Run

Fuck fuck fuck. You're out of breath. Choking. Where are you?
You look around while you catch your breath. Revive. You're in the highschoolparkinglot. Fuck. This place is too open. You need to find cover. You need to hide. You need to find a weapon. You're in dire need. Fuck fuck fuck.
You run straight ahead. Where are you going? Where are you going to go? What's the plan? Fuck.
Your legs hurt. Your legs are suffocating. Your legs aren't getting enough oxygen. Fuck.
The HIGHWAY. Maybe there will be someone on the HIGHWAY who can help you. Maybe you can look extra weak and innocent and when they pull over, you can slit their throat and take their car as your own. Bestplan. You run.
You pause and lean on the side of a building for a moment. It's a house. You're leaning on someone's home. Used to be someone's home. You're leaning on a building. Your lungs are screaming. They aren't being treated fairly. They are making demands. If you don't stop mistreating them, they will go on strike. Your eyes quickly scan around you. Broken glass. Bottles aren't any good as weapons. Neither is a jagged piece of glass. Even with a rag to wrap around for a safe handle, it could still break apart, cut your hand, expose your blood.
Panic!
Your hand flies up to check the wetrag over your mouth. It's barely damp. You need to rewet it. You HAVE to rewet it. Maybe you can stop running for a second and rewet the wetrag.
You hear something a few houses away. Homes away. Buildings away. You hear something. Fuck fuck fuck.
You run.
You could have at least taken a tiny glassbit to kill a trusting driver. You could have. You should have. Dammit. Fuck. Fuck it.
You're crying. You've been crying. You aren't crying any longer.
You're scared. You're angry. Stupid fucking- you run through this neighbourhood. Collection of buildings. Graveyard.
Something screams. Someone screams. Which is it? Toward? Away? What are you going to do?
Fuck.
Away.
You fuck off.
Off and away.
You run.
A BAT!!! A FUCKING BASEBALL BAT!
A FUCKINGBASEBALLBATINTHEMIDDLEOFTHEFUCKINGSTREET!!!
You run to the bat. You smile. You cry. You hug your good fortune. You stop smiling.
You are surrounded. You are in a trap. You are caught. You are fucked.

Audrey's Memory

Audrey was stuck.
She had been floating happily across the lake for about a week, watching the fishes as they nibbled at her.
Now her foot was caught on some jackass’s dock. At least she thought it was her foot. That seemed to be the anchor point that was hinging her to the wooden post. Probably snagged on a ragged nail.
The fishes still came to visit her, but she didn’t have the wind pushing her around.
At least when she was drifting, there was the excitement that she might hit a boat.
Her best chance now was for a fish to nibble enough of her foot to set her adrift again.
Actually her best chance would be for some kid to find her and turn her over, and run away scared. That way she could drift face up for a change!
It would be lovely to see the stars again; although she would most likely miss watching her fish.
Audrey knew deep down that it was only a matter of time before the fish ate enough of her to sink her, but on the other hand, the bottom of the lake would probably be exciting.
There would be catfish and she could count beer cans as they sank around her.
In between, she could reflect on life and the other big things she never spared the time to think about before.
How long had she been stuck here?
At least a few days, but probably not a whole week. Maybe a whole week. It was getting harder for her to keep track of time. No appointments to keep or schedules to make.
Wait.
Now she was being pulled out of the water.
OH NO!
Please just let it be some curious teenagers. Please god just let it be some teenagers. Audrey realized she merely was thinking that way out of habit now. Or maybe not. Who knew what would happen to her tomorrow? Maybe she would drift up into the sky.
The shoes didn’t look like teenager shoes. They were shiny black shoes underneath black pants.
Police shoes.
Audrey was shoved into a large matching black bag. She watched the zipper close over head.
Then she was thrown somewhere roughly.
Why couldn’t they have just left her alone and in peace to contemplate?
A short while later, she was placed on her back. The bag was unzipped.
Audrey was in a morgue now. She was sure of it. Silver all around and beige on the ceiling.
Men with glasses looked at her for a bit, then pushed her inside a large metal cabinet.
She sat staring in the dark, so used to the lake that every once in a while, she almost thought she saw a fish rise up from the blackness.
She was rolled out from the big metal cabinet. A few police officers looked at her. One closed her eyes. She was pushed back inside the big metal cabinet.
She couldn’t see anything at all now. They’d ruined that for her.
Audrey could barely hear a few men outside every once in a while. Minutes passed. Hours, probably.
She was rolled out again from the big metal cabinet. The bag was zipped back up over her head and soon she was being moved again.
As she traveled, Audrey imagined she was drifting along a river; that every bump was a dip or a twist in the rapid water.
She pictured the sky overhead and birds flying from tree to tree, noticing her every so often.
She could almost feel the sun on her face.
The bag was unzipped over her head.
She felt it pull out a few of her hairs on its way down.
A man opened her eyes.
He looked at her closely, and then leaned back.
He held a tiny paintbrush and a solemn expression on his face.
The man moved her face all around, squeezing and turning.
He lifted her arm, bent it at the elbow, set it down.
He lifted her leg, bent it at the knee, set it down.
The man wasn’t rough, but he was utilitarian in his touches; routine.
He set his tiny brush down on a tiny side table and hooked something up into Audrey’s arm.
He switched off the lights and left her in the dark.
Was this a mortician?
Audrey could feel something happening inside her body; something strange and unsettling.
It felt almost like her blood was being forced to move again, or that she was being drained.
The light came back on a few minutes later. Hours? Days?
The man unhooked whatever was in her arm.
He bent her arm, then set it down.
The man removed her torn dress, and pushed her into a new peasanty, flowery one.
She hated the way it looked; at least what she saw of it.
Audrey would never voluntarily wear a dress like this.
The man picked up his tiny paintbrush and started brushing it across her face.
Soon, he was finished.
He closed her eyes.
She was moved into a coffin.
She waited.
The coffin never opened.
She and the coffin were moved again.
She heard someone mumbling a prayer.
Audrey heard the intermittent rain of dirt covering her coffin.
Now there would be nothing else.
Was there still something to look forward to?
Could something still happen?
Maybe this was a waiting period of some kind.
Maybe heaven had a long line.
She wished she had something to distract her. Nothing but her thoughts.
Audrey tried thinking of new things, anything other than the reason she was here.
She tried desperately not to remember that violent day at the lake.
Anything was better to occupy her mind than the cold, naked truth, but there was nothing here. Empty quiet still blackness.
She only kept herself from thinking about it for a few hours? Days? Years?
Then there was nothing left to do but remember.

The End

Ronald's Night

Ronald finished cleaning his instruments.
He toweled them off individually and ran them each flatly along his jeans to finish his ritual.
Then he carefully picked them all up in his hands like a bundle of metal sticks, and walked down the shag-carpeted steps back into his basement.
The single bulb still hummed with electricity.
He placed each of his tools back into their leather case and wrapped the strap tightly around it.
He placed the leather bundle back on its little shelf.
Ronald hadn’t missed any spots while he was cleaning.
It was a very small room.
Still, a ritual was a ritual.
Better safe than sorry. Words Ronald lived by.
He got out the blacklight and the ammonia spray bottle and searched every inch.
Hadn’t missed a spot.

He put the blacklight and spray bottle away on their shelf up above the leather case.
Then he killed the bulb and trudged back up the steps, closing the door behind him.
The news was on television now.
He flipped to another channel.
A movie was on; a movie he’d never seen all the way through, but had been meaning to watch.
Looked like he’d only missed a few minutes.
Ronald decided to watch it.

Bump-bump-bump!
Ronald jerked awake.
Someone was at the door.
Ronald got up out of his lounge chair and walked out of his living room.
He left the static-blaring television on, so he could see in the darkness.
Bump-bump-bump!
“I’m comin’! It’s late!”
He peered through the peephole to see how many police officers there were.
None.
No neighbours either.
Ronald figured they might be off to the sides of the door.
He quickly pulled his jackknife out of his back pocket, switched it open, and kept it clenched it in his hand behind his back.
With his free hand, he opened the door.
“Hello?! Who the hell’s banging on my damn door in the middle of the night?”
There was no one outside the door.
Ronald tentatively stepped out and peeked around the corners of his house, right and left.
He didn’t see anyone running in the distance or hiding nearby.
Ronald stood still for a moment and smelled the night air.
Nothing unfamiliar.
He turned and went back into his house.

Ronald lazily went towards the living room to turn off his TV and go to sleep.
Whump-whump-whump!
“Goddammit!”
He sprinted back to the door, knife at the ready, and flung it open.
The wind rustled the bushes gently.
A few leaves skittered on the sidewalk.
Ronald’s eyes narrowed.
He reached back into his house and turned off his porch light.
Then he shut the door and slinked off to his right, behind the large front bushes.
He waited patiently in the night with his knife open.
The wind blew again, drying his eyes.
Ronald didn’t blink.
He waited for at least 30 minutes, crouched and hidden behind his neatly-hedged bushes.
He waited another 30 minutes just to be sure the first 30 minutes was at least 30 minutes.
Nothing happened.
He listened so hard, he could hear the static on his television through the brick wall next to him.
He finally peered over the bushes and into the neighbourhood in front of him.
No lights on, except a few scattered porches.
Ronald narrowed his eyes again.
He decided to check completely around his house.
He crept slowly, knife drawn, behind the bushes that covered the corner of his house.
He made sure not to snap even the tiniest twig.
No one on the right side of his house so far.

He looked gently over his wooden fence, then pushed up on the metal latch slowly enough to keep it quiet.
He lifted the fence slightly as he opened it, so the hinges wouldn’t squeak.
Then he stopped for a moment and listened.
No sound.
He closed the fence gingerly and crouched down again.
He kept to the side of his house and moved forward.

The back door was ajar.
Ronald was absolutely sure he hadn’t left it open.
It was all part of his ritual.
He never missed a single step of his ritual.
He cursed silently and eased open the screen door an inch at a time.
It creaked gently, no matter how slowly he moved, but the way he was opening it would sound as natural as the wind.
Ronald entered the darkness of his home.

He smelled the air in his kitchen.
Nothing unfamiliar.
Ronald grimaced and began to chew on his lip.
It took ten full minutes for Ronald to close both back doors silently, one after the other.
He locked the deadbolt and listened for the intruder.
Silence.
Better safe than sorry.
Ronald went to the front door quietly.
It was still shut.
He locked the deadbolt and the chain silently.
All the little hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.
He realized that the television had been turned off.

His eyes grew wider.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead, then off his upper lip.
He wiped both hands on his jeans.
Ronald needed something better than this knife.
He needed to go downstairs and get his tools.
He slowly walked to the basement door.
It was already open.
He slid through and closed it behind him.
Now he was immersed in darkness.
He held his sweaty knife in his right hand, and slowly splayed his left hand out in the darkness.
If he felt anyone, he planned to grab them close and stab them again and again.

The air was cool and musty.
He walked down a stair, and felt around in the darkness.
He walked down another stair and repeated.
With every step, he felt more sweat gather on his brow.
He lost track of how far down he had come.
Surely he didn’t have this many steps.
He stopped feeling for a moment and listened.
Silence.
Nothing but the sounds of his lungs emptying and his neurons singing.
Ronald knew someone was down here.
He could feel them.
This was HIS room; his special place.
Just by being here, this person was violating his sanctuary.
He walked down another step, feeling in the darkness.
And another step.

He put his foot down gently again, but the floor shoved it back; he had finally reached the bottom.
Ronald hunched down, in case the intruder was also feeling around in the darkness.
More than likely, he was waiting; listening for any movement at all.
Listening for Ronald breathing.
Ronald held his breath
He waited, crouched with his hand out, in the ink of the basement.
He couldn’t hear anyone breathing, but the feeling was stronger than ever now.
Ronald was almost positive of where the man was.
The slightest noise meant his death.

Ronald moved silently along the right wall of the tiny room, shielding his body to the wall in case he was suddenly struck.
He felt in the air with his left hand for anything solid.
He finally felt the back right edge of the room.
His tools were in the other back corner, just a few feet away.
The man was either in the middle of the room, by his special little chair, or along the opposite wall.
Instinct would tell him not to stay in the corners.

Ronald took a step closer to his tools.
He paused to listen.
Someone else was breathing very very carefully in the middle of the room.
Ronald grinned.
He’d be able to get his tools.
He moved with patience, but confidence toward his leather satchel.
He felt the other corner of the room.
He gently reached up and felt for the handle of his long-bladed steel knife.
He was able to slide it out of its leather case without even a creak.
The breathing in the middle of the room grew faster.
Ronald felt his own heart beating more quickly.
He squared himself with the middle of the tiny room he knew and loved, and crept a step towards his favourite child-sized chair.

He stepped again silently, both arms closer to his body, ready to strike.
He was right behind the tiny chair now, poised and ready to strike.
Ronald heard the quickened breathing of the person right in front of him, and he leaned closer.
Ronald slowly raised his arms up and out into the blackness on either side of him, like a bat stretching its wings.

Like a flash, he swung his arms forward and stabbed both hands into the darkness.
His arms passed quickly through thin air; cold air.
He broke out in goosebumps as he retracted his hands through the freezing pool of nothingness sitting in the children’s chair.
Ronald distinctly heard a whimper, not six inches in front of him.
The very pit of his stomach froze and the hairs on the back of his neck curled upward.
Ronald heard soft crying as a violent pain broke into his left shoulder.
Instinctually, he arched his back and reached behind him.
One of his own knives was stuck through his shoulder up to the handle.
He pulled it out and realized with horror that it was the jackknife he thought he was still holding.
He felt another pain pierce through his belly.
He doubled over and pulled out his long-bladed steel knife.
He slashed through the air with both knives, striking nothing.
The cold spread from his wounds throughout his body.
He fell to the floor, realizing that his hands were both empty.
As the cold completely enveloped him, he heard his leather kit being opened.
He drooled blood onto the stone floor.
“Please… please don’t…”
No words.
Only breathing.
Upstairs, the television turned back on, filling the house with the sound of static.

The End

Chuck's House

THUD!
Chuck heard the newspaper slam against the front of the house.
“He isn’t even trying to hit the front door anymore,” Chuck muttered to his wife.
“I don’t see what difference it makes whether the paper lands at the door, or a few feet from the door, Charles, you can read it just the same.”
Chuck grumbled to himself, hoisted his 71-year-old body out of his chair, and lumbered over to the door.
“Charles O’Henry,” he stated clearly.
“Voice pattern confirmed. Front door opened,” the house stated equally clearly.
Chuck was struck briefly by how businesslike these verbal transactions were, as he pushed the door open.
His wife Helen had wanted this “upgraded” house computer. He had personally grown accustomed to the voice of their old house, a mature woman with a warm nature, and had been disappointed at the choices in voices for the new house.
At first, they had tried the new cheerful young boy who reminded Chuck a lot of the classic Leave It To Beaver show.
After a few months of overly cheerful pre-puberty however, they both decided the cold, default female voice was the best of the new options.
He walked onto the porch, closing the door behind him.
The newspaper had bounced off the front siding and landed atop the big plastic bushes his wife had wanted “to make the house stand out a little, dear.”
Chuck could see the grayish mark on the siding where the newspaper hit.
“It left a damn mark Helen!” Chuck hollered inside.
“What?”
Chuck muttered to himself and grabbed the paper brusquely.
He smudged at the mark violently with his thumb, but it did nothing, so he walked the two 71-year-old steps back to the door.
“Charles O’Henry,” he stated clearly.
“Voice pattern not recognized. Entry denied,” the house stated equally clearly.
Chuck stopped pushing on the door and cleared his throat.
“Charles O’Henry,” Chuck said, making sure to enunciate every letter.
“Voice pattern not recognized. Entry denied,” the house stated again.
“Now dammit, you just said you recognized me two minutes ago!”
“To permit access, please state your name clearly.”
“Charles O’Henry!”
“Voice pattern not recognized. Entry Denied. House under lockdown. Warning: further attempts may result in police action and housing defense activation. Have a nice day.”
“Let me into my damn house! Helen!” Chuck yelled.
“What’s wrong now Charles?”
“This damn house of yours locked me out!”
“What?”
“For God’s sakes Helen, come over to the door so you can hear me!”
Chuck very faintly heard Helen pull herself out of her chair and shuffle over to the other side of the door.
“Charles, why are you outside yelling?
“Helen, the front door locked me out. I’m locked out of my own house in my damn pajamas,” Charles spat.
“Why don’t you just say your name, dear?”
Chuck closed his eyes and sighed audibly.
“Helen, why don’t YOU say YOUR name.”
“Don’t be angry with me Charles, you’re the one who wanted this new house computer. I was happy with the old one.”
Chuck took a deep breath and turned away from the door, sighing to himself.
All around the neighbourhood now, the younger neighbours were all waking up and starting their day.
Chuck decided to sit on his uncomfortable foamwood porch swing and read the paper.
He could hear his wife chattering away through the door at him, about now she was probably blaming him again for the faulty alarm bed settings, even though he’d explained that it was a manufacturing defect at least a dozen times. He’d even clipped out the article with the company’s public apology and complete lack of desire (or “inability” as they put it) to make up for their faulty alarm beds.
Chuck noticed that one of his neighbours was lying on his own porch swing, a real comfortable wooden one, a few houses away across the street.
It looked as if he was sleeping in his suit for some reason.
Chuck was fortunate enough to see his flurry of waking with a start, looking at his watch, jumping into his car, and driving off.
Helen was yelling now.
“-do you mean not recognized?!” he heard her shout.
Chuck folded his paper neatly, stood up, and walked back over to the door.
“Helen, is it broken for you too?”
“Charles, it said it didn’t recognize me!” Helen grumped from inside.
“Voice pattern not recognized. House under lockdown. Authorities have been alerted. Have a nice day.”
Chuck was angry now.
“What on Earth do you mean? You’ve called the cops?!”
“Charles, why won’t it open?”
“Helen, if I knew that, I wouldn’t be standing on the porch in my skivvies!”
“Well, it certainly is an inconvenience Charles.”
“I’m sure the police will be able to help. Just go back to your puzzle and I’ll talk to them when they get here.”
Chuck went back to his swing and opened his newspaper. He heard Helen complaining quietly to herself inside.
A few minutes later, two squad cars showed up on the street.
The officers inside got out and both pointed their shotguns at him.
“We received reports of an unauthorized entry into this residence. Put your hands in the air and prepare for arrest.”
“It’s my own damn house! No one’s unauthorized here.”
“He’s resisting arrest! Activate!”
Chuck started to reply, when all of an instant, he was hit by an electric shell and fell to the ground, convulsing with pain and more volts than his body knew what to do with.
The two officers swarmed onto his porch, one of them handcuffing him, while the other kept his shotgun aimed at Chuck’s head.
Chuck was still convulsing as they moved away from him and towards the door.
Chuck’s ears barely discerned Helen at the door.
“Has my husband told you everything officers?”
Before they could answer, the door chimed in.
“Good morning officers. This is house 148-F. There have recently been numerous unauthorized attempts from two individuals. One individual outside the house and one individual inside the house.”
“Good God Johnson! The burglar has already gotten inside!” one of the officers yelled, even though they were standing right next to each other.
“Load that geezer into your squadcar Evans, I’ll deal with this perp myself!” the other officer yelled, even though they were still standing right next to each other.
Chuck’s ears began to normalize again and he heard Helen pleading.
“I’m not a burglar! Charles, tell them I’m your wife!”
Chuck heard the computer respond.
“Voice pattern not recognized. Entry Denied. House defense system activated. Have a nice day.”
“Good God Johnson! The burglar has turned the house against us!”
“Let’s get outta here Evans!
Chuck was roughly picked up, slung over one of the officer’s shoulders and rushed to a squadcar, where he was thrown in the back like a sack of laundry.
Chuck heard the house’s defenses firing plasma beams at the squadcar, where they were deflected by the car’s plating.
His tongue and lips were still too numb to speak when he heard the officer spit into his radio.
“This is officer Johnson, we need an immediate firebombing of house 148-F. repeat, immediate firebombing of house 148-F. over.”
Chuck’s tongue was still swollen, and his mouth wouldn’t open.
The radio blasted “Roger that. Immediate firebombing of house 148-F in progress. Over.”
“Roger. Over and out.”
They drove away and Chuck began to cry, hearing the sounds of explosions behind him.

Peter's Gift

Peter was gifted. Peter didn’t know what his gift was, but his family was absolutely positive he had a gift. At the age of 8, his parents took him to a prestigious university, where they ran several genius-tests on him. The results came back and proved without a shadow of a doubt that Peter was special. He had a knack or talent or ability of some sort or other.

All the scientists read over the test results and nodded.

“Definitely gifted,” they all said.

That was good enough for his parents.

They rushed him home to celebrate without even asking what talent he had, exactly; which was good because the test results didn’t show it and none of the scientists could interpret the results anyway. The scientists had all been pretending for years and years that they were able to understand the results of their experiments to impress each other, but in reality none of them could, and only the lucky ones were able to read anything at all.

“I knew you had a gift, Peter. ‘Gifted.’ That’s what I said when I first held your little genius-head in my arms. ‘Gifted,’” His mother said, sighing happily.

“That’s my boy. Way to have a talent, son,” His father said, refusing to touch him.

They held parties and barbeques in his honour, inviting all of the neighbourhood neighbours, who were too polite to ask anyone outright what his gift was, but not too polite to whisper secretly to each other and say they didn’t think he was so great.

When he was 10, Peter tried to tell his father that he loved him, whereby his father interrupted him with a surprise parade through the town, and a celebratory month-long circus.

As he grew into his teenage years, Peter had become used to people telling him enthusiastically what his talent might be.

“Maybe you’re gifted at memorizing Peter! Have you ever tried memorizing? Do you remember things that other people don’t remember?” asked his Aunt Claire, chirpily.

“Maybe it’s music! What? You already tried that? Well which instrument Peter? There are dozens to choose from! We’ll go through every one of them if we have to!!!” offered his music teacher Mr. Bacumba, desperately.

“Maybe you’re like a love machine or somethin’ with the ladies. A little Don Juan De Sexo,” suggested his alcoholic uncle George, drinkingly.

Peter never let people’s suggestions bother him.

He always simply replied, “Maybe.”

As he grew into his twenties, his notoriety became bigger and fatter.

People had heard a lifetime of hype, and when they finally met him, they were overwhelmed.

“Oh. My. GOD! He looks just like I thought he would! Karen, look at his face. Doesn’t it just SCREAM gifted?!”

“Look at the way he sits son. That’s how a genius sits.”

Peter didn’t mind the normal people.

He did however, mind the important people.

There were people who wanted to use his talent to make them powerful, or rich, or even rich AND powerful together at the same time.

Peter would be walking along, signing autographs and taking hand-written journals with hundreds of pages detailing suggestions of what his gift might be, when all of a sudden, he would be pulled into a van and driven away.

He would then be taken to meet with the president, who wanted him to invent a gamma bomb, or a rock star who wanted a new number one hit, or a writer who couldn’t think of a weird short story to post in his blog.

All of these amazingly powerful and influential people only wanted more power and influence, Peter saw. He would always say, “Let me think about it,” and they would let him go back to his life of almost.

Then, when Peter was in his early thirties, his father had a heart attack, right in front of him.

“Oh Jesus Pete, it’s the ticker! You think maybe your gift is to stop death? Don’t touch me.”

After saying this to Peter, his father instantly died.

Peter curled up into a ball on the rug near his father, and for a day and a half, he rocked back and forth, hugging himself.

Then the police showed up.

After asking him for autographs, they told him how sorry they were that stopping death wasn’t his gift.

Then they carried away his stiff father, and Peter went into his father’s basement and urinated on his father’s antique toy train collection.

 

The End

Ice-Cold Alice

Alice was freezing.

Her fingers felt like cold bits of metal, unfeeling, and unwieldy.

Her legs had no feeling past her knees.

She was underground in a prison.

The cold Atlantic had seeped in and now constantly covered the ground, coming up just past her ankles.

She often wondered if it might freeze her in place, locking her feet in ice.

She could feel rats swim by her in the blackness.

First she felt their whiskers testing for obstacles, then their wet, matted hair, and finally she felt their little tails whipping her skin as they passed.

Even though she was starving, she would never lower herself to eating a rat.

God would provide for her in some form.

She heard other prisoners catch the rats sometimes in the darkness.

She would hear the splash of the water, and the incessant squeaking until the crack of their little neck.

She didn't blame others for doing what they needed.

Some of the prisoners were whole families, and parents were surely providing for their children.

When a family would arrive, at first, they would pray together.

She could hear their hushed voices, and the tiny hope held therein.

Out of the darkness, sometimes anger would erupt.

A man or a woman fighting against reality, refusing to submit to the darkness and the hand they had all been dealt.

Then the bright red anger would drown back into the cold black bleak nothingness.

She could hear the families comfort each other after such outbursts.

Eventually the families would simply weep quietly together.

She could almost hear them clutching each other so tightly.

In her mind, she could see their pale haggard faces, each one scrunched so hard, with tears streaming through the wrinkles.

It pained her to hear the children crying in the wet, shivering darkness.

But it was much worse when they ultimately stopped crying.

Then there was just the silence of fate accepted.

The silent sound of a child coming to terms with death at such a young age was deafening over the soft swish of the water.

But Alice had no tears left, only the suffocating chill of depression.

She was resigned to her fate, whatever God deemed it.

She knew not why God had marked them for death.

She had done nothing wrong.

She had devoted her life to teaching children.

She had committed no wrongs against her fellow men.

Why was it so hard for the elders of the town to see this for the lunacy it surely was?

She felt the devil's work in the town.

The devil had no place in her breast.

The devil resided, not in the children and families all around her, standing in the freezing water, but in the wicked girls.

They had succumbed to evil, and their influential pranks had turned to mass murder.

Surely when Alice was younger, she had danced secretly with her friends.

She had laughed and told stories around a fire.

Most people of the town knew that even though pleasure was indeed the devil's entry, he need not be allowed in.

But this public spectacle was different.

The elders were so intent to show their strict interpretations of chastity and piousness, that all common sense had been devoured.

Alice heard the large oak doors opening around the corner of the prison.

She saw the small amount of light offered from the moon.

She could barely make out the two men walking towards her with chains in hand.

She smelled garlic on one man's breath as he reached above her and unfastened her wrists, letting them drop ungracefully to her sides.

As she started to collapse, the other man caught her roughly and forced her to stand while they fastened her arms into new shackles.

They led her out slowly, as she had seen them do with so many others before.

She turned her head slightly to the right and saw nothing but shapes in the darkness, punctuated by the shining of eyes, large and small.

They dragged her up the stairs into the night.

For the first time in weeks, she felt her feet as they scraped across the rough stones and ground of the woods.

Then her head drifted into darkness again.

When she awoke a few minutes later, there was a rough rope loosely lying around her fragile neck.

There was a man talking to her, but she didn't hear him.

Instead, she heard the twisting of rope in the breeze.

She looked above and behind her to see that her rope was connected to a large tree.

The oak tree on top of the hill.

Her favourite tree, which overlooked the cemetery and the harbour.

She had spent many summers, reading and leaning against it, thinking on the beauty of life.

She saw that several others were still hanging from the tree, twisting with every slight gust of wind.

She heard their ropes creak and their bodies sway.

A hand grabbed her face and forced her to look at the man speaking to her.

Even in the dim light, she could see the spittle flying from his mouth.

She could see the anger on his face.

Was he angry at her, or angry at himself?

Was it her fault the whole town had gone mad?

Did he blame Alice?

Perhaps it made his job easier.

Convicting the innocent.

Strangling children with lengths of rope and watch their tiny eyes fill with tears.

He kept asking her a question, but she knew the answer didn't matter one way or the other.

He signaled to the man beside her, and he stepped back.

There was a whoosh of air, and Alice was choking from the weight of her wooden legs and metal hands.

She didn't struggle or fight.

Alice simply swayed and let herself drown to death in the lovely night air.

Alice knew she wasn't a witch.

No one in Salem was.

She slowly fell asleep again, knowing it was all just lunacy, and God would sort it out as soon as she woke up.

Duncan and Janice

It was a sunny day in Los Angeles.

Duncan had just woken up from a long night’s sleep on the park bench where he now sat.

He sat up on the bench, perked his doll up on his leg, as he usually did, put his hands in the correct places, and cleared his throat.

“I say Janice; today looks to be most pleasant. Most pleasant indeed,” Duncan said in his best rich-man voice.

“Why yes, Duncan, I think you’re right. I had planned to go home and bathe, since I am absolutely filthy, but instead, I believe I’ll sit right here with you all and enjoy the breeze and the sun. And also your handsome face,” Janice said in her high-pitched squeaky voice.

Duncan smiled and looked around the park. More and more people were coming out. It was Saturday, a wonderful day for performers like him.

“Janice, are you sure you don’t want to take a bath? You are indeed quite filthy. Your police uniform is sticky! What made you so disgusting?”

“Why, you did, you scamp. You dirtied me up last night!” Janice almost shrieked.

A man who was jogging, slowed to watch the man and his dummy. Then instead of leaving money, he made a face, much to Duncan’s disappointment.

“Why Janice! You know that I would prefer you clean! Why don’t you at least go splash around in the fountain?”

Duncan coughed. His neck hurt this morning, probably from sleeping on the bench at a strange angle.

“You rogue! You can’t do what you did and just toss me away! You’re lucky you’re so horribly attractive,” Janice said, looking at Duncan with a twinkle in her dull eyes.

Over across the path, two men were sitting down, also enjoying the beautiful day on a bench. Duncan liked seeing how happy everyone was today. He was starting to feel a kinship with the entire world. The more happy people he saw, the happier he felt.

“Janice, if you don’t go wash up right now, I’m going to pretend that I don’t know you.” Duncan raised his eyebrow in verbal victory.

“That would be quite rude of you after making bench love last night under the beautiful stars,” Janice said in her squeaky seductive voice.

Duncan hadn’t expected Janice to say this, and he was genuinely surprised.

He shifted a little in his bench, and slapped Janice heartily on the back, accidentally causing her head to roll forward unnaturally.

One of the two men across the path whispered in the other man’s ear and they both gave Duncan and Janice a strange look.

He saw this, but tried to ignore it in order to keep his happy mood going.

 “My goodness! What a-What a wonderful secret to share with everyone here!”

Duncan quickly fixed her head, although it seemed a little stiffer than usual this morning.

Duncan figured it was probably just from the morning dew.

The two men got up, and with one last glance at Duncan, they walked away.

Luckily another man, a richer man, stopped and stared at Janice curiously.

“Now it’s your turn. Give me a secret my little dumpling waffle!” Janice shrieked.

Duncan was caught off guard by his own words.

He hadn’t meant to make Janice say that.

“Why- why don’t we do our routine Janice?”

“Why don’t we make love on the park bench again today? It was so wonderful.”

Duncan started sweating.

A crowd was gathering, and he desperately needed money, but this wasn’t the routine at all.

“Janice, just look at all these people. I’m sure they would like to watch our show now.”

“You don’t want to kiss me and take off my little policewoman outfit again, pudding lumps?”

“Of course not Janice, now stop it!”

Two or three people in the crowd chuckled softly, but the others stared with furrowed brows.

“You were so strange, molasses muffin. You held me tightly and told me that you were sorry, but you couldn’t help yourself.”

A woman took her child by the hand and left the crowd. Duncan heard the child ask, “Mommy, why is the doll so big?”

He couldn’t deal with this. What was wrong with him? He took a deep breath and started the routine.

“I say there Janice, I was just down at the park the other day and I saw the most peculiar thing.”

“Duncan, is it because I’m dirty?”

“I’m sure you’re wondering what I saw Janice. Why I saw a man-“

“Duncan, you did this to me.”

“-I saw a man who had a misshapen head, like a potato.”

“You made me like this.”

“He was- he was having trouble walking with his large deformed head, weaving this way and that to-“

The crowd was shifting uncomfortably. No one was laughing now. Duncan had to put an end to this before anything got any worse. He tightened his grip on the back of Janice’s neck and forced her to stop looking at him and focus on the crowd. Something in her neck cracked.

“He was weaving towards a hotdog vendor.”

“I was just trying to do my job and you hurt me.”

“And the hotdog vendor looked at his lumpy potato head and said-“

“I’m calling the police,” a man in the crowd said, leaving.

A child asked his father why the doll was covered in paint, but his father didn’t hear him.

“…some kind of prank?” Duncan heard one teenager tell another. The whole crowd was beginning to buzz now. “…looks so lifelike...” Duncan was breathing quickly and heavily. “…wrong with her neck…”

“JANICE! DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE HOTDOG VENDOR SAID?”

Everyone was quiet.

“Sir, I think something’s wrong with your brain.”

With that, Duncan collapsed into his hands, and began to cry. Janice slid off his lap and fell off the bench and onto the ground with a sickening thud, her neck twisting all the way around. The crowd started screaming.