PAX

He heaved, sweating, and pulled another door from the wreckage. Crouching down behind it he hoped to gain some respite from the carnage that surrounded him. The curly-haired man closed his eyes and breathed deeply hoping to recentre himself.

When he eventually opened his twitching eyes he spied the remains of his guide a few feet away.

Carefully dodging every spike and shard that threatened his feet below, he eventually reached the guidebook and with trembling hands scrambled to find the right page. It was useless; he already knew he had gone too far and there was no turning back at this point.

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A special kind of purchase

The little bell above the door tinkles cheerily, and she moves through the beaded net curtain behind the counter to see who her latest customer is.

He’s looking nervous, fidgety, and like he’s bothered someone has seen him enter. She’s dealt with this type before. Probably after the… ahem, special merchandise that isn’t available to regular customers. He’s picking things up and putting them down again, trying to look nonchalant and utterly failing to pull it off. She needs to be careful how to approach him, so that he doesn’t startle like a baby deer and gallop off. That produces a smile that she has to work to suppress, the idea of this guy scampering anywhere would be worth watching just for entertainment value alone.

“Can I help you?” she asks, brightly. “If there’s something you’re looking for, we have additional stock out back, if you know what I mean.”

A look of relief washes over his face.

“Yes,” he mutters, “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m after.”

“So,” she responds, “what are you looking for, what’s your tastes? No need to be self-conscious here.”

He looks confused, then starts.

“You mean,” he says, “adult material?”

She nods.

“Oh, I think I’m in the wrong shop. I’m not after that.”

Ah. Oops. Misjudged him.

“I see,” she says as he turns for the door. “You mean the stuff in the other back room. You’d better come through.”

*

Two minutes later, they’re squashed into a too-small space rammed with miniature, carefully labelled wooden boxes, each containing a tiny vial. Within each, a cloud of viridescent gas swirls and pulses. He reaches for one, then stops, shakes himself.

“Who are you after?” she asks.

They both know what this means; one of the city’s residents is going to die tonight. Whoever owns the box controls the life expectancy of the individual whose label adorns the outside.

He mutters a name, and she steps away through the stacks to find it.

A moment or two later, she returns, reverently holding one on a small silver tray.

“You know,” she says, “the price?”

He nods, mute.

Her eyes glow gently as she holds it before him, his gaze transfixed. “So,” she says, “do we have a deal?”

“Don’t you want to know why?” he asks.

“I don’t ask questions.”

He nods again, then carefully picks it up, turning it back and forth. The life inside swirls like liquid in a half empty glass, but something is wrong. She’s seen all human emotions when people come in here; anger, fear, disgust, even lust for revenge, but his stare is flat, dull, almost lifeless. She tries and fails to repress a shudder. He seems inhuman, even to her.

Finally, he looks up.

“This one,” he says, “is me. We do not have an accord.”

He smashes it on the floor and, as the life force evaporates, he drops to his knees, finally free.

OOOPS. I  DID IT AGAIN

Wife with a squirrel problem

Avril Morgan, a slender woman with a handsome face, opened her front door in anticipation of her little totem pole. She was greeted by a man dragging a large coffin-shaped tree trunk up the garden path  Her jaw fell, it was supposed to be six inches, not six foot

Huffing and puffing the red-faced driver arrived, delivery sheet in hand, thrusting it in her face.

“There must be some kind of mistake,” Avril’s voice quavered.

No mistake and I’m not taking it back; sign here. “

After she signed on the dotted line, the driver made a quick exit.

What the heck do I do with it now. Adrian is going to go mad.

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Escape Clause

Man and daughter stand before a vault deep in the bowels of the Earth

Tobermory held his daughter’s hand as they walked along the corridor, their footsteps echoing from the stone walls. He sensed her looking up and gave her a little squeeze.

“Don’t worry, daddy,” Eleanor said, “I’ll be okay.”

“I know, Pumpkin,” he said, displaying a sad smile. “We’ll all be okay.”

“Did you bring Flibut?”

Tobermory pulled the stuffed, one-eared camel from his bag. “Yes, he’s here.”

“Because I couldn’t go without Flibut.”

He looked down at her earnest features, a pixie face in a halo of red curls. Just five years old, he thought, how could there be a god?

He could have scooped her up right there and bounded back down the corridor. But he knew the guards would pick him off before they got out. And a stranger would make the long walk with her.

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No groom? No worry

At the crossroads on the outskirts of town is the shop. A grey-haired woman, hesitant at its door, whispers on entering, ‘I’m Mabel Bennett.’

            Mrs Griffiths mentally notes: this one is nervous.

            The shop is small from the street but its inside is capacious. Mabel’s first impression is of a greenhouse, pregnant with blooming white flowers. Closer inspection reveals racks where the gowns huddle silently, each awaiting a body to fill them, to walk and twirl in them, display them to a crowd – though just one human might suffice.

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Predatory Chains

Hubert approached the freezer door gingerly. The seals were failing and he was fearful of triggering an ejection of its replenished contents. DIY maintenance was not his forté. Opinion on this had been unanimous since the incident involving pergola components, a hammer drill and his newly numbed left hand and truncated thumb. Lifting the door handle and easing outwards whilst bracing with his knee usually worked.

He had been re-examining the previous evening’s chronology – the pier’s shadow in the fading light, the incoming tide and Jenny paddling at the water’s edge. They were discussing wedding pros and cons – woodland versus church – when interrupted by a commotion out in the bay. A boiling murkiness was expanding as it rose from the ocean’s depths. Bubbling and spitting it ran towards the shore; the coral-pink darts of the drowning sun were unable to disperse it. Overhead competing clouds of gannets and seagulls quarrelled in a screaming circular tornado. And at their feet, tickling their toes, the advancing flume line turned silver with thousands of doomed sprats. Fleeing the mackerel’s strike they wriggled and squirmed on the reducing ribbon of sand.

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See you on the other side

Those were my brother’s last words to me as our phone call ended.  I was quite taken aback.  Was this outbreak really going to be that serious?  Those words haunted me for days.

His letter from his GP had stated to stay in for twelve weeks, shielding they called it.  We would still be able to phone each other, or even use Skype or Zoom, but would that really be enough.

I had not even considered him in the past, when I jetted off around the world for months on end, so why did this feel different.  As the daily death tolls rose, so did my worries.

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