. The fact that Aaron believed that he was possessed and could generate a theatrical performance of this magnitude meant that she better become a master on the subject. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She had to bring the boy back to reality. It would be quite a waste if such a bright little boy ended up in some group home for the mentally incompetent. He could be some sort of savant or prodigy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">One day, Linda thought. It had only taken a few hours to get Aaron talking while the whole world believed that the child could not speak. This was exactly what was wrong with people. They underestimate these children and shove them into the learning disability category without thinking twice. Linda shook her head disapprovingly. It truly was a shame. It was with these thoughts that Linda finally drifted off to sleep for the second time. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda dreamed that her hands were on fire. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">When she opened her eyes, all she could see was dark blood everywhere. The bed was moist in a pool of blood. The blood soaked the bed sheets, her clothes, and it had dried into her hair. After looking around, she noticed that the puncture wounds on her hands were the source of the blood. The blood rushed from her hands and she found the shock of it so severe that she did not feel pain, only an intense throbbing. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“I bet you thought that was pretty damn clever Aaron,” Linda said as she crouched over the bathtub running cold water over her left hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“I’ll have you know that assault is a very serious crime.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda had opened her first aid kit but could use nothing inside of it except the sterile gauze and iodine. There were two distinct stab wounds on her left and right hands. Each wound had a circumference of about an inch. She had been stabbed clear through on both hands and when looking at her hand she could see through it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She reached for the bottle of whiskey and took a big gulp. She would start with the left hand first. She reached down and picked up the threaded needle and began to sew up the hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda looked up at Aaron who was looking at her from the doorway. The child looked sorry.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“If I was to go to the hospital right now Aaron, they would lock you up for sure,” Linda taunted. “There is no way that I could explain wounds like this. There is no way that I can explain calling an ambulance twice in one night. I just want you to understand the severity of your actions.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda gasped in pain as she thrust the needle downward into the already sensitive flesh. Her eyes began to water and she started to weep softly to herself. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I do not have much time to do this, she thought. I’ve already lost so much blood. How could I have slept through that? I can understand getting stabbed in one hand…but two? These hands will get infected soon. They will begin to pus and swell. Then, they will have to be removed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“My hands,” Linda cried. “How could you have done this, Aaron?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“I am not Aaron,” the child responded. “I am the Devil. Trouble, sorrow, and despair are my truth. It follows me everywhere that I go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“I’ll fix you!” Linda screamed. “If it’s the last thing I do. You’ll be a good little boy. You’ll see. You’ll see.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">#<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Two weeks later, Linda and Diane sat in the living room. She could tell that Diane was thirsty for details, but she had yet to come up with any plausible story.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Linda, I have to tell you,” Diane said. “You look like hell. It must have been a rough two weeks. Look at your hands. And what’s worse is that you are limping. What happened to your legs?<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Linda sat in the chair unable to close her mouth and the drool oozed off of her lips. It took her thirty seconds to gain control and be able to speak.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Diane,” she whispered in between low growls. “That child took a lot from me. This will probably be my last case. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She jerked her body backward and forced a bandaged hand to her face. She wiped the saliva from her mouth with much effort. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Would you like to see the little boy?” Linda asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes,” Diane replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Hey Aaron,” Linda called faintly. “Come into the dining room and say hello to Diane.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Diane watched in amazement as Aaron skipped into the room smiling.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Hello Diane,” Aaron said. “How are you today?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“I’m fine Aaron,” Diane said. “You’re in a good mood.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Do you want to look at my drawings Diane?” Aaron asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes,” Diane replied. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Diane called multiple times for Linda’s notes on Aaron’s case. She left voicemails congratulating her on the remarkable change in Aaron’s behavior. She offered Linda her highest acclamations and even suggested that she write the foreword in Linda’s next book. Linda never returned any of Diane’s calls. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div>Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-30218753993336820542011-10-16T17:43:00.000-07:002011-10-16T17:43:30.877-07:00FICTION: Falling by Stephanie DiazI lie in a field. The grass beneath me is gnarled and growing in patches, more brown than green. It rustles in the wind of the darkening day, stretching across the mat of earth to the edge of a forest. There, the trees grow like giants and block much of the sun.<br />
<br />
My eyes are shut tightly, as if held by clamps. It's a game I play; if I keep them shut long enough, the world might disappear and take everyone else with it. I pray that it will. There's nothing for me here.<br />
<br />
Hours might've passed since I came here. I have no way to know, and don't wish to. I barely notice the grass anymore. In my head, I imagine that I'm falling.<br />
<br />
The air rushes past me; the clouds tangle my hair. Hawks tear their talons into my flesh as they pass me by. I open my mouth to cry aloud, but no sound comes out. Or maybe I'm screaming, but I can't hear myself over the wind.<br />
<br />
Still, I'm falling. Always falling.<br />
<br />
Tears spill over from my eyes, then fly upward with the wind. <br />
<br />
Still, I'm falling. Can't see the ground.<br />
<br />
<br />
Brambles bite my bare arms. Somewhere, crickets string their violins. Now they're playing my funeral hymn.<br />
<br />
My heart pounds like a drum. Soon, it'll stop. I pray that it will stop, or I'll wake up and life will be a dream.<br />
<br />
Something hits me hard. Light, color, and dark mingle with stars and fading nothingness.<br />
<br />
I scream.<br />
<br />
Something strangles my throat. I tear at it with my fingers, clutching and clawing.<br />
<br />
“Stop, please!” The voice is a sob, entrenched with pity and worry. It pleads with me. Unfamiliar, but so wrenching it makes me pause<br />
<br />
Who can it be? I know no savior, but the voice is too sweet to be an enemy.<br />
<br />
The air is heavy in my lungs. My chest heaves as my eyelids flutter open.<br />
<br />
A boy kneels beside me in the grass. His hair is brown and messy on his head, and his eyes are wide, overflowing with tears. <br />
<br />
I do not know him. I stare at him for a time.<br />
<br />
The air is fresher now, thick with the smell of dew and dandelions. I don't recognize this place. Not the field nor the trees nor the flowers.<br />
<br />
“Where am I?”<br />
<br />
He smiles through his watering eyes. He takes my hand in his and squeezes it. “Someplace better,” he said.Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-66984513100791487672011-10-16T17:40:00.000-07:002011-10-16T17:40:42.306-07:00FICTION: Precious by Victoria GriffinEyes. Beady black eyes looked back at her from the corner, hidden by shadows. She picked up a rock and aimed. A high squeak and a long thin tail slipped out of sight. There was no one outside tonight—save for her and the rats. She was thankful for that. There was no one to call her names. The grass was dying around her—bidding its final farewells, knowing the weeds, finding no opposition, would soon own the small patch stuck between rivers of concrete and rows of numbered doors. The little girl toyed with a broken bottle beside her, not realizing she had cut her hand until the blood had dripped down to her wrist. The redness falling from her hand to the ground seemed to signal the sky above, and the first drops struck the earth around her—a soft warning before the pummeling began.<br />
<br />
126. 127. 128. She stood in front of the door, already soaked through, hair wringing wet. Her clothes clung to her as though frightened. As she stood, the doorknob seemed to grow fangs, but the sky was still roaring, and the rain was thrashing about, hurting her, burning, taking the air—<br />
<br />
The door was open before she felt the touch of it on her hand, and she was standing in the dry. The room was dim—the dull glow from the open doorway behind her meeting scarce amounts of light seeping through the heavy clouds and the slim crack between the hotel curtains. Barely enough light to see the peeling paint on the wall beside her. The sound of the rain pounding at the outside world was static in her ears—a background to set the room against, the sounds coming from within.<br />
<br />
She could see motion, silhouettes against the darkness, cast in shadows. Slimy shadows and an animal’s grunt, hard and deepened by the pitch of the rain.<br />
<br />
White.<br />
<br />
Eyes lit by the darkness. The bed shifted like settling sand, and she could almost see the color in her mother’s eyes—brown like the dying grass outside the building. The grunts stopped for a moment, caught in the sticky silence. Spider’s web. <br />
<br />
Trapped. Frozen.<br />
<br />
Her mother rolled onto the floor, grasping at blankets to cover her naked body. A shadow sat up straight. Spoke with a smoker’s rasp. Angry. Her mother’s voice cooing from somewhere far away—too distant to distinguish between softness and anger.<br />
<br />
The girl stepped toward the corner, exposing the light from the doorway to the man’s face. It was tough and scarred and housed two eyes as unfeeling as the rain—but with a malice unique to humans. God, those eyes, like ones she had seen before. Another man. But just like him.<br />
<br />
Fear tore into her. Legs moving, running. Crunch of grass beneath her feet. The rain was hushed, but the rattling voice against her ears was loud. “You dumb bitch! Not a dime of my money! Not a penny!” Footsteps behind her. Light rhythm of bare feet. She didn’t feel the road bite her knees, and she couldn’t tell if the salty water on her cheeks was made of tears or just the rain. Her head struck unforgiving asphalt, and the grayness surrounding her turned black.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
The world was pulsing. A gentle beat struck the chair she sat in. The desk across the room toppled, the mattress leapt from its frame, and the phone hurled itself at the mirror, scattering shards throughout the carpet.<br />
<br />
Her body ached. Her skin was perfumed with the scent of rain, and her mind tumbled through darkness, water cascading from the sky above, down the walls, down her mother’s face.<br />
<br />
She sat in the floor, knees pulled into her chest. Weariness and blotchy red eyes conquered her features, and she was humming some old song that her daughter had never heard. They seemed to wake together—one from sleep, one from sorrow—and she was in her mother’s arms in an instant, asking what had happened.<br />
<br />
“You ran out in the road. Fell and hit your head. But you’re ok.”<br />
<br />
“What about the room? Why is it broken?”<br />
<br />
“A mean man got mad and broke it. He said he’d be back tomorrow so we gotta go.”<br />
<br />
“Was it the man in here last night? The one who was yelling?”<br />
<br />
Her mother turned her head away. “Get your teddy bear.”<br />
<br />
“But I don’t wanna leave. This place is nice. The water’s clear, and the men don’t…” Grubby hands. Filthy hands. <br />
<br />
Screams. “This place is nice.”<br />
<br />
“I know, baby, but we gotta go.”<br />
<br />
“What about the police? Remember a long time ago? The woman with two different shoes? She said the police help people in trouble. She said her husband was a police—before he got shot. She said the police are the good guys.”<br />
<br />
“Baby, we can’t.”<br />
<br />
“But they’re the good guys, and we’re the good guys. Right?” Her big brown eyes sought answers in her mother’s, but they found nothing but despondency. “Right, Mommy?”<br />
<br />
Her mother couldn’t help but hesitate. Finally, she found a smile, though her tearful frown did find a way into her words. <br />
<br />
“You remember how to hold your hand, don’t you? That’s it, thumb way up.”<br />
<br />
The woman closed door 128 behind her and, as the day staggered on, took her daughter’s hand and led her to the next circle of Hell.Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-48602413722373382472011-10-16T17:37:00.000-07:002011-10-16T17:37:21.537-07:00FICTION: Tragedy By Neil WestonMoll’s voice bounced from wall to wall of her bedroomlike a trapped bird. She spoke in afevered tongue as the illness continued its vicious incursion on her body, a frailteenager; she was at the window of death. At her bedside stood a doctor and beside him a priest. The doctor inserted a needle into Moll’sfoot, the veins there were the only ones not collapsed or withered. Through the needle, was sent morphine. The morphine offered a tiny keyhole ofwakefulness. <br />
“Daddy?” Moll’s voice suddenly carried resonance and clarity as the drug made itsinroads.<br />
<br />
“Yes?” her father asked.<br />
<br />
The girl’s father was also the priest, he refused toresort or accede to asking God to keep Moll alive. If he sought such an act, he was requesting shebecome immortal, and that broke the rules, it broke his oaths and training. <br />
At the sound of Moll’s voice, the doctor moved outof the room.<br />
<br />
“I must be given over,” Moll continued.<br />
“I cannot let you go. It would tear me apart,” said her father. He stroked Moll’s hands, observed his shadowon the wall opposite, watery, impotent.<br />
<br />
“I’m sick, dying. If I go, I can live. I can bewell again.”<br />
The priest sighed. He ignored the request and the tap-tap-tap at the bedroom window; and,in so doing, dismissed what he knew was the inevitable pressed against thepanes of glass.<br />
<br />
“Open the window, Daddy.”<br />
The priest felt the pain of tears skirt the rim ofhis eyelids, hot fat sizzling into his flesh. He cupped the cross-hung about his neck so tight it left cerise indentson his palm, approached the window, a broken man, and stared at the alien beyond. “Forsakeme,” he said.<br />
<br />
With trembling hands, he eased up the window.<br />
The aliens--the press called them Martian, a baptismadministered by the unprepared, the unknowledgeable--had come to make war onthe planet collecting the feeble lives of those in physical need and repairingthem. A simple bite and the transferenceof rejuvinative fluids was all it took. An elixir that tendered rebirth encouraged the sick and dying to rise uplike fresh, invigorated shoots.<br />
<br />
By the time the governments reacted, it had becometoo late to stop the army of the expired coming out of the shadows, from thatsomewhere of ghosts and prickling, untouchable fear normally shut away by logic.<br />
The priest considered his actions, therepercussions. Somewhere in his learningat the priesthood had to be forgiveness for the personal sin he implemented inthis unnatural revivification.<br />
<br />
He turned his head from the alien as it eagerlypursed through the opening. An iciclewith wings and hypodermic incisors. It coveredthe priest’s daughter with a sliding, serpent of ashen shadow.<br />
Moll’s screams split the priest’s soul. He ran from the room, head bowed, face coveredby his hands. Knives of thought paredback his heart as he knew he wouldsee his daughter again and she wouldfind him.<br />
<br />
Everyone knew how these invaders scented out the familiesof the ill as part of some perverse recruitment drive. Inspired by the recovery of their parents,grandparents, siblings other family members chose to become ill and to berecreated. <br />
The priest would be found but not until he had soughta place of penance.<br />
<br />
As he ran from the house, he threw his cross on theground. “Only one god made man!” hecried. “One god!” The prieststumbled, and, as he stumbled, he brushed away the tears and uttered, in tonesof finality, “Then, along they came. Along...they...came....”<br />
<br />
<br />
TheEndScott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-40108991046631384622011-10-16T17:35:00.000-07:002011-10-16T17:35:22.535-07:00FICTION: The Coward by R.D.Cullipher<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoNormalTable" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: auto 7.1pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-table-anchor-horizontal: margin; mso-table-anchor-vertical: margin; mso-table-left: center; mso-table-lspace: 9.35pt; mso-table-rspace: 9.35pt; mso-table-top: bottom; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184; width: 100%;"><tbody>
<tr style="mso-yfti-firstrow: yes; mso-yfti-irow: 0; mso-yfti-lastrow: yes;"> <td style="background-color: transparent; border: rgb(0, 0, 0); padding: 0cm 5.4pt; width: 100%;" valign="top" width="100%"> <div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-element-anchor-horizontal: margin; mso-element-frame-hspace: 9.35pt; mso-element-left: center; mso-element-top: bottom; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: frame; mso-height-rule: exactly;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div></td> </tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">There was something horribly wrong with the world, just what it was; I hadn’t quite worked out over the past few years of my idleness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These were the thoughts that were hovering in my mind as I boarded the plane in Moscow heading for Kiev, the capital of the Ukraine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the forefront of my mind were her last words, ok maybe not her last words, but the words ‘you’re a coward and a user’ she had spat at me over the telephone. We had eventually made up, but these words forced me to contemplate on where to go or what to do next, in this chaotic life I was living. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I sat down and adjusted my seat belt. I couldn’t help thinking that ‘here I go again, going to screw up another marriage.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Excuse me, do you speak English?” I asked the stewardess as she went by checking the overhead bins, she was obviously Russian or at least Slavic, it was easy for me to recognize after two years in Moscow, slightly Asian eyes with a narrow face that came to a point like a fox’s snout.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes, but not ‘wery’ good” she replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“How long is it to Kiev” I asked, wondering how long it would be, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">exactly</i>, before I could grab a smoke (a user, a drug user, crept along the perimeter of my mind, probing my defenses).<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She twirled a strand of her hair whilst rolling her eyes, in thought, not frustration, before she replied with a smile “tri..ah, Three howers.” She smiled, obviously proud of herself and of her mastery of the English language. And then she just stood there, playing with a strand of her hair, looking me in the eyes, waiting for me to reply.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She hadn’t said or done anything to make me think I had any chance with her, she was just doing her job and being polite, but, my reptilian brain gave me a green light to start hitting on this girl, the soldier in me said attack, but the civilian social codes of the day had dictated that I was married and this type of behavior was not tolerated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pig in me fought the social standards ‘as useless as wearing a tie, you’ll never see her again, those who don’t risk, never drink champagne. Nevertheless, I simply replied “O.K., thanks, can I get some whiskey when you get a chance?” The civilized man won out, better safe than sorry, nothing ventured, nothing loss.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The flight lasted exactly three hours and fifteen minutes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I deplaned and headed as fast as I could towards passport control, dying for a smoke.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Zdrasvuicha (or a formal ‘Hello’)” I said as I handed my passport to the immigration official. She began to look at my photo and my passport, I only hoped she wouldn’t look at me, but it was too late, for at the same time I was hoping this, she held my passport up to examine my photo and myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“What’s your name?” she said as her eyes squinted then widened trying to reconcile the photo of me, in which I was 50lbs heavier with a crew cut, to the new me, skinny with long hair.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Thirty minutes later and after showing two alternative forms of Identification, numerous questions, asked and answered, I was released to get to the smoking room, which I went to straight away knowing I would definitely be stopped at customs for possibly a cavity search. The words a coward and a user, still hovering like a fog in the back of my mind. Fuck it! I decided not to think about it and to try to enjoy myself in Kiev, I was going to be here at least fourteen days, and I didn’t want to waste them on self analysis, plus I picked up a bottle of ‘The Glenlivett” 18 years old, which would help me enjoy my time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">You know my name know now, it’s Jack, Jack Tralidas, or as I used to tell my men while I was active in the Army, TRavel LIve DAnce and Sex. Actually I am still owned by the US Army, for about two more years, but I don’t have to show up, cut my hair, run or any of that other bullshit that goes with being in the Army. No, I’m not some Spook or Special Forces guy, just a regular old grunt, an Infantryman, with some bizarre circumstances that have me living a pretty surrealistic life right now, maybe that’s why I married a Russian woman after divorcing my first wife (denial? Ok after she divorced me) and abandoning her with my four kids. Confused yet? If you’re not, then help me out. Sorry, I go off sometimes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figured that if a Russian wife made Salvador Dali famous, then maybe I should get one. My life, to the present, has been nothing short of unbelievable, which makes it quite difficult to answer questions about my past, what I’ve done, where I’ve been, when meeting new people without an hour long autobiography, therefore I have begun to say to my new acquaintances that, “I’m a writer now, with no past, only a present and hopefully a future, it’s easier this way and not as painful.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">After 45 minutes of riding the Kiev Metro or underground, I made my way up and out of the teatralna (theatre area) metro station and found my Hostel. The fifteen minutes it took me to walk the 300 feet to the Hostel, through the puddles and falling snow, concentrating on each step as not to fall on the half frozen cobblestone sidewalks, put the critical and self doubting voice in my head to rest. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At the front door of the flat that was serving as the <u>Really Central</u> Hostel in Kiev. I rang the bell. While waiting for an answer, I was examining what had to be at least a hundred year old building, smelling of mold and rotting vegetation, Slavic graffiti covering the walls in the Cyrillic alphabet, although I could barely make out what it said due to the dimness of the corridor, there being only one naked low wattage bulb hanging about ten feet above my head, then I heard the locks at the door being retracted, it seemed like eight or nine of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The door was opened by a woman, whose fertility wafted as a strong perfume into the corridor, temporarily defeating the earlier smells. “I’m Jack, I called last week about a room.” I said, hoping that she spoke at least some English.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Hey, you’re the American living in Moscow right?” She beamed at me. My spirits rose.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Yeah, are you Sveta?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Nyet, eto Luba, do you speak Russian?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Nyet, ya punimayo, chut, chut paruskie” I explained, meaning that I spoke or understood very little Russian, although I understood that she was Luba and not Sveta, whom I had spoken with earlier when booking my room, or bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Come in please” she said stepping aside as I lugged my bag over the threshold and immediately begin taking my shoes off in the Slavic tradition, so as not to track dirt off the street into the living area, a habit I had already incorporated to my daily routine, a habit that only seemed strange to my American friends when I did it at their houses.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Luba showed me around and helped me choose a rack (even though I am technically a civillian now, I can’t stop calling a bed a rack, the restroom a latrine or head and even exercise or working out ‘PT’ or physical training) close to the heater, being from California originally, she figured I would need the extra heat from the radiator, even though it was placed just under the window, something that didn’t make sense but is a basic design along with the toilet always being right next to the kitchen, design flaws that I stopped trying to point out to my Russian wife and friends a long time ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I had been at the Hostel for three days, going out to drink at night at a bar called the Baraban (drum in English) which had cheap whiskey and a decidedly British patronage that allowed me to ease drop on my native tongue without committing to a conversation (I chose to order in Russian as to not invite that commitment which I wasn’t ready for). What really drew me to this bar was the difficulty in finding it; it’s nestled in a courtyard accessible only by traversing a couple of flat blocks then going down some stairs as if entering the basement of one of these flat blocks, a place where you won’t find some random tourists coming in from the cold for a drink. When I returned to the Hostel after the Baraban bar, I met Luba, smoking in the corridor.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Jack, I have a supreese for you” she said jumping up from the step.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Really, a Soopreyes, for me” I said slowly, allowing her to hear the correct pronunciation.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“yes, we have a new boy, and he speaks English” she continued.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“ah, great, is he from the states?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“no, no, Brasilla” she replied then added “he looks like Johnny Depp.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Cool” I said as I opened the door and began taking my shoes off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Hi, where you from?” was the first thing he asked me as I stepped into the dorm room we would be sharing, I remembered this because of how American it seemed to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I told him California originally but now Moscow Russia and before I got too far into my biography I stopped. “Listen; let me make this easier, I am a writer who lives in Moscow and am originally from California, let it lay at that.” I smiled as I saw his confusion and awe before I quickly added, “No, I’m not a spy, I’m not famous nor am I infamous” (My mind added internally, ‘Neither am I a coward or a user’) “I’m just a normal guy with abnormal circumstances.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had sufficiently confused him, and the sense of mystery my words had inspired, thoroughly satisfied my ego.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Johnny laughed at this and told me he understood and asked if he could just tell me that he was a photographer and leave it at that. Having agreed, I asked him if he had eaten yet.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We learned over the next couple of days that we had both served time in the Military as Infantrymen or grunts, and were therefore ‘brothers in arms’. I had learned a lot more about him than he of me, (you shouldn’t underestimate the importance this held for me) like the fact that he was here to re-unite with a girl he had met on an earlier trip in Europe but that it was complicated because she had a boyfriend, he learned from me that I loved Whiskey and that I was married to a Russian woman. We found a bar called the Arte Club 44 and even though the whiskey here was more expensive than at the Baraban, I agreed with him that ‘this was the place, of above all others in Kiev’ for our evening entertainment. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Our first night out together I realized that Luba and I weren’t the only people who thought that Johnny resembled Mr. Depp, at least one woman in the Arte Club 44 felt the same way. I remembered that one minute I was ordering some beers for Johnny and I, and when I turned around to hand him his, he was lip locked with a local. When he finally came up for some air I asked him, “Does she speak English?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“No” he laughed as he took the beer I was holding out for him. “What is this?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“12 Grevna, or Cheap for me, free for you, don’t ask” I answered.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was just at this moment when a Fat Ukrainian man grabbed Johnny by the collar in a manner that could only mean trouble and I instinctively grabbed his collar and in turn, my collar was grabbed by a much larger man, whom we figured out later, was the brother of the fat man, who was the husband of the woman that Johnny was kissing. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">If you’re a man, I mean a real man, or at least ‘a fucked up man who doesn’t fit into society very easily’, like a Tennessee Williams character, then you already know about bar fights, that they last only about 15 seconds, but the story material they provide will last years on end, and by the last telling, the number of combatants and their physical size and strength are equal to or greater than the forces that battled for the beach at Normandy on ‘D-day’, therefore, rather than bore you what could only be an elaboration on the facts, I will just tell you that Johnny and I lived through this one, a Fat man was hurt, his brother’s Knuckles where damaged, and regardless of my injuries, I gained the undying admiration of a Brazilian, who happens to look like Johnny Depp and he had gained my admiration of being a real lady killer, one not afraid to dive head first into the arms of any woman, married or otherwise.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We had only slept for about two hours when we were awoken by the scuffling of some new arrivals to our dorm putting their gear away. I had peeped with one eye to see who they were, one mountain of a man, blonde closely cropped hair, and one almost as tall but not as muscular, with longer darker hair. I glance at Johnny as he did the same, both of us with one eye shut before I went back to sleep, a long sleep for our plans for this night were going to be a repeat if possible, back to the ‘44’ as we began calling it as the locals did.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I would like to be brief here and just glide over the events of this second night and just tell you that we went bowling instead of the ‘44’, that we met two guys, one cool, the other a bit, I guess eccentric is the best way to describe him. It would be justifiable to just leave it at that if Johnny hadn’t had forced an epitome on me that is, therefore I will just bring you up until today, this morning. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">My neck hurt so badly from our first night out at the ‘44’, that the little sleep I did get was worthless. I slowly turned in my bunk, trying not to cause additional pain or make any unnecessary noise that might awaken the others still sleeping in the dorm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was no use, every position I tried was uncomfortable and the pain, while not unbearable, made it impossible to sleep. ‘Might as well get up and smoke’ was the thought that got me moving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I glanced at my watch, the hands blurry, I had no idea where I put my glasses the night before, but I could vaguely make out that it was either 12:05 or 1:00 pm translating that I had from 6 to 7 hours roughly in the rack with possibly 2 to 3 hours of sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grabbed my pants and tiptoed out of the dorm, my flip flops slapping and the floor boards creaking with sounds hardly audible during the day’s ambient noise, but louder than a china shop during an earthquake here in the still of the afternoon slumbering dorm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I passed Johnny’s rack, I glanced down and felt a parental like warmth pass through my mind and soul, as I noticed a smile on his face in his undisturbed, well deserved rest.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With a cup of instant coffee and a cigarette, I stepped into the corridor, closing the door slowly and lightly behind me. I sat on the cold step of the stairwell. I sat, trying to recall my dreams from the night before as I pulled a drag off my cigarette. Recently, all of my dreams had been fish related; catching them, befriending them or swimming with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These dreams seemed to fit with my surreal situation in life lately. You see, I was in Kiev, Ukraine in order to renew my Visa to Moscow, Russia where I was currently living with my Russian wife whom I met whilst living in Sharm El Sheikh Egypt, a soldier of the U.S. Army, part of a peace keeping force between Israel and Egypt and in support of operation Iraqi freedom, I might also add that I had already had an American wife and four children when I met my current wife. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can now appreciate when I say I was living a surrealistic life. I don’t know if there is any way to explain my circumstances in a manner that we may understand them better, but let me add that an Injury I had sustained made me unfit for duty, although I feel fine..But once again I am off topic, forgive me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the fish that occupied my mind mainly, sitting there alone in the corridor.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The door to the flat opened, Johnny was joining me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Whoops” I said with a smile, “looks like I am in your chair” I said as Johnny, stepped into the corridor. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This had been the ongoing joke since Johnny, hadn’t quite caught on to the idea of taking his shoes off every time he entered the hostel and had therefore spent his evenings, sitting on the step that I now occupied, shivering as he edited the photographs he had taken that day, (he’s a photographer) shivering the entire time while chain smoking only coming into the flat when he was ready to call it the night, or morning, since, as he put it…<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“like most creative people, I am an insomniac and can’t sleep”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I had laughed at this when he said it and replied “you don’t seem to find a problem sleeping during the day”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">This morning, we made some idle chit chat, both of us refusing to touch upon last night’s events. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was still wearing the jeans and rumpled bloodied shirt from the night before, shuffling about in my old slippers, which I had tried to throw away because they smelled of rotten feet, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but then decided to give them to Johnny since he was having trouble adapting to the ritual of removing shoes each time he wanted to smoke, I figured, smelly feet would be better than pneumonia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">After a pause, Johnny drew in a deep drag off of his cigarette and in his best Russian said to me “So, Dobrie Utro Jack” or good morning Jack . Being proud of his pronunciation; I felt for sure that he would wake the others still sleeping in the flat dorm. I was especially worried that he might wake our friend from the Georgian region of the former USSR, a short tempered man whose mannerisms had convinced the both of us that he had designs on pulling off some plot or other that would put our lives in danger. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alexander was his given name and Sascha the familiar, but we had finally agreed to call him Al Qaeda, or Al for short. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“shh, you don’t want Al to bomb your bed do you” I whispered mischievously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I continued in the same subdued voice “how do you feel man? Sorry if I woke you up, I tried to be quiet”. He was still smiling over the Al Qaeda bombing reference when he answered, <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Me, no you didn’t wake me up, I woke up on my own to find, as usual, that you weren’t in your bunk.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the last couple of days he had been voicing his concern over my sleep habits.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Man, do you ever sleep?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I ignored his jibe for I had begun reflecting about our boy’s night out. (It’s hard to tell when in the midst of a conversation I might drift off into reflections or reminiscences, but that’s how my mind works, can’t help it.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Last night was the best night I’ve had in Kiev” I immediately caught myself and added, “well, except for the earlier events of the evening” My statement was focused on the warm fuzzy memories of bowling at 2 am and drinking liter after liter of the cheapest beer the place had to offer, discussing life, love and romance with Johnny and Chip, the canuck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chip was our Canadian friend who had just joined us yesterday at the Hostel, a man hell bent on visiting 90 countries in one year, he had under a month left to do it in and was at 87 countries thus far, his plan was to hop a train after a couple of days to head to Poland and from there hit ‘Bohemia’ as he referred to the Slavic states around the Balkans. When we had asked him the night before why he was going to the Balkans, he replied as if reading a tour pamphlet, “Why it’s obvious, the women there are beautiful and friendly.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">My attempted save in reference to the ‘earlier events’ only served to highlight <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my level of un-comfortableness with the subject of those events, I felt like a complete idiot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only hoped that the non-chalant manner in which I tried to deliver this statement would communicate to him how insignificant they were and allow us to focus on the end of the night; but his silence and the lack of expression on his face made me nervously add with a chuckle, “all’s well that ends well?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know why it is whenever I get nervous in a social situation, a faux pas, if you will, I always fall back on Shakespearean quotes, maybe as a way to attribute the mistake to someone greater than myself and therefore remove any responsibility I might have had from the situation. It’s a tick, a nervous habit that I was well aware of, but could not stop from doing. When I looked up again to see what affect if any this had on Johnny, I found him in deep reflection, starring at the grimy elevator doors. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He exhaled the smoke from his last drag and began in a somber tone “but it’s not over, it hasn’t ended. I got an email from her last night while we were out Bowling, a bible of an email, some good some bad, but it didn’t end ‘well’” he paraphrased me. “She called me a coward” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There it was, the issue we had been avoiding, pretty damn well I thought, brought to the forefront and center of our conversation. I knew it had to be discussed in order for him to move on, but god damn it, why now, why hadn’t I prepared. I took a long drag off my dying cigarette, replying with the smoke still in my mouth, “Fuck her Johnny”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He laughed before I could continue and added wittingly “I was trying to fuck her, but never got the chance” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I chuckled, truly appreciating his ability to find humor in the situation. I kept my silence and turned my head as if in thought toward the flat door, hoping beyond hope that we may still be able to avoid the issue, but I knew in my heart, that the corridor we shared, now stunk with the odor of this wound and we would need to settle up the accounts in order to clear the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Johnny took the lead, pressing forward; he asked “Jack, do you think I’m a coward?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In my mind the words “into the Breach” or “Follow me men” or even better “Charge” reverberated as I knew, like every good soldier knows, when the commitment to action is unavoidable, it’s best to get it over as soon as possible, I charged into the fray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looking up into his eyes, his puppy dog eyes that every woman in Kiev seemed to lose themselves in, my courage wavered, but I was now committed, or charged with the duty of carrying out this tribunal, the outcome of which I was not sure as of yet. “Well” I began shakily, stalling for time in order to reference my past experiences to his situation. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Johnny unexpectedly interrupted, to my relief, “Man, I ran like a coward, I ran so fast and without any thought other than to get away, I ran in -10 weather, leaving my jacket, gloves and scarf behind at the café. Shit man, I didn’t even know where the fuck I was, I remember just looking back to see if he was still after me, I never stopped until I was sure he had given up, then I slowed down and began to look around to see if I could recognize where I was then I worked my way back here.” He looked down at his feet as he spoke, his self-loathing was so strong, I felt it emanating off of him like heat from a pot-bellied stove, but I was glad for the extra moments his soliloquy had given me to organize my thoughts and allow me to began my reply, a reply to his question that was not to be completed by me or any man I thought at the time, until the instant of our deaths. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At this moment, here in our corridor, the best I could come up with was an Infantry analogy, “Johnny” I started, “I don’t know much about the Brazilian Infantry, but in the US Army, our infantry training is comprised of battle drills, and the battle drill that comes to my mind concerning your situation is the reaction to close ambush.” I had his full attention, being a man, talking about or listening to manly men speaking about manly things, acts as a sort of opiate. I continued “make no mistake, what happened to you was an ambush, a close ambush.” I paused again to give weight to this statement for I would later point out that Olla’s beloved one, Olla being the girl that Johnny had travelled all the way from Brazil to Ukraine to see, the her that had called him a coward, and her beloved one, The ‘beloved’, was the name we gave to her live-in boyfriend,(we pronounced beloved with three syllables for added emphasis) was the coward for initiating a sneak attack, or more appropriately, attempting to land four sucker punches on Johnny under the pretence of having a chat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We are constantly drilled in these battle drills in order to make our reactions automatic and expedient” I couldn’t believe I had used the word expedient, but it seemed the best word at the moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We also know that the likelihood of surviving an ambush is not very good, but if you do survive the initial volley, then your immediate actions following will either save you or get you killed.” I waited a moment to ensure he was following me. “Upon realizing you are in a close ambush, you should immediately push forward, fight through the ambush, gain distance from the enemy, regroup in a defensive position and await re-enforcements.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I paused here, feeling as if I were in front of my men again, instructing, and leading them. I continued in a manly manner, full of confidence and belief in what I was saying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“In my eyes, what you did as a soldier was to react to this ambush by pushing through the enemy, putting distance between you and him, you then rallied back here at the hostel and awaited your re-enforcements. Militarily speaking, it was a textbook execution, perfection if you will.” I lit another cigarette as he was digesting my summary of his actions the night before. I slipped back into the reflection of those events.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It was a Sunday night, a night of Jazz at the Art Club 44.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had planned to go out, have some beers, Johnny, Chip and myself, (ok I was looking for Whiskey, but they didn’t know that), Johnny was going to meet another girl named Nastia that he had met on the internet for Olla had set the ground rules before he had even left Brazil. The ground rules being that they could only meet during the week when her boyfriend thought she was at work, but never on the weekends because he would get suspicious of her going out alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had showered and were smoking in the corridor waiting on Chip to finish getting dressed; Al Qaeda had already waved us off, stating that he was having money problems that couldn’t be fixed until Monday morning when the bank opened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard Johnny’s phone chirp announcing a new text message. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">As he read the message, a smile began to spread on his face from ear to ear and he beamed with excitement as he told me “Jack, we have a change of plans, I need to find this address” as he handed me his phone. I saw that Olla had messaged him that she was free from her beloved and wanted to see Johnny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I had met Olla a couple of days earlier when she came to meet Johnny at our hostel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember thinking that she looked very young, was cute and had a certain charm owing to her sense of retro-fashion that reminded me of early 1980’s Madonna, down to the bow in her hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What I remembered the most were her eyes which beamed with intelligence and hinted to her calculating ways, like the eyes of a mouse, using the periphery vision to take in as much information as possible, I actually imagined her as a mouse traversing the dangers of the night time kitchen floor, stealing across the wide open space before coming into contact with the sleeping house cat, freezing, and staring, not at the cat, but watching the cat out of its peripheral vision for any movement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">When she had first arrived at the hostel, Johnny was still in the shower giving Olla and I a few moments to talk. She asked what I was doing here in Kiev, where I was from, basically all of the common questions when meeting someone new. I told her that I was currently living in Moscow, from California, was in Kiev in order to renew my Visa to Russia, was married, and my latest attempt at a career was that of writing, after having been a sailor, a soldier, a business owner and an Engineer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She latched onto the writer attribute, leading us to a discussion about literature, favorite books and authors, and ending with a flirtatious request by her to read my work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Johnny was ready by this time and was catching the last fragments of our discussion, I told her that I would give my work to Johnny and that she could get it from him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She offered that it would be easier if I had her email and just sent it to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Johnny was a bit on guard for he saw my reptilian brain fighting for control and after my comment earlier on how he should proceed with her, I stating that he should just ‘Fuck her like a man then see what happens’ understandably he didn’t quite trust me around her, therefore, I just responded “We’ll see.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I googled the address that Olla had sent Johnny as the rendezvous point for the evening, I noticed that this café was next door to the Art Club 44 and explained to him that he could easily keep both dates, if he were talented enough, going between Olla and Nastia on the pretense of using the toilet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“No” he chuckled “I already told Nastia that something came up” with this he headed down the stairs to meet with Olla. He was back inside of three minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Wow, that was fast” I quipped.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I forgot my gloves” he replied smiling shyly whilst looking at his feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Ohhhhhh” I cautioned with my forefinger waving in front of him, “make sure to look in the mirror, stick out your tongue and smile before leaving again or you’ll have bad luck.” This was another superstition of the Slavic people that I had educated Johnny on earlier, along with the tradition of taking his shoes off before entering the flat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He laughed and said there was no way he was going to take his shoes off again just to go back inside and carry out this ridiculous tradition, anyways, he was Brazilian not Russian or Ukrainian. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I smiled and only added “When in Rome…” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The next time I saw Johnny was 45 minutes later, no jacket, no scarf, no gloves, every exposed part of his body was bright red with Chill Blains from the -10 cold of the Kiev winter night, eyes glazed with the affect of adrenaline pumping through his veins and his left cheek a little swollen where two of the intended four sucker punches had landed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“So Jack, what I did was a tactical move, not cowardice?” Whilst I was lost in recalling the past events, Johnny had finished his analysis of what I had told him and his question snapped me back to the present and our discussion of the events. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Of course, look, would a coward fly all the way from Brazil to see a girl he met in Paris, knowing…” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Barcelona” Johnny interrupted.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What?” I stopped, confused. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“I met her in Barcelona, not Paris, remember, I hated Paris, and I met Olla in Barcelona.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I stammered trying to regain my train of thought, “ok, a girl that he met in Barcelona, would a coward do that? Much more than that, do you think her beloved would fly all the way to Brazil to see her, knowing that she was living with you, her boyfriend? Have you considered this, tables turned and all?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He lit a cigarette and smiled as he replied, “He couldn’t! He doesn’t have a job.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I was blown away by this, “What the fuck, does this guy have a monster dick or what?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Johnny laughed at this and replied, “I don’t know, I don’t want to know” he replied grimacing. We both chuckled at this. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I continued, inspired by his elevated mood, “I’ll tell you what a coward is, a coward is a woman who can’t tell you, ‘No don’t come’, or a woman so afraid to be alone, she would rather hold onto a loser without a job instead of taking a chance on a great guy like you, you know ‘bird in the hand is better than two in the bush’, remember, ‘he who never risks, never drinks champagne’ , or something like that” I was fired up now and on a roll, “Or how about a guy who is taller than you by at least 15cm, if your description of her beloved is accurate, taking sucker punches at you? I don’t know about Rio De Janeiro but in America we say, ‘Hey, I don’t want you around my girl anymore, and if I find you with her again we are going to settle this with our fists’ I mean, come on man, have some balls!” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Johnny was laughing and in a great mood again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I was collecting my thoughts and my breath Johnny began a new round of laughing and told me “you want to know the funniest thing about this whole scenario?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I raised my eyebrows urging him to continue…<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I ordered and drank a 50 grevna drink and just realized I didn’t pay for it!” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I couldn’t help but laugh as well and added “So what you’re saying, is that it cost her beloved 25 grevna for each landed punch” Johnny was still chuckling at our wittiness as I was recalling how the incident came to an end.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">After Johnny had returned, half naked and fully frozen, explaining all that had taken place, to me and Chip, I tried to lighten the mood by exclaiming out loud “You should have looked in the mirror and stuck your tongue out and smiled.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Before he could respond to this, his phone chirped again with a new text. “It’s her!” he began reading then continued, “She’s bringing me my jacket and stuff.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I brightened up a little and took off my freshly ironed white oxford shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“What are you doing?” asked Chip. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“I don’t want to get blood on my good shirt, my wife will kill me” I replied as a matter of fact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Startled, Johnny asked “Whose blood?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I thought about it a second and asked whilst chuckling nervously, “Not sure, how big did you say this guy was?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“He doesn’t have the balls to follow the enemy into his own lair” Chip added with confidence. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Let’s kill him!” Al Qaeda yelled from inside the hostel before opening the door and joining us in the corridor.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Kill him” Johnny asked, obviously vexed at the worsening situation.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Al Qaeda lit a cigarette, was lost in thought a couple of seconds then looked up at us. “Killing him though is the easy part, the trouble being here, in Kiev, none of us know anyone who could help in disposing of his body, and there my friends lies the problem” Al Qaeda took a seat on the steps and put his earphones in, closing out the world and leaving us to settle the situation for ourselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The three of us shook our heads in our own way before I turned to Chip and replied, “he doesn’t have any balls, we know this from his previous actions, what I am counting on is that he doesn’t have the brains to stay out, he is so scared of losing his meal ticket that he isn’t thinking clearly.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We only waited a couple of minutes before we heard footsteps on the stairs.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Olla exited the stairwell and entered the corridor, immediately greeting me with a cheery “Hi Jack” as if I possibly didn’t know what had occurred. I made no acknowledgement to her but as soon as these words had left her mouth I saw a tall skinny guy with a cheesy teenager mustache peek around the corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I moved to get a better look at the beloved and I couldn’t believe that this was the guy she had chucked Johnny for. Her beloved had mistaken my advance as an attack and bolted back down the stairs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked at Chip and he slightly shook his head communicating to me in a second, ‘Don’t start any trouble Jack, let it end’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“I’m sorry” were the only words offered by Olla to Johnny whilst handing him his things. Johnny, I am proud to reflect, was silent, almost brittishly stoic; this wall he erected gave her only one option. She slithered back down the stairs to meet her beloved in the gutter from whence they came. Once safely out our reach he began to hiss at her in Ukrainian, most likely scolding her for not letting him know that there were other men in this lair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Well” I said, “that’s that, let’s go get some beers.” In an effort to lighten the mood and erase what had just transpired.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Johnny brought me back to the present again “You know Jack, it’s funny the way you described her as calculating.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I noticed that my cigarette was nothing but one long ash; I got rid of it and fished another out of the pack and asked “why’s that?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Well the reason I haven’t seen much of her this last week was because she’s working on her master thesis for her computer science degree” he chuckled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I thought about this for a second and asked, “What kind of argument can you make in computer science that would warrant a thesis” I asked full of mirth, “I thought it was either yes or no, 1’s or 0’s, you know on or off, no maybes.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Johnny’s eyes lit up, “I thought the same exact thing! Yet, She told me there were many things to consider but I couldn’t understand, maybe that’s why I am a photographer and she’s the ‘calculating one’. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We began a giggling bout, giggling like we were 13 years old, both of us brought to near tears as finally the tension broke and the subject seemed covered.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“You’re not a coward Johnny” I started once we had regained our self control and a moment of silence had passed. “you’re from Rio De Janiero, one of the most dangerous city’s on the planet, Imagine her beloved in Rio, getting sucker punched… fuck, he would not only run but shit his pants as well” The mental picture this invoked threatened to throw us back into the giggles but we maintained ourselves. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Thanks Jack” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I raised my hand waving his gratitude away, “no need to thank me for the truth, you should always expect it from a friend.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No I mean it, I was having serious doubts but you cleared my head, thank you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Johnny, if you remember only one thing, remember this, just the fact that you questioned yourself and then had the balls to question me shows that you are no coward. A coward would have made excuses for his actions, but you played the prosecutor and left it to me to defend you in your own court of condemnation.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Only a fool hires himself as a lawyer” Johnny said laughing and added, “you know that when her beloved asked me to step outside because we needed to talk.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I interjected “Yeah, hello, I can’t believe you fell for that one.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Yeah, I know now, but, that which does not kill me makes me stronger. Anyways, I thought to myself, cool, we can get a smoke and I am going to come clean with him because I was starting to feel sorry for him” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“How were you going to come clean?” I asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Simply tell him that I came from Rio to Kiev because I was in love with his girlfriend, I thought that was courageous, but now I think I was a bit crazy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No Johnny, that’s fucking romantic idiocy! Love can make you the biggest idiot in the world and it’s because of this you will win her love in the end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see it like this, you can bring a woman flowers, diamonds any material in the world, but the man who hands her his heart by showing her he is not ashamed to play the fool for her, is usually the man who wins the prize of her heart in return, this takes a lot of courage, courage that I don’t have, but you have a shitload of .” <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Johnny chuckled, “so what you’re saying is that I’m pretty much a fool.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I snubbed out my cigarette, stood up and put my hand on the door to the flat before turning around to him as he took his seat back, and said “No Johnny, not a fool, I’m saying that I am a coward in this area and you aren’t. Hell what surprises me the most is that you haven’t initiated the code duello and asked me to be your second, but I am sure that will be on the agenda before the week is out.” Then I entered the flat leaving him there alone on the step, in his seat silently beaming with pride.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">My time in Kiev came to an end as my Visa back to Russia was approved and I had retrieved my passport from the consulate, Johnny left one day ahead of me for another woman in Poland, opting to ride the rail with Chip. I asked him with a smile, “I hope this new one is single at least”, but he wouldn’t divulge this information to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although, I have never had many convictions in my life, I will usually touch the surface to which the “WET PAINT” sign is attached, just to ensure that the paint is actually wet, but coming away from Kiev, I had a firm grasp on what cowardice was, and it was not Johnny, for one cowardly act in the face of his courageous heart, more courageous than I ever hope to be in this area, does not a coward make.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-25330755394186684032011-10-16T17:27:00.000-07:002011-10-16T17:27:38.462-07:00FICTION: AUTOPSY by Mike Goldstein<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">What they don't tell you in medical school is, if you want to see who people really are, you should go into pathology. Not psychiatry.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In therapy, patients talk about themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">About their mothers. Their bosses who treat them unfairly and are out to get them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Their postmen who open their mail and laugh at their tiny paychecks and overwhelming bills.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Their weird sexual fantasies about the girl in the next cubicle. The next office. The next classroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But they talk about these things behind closed doors. They open up because the record is sealed. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">What happens on the couch, stays on the couch. Doctor-patient confidentiality applies. If the doctor says anything, they can sue and retire. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It's a win-win.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Nothing to lose.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The only person with something to lose is the psychiatrist. The therapist. The man bound by the law or the Hippocratic Oath or whatever to keep everything under wraps, no matter how devious and disgusting. No matter how much it makes him sick, he can't tell a soul. Only if there is a perceived danger to another person can the doctor say anything.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And how often does that happen? Not often at all, I can tell you that much from my psychiatry rotation in medical school.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But the psych patient, the person in therapy, he knows something is wrong. He knows there's a part of his brain not working quite right. A chemical being released too much too often. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cognitive behavioral therapy. Lorazepam. Sertraline. The right combination of drugs and psychobabble can balance out the crazy just enough to keep them functioning in society without masturbating on the bus or raping the new secretary or killing the cat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But when it doesn't work, what does the psychiatrist do with all that information? <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The patient strangles himself to death while masturbating or dies of sepsis when the glass dildo shatters and rips apart his large intestine or is found dead with his dick in his hand and his daughter's panties shoved down his throat. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The doctor saw it coming, but he couldn't tell anyone. He knows all kinds of dirty secrets about his patients, and he can't tell a soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But I didn't go into psychiatry. I went into pathology.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">What they don't tell you in medical school is, in pathology you have two types of patients: ones that are still alive, and ones that are not.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The alive patients, you won't really see much of them. A tumor. Gallbladder. Part of a liver or a thyroid. A little piece of a person that you'll slice up and stare at through a microscope to see exactly which type of cancer it's going to be.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cut up some tissue, write a report and toss the human tissue into a red biohazard bag.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But the dead patients, you will see all of them. Investigate every square inch of their bodies to figure out what went wrong. Why they're dead. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In school, they teach you how to perform an autopsy. How to remove the organs and weigh them and mark down any abnormalities. Slice them up and put them under a microscope and into jars of formaldehyde and onto the shelves.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">They teach you how to be a detective of disease. How to hunt through medical records and surgical histories and medication lists for clues. To see what picture they paint.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">To find the cause of death.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Part doctor, part detective.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In school, everyone dies of cardiopulmonary arrest. Cancer. Aneurysm. Gunshot wound. It doesn't matter. None of those things actually cause the patient to die. It's the stopping of the heart and breathing that causes death.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">You write in your report, the bullet entered the left ventricle causing cardiac tamponade and hypovolemia. You write that the doctors performed a thoracotomy to perform direct cardiac massage, but the injury was too severe and caused cardiopulmonary arrest leading to death.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And you close the case.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But the file isn't sealed. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Newspaper reporters. Television producers. They call and ask for interesting cases. Deaths that can boost ratings or circulation. The cases that will shock.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In school, you give them the tragic murders. Surprising high society deaths. You give them the details, because in medical terms they aren't very shocking. Rich or poor, everyone looks the same on the slab. There's no confidentiality, so the details get released to the public. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Everyone wants to know why so they can imagine themselves in that position and vow to live life to the fullest. To stop eating donuts for breakfast and beef jerky for lunch.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The Death-A-Day Diet. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In school, you give the reporters the details because everyone wants to know, and nothing is shocking or embarrassing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But that's in school.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">You graduate and go into private practice where you work in a lab five days a week. You make trips to the hospital to do a biopsy. A frozen section. A lipid panel.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And then you get the call. The morgue needs an autopsy done, and you're carrying the pager.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So you're back to playing detective. Only this time, the case is different. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The patient looks like a victim.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Ligature marks around the neck consistent with strangulation. Petechial hemorrhaging around the eyelids and the lip mucosa indicating the patient was still alive during strangulation.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Then you find chaffing on the penis. Evidence of recent ejaculation.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">You dictate into your little recorder. Cause of death is cardiopulmonary arrest precipitated by strangulation during masturbation, also known as autoerotic asphyxiation. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And then the pathology assistant is telling you: The family needs to see you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He's saying: It seems urgent.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So you cover up the body of their dead son, even though you all know what's under the sheet. The parents come in, and you're standing with them at the slab. The sheet's covering up the bruises on their son's neck. The chaffing. The dried seminal fluid caked onto his inner thighs.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">They're telling you how good their son was. How he was a straight-A student. On the honor roll.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A good boy with a good reputation.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">They stand there, nodding at you. Imploring you to understand that their son never does things like this. That he's not some kind of pervert.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And the mother looks like she's on the brink of a meltdown, so you nod.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">You ignore the old bruises. The evidence of a regular pastime. You don't tell them you know he's been doing choking himself for a while because they've convinced himself that some friend talked him into doing it. Some horrible television show that needs to be taken off the air. A video game they shouldn't have let him buy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But it's possible he was depressed. Suicidal even. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The father's saying: When we found him, he was hanging from a pole in his closet.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Fully clothed, the father says. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And he looks like he could crush your skull with one hand, so you nod.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He takes out an envelope and puts it in your hand. As you're counting the money, he says: So you're ruling it a suicide then?<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">You stuff the envelope in your lab coat and nod.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When the newspaper reporter asks, you tell her it's just a young boy who hung himself in his closet.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In school, you'd never believe something like this could happen. But before you know it, you're making money off of a mother's embarrassment. A father's shame.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A new suit.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Matching shoes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Each custom autopsy report represents an addition to your wardrobe or a new toy. Some kid dies of dysentery after losing a cucumber up his ass, and you wear a new tie to work.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A student loan payment. A credit card paid off. Just falsify some records, and all your debts can go away without draining your paycheck. The word gets out there's a pathologist in town who will take care of any embarrassing deaths for a fee.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Family members and patients start bribing the paramedics to take them to your hospital. They ask for their pathologist by name. You start getting calls even when you're not carrying the pager.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When you find yourself making a down payment on a new BMW using the same envelope that blubbering mother handed you in the morgue, try not to laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Try not to laugh, because soon enough you'll find yourself in a meat locker sitting at a folding table across from a man with a Russian accent. A man with deep lines in his face and dark circles around his eyes and who looks like he hasn't slept soundly in decades. And when you're sitting across from this man, you really don't want to laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Men like him, they don't like being laughed at. It doesn't matter if you're laughing because that morning you fudged the autopsy report for a city councilman and now you're taking an envelope of money from a Russian mob boss.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The man with the Russian accent, he doesn't like people laughing at him. So try your hardest not to laugh, or he'll be paying someone else to falsify your autopsy report.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">If they ever find your body.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Men like Kliment are good at making bodies disappear. But, even better than making a body successfully disappear would be to have the body found and ruled a suicide or an accidental death.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Something that would rule out foul play.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He's saying: They can still investigate and prosecute without a body. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And I'm nodding, but the envelop in my hand is heavy. The dusty metallic smell of old money wafts up to my nose, and I'm thinking of the student loans I'm so close to paying off. The remaining payments on the Beemer. The house. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He's saying: If the death is ruled something other than homicide, the investigation stops.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Don't laugh, because when you're holding a big envelope full of money and all you have to do is fudge a few reports on some people who were going to be dead anyway, the choices don't seem so black and white.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Before you know it, you've gone from covering up sexual fetishes to disguising murders. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">You've still got your day job, because the jobs for Kliment are irregular and never more than three or four times a month. Just one day the phone rings, and that deep Russian voice gives you a heads up. They take the guy to a location near your hospital to make sure he goes there. They make sure to do it a night you're carrying the pager.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">All this means they don't have to bribe anyone. Nothing to connect the dots.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">You get the call and in thirty minutes, you're fishing a bullet out of some poor sap who refused to pay up. They call it protection money, but all it protects against is a bullet through the temple.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It may seem crazy to you, but crazy isn't paying a man you've never met before not to kill you. Crazy is making a knife wound to the neck look like an animal attack. It's forging a blood test and faking a bowel obstruction. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">What's crazy is the knot my stomach forms each time the phone rings, waiting for that Russian accent to give me another name.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">What's crazy is that even with the knots in my stomach, I keep doing it. Don't judge, because once you've accepted the first offer, there's no turning back. Life as you know it is over. Don't start thinking you're indispensable, because people have gotten away with murder for thousands of years.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Don't start thinking this is just some job you can retire from. Just up and walk away from. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Keep chanting the company line, because you're only safe as long as you're on the payroll. Just remember that sad fact when you get the call that puts you over the edge. The one that makes you question the morals you have left.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Because when I answer the phone, all I can think about is my body on the slab. When the Russian accent gives me the heads up on his latest unsatisfied customer, I'm thinking of just that. I force myself to keep my mouth shut and hang up. The words I want to say but can't are coiled in my throat, waiting for an opening to leap out and get me killed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The words I want to say. A mashing together of morality, the law and sheer paranoia. My mouth opens, and the words fly out. And they smash against the bathroom mirror and fall dead into the sink. I wash them down the drain and wash my face.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Because I pay protection money in the form of a service. The money they feed me is just an incentive. The only way out is a bullet through the temple. The only way to live is to keep going.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So I do.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And when the hospital calls me twenty minutes later, I'm already on my way to the morgue.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But when I get to the morgue, there are two bodies. Two naked, graying bodies flanking the room.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I grab the assistant and pull him in close. I ask him, What's this?<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">"Sixteen year old girl and her father," he says. Then, he makes a gun with his fingers, pops a round at me, then one at himself. Murder-suicide.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">This is one of my easiest jobs. Everything about it screams murder-suicide. Powder burns on the father's right hand and temple. A slight downward angle in the daughter's wound. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">All I have to do is sign my name on the reports and go home. The police will pick them up and close the case. And a grieving mother and wife will bury her daughter and husband on the same day. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And she'll ask herself every day what happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And she'll badger the police. They'll tell her it was ruled a murder-suicide, but she won't believe it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And after enough time, I'll be signing her autopsy report.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Other than the entry wound in her forehead, the girl's face is intact. If you cover up the hole, she could have died in her sleep. A congenital defect. Cancer. Something she couldn't do anything about.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">What she could have done to deserve this is beyond me. Walked in on Kliment killing her father maybe. Or maybe she just happened to be there when the Russians showed up. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The autopsy report sits on the slab next to her head. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">My hand rests on her forehead.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The report is finished. It just needs my signature.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Don't laugh, but when you find yourself standing over the body of young woman you never met and wouldn't recognize on the street without the gunshot wound to the head, you'll make another in a series of bad decisions.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I sign the autopsy reports and fax them to the police department along with a one-page note.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Covering the bodies with a sheet, I switch the light off and exit the morgue. Walking through the hospital entrance, I cross through the parking lot and across the street to my car. The engine starts, and I pull away from the curb and pass the blue Ford with the two Russian gentlemen sent to watch me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A black car sits at the curb in front of my house. I pull into the driveway, and it pulls in after me to block me in. The blue Ford stops down the block. Before I can take two steps out of my car, two detectives flash their badges and escort me to their back seat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I hope you don't think less of me, but when the police sit me down in the interrogation room, I tell them everything. The bribes. The cover-ups. And when they threaten me with jail time, I tell them about Kliment. All the murders I can lead back to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Don't judge, but when they offer me immunity in exchange for my testify, I take it. Don't laugh, because when life in prison for covering up more than a dozen murders is the only alternative, you take the deal.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">You move to a small town in Montana. Get a job waiting tables at a coffee place.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A new haircut, a beard. A new name and social security number.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">You check for blue Fords whenever you get into your car. Take an extra lap around your block before pulling into your driveway. Screen your calls.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Once a week, you drive to the city to see a court-appointed psychiatrist. You tell him everything you told the police. The murders. The suicides. The sexual fetishes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He asks you if you think about hurting yourself, and you don't tell him about the gun in your sock drawer. The one you got for protection. You don't tell him that you've never fired a gun before in your life, but if the time comes when you'll need to use it, you don't plan on firing more than one shot and you don't plan on missing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">You don't tell him that you take medication for the ulcer you've developed. The pills you take for your extreme hypertension. The Vicodin to help out the Sertraline he prescribed for your anxiety and panic attacks.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">You don't tell him that you keep expecting to answer the phone and hear that gruff Russian accent on the line. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He asks you how you're doing, and you tell him you're fine.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">What they don't tell you in medical school is, if you want to see what kind of person you are, don't go into psychiatry. Go into pathology and wait for the calls to come. For the first parent to hand you an envelope so her son can be remembered with dignity.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: 18pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The doctor asks me how I'm doing, and I tell him I wish I had gone into psychiatry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877856568799080582.post-2658289948664645002011-10-16T17:22:00.000-07:002011-10-16T17:22:24.431-07:00FICTION: The Moon and the Electrician by Steve Simpson<span lang="EN-US">The thunderstorm rolled in from the sea and hovered over the <i>serra. </i>Lazy filaments of lightning lit up the clouds, and rain began falling on the cemetery. It was the evening of All Soul’s Day, and<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> sodden </span>chrysanthemums sagged against a few of the wooden crosses marking the graves.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Something poking up through the mud caught the attention of a gray fox. It sniffed around, dug a little and tore off a morsel, a finger that wriggled like a pale slug between its teeth.</span></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US">*</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The electrician sat at a table by the door, sipping his coffee and ignoring the diehard revelers in the <i>praça </i>outside. They were celebrating All Soul’s Day in their own special alcoholic way, which evidently didn’t include prayers for dear departed loved ones.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Alacantra, the company he was working for, had paid for his accommodation in a tourist hotel overlooking the harbor at Paraty, with few enough guests that they were happy to accept a long-term occupant at a reduced rate. The hotel was comfortable, and quiet, except for holidays like today, when the rooms were rented out by the hour. The sounds that moaned through the thin walls from the hourly guests kept him awake, reminded him that he was alone.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">So the electrician was passing his time in a late-night bar at the <i>praça</i> with a <i>pingado</i> in front of him. He took another sip, it was latte colored, but it didn’t taste quite right. It was like his job at Alacantra: a new office, an imported computer, but something he couldn’t put his finger on made him uneasy. He ran through what he’d seen of the place, he’d been there a little over a month, and tried to pin down the source of his unease.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Alacantra manufactured metallic glass alloys for the construction industry, structural materials so attractive that architects put them on the outside of buildings, in buttresses and rings around skyscrapers like the pearly visions of a 1920’s utopia. The factory complex ran day and night, with four shifts, fed by a stream of trucks from the open-cut selenium mines in Minas Gerais, but it wasn’t enough to meet demand. That was why they’d hired him, to do an energy audit and design the new electrics for the expansion that would draw more power from the ElectroBras grid.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The worker’s village was up the road from the factory complex, rows of boxes made of cinder blocks stacked on cement bases, looking like they’d been built by oversized children, but with power strung from hut to hut, fresh water and sewers, still a good standard compared to the slums along the Dutra highway.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">It all made perfect sense, commercial sense. And then there was the graveyard. He could see it from his office window, white crosses clustered like lambs on a steep slope to the north. He’d heard a few stories, but superstition was par for the course in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Brazil</st1:country-region></st1:place>. On his last job at the Itaipu power plant, the technicians had solemnly informed him that the ghost of Lieutenant Firmino, who’d founded the Portuguese settlement at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Iguaçu</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Falls</st1:placetype></st1:place> and whose massive statue graced the entrance hall, liked to have the occasional stroll around the corridors at night.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">At Alacantra they talked about mudslides in the cemetery, exposed body parts eaten by wild animals, field foxes and jaguars, and, in whispers, about lost souls.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Excuse me, <i>senhor.</i>” His thoughts were interrupted by the cashier, a short dark-haired woman who always had a pilot light cigarette when she was working the register. “I’m sorry, we’re closing now.” </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">He looked around and noticed he was the only customer in the bar. The cashier didn’t seem particularly sorry. In fact, since he’d mentioned he was working at Alacantra, she’d been quite brusque, except for occasionally correcting his Portuguese and once suggesting he could probably attend primary school classes to improve it if he brought his own chair.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">*</span></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">On his way back to the hotel there was a power failure. It wasn’t an unusual event in Paraty, but the electrician got lost in the darkness and found himself in an unfamiliar area. Someone whizzed past him on an invisible bicycle, too quickly to ask directions, but apart from that he saw no-one. He could knock on someone’s door, ask for help, but it was past midnight, and he kept wandering down Paraty’s coarsely cobbled streets, hoping to see a landmark he recognized.</span></div><br />
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</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Eventually, when the cobble stones gave way to gravel, and knew he had to be a long way from hotel, he saw a dark shape shuffling slowly towards him. The figure stopped in front of him, drawing deep shuddering breaths, and in the moonlight, the electrician could make out dark discolorations on the stranger’s cheeks.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“You look lost, <i>senhor</i>.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The old man, who introduced himself as Pedro, offered to show him the way, since he was going in that direction. “It’s not contagious, I have a chest problem,” he said, although the electrician hadn’t asked. “It’s cooler out here at night, that’s when I like to get some exercise.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">After a few minutes, the power reasserted itself, and the mercury street lights stuttered into life. The electrician realized he’d been mistaken about Pedro. He was a young man, pale faced except for the sores on his cheeks, and with deep sunken eyes.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“My house is just here. Why don’t you come in for a drink to celebrate All Soul’s Day? I’ll draw you a map to get you back to your hotel.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The electrician didn’t see why not.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US">*</span></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">After he’d lost track of the number of bottles of <i>pinga</i>, cane spirits, they’d shared, a car pulled up outside. Pedro drained his glass. “It’s my big sister.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“I’ve brought your medicine from Dona Iracema,” she called from the hallway.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“We have a visitor, Célia,” Pedro called back. Célia came in, and the electrician recognized the cashier from the bar. She saw the bottles on the table and frowned.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“The <i>gringo </i>is an impressive drinker, I only had one glass.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The electrician remained silent. In any case his tongue was numb, like a dead fish in his mouth.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“I don’t think so. At the bar he only drinks coffee. With milk.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Pedro shrugged and poured himself a refill. Célia frowned and lit a cigarette. “Pedro has lung cancer, he can’t work any more, and he shouldn’t drink.” She turned to Pedro. “Did you know your companion works at Alacantra?”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“You’re not working in the <i>purgatório</i>, are you <i>gringo</i>?”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The electrician had heard the nickname the workers used for the main hall where the metals were electrically smelted and refined. It made sense, he supposed, purgatory: a place of purification. They wore suits fitted with palladium filters and air pumps because the vapors given off by the selenium and hexavalent chromium were highly toxic.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“No, I’m working the engineering section, on the new electrics for the plant. Why do you ask?”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“I used to work in the <i>purgatório</i>, that’s how I got sick.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The electrician was shocked. “But there are the suits, safety regulations, protocols. How could that happen?”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="mso-bookmark: DDE_LINK2;"><span lang="EN-US">Célia</span></span><span lang="EN-US"> said nothing, just looked at him. Pedro raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to regulations and protocols.” The electrician saw dark scabs on the back of his hand as they touched their glasses.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">When they’d finished off the last bottle, it was time to go. The electrician thanked them for their hospitality. He hesitated when he said goodbye to Célia, still wondering about Alacantra, his mind too soggy with alcohol to think clearly.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Try not to get lost again, <i>gringo</i>. I’m sure I’ll see you when you want one of your coffee milkshakes,<i> caio</i>.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-fareast-language: JA;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“What if we stop off for a couple of quick rooster tails?”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Once a week, the electrician traveled to Santa Efigênia in <st1:city w:st="on">São Paulo</st1:city>, where dozens of small stores sold electronic bits and pieces that were hard to find anywhere else in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Brazil</st1:place></st1:country-region>. He’d come to know his regular driver, Salvador, an old man with a big nose, who’d been cheerfully pointing out the burnt-out shells of trucks and buses by the side of the Dutra, the Rodovia Presidente Dutra to the dead president’s friends, and explaining why the section of road they were currently negotiating at a reckless speed was called the Straight of Death.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Yeah, sure.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Over the drinks, which turned out to be sweet vermouth and cane spirits, the electrician thought it was time to try to find out a bit more about Alacantra, and with any luck, lay his vague disquiet to rest. He asked <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Salvador</st1:city></st1:place> about the graveyard.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Alacantra is a caring employer, they take good care of their workers, in this life and the next.” <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Salvador</st1:city></st1:place> grinned, and the electrician thought about cleaning his teeth more often. “So those are the graves of employees?”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The old man nodded, finished off his cocktail and slid the glass across the counter for the bartender’s attention. “It was a busy place a couple of years back, a real growth area for the company.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Anything to do with the <i>purgatório</i>?”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“There was a scandal, a story in O Globo. The company said the deaths were just coincidental, nothing to do with the <a href="" name="DDE_LINK"><i>purgatório</i></a><i>,</i> but they improved the suits anyway. Back then it was just face masks.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“So the cemetery is quiet now.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“They’re not digging any more graves, if that’s what you mean. Alacantra has solved that little problem.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“It’s just that I think I’ve seen something, people in there, during the thunderstorms.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The tropical thunderstorms came over regularly in the evenings. The phones in the corridor would all start ringing in time with the lightning, and it wasn’t safe to go near the computers, so there was always an unscheduled coffee break. Unless he had paperwork to do, the electrician spent the time staring out his office window at the graveyard, and in the stroboscopic illumination from the lightning flashes, he’d seen dark shapes moving.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-US">Salvador</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-US"> crossed himself. “What they are depends on what you believe, <i>senhor doutor</i>. They’ve found some bodies there, out of the ground. We’ve had a long wet season this year, a lot of rain, and some say the bodies have been washed out by mudslides. Others say they are lost souls, and that they are seeking revenge on Alacantra.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">There was something about what <st1:city w:st="on">Salvador</st1:city> had said that that made the electrician think he wasn’t getting the whole story, but it was a long trip to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">São Paulo</st1:place></st1:city> and back, and he needed time to search for components in Santa<b> </b>Efigênia.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US">*</span></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">On the return trip, the electrician suggested they stop off for a night cap, and <st1:city w:st="on">Salvador</st1:city> pulled off the Dutra at the morning’s bar, a ramshackle collection of sheds outside São José dos <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Campos</st1:place></st1:city>. When they went in, and the telepathic bartender put two cocktails down in front of them.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“What you were saying about the <i>purgatório</i>, the suits, you don’t believe it do you?”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-US">Salvador</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-US"> shrugged. “Those shiny tinfoil suits, the workers look like <i>astronautas</i>, but they aren’t going into outer space.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“I don’t understand.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“The suits are a joke, they only slow things down a little. Now Alacantra buses in workers from Bahia, Minas Gerais, even foreigners from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Paraguay</st1:country-region></st1:place>. They put them up in the village and give them strict six month contracts, pay them well. It means they don’t need more places in their own cemetery. They go home and they’re buried somewhere else, far away from Paraty.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The electrician had already accessed the accommodation records in the workers’ village as part of his energy audit, wondered about the short term stays. He knew that <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Salvador</st1:city></st1:place> was telling the truth. There was a sudden hollowness in his stomach, and he finished his drink in one mouthful, pushed the glass across the counter.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>\</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Important beliefs aren’t changed by a single event, the evidence builds up gradually like weights on a scale, until the scale suddenly tips. The electrician was at the tipping point, about to see the company that paid his salary, that looked after him so well, in a different light. Alacantra’s profits were blood money, its success was built on the drawn-out and painful deaths of innocent workers.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-fareast-language: JA;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The short black <i>cafezinho</i> was too strong for his taste, but it didn’t matter. He hadn’t come to the bar for coffee, he wanted to talk to someone about Alacantra, and that someone was Célia. She came to his table and asked him how he’d liked real Brazilian coffee. “Delicious,” he lied, and told her he wanted to talk somewhere private.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">After work, she drove him back to his hotel, and as they walked across the seaside park in front of the Santa Rita de Cássia church, Célia stopped for a smoke break. The sea was calm, and the moon, almost full, was hanging low in the sky over the breakwater like a Paraty postcard.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“We can talk here. What about Alacantra, <i>gringo</i>?”<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">He told her what he’d found out from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Salvador</st1:place></st1:city> and from his own investigations. “It’s still going on. I’ve spoken to some of the workers, they have sores on their arms and legs. The company tells them it’s the suits rubbing on their skin, they give them skin cream.”<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“That’s how it starts.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“We have to go to the authorities, we have to stop them.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Célia looked at him with the ‘you naive <i>gringo</i>’ face he’d already seen at her house. “That won’t work, you know that. I’d like to see the whole factory go to hell.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Yes, I suppose.” The electrician paused. “Well I’m going to do something,” he heard himself say, and because of Pedro and the other victims, because of Alacantra’s callous evil, and because of Célia, he realized he meant it.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“And what do think you’re going to do, <i>gringo</i>?”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">He could hardly believe what he was thinking, what he was about to say. “If the furnaces in the <i>purgatório</i> were accidentally overloaded, the metal would boil off, it would make a flammable mixture in the air. A spark would cause a tremendous explosion.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“That would be a real tragedy.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“I know how to do it, but it’s impossible. Even if someone overloaded the furnaces, they couldn’t survive in the <i>purgatório </i>long enough to set off the explosion.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“It’s a good idea, <i>gringo</i>.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“I don’t think so. It can’t be done.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Célia looked out across the sea. “Do you ever wonder about the moon? Why do we always see the same side? Perhaps one day it will turn around and show us the other side.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">As far as he could recall, the electrician had never wondered about the moon, but apparently Célia did, and in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Brazil</st1:country-region></st1:place>, if you were an electrician, or any sort of professional, everyone assumed you were qualified in everything, including astronomy.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“It’s called captured rotation, we always see the same side. That will never change.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Remember that the future is <i>imprevisível</i>, <i>senhor electricista</i>.<i> </i>You can’t be completely sure. You will think of a way to make your plan for the <i>purgatório</i> work, and I will help you.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US">*</span></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The electrician continued his energy audit at Alacantra, didn’t arouse suspicion, while he worked on his special project whenever he could. He’d come to know more of the workers, and found out more about the graveyard. The reburying was done by Ricardo, a swarthy man with a bushy moustache that looked like it was glued on.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“They give me a title, <i>seu doutor</i>, Coordinator of Cemetery Maintenance, but no extra pay. Coordinator of Shit is more like it.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The electrician sympathized, said he would put in a good word with management. “I’ve heard it’s mudslides washing the bodies out.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Right, uphill mudslides, I’ve found bodies twenty feet up the slope from their graves, without any of the marks they’d have if wild animals did it.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“But it does happen when it rains, doesn’t it?”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Not rain, <i>seu doutor</i>, it’s the lightning, there has to be a thunderstorm.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The electrician had an idea what was going on. The bodies in the cemetery were contaminated with rare metals from the <i>purgatório</i>, they were electrically conductive. Now it was time for some first-hand observation.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US">*</span></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“You don’t have any concerns about the living dead, do you?” the electrician enquired nonchalantly. He’d asked Célia to come with him for the Saturday night graveyard shift, and he was working on a little Latino style machismo.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“There is nothing to fear from the dead.” She smiled. “Anyway, I’ve been on worse dates.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">He’d parked halfway up the slope, where they had a good view with the Renault’s headlights shining into the cemetery. Célia smoked, and the electrician opened the windows, letting the smoke seep out into the rain as they waited. Lightning was already flashing across the sky, and suddenly it struck a sassafras tree further up the slope, splitting the trunk open with a sharp crack.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Célia pointed. “Look. Over there, on the ground.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The electrician ran out through the spattering rain with Célia following, to a grave where a hand was clawing up through the mud. He started digging, feeling a tingle of electricity in his fingertips, until the body was free.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The figure crouched and stood up, thankfully covered in a layer of mud. It wiped a hand across its eyes, leaving two dark holes because it had wiped away its decomposed eyeballs with the dirt. The creature turned around blindly, not seeing Célia or the electrician, and walked off in a random direction. After a few steps the body fell, a motionless lump on the ground.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“When lightning strikes, electricity flows out along the ground. It’s because of the toxins from the <i>purgatório</i> in their bodies. The surge of electricity reanimates them, but it only lasts while the electricity is flowing. When they stand up it stops.” The electrician had been whispering in Célia’s ear, for no real reason.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“And you think you can keep them alive.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Yes, and these poor souls will have vengeance on their mind, they’ll want to help us destroy the <i>purgatório</i>.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US">*</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The following Monday, the electrician borrowed a <i>purgatório</i> suit, on the pretext of measuring the power consumed as part of his audit. He made measurements, compared them with current of charged ions that radiates outward through the earth from the point of a lightning strike, and the numbers worked out. He modified the suit, added internal electrodes, straps and pads soaked in salt water, and removed the filters. He tried not to think about what he was doing, he told himself it was just another project.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">When he returned to his hotel after work, he found Pedro waiting for him. Pedro couldn’t stand up for long, and they sat together on a bench facing the sea. The fishing fleet was out that evening, and behind them on the grass square in front of the church, dark skinned boys balanced a tired football on their knees, danced it around their feet.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Pedro was dark haired like his sister, with looks more reminiscent of the Spanish conquistadors from the other side of the Andes than the Portuguese who’d colonized <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Brazil</st1:place></st1:country-region>. He was wearing a long sleeved sweatshirt, even with the rainy season’s oppressive humidity. He saw the electrician looking at the patches of blood soaking through.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“These are not the problem, s<i>enhor doutor</i>. Inside my lungs is the problem.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">For a time they sat in silence, with the setting sun bleeding shades of pink and orange into the sky beyond the breakwater.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“At Alacantra, I always wore my suit, I was never careless, but we all got sick, all my comrades, and most of them are long gone. I’m the last, and now I’m going to join them.” Pedro coughed into a blood stained handkerchief.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“My sister told me what you’re going to do. I can help you. You tell me what to do before I die, and afterwards, when I’m dead, I’ll do it. I am ready.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">A car pulled up beside the church, and a moment later Célia came running over to them. “I thought I’d find you here. I know what you’re planning. Pedro, please, not this. This is unholy.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“It isn’t vengeance, it isn’t punishment. That is for God. But what is happening at Alacantra, going on and on, that is unholy. It has to be stopped, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">querida</i>.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Célia sighed. “Pedro, are you certain about this?”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“I will ask only one thing, please return whatever is left of my body to the church graveyard. My soul might be going to hell, but my body will rest in holy ground.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US">*</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Lightning arced over the cemetery, Célia tried to light a cigarette between the raindrops, and the electrician kept his attention focused on Pedro’s body, which was lying in a shallow open grave dressed in the modified <i>purgatório</i> suit. “It shouldn’t be long now.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Pedro sat up and clambered to his feet. He looked around, didn’t greet his sister or the electrician, but seemed fascinated with the Renault’s headlights. He walked over to the car with a shambling lopsided gait, crouched down and touched a gloved hand to a headlamp. The electrician came up behind him, “Pedro, are you okay?”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Pedro turned suddenly, growled and bared his teeth, and struck the electrician a stinging blow to the side of his head. He fell to his knees.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Pedro, what’s come over you? You’re behaving like an animal.” Célia came to help the electrician, and the creature that had been Pedro charged at her, grunting and snarling, and knocked her over backwards into the mud.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“<i>Pelo amor de Deus</i>, switch him off,” she screamed as the creature pinned her on the ground.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The electrician, still dazed, fumbled on the backpack of Pedro’s suit and found the power switch. The body collapsed and Célia rolled out from underneath, covered in mud.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“<i>Pelo amor de Deus</i>, switch him on again,” she screamed, “he’s dying.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The electrician threw the switch again and spun the voltage control down to trickle charge. There were tremors in the creature’s limbs, and when he rolled him over, his chest was rising and falling.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“I’m sorry, this is a disaster. It’s not Pedro, it’s just an animal.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“We’re missing something, <i>gringo</i>. Pedro is more than just a body. We’ll take him to Dona Iracema. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">She’s a holy woman, she prepared medicine for Pedro, for the pain. If anyone can help us, she can.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">They cleaned the mud off Pedro’s suit and strapped him into the back seat of the car, putting his helmet on to attract less attention.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US">*</span></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“She’s a bit deaf,” Célia whispered as she knocked loudly enough to wake the neighbors several streets away. A sound of flustered hens came from somewhere out the back of the wooden shack and a grumbling, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” An old indian woman wearing a robe with a few dyed feathers attached answered the door.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The electrician recognised Dona Iracema from the <i>praça</i>. He’d seen her selling trinkets to tourists, everything from painted statues of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Brazil</st1:country-region></st1:place>’s black Madonna to incense that was guaranteed to turn an acquaintance of choice into an infatuated lover.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Dona Iracema, we need your help.” Célia kissed her on the cheeks. “This is–”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“I know who he is, <i>querida</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am Dona Maria Iracema do Carmo Miranda.” She turned her head expectantly, and the electrician followed Célia’s suit.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">They’d left Pedro in power saving mode in the car, and Célia, too muddy to come into the house, told the story on the front step. Dona Iracema produced a half full bottle of <i>pinga</i> and shared it with the electrician, and Célia gave her a cigarette that she smoked thoughtfully between mouthfuls.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“You want to be heroes, my children,” she said. “That’s fine, but you should have asked me first. We all have two sides. Our spirit casts its light on everyone around us, and keeps the dark side, our base instincts, under control. Pedro’s spirit has already left us. You have revived only his dark side, s<i>enhor electricista</i>.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Célia sighed. “So that’s it, we have to rebury him,” the electrician said.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Dona Iracema shook her head. “Mother Ja Cy, the Tupi Moon Goddess, is full tonight, and the real Pedro, his spirit, wants to help you. Ja Cy can call him back … for a time. Where is his body?”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“He’s sleeping in the car, Dona.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“He must be awake for the ceremony.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The electrician tied Pedro’s body to the wooden fence and removed his helmet, while Célia set up a semicircle of incense candles in empty <i>pinga</i> bottles. Dona Iracema reappeared carrying a bowl filled with enormous dried petals. “These are very important. My grandmother was Tupi, she taught me the ritual.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“What are they, Dona?”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Could you crush them for me?” Dona Iracema passed him the bowl and watched him work while she finished off the <i>pinga</i>.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Long before the Portuguese came to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Brazil</st1:place></st1:country-region>, there was a young warrior, Naiá, who belonged to a great Tupi tribe. She had one desire, to be taken by Ja Cy, the Moon Mother, as the other girls in her tribe had been, to shine as stars in the firmament next to Ja Cy.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“She searched through the mountains near her village every night, but Ja Cy never came. One night, deceived by the moon’s reflection, she dived into a lake and drowned. Finally Ja Cy took pity on her and turned her into a Star of the Waters. That is this flower.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“When I scatter the petals on Pedro’s body, Ja Cy will come. Of course the <i>gringos</i> would call it a Queen Victoria lily, and you, s<i>enhor electricista</i>,” Dona Iracema fixed him with calm brown eyes, “you don’t believe a word I’ve said<b>. </b>But perhaps one day you will understand that the truth has many ways.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Célia had finished lighting the candles, and they were ready to begin. The neighbors had appeared in the street, woken up by Célia’s knocking and curious about what was going on. Dona Iracema greeted them, “Rosinha, did that potion work on your boyfriend?” But seeing the shape resting against the fence, they feared she was practicing <i>candomblé</i>, dark magic, and no-one came too close.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">From inside the yard, the electrician turned up the voltage on Pedro’s backpack. Pedro growled, bared his teeth and pulled against the rope tied around his waist, trying to claw at Dona Iracema as she circled him, chanting her call to Ja Cy and throwing the Star of the Waters petals in his face.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Nothing happened, and the electrician noticed cracks were appearing in Pedro’s cheeks with pale fluids fizzing in them. There was an acrid smell penetrating the stench of decay.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“I think the electric current is accelerating the body’s decomposition, it’s electrolyzing. I don’t know how long we have.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The moon, which had been obscured by clouds above the <i>serra</i>, suddenly appeared. Pedro’s face was illuminated as brightly as daylight. The growling and grimacing stopped, and he drew a long rattling breath through the mud clogging his throat.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Thank you, Dona Iracema.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“You are welcome, Pedro. Please untie him, <i>senhor electricista</i>.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Célia, who had been watching in stunned silence, found her voice, “Pedro? Pedro, <i>meu amor</i>, is that you?” The figure nodded, and Célia ran towards him. Pedro raised a hand, the slightest gesture, and Célia stopped.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“<i>Queridinha</i>, we don’t have long. There will be no more death at Alacantra.” He turned to the electrician, “Let’s go.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">It was still the rough voice with bubbling drool running from Pedro’s mouth, the shambling body, lopsided features that were part flesh and part mud, but something had changed. An invisible light was shining out from Pedro, and, even as he thought it, the electrician had no idea what he meant.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US">*</span></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">At Alcantra’s <i>purgatório</i>, the whistle sounded for the midnight shift change. Tired figures in suits straggled out through the air lock and went to the change room to shower. They chatted, in Portuguese, in Spanish and some in Guarani, and scratched at the small sores on their arms and legs. They were grateful their bosses had warned them about the rubbing sores from their airtight suits, given them skin lotion. They drifted up the road to the worker’s huts, thinking of their paychecks, the cash for their families back home.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">When the workers for the next shift reached the airlock, one of them stood blocking the entrance door. He raised his arms in stop signs, and addressed them.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“There will be no more shift work here. You must leave this place. Run for your lives, go as far as you can. The <i>purgatório</i> is venomous, it’s killing you all. Go back to your homes, to your families.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“What are you talking about, <i>louco</i>?” one worker said, then another, “This is a joke, is it? We’re paid to work here.” The indians started talking together in Guarani.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Run,” the figure said and pulled the helmet off his head. “This place is death, and I’m going to send it to hell.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The workers at the front fell backwards instinctively, some screamed for help from the gods, the indians crossed themselves. “<i>Corre</i>, <i>corre</i>,” someone yelled, and they ran.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US">*</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The electrician saw the windows of the factory beginning to reflect light, silvered like mirrors with condensing metal. A few minutes later there were flickering flames in the windows of the switch room, and he knew Pedro had caused an electrical fault, started a fire. If the electrician’s calculations were correct, it would act as a fuse.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Pedro came out of the airlock, but as he staggered towards them, the blaze that was visible in the switch room began to dim. The fire was burning itself out, it hadn’t been enough.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">A moment later, the mixture of metal vapor and air filling the main hall reached ignition point. A massive white fireball blossomed behind Pedro, blowing the steel walls and reinforcements away like a bad dream at sunrise.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><b><span lang="EN-US">*<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Afterward, in the flashing illumination from the emergency vehicles gathered around the crater, they collected what they could of Pedro’s remains for their true burial in consecrated ground. “You are an angel, Pedro,” Célia whispered, “<i>Me perdoe</i>, but you have to go to heaven”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US">*</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Yes, yes, I know, the future, <i>imprevisível</i>,<i> </i>but I still don’t think it’s going to explode.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Célia and the electrician had been to see a horror movie at the São José Cinemark. He’d found it doubly dull. For a start, it had been an English movie subtitled in Portuguese, so the audience talked loudly all the way through. Then there were the zombies, and he thought zombies were completely implausible.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“Are you absolutely sure?”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The electrician hesitated. He watched the fireflies, the tiny stars of Paraty, spiraling around the jasmine vines overhanging the fence of Célia’s house. He saw the moon reflected in her eyes. She wanted to fly, and she was counting on him not to clip her wings, to let her soar into the night sky.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">He thought about Dona Iracema, and all the things he knew before he came to Paraty. The electrolysis had caused the electric currents to change, and higher order functioning had started in Pedro’s brain. That was one explanation. <i>The truth has many ways</i>.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">“The moon doesn’t have any atmosphere, and it’s brittle. A meteor could hit it any time and shatter it. The sky will be filled with a hundred shining moonlets, all different sizes.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Célia put her cigarette out under her heel. “It will be so beautiful, won’t it? I can’t wait to see that.”</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US">#</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div>Scott Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10571843689176530187noreply@blogger.com0