No. 132 - Fangy Part 1

Every day, Fangy had to suppress the urge to eat Nicholas. This was very difficult, because Fangy had a tiny brain and hunter’s instincts. But Fangy was Nicolas’ pet, and he was determined to do his job as best he could.

Fangy learned how to play fetch, which he enjoyed very much, and how to play dead, which he didn’t enjoy at all, and how to shake a claw, to which he was indifferent. His absolute favorite times were when Nicholas was away from home and Nicholas’ parents let him loose in the woods behind their house.  

The neighbors would always complain to Nicholas’ father that their cats and dogs went missing. But he would shrug his shoulders and blame badgers, which nobody believed.

Then one day Nicholas brought some of his school friends over. Fangy stood just inside the screen door and snuffled eagerly as they approached. He couldn’t imagine any other reason for guests other than that they must be here for dinner.

Nicholas arrived at the door first. He put out his hand and spoke directly to Fangy. “These are friends, boy. You mustn’t hurt them. Good boy.”

But Fangy couldn’t help himself. He jumped viciously on the first child and tore him to bits. The boy was delicious. Then Fangy caught a girl who’d tried to run. She was even better.

By this time Nicholas had run into the house and returned with a rolled-up magazine. He smacked Fangy on the snout and yelled. “Stop it! Bad Fangy! Go inside to your corner and wait for me.”

Fangy obeyed, sheepishly following orders to stand in the time-out spot. He did feel some shame, but the excitement of the hunt still pulsed through him.

Nicholas stood on the porch, surveying the macabre scene. He sighed. He probably should have seen this coming. There’s only so much self-control one can expect from a velociraptor.

No. 131

The sound of the rain pounding the awning of the patio was deafening. It was the fourth day, and cabin fever was starting to set in.

“Is this all the channels we get?” Mike Hartley asked his wife.

“Yes. It’s the same answer you got five minutes ago, and you’ve been through them all twice since then. Just choose one and leave it,” Aubrey told him.  She tossed her book in the general direction of their suitcases. “I’m going to the pool bar,” she announced.

“It’s raining,” said Mike facetiously.

“Really? Is that what that wet, rainy stuff is that’s falling from the sky?” she replied.

Aubrey laughed to herself, then picked up the room key, considered bringing her towel then abandoned the thought, and left the room. “Come join me anytime,” she called over her shoulder.

Mike sighed and changed the channel again.

Aubrey walked down the drab hotel hallway and idly considered the decor. She decided that she was ok with a boring corridor if the hotel spent their money in other, more important, ways. So far it had not let her down. And she’d had plenty of time to explore because of the rain.

She nodded to the girl at the front desk with whom she’d had a wonderful conversation yesterday, and stepped out onto the pool deck. There was a canopy covering the door, so she wasn’t drenched yet. She stood still and marvelled at how much water was pouring down. She extended her hand out past the roof and felt the force of the deluge hit her. It was like being in front of a hose.

Then she stepped out. She was soaked instantly. She’d never done this on purpose before, certainly not in conditions this bad. She raised her head up and felt the individual drops hit her face.

Then she smiled and walked to the edge of the pool. Without pausing she jumped in and glided purposefully to the swim-up bar. The bartender was huddled in a corner and he watched with a bemused grin as she drew closer.

“What’ll it be?” he asked when she arrived.

“Two margaritas,” she told him.

“Two?” he asked, and craned his head around to see if there was someone else nearby.  “For you?”

“Oh no,” Aubrey answered. “I arranged for the front desk to cut the TV to our room. I imagine my husband will be down shortly.”

No. 130

Marion Lionel didn’t see the sign in her rear-view mirror that said “Welcome to Demeter’s Landing Pop. 1750”. She was concentrated intensely ahead on the dark and winding road out of town. Ahead of her was another sign that said “Next Service 83 Miles”. Lionel figured that she had about two hours before they sent someone after her. She inhaled deeply through clenched teeth and dropped her right toe slightly as she exited a corner.  

She was approaching the next one when she felt a brief drop in power. He eyes flashed to the tachometer just in time to see it plummet to zero. The sudden silence distracted her and if the car hadn’t already begun to slow on its own, she would have been in the ditch. Lionel guided it to the side of the highway and pounded the steering wheel as the vehicle coasted to a halt.

“No! No no no!” she screamed at the black rock wall at the side of the narrow road. She slammed the gearshift into park and tried to start the engine again. There was no indication of life. She popped the hood and tried to see if there was anything amiss, but as far as she could ascertain, there was nothing she could do.

She sat back down in the driver’s seat and closed the door. She couldn’t help but glance at the briefcase on the floor beside her. Although it was cold outside, Marion began to sweat. She threw open the door again and scrambled around the front of the car to the passenger side. She wretched open that door and snatched the briefcase. She looked furtively down the road in both directions, then crossed to the other side. She hopped the gully and made her way several lengths into the sandy scrub. She immediately began to dig with her hands until she had a hole just deep enough to throw the case in. But she didn’t have time to cover it.

She heard the faint sound of a motor. She jerked her head up and looked for the source. She saw a pair of headlights crest the top of a hill in the distance. They were coming towards her. Abandoning the case, she ran back to her car and took several slow breaths to calm herself down. She checked the mirror to see that she hadn’t gotten any telltale dirt on her face.

The other car drew closer. Lionel recognized it as Mrs. Perkin’s. Its headlights caught Lionel’s car and Mrs. Perkin slowed to a stop. Lionel tried to remember if Mrs. Perkin’s name was Linda, Lydia, or Laura. She cursed herself. She’d memorized all 1750 names for this very purpose.

Mrs. Perkin leaned out her window and called to Lionel. “Are you ok, Dearie? Do you need a ride back to town?”

Lionel didn’t have a choice. She managed to conjure a smile and accepted. She got into Mrs. Perkin’s care with one last look toward the briefcase. She hoped Mrs. Perkin wouldn’t recognize her.

“It’s a good thing I came along, isn’t it?” Mrs. Perkin asked Lionel.

“It is,” Lionel replied. “I’m glad someone else is out here tonight. I thought everyone would be back in town at the grand opening.”

“Oh, I don’t go in for any of that fancy new stuff. To be honest, I thought it was a big waste of money. But what do I know. I’m just a little old lady.”

Lionel adjusted her seatbelt nervously. “Thanks for the ride,” she said.

They drove on in silence for a few minutes. Lionel began to play out scenarios in her head. Here was another car, but she couldn’t bring herself to steal it and have to deal with Mrs. Perkin. She resolved to try to get dropped off somewhere on the outskirts of town and trust her grifter’s luck find another car there.

Mrs. Perkin broke the silence. “Where did do you live Miss. Hill? It’s the blue building, isn’t it?” she asked Lionel. Then she answered her own question. “Yes, that’s right. You moved in last March.”

Lionel swallowed hard. Perhaps her luck wasn’t as good as she needed it to be. Mrs. Perkin knew who she was.

Mrs. Perkin mistook Lionel’s unease for sadness. “Don’t worry, Trudy darling, your car will be okay. I’ll get my son take care of it in the morning.”

Lionel could do nothing but look out the window as she was carried back to town. She’d be taken care of, all right. They’d all take care of her.

Probably with stones.  

No. 129

Benjamin Thomas was the kind of person who got picked second-to-last at sports. Nobody remembers that guy. Nobody really cares about his skills or what he brings to the team. They just see the last-place shmuck and choose the least odious option. That’d be Benji.

It’s not necessarily a bad place to go. Folks don’t expect much from someone drafted that far down the order. Usually everyone is happy about not being saddled with whatever loser was left standing. It’s like the players on a team that ends up third in a tournament. You take third place with a win, second with a loss.

Thomas was happy with his life the way it was. Then one day he got tapped to be team captain.

If you thrust a man like Thomas into a role he’s not accustomed to, you’ll get one of two outcomes. He’ll either fail horribly, or surprise you.

I was the man who chose Thomas to lead. Unfortunately, he surprised me.

Because I am still alive.

You see, what I have neglected to tell you is that Mr. Benjamin Thomas and I look very much alike. It was my intention to have him double for me. For him to go about my business as if he were me. What I neglected to tell him is that there was to be an accident, and that he was to be pronounced dead in my place.

It seems that I underestimated the man. What I failed to take into account is that perhaps it takes a great talent to be the kind of man that he is. A talent for staying under the radar and managing expectations. I didn’t give Mr. Thomas the proper credit and respect that he deserves. Ben Thomas is very shrewd.

Within a week he had edged me out completely. I lost access to my bank accounts and my network of associates.  Then he discovered my plan and the resources I had put aside to build a new life after my “accident”. It’d be called “identity theft” if I hadn’t handed it to him.

And so I am like a ghost who can see my own body. And now I have to work doubly hard to kill “myself”.

No. 128

 Ladies and gentlemen of the court, we are here today to defend Dr. Igor Terror. He is accused of first degree murder.

We will show, in no uncertain terms, that Dr. Terror did not kill victim.  Indeed, it is our view that Dr. Terror is simply being judged on his previous crimes. He is an admitted super-villain, yes, but he has larger issues on his plate than the murder of a single man.

Dr. Terror, as some of you have noticed, is a distant, emotionless, calculating figure. Look at him now, silently contemplating his revenge on this court for bringing him to trial. This may be true. But, my friends and colleagues, this defense will prove using Exhibit A—Dr. Terror’s own twisted diary—that Dr. Terror went to the beach with the sole intention of researching his latest plan to take over the world, and that he shows absolutely no recorded knowledge, in entries either before or after, of the alleged attack.

The prosecution may attempt to use such explanations as “deeply malignant jealousy” or that the victim was Dr. Terror’s “sworn nemesis”. We will show with fact and substantiated evidence that these illusions of guilt are completely without merit and that Dr. Terror should not be held accountable for this baseless accusation.

Allow me to give you some background to this case.

Shortly before this horrible incident the defendant attended the funeral of his mother, a woman he admits to having wished dead on several occasions. Though the prosecution attests that this shows a cold disregard for human life, we argue that, based on these descriptions, Dr. Terror would have left the ceremony in a cheerful mood.

The defendant then came into contact with Johnny Omaha, a second-tier hero and witness that we will call to the stand later. A scuffle ensued between Mr. Omaha and the defendant, causing slight wounds to Mr. Omaha. Then Dr. Terror left the scene, seeking help for his injured opponent.

It is during this time he is alleged to have killed the victim with a neural transploder, pulling the trigger not once, not twice, but five times. Mr. Omaha will testify that this would have been an impossibility. Not only had Dr. Terror already fired two shots with the transploder at Mr. Omaha and therefore had only one shot remaining, but also that not enough time would have passed since Dr. Terror’s leaving to the time of the alleged murder for the neural transploder to reset to the victim’s mind-waves.

We will present the case to you, the jury, and we have no doubt that you will come to see that the events have occurred in the manner that we have presented them before you and you will find our client “not guilty” at the end of this trial.

No. 127

Patrick Peters had sent $7.49 plus shipping and handling, which equaled roughly three weeks’ allowance, and now, after waiting an eternity, there was a box on the kitchen table with his name on it.

He couldn’t contain himself and tore indiscriminately at the thin cardboard sides. He retrieved his prize from amidst a heap of shredded paper. The plastic glasses were hideously bright green and pink with “SURE-FIRE X-RAYS” printed in yellow down the arms.

Patrick held them in awe for a second before putting them on. He was going to see all kinds of girls’ underpants. He glanced surreptitiously around the room. There was no-one in sight to foil his plan. He slipped on the gaudy frames and left the house via the front door.

As luck would have it, the first person he saw was a girl. She was too far away for him to make out clearly, and the lenses were so dark as to be almost useless without bright light. He raised the glasses to balance on his forehead while he approached to within range of Emmy Burton.

Emmy was Patrick’s friend Ricky’s older sister. She was going into eleventh grade next year. Patrick drew nearer to her yard and casually nodded at her while he lowered the glasses and continued to walk past.

Right away, Patrick realized there was something wrong. He couldn’t see any underwear. He couldn’t even see any skin, which he realized in that instant would have been an even greater outcome. He shook his head and looked harder. The glasses were X-ray all right, or something. They weren’t working like Patrick had imagined. He saw almost clear through Emmy.

She coughed and startled him. Had she caught him staring? No. He relaxed, and concentrated again on his reconnaissance. He found he could make out her insides. He recognized them from his school textbook. There was the brain, throat, heart, and lungs.

Patrick noticed something about the lungs. One looked like the picture in his book, the other one seemed different. It was a darker color, and there looked like there was something else in it.

Emmy coughed again. This time Patrick took off the glasses and stopped walking. He was torn. Should he tell her what he saw, or would he be in trouble for trying to use the glasses? He bit his lip and drew in a breath. He thought about Ricky, and that if Ricky knew that someone in Patrick’s family was maybe sick, and Ricky didn’t tell Patrick, then Patrick wouldn’t like that.

Patrick slipped the glasses into his pocket. “Emmy?” he asked. “Are you OK?”

No. 126

Shawn Hind woke up early and drove three and a half hours to spend his Saturday in Big Clouds Park. He’d been drawn to the intriguing combination of lakes, abandoned railway artefacts, and the surrounding trails.

Now, he was a respectable distance from his car and it was not yet eleven AM. He stopped hiking for his first sip of water and a handful of trail mix. He’d added the M&M’s to the store-bought kind himself. He was dusting off his hands when he noticed a flash of reflected light and an incongruous straight line in the underbrush, about twenty feet from the edge of the trail.

Hind struggled over a fallen log and some soggy ground to arrive at the strange object.

It was a sword.

Hind picked it up reflexively and drew the blade from its scabbard. He held it in front of him and admired the deadly weapon.

It had a long and thin blade, razor-sharp, with a simple bar for a guard and a leather-wrapped grip. The pommel reminded him of a spade from a deck of cards. Hind half-expected to find gold or jewels on it, but although it seemed expertly balanced and crafted, it was clearly intended for practical use and had no extraneous ornamentation.

There was no sign of decay or dirt on it. It must have been lost recently.

He looked around for more clues, but there was no hint of the sword’s origin.

It was strange to find such a thing out here in the woods. The park was usually busy during the summer, but at this time of year the only people willing to make the trip were committed outdoorsmen who had no use for a weapon like this.

Hind began to feel uneasy. He could not imagine any scenario in which the placement of the blade made sense. Finding a gun, he would have understood. A sword was another matter entirely.

Coming to no conclusion, he re-sheathed it, and tucked it between the straps on his backpack. Then he continued on down the trail at a slightly faster pace than before.

He made it perhaps a hundred yards before he had a terrifying thought. He tried to push it away because it was not rational, but he couldn’t clear his head.

The sword didn’t belong here. He shouldn’t have touched it.

No. 125 - War Games

David Clement felt a deep glow of satisfaction.

He’d cheated and struggled and endured, but he’d proven himself at the finish.

He wiped the thin sheen of sweat off of his brow and remembered that he’d been thirsty for hours but had forgotten to drink. He reached for his glass and grimaced as he was reminded of the injury that had been decisive to the win. His shoulder might smart tomorrow, but he’d triumphed.

“And that, my friends, is how you play monopoly,” he taunted, fully anticipating the rain of blows that fell upon him.

It would seem that his possibly former friends were taking defeat as graciously as he taken victory.

“Do you see this?” demanded Angela, waving a stack of colorful bills. “This is all money you stole from the bank.”

“Nonsense,” David defended himself. “I never steal from the bank. I stole that from Justin.”

“You can’t say you won if you stole my money,” Justin piped up.

“I can. If you didn’t notice it was missing, then it’s all fair game.”

This brought another round of tussling.

“Ow! Savannah! Did you just bite me?” exclaimed David.

“No. That was Ange.”

“You’re all just choked that you didn’t think of ‘creative accounting’ first,” David told them.

“Whatever,” huffed Angela. “We’re playing ‘Life’ next. And I’m watching you.”

No. 124

Kevin Wheeler knew all the answers.

Most of the time his teachers didn’t believe him and they were forever concocting ever more elaborate tests designed to catch him cheating.

He didn’t appreciate that.

Kevin was not particularly smart, or even that studious. It’s just that every time he was asked something, he knew, without doubt, what to respond with.

He hadn’t given it much thought until one of his classmates called him “psychic”, which he also knew was not true.

But it was a gift, he realized, once he understood that not everybody had the same skill. It had come so easily to him that he’d always just assumed that to be the case.

It was a gift that he would have to exploit to its fullest potential. He considered going on a game show, but he felt the stakes were too small. He might win a few thousand dollars, a few hundred thousand, even, but there had to be something bigger. More challenging.

More lucrative.

He didn’t know the answer, until a teacher asked him.

“Well, Kevin? What are you going to do?”

No. 123

Jasper Ebb put down his sandwich to reach for the remote control. It was almost seven, and he was torn between the game on channel six, or the movie on eighteen.

The choice was made for him, however, when the power went out.

Jasper shrugged and returned to his sandwich. These blips didn’t usually last long. The electric grid in this part of town was notoriously susceptible to windstorms. This time, though, he noticed a glow out of the corner of his eye.

Once again, the sandwich was abandoned as Ebb walked to the window. He pulled open the blinds and peered at his neighbor’s house. All of their lights were on! Somehow the knowledge that the problem was his alone made Ebb determined to see the rest of the shows he’d previously had no interest in. He marched to the fuse box to see if anything had tripped.

All the switches were in the proper position. He grunted and returned to the couch.

He could not think of anything else to try. He thought briefly about calling the power company to find out what was happening, but phone calls usually made him nervous and he avoided them if at all possible. He told himself that if the power was still out in the morning, he would call then.

He still had the urge to follow the game, and had an idea. He grabbed his keys off of the neatly organized shelf in the hallway and went out to his car.

Turning the radio dial to the correct station, he leaned back in the passenger seat and closed his eyes. Then he swore under his breath. His sandwich was still inside.

He marched back towards the house. Halfway up the walk he saw why his was the only house without power.

“Well, that can’t be right,” he told himself as he read the notice posted on the front door.

Now he supposed he would have to make that call.

No. 122 - The Neighborhood Submarine

Randy Campbell had done what very few boys his age had ever accomplished. He’d built a submarine.

Not the pretend kind, or a toy, either. Randy had constructed one that worked.

His first order of business was to arrange transport for it from the shed in his backyard to the lake. He sat down and, over a cool glass of lemonade, considered his options. He arrived at a novel solution.

The first posters went up immediately. He used the same supplies and telephone poles that he’d seen his mother use when their cat, Mr. Fluffy, ran away.

It had worked to recover Mr. Fluffy, much to Randy’s chagrin. He did not care for Mr. Fluffy. He was confident, therefore, that his scheme would work, too.

The posters offered a simple transaction: In exchange for help carrying the submarine to the water, a five-minute ride would be conferred.

A candidate arrived at Randy’s door within the hour. However, the interested party was not the ideal partner. Randy continued to wait.

 But as time passed, it became clear that the rest of neighborhood would not be supporting his endeavor. Reluctantly, then, he agreed to accept the help of Marnie Maplewood, age 12, from two houses over.

No. 121

Hey, you there! Yes, you with the small child. I know you’re there.

I have forty-four teeth and six sensory-packed tentacles on my nose. I am mildly venomous. I can identify, capture, and eat prey in less time that it takes you to blink. And yet you still think that the fact that I’m a mole and I’m blind is some kind of huge detriment?

I live underground. Have you tried living underground? Hands up? No? I thought so. Well guess what? It’s dark down there. Dark. As in: I don’t have to see where I’m going.

At least nobody says “blind as a mole”. Let the bats deal with that PR problem.

In any case, I’m giving you the chance to surrender now. We’ve put up with flooding, and traps, and poison for too long. I suppose you also assumed that we’ve been down here minding our own business, blindly (See what I did there?) burrowing about in the dirt.

Well, no. We haven’t.

You have seventy-two hours to comply with our demands. I trust you will heed the warning.  

Frank Condylura pointed at the raised soil in the middle of the lawn. “Do you see him, son? He just poked his head up. Moles are blind, you know. He probably doesn't even know we're here.”

No. 120

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” is something that I like to say. Of course, I’m ninety-three years old, so I get to say it to almost everyone.

It’s all nonsense, you know. You never really understand some things. And others, well, age has nothing to do with it.

But I like to say it. Gives those young whippersnappers something to aspire to. Lord knows they need help with that. Heck, there was one yesterday who thought that Europe was a country. That kid won’t understand much, at all.

Nope, back in my day we would have taken him out behind the woodshed and whooped him until he could name all the capitals. Kind of makes me choke up, thinking about the good times.

You’ll understand when you’re older.

No. 119

Aaron Lee stepped into the shot from the middle of the repurposed tennis court. The bright orange ball sailed towards the goal but was deflected at the last second by a defenseman diving to protect the net.

It was game three of the Street Hockey Fives tournament and team Puck Off needed a win to move on. Lee ran for his own rebound and shoveled the ball towards the open cage.

The keeper, who’d tripped while attempting to block the initial shot, recovered in time and got a piece of it to make the save.

 Lee got a stick in the mouth for his efforts. The lone referee was distracted by a scuffle in the corner. Lee checked for blood.

None.

Good.

He could continue playing.

There was still a minute and thirty seconds left on the clock, or, on the stopwatch as called out by the referee’s girlfriend. Puck Off was down by one.

The whistle blew for an offside, and Craig Harper lined up to take the draw. The ball was dropped and Harper played the ball ahead to Aaron who was primed for the attack. The defenders were caught flat-footed and Lee ran ahead on a breakaway.

He was about to start his deke when an opponent’s stick found its way between his legs and tripped him up. He tumbled forward and the ball rolled off his stick.

The whistle blew, and Aaron saw the referee pointing to center.

A penalty shot.

Twenty seconds left in regulation time.

This was the moment.

After the match it was widely agreed upon by team Puck Off that the goalie had cheated, the referee had made the wrong call, and, that if only the time-keeper wasn’t playing favorites, the rest of the tournament would have been theirs.

They consoled themselves with their beer and told each other that next year they’d win it all.

And play dirtier, too, now that they had time to think about it…

No. 118

The plastic chair went in first, then the first body. Soon, everyone was in the pool, leaving Charlie Conrad alone on the side. He considered remaining dry, but then dove in, ignoring his brand-new shirt and forgetting the important document in his pocket.

Hours later, the only person left in the water was Steve. Charlie lay on his back and watched half-heartedly as Steve sat in the shallow end, amusing himself with the floating beer cans that surrounded him. Some of the others found this immensely funny.

But Charlie was tired. He wasn’t getting any younger. He had far more crazy-party days behind him than he did ahead. He knew that he should probably head for the exit before everyone got riled up again. He screwed his eyes shut and rolled to a seated position. Then, with a groan and a new click from his knee, he stood up.

Trying his best to smooth out the wrinkles in his clothes from the water and the pool deck, he found the soggy remains of the document. He looked back at the aftermath of the party and grinned.

Then he took a running leap into the deep end.

No. 117

Clarence Johnson scraped a shallow hole into the hard desert sand and wriggled under the chain link fence. Once past the obstacle, he lay still, listening to for any hint of detection.

After an appropriate wait, and hearing nothing, he picked himself up, dusted himself off, and strode forward confidently. He did not mind standing out starkly in the impossibly bright moonlight. He was clearly alone.

He’d infiltrated a boneyard. The remains, not of flesh and blood, but aluminium and steel, stretched out in endless rows before him. He gazed at aircraft no longer needed and set to pasture in an arid time capsule.

He leaned against a fuselage, still warm from the heat of the day, and pulled a map from his pocket. He’d meticulously copied the directions and a crude diagram. The objective was the third plane down row two in quadrant two. Johnson oriented himself and made haste in that direction.

For all of his special skills, he was not versed in aircraft identification. He did not feel awe at the decades of aviation history he was walking beside, but he was impressed by the sheer scale of the facility. He did not need to count the four and a half thousand individual planes to know that without the map, he would be searching for a needle in a haystack.

When he arrived at his destination he took note of the craft in question. Smaller than most of the others around it, it had a sharp, vicious look about it. A fighter, he assumed. He was right. He consulted his instructions and found the proper panel on the side of the plane. He produced a screwdriver from his tool belt and removed the section.

The action revealed a void in the airframe. Johnson reached inside and found what he had been sent to recover. He turned the prize over in his hands. Strange, how something so important could have been misplaced for so long. He now understood why so much effort had been expended to find it again.

He had turned to retrace his steps when a light snapped on.

“Halt! Stay where you are!” was the shouted command.

Johnson held up his arm to shield his eyes.

“Do not move! We will use deadly force!”

Johnson took one more look at the object in his hand. He realized that to survive, he only had one option. Moving swiftly, he ducked under the engine of a massive bomber and began to run past the sleeping giants and towards the fence with the empty desert beyond.

No. 116

“Never touch the big red button,” was the refrain Andrea Turner heard every day. It was always said with the same important tone. “Never touch the big red button.”

This continued for many years. Andrea grew into the job, gaining experience and responsibility.

Only once, during a graveyard shift, was she was tempted to push the button. Her finger moved slowly towards it. She flicked open the safety cover and held, poised to depress the key.  But she couldn’t bring herself to do it and pulled back, remembering the command.

The urge never hit her again. Over time systems changed and were upgraded but the button, and the message, stayed the same. She spent the rest of her working days dutifully following orders and passing on her knowledge to the new recruits.

“Don’t press the big red button,” she would tell them.  

One day a trainee spoke up. “Ma’am, what does the big red button do?”

Andrea stopped and though for a moment. “I don’t know. It never occurred to me to ask.”

She went to the back of the room and opened the large filing cabinet. She dug through to the bottom and found the proper manual. She blew off the dust and turned to the page detailing the operation of the console.

“Huh,” she noted. Then she turned back to the trainee.

“You’d really, really better not touch it.”

No. 115 - The Island

The boat scrubbed up on to the rocky beach with an aura of finality, but it was not until I stepped out that I considered the full extent of my choice.

The sensation was physical, as I realized when my temporarily weakened arms could barely pull the craft above the high-tide line from the shaking.

I sat down on a rock and considered my new situation. I’d put ashore on E— Island, willingly and fully informed. I had provisions and plans to stay, alone, for an entire year.

I dug through my backpack to find a pen and notebook to record my first impressions, but was interrupted by a noise from the tree line. I put down my pack slowly and crept forward on my belly. When I parted the high grass at the edge of the beach I was shocked by the sight that greeted me.

An enormous lion stared back, his glossy mane heaving slowly in the light breeze. This was worrying, indeed. No lions had been reported on E—Island in a half century.

No. 114

Miranda Garrett looked at the clock for the hundredth time. There were still forty-seven minutes left in her shift. She shuffled some papers restlessly from one side of her desk to the other and looked again. The second hand had yet to make a full circle.

Across the hallway, Andrew Ackles was packing a file-box. Miranda watched him. Today was his final shift. Most of the office had reacted with surprise when he told them he’d given his notice. Miranda had felt a keen sadness, although she didn’t know why.

She tried to think of all the times she’d actually talked to him and couldn’t count past five. His leaving should not have registered with her. Now, she chewed her pen and glanced at the clock once more.

Forty-four.

Ackles began to leave but stopped just inside the door to his office and went back for something.

In that moment Miranda made up her mind. She grabbed her coffee cup and her coat and intercepted him before he made it back out.

“I’m coming with you,” she told him.

He was puzzled. “Why?”

She couldn’t answer but followed a half-step behind down the hall and to the stairs. While Andrew waved and said his goodbyes, she was silent.

When they got to the lobby, he turned for the underground parking. Miranda held his arm. “No. This way.”

They left the building out of the front door. Miranda showed him to her car and they got in. He placed his box on the back seat.

“Where are we going?” he asked while already guessing the answer.

“We’re going to drive,” she told him.  

No. 113

The ball came down onto the eighth-hole fairway with a dull impact. It bounced once then deflected towards us.

“Run!” I told my sister. She took a quick glance at the tee-box then darted out from behind the bush to retrieve the white, dimpled prize.

She made it back before the man who’d hit noticed his drive was missing. “Maybe I put it into the woods,” he’d imagine. By then we’d be on down the path to the pond on eleven.

There is no greater thrill than that of discovery. When you catch a flash of white, or sometimes yellow or pink, amongst the green, it’s a jolt of satisfaction.

My sister and I were here most days during the summer. We supplemented our allowance with used balls sold back to the pro shop. The bounty wasn’t much, so sometimes we had to be creative with our collection methods.

Once, my sister had to fight off an angry goose to get to a ball that had rolled into the nest. Did you know that geese can bite? We found out that day.

I’m sure you’re thinking now that I send my sister on all the dangerous missions. That’s not entirely true. She’s proven to be faster than me, so she draws those assignments. I get to root through the thorn bushes, or deal with anything muddy.

Today we have a good haul—almost a ball per hole, so far. Terry Lancaster and his brother must not have been by this morning, although I’m not sure why they try to compete. They’re not any good.

I think I’m going to get an ice cream with my half of the profits.

No. 112 - The Rose Lady Part 1

The guards watched the dim, flickering screen in disbelief.

“What does he think he’s doing? He’ll never get anything that way,” said the older one, who had already pressed the button for the silent alarms.

“Is there even anything in that room, Captain?” asked the other, who, though having been on the job for the past decade was still referred to as “rookie” by his elder.

The first guard sat back in his chair. “Not in the last twenty-five years. Before that, it held the Rose Lady.”

The younger guard nodded. He knew all the stories about the Rose Lady. How the priceless statue had disappeared, and the nationwide search that followed. It was the dream of every guard to one day capture the dastardly criminals and return the exquisite three-inch ruby statue to its rightful place.

They turned their attention back to their monitors.  The black-clad intruder was almost to the empty plinth in the center of the room.

The old guard checked his watch. “He’s got three minutes before the police get here.”

Then they noticed something strange. The dark figure had reached into a bag and was placing something onto the pedestal.

The second man leaned forward. “I think we need to get down there,” he said. “Right now.”

Both men made it to the empty room from their station in record time. The burglar was still in the process of sneaking out.

“Halt!” they shouted in unison.

The intruder did not seem surprised at all. He turned slowly towards the guards with his hands in the air.

“Take off your mask,” ordered the old guard.

“As you wish,” said the trespasser. He took off his balaclava and revealed long, curly red hair.

“You’re not a man,” said the younger guard.

“No. I’m not,” said the woman.

“Stay where you are until the authorities arrive,” the Captain commanded.

“And what reason do you have to detain me?” she asked confidently.

“Theft,” said the rookie.

“Why don’t you examine the room and tell me if you see any evidence of theft,” she told them.

The rookie moved slowly through the door to the empty gallery. He kept the beam of his flashlight moving. As it passed through the middle of the room there was a flash of red. He almost dropped the light. Scrambling to get closer, he realized what he’d seen.

There, fully illuminated by his light, was the Rose Lady returned home.

“How can it be?” he asked the mysterious woman.

“That is an easy question. My father stole it, and I have brought it back,” she said.

No. 111 - Blind Spots Part 1

Neither I nor my species have a name. You poor humans haven’t discovered us yet.

Some animals have adapted camouflage in order to trick your gaze. We have adapted a better way to hide. We have developed the ability to detect your gaze. We can sense your field of vision and we can see where you are seeing.

You can best picture our view as a mass of overlapping cones emanating from your heads, always sweeping back and forth. Sometimes it takes a great talent to move through the tiny spaces between them. My kind don’t do well in cities.

It’s occasionally the clumsier of those among us that you have caught glimpses of out of the corner of your eye. You see a flash of movement and turn, only to find nothing there. In all likelihood, we were there, but are now safe again in your blind spot.

I am sure you are asking yourself a question. “Why is he telling me this? What has this being to gain by revealing the secrets of his race?”

It’s because we have only just become aware of creatures that follow us from behind the corners of our eyes.

And they are far less benevolent than we are.

No. 110 - The Tourist

Foster sat still, a contrast to the bustling city around him.

Very deliberately, he drew the tiny cup to his mouth and tasted the espresso. He pursed his lips. There was not enough sugar.

He could almost feel that he belonged here, even though, of course, he didn’t. He was a tourist like the hundreds of others that hurried through the square stopping and manoeuvring to take pictures.

Foster wondered why they didn’t slow down and try to remember what they were not seeing. A camera was a crutch, he had determined. He couldn’t feel too superior, he reminded himself. He’d only just decided on that philosophy between the door of the plane and the arrivals desk at customs.

He swirled the cup gently and the last intact granules dissolved. Perhaps, in the afternoon, he would watch from near the fountain.

No. 109

The component parts of a sandwich sat together on the second shelf of the fridge. Lunchtime was approaching.

“After what you did to get ham and mustard noticed yesterday, I hope you’re next,” the lettuce told the bacon firmly. “That wasn’t sporting.”

“Come on, can’t we work together?” said the tomato.

“That’s just what they want us to do,” replied the bacon.

“I meant before we get put on the bread,” the tomato clarified. “To stay alive.”

“It was him or me,” said the bacon. “I regret nothing.”

“All I know is that if we’re going down, I’m taking them with me,” declared the spoiled mayonnaise.

No. 108

Holly was leaving.

“I’m not very good at goodbyes,” she told Jake. “But I got you this.”

She handed him a small box wrapped with an elegant bow.

Jake opened it. Inside was a key.

He looked oddly at Holly. “What’s this for?” he asked her.

“It doesn’t open anything right now. But hang on to it. Someday it’ll come in handy,” she told him with a smile. “Goodnight, Jake.”

She got into her car and pulled away.

Jake watched her until the tail lights disappeared into the night.

He held up the key and looked at it. It looked just like any ordinary key. Then he shrugged, put it in his pocket, and went back inside his house.

That was last time Jake ever saw Holly.

Every so often, though, he would choose a lock, and take out the key to try it. It never worked, of course.

Then, one day, somebody caught him in the act.

““That’s the laundry room,” a passing woman told him. “Doesn’t your key work?”

“I see,” he said, feeling a little embarrassed. “I’m just new here. I must not have the right one on me.”

“My name’s Jenny,” the woman told him. “I’m just down the hall. Here, I’ll get that door for you.”

Jenny bent down to pick up the unexpected package on the doorstep. She read the label. “Honey, there’s mail for you.”

Jake came down the stairs and took it. He removed the wrapping to reveal a delicate wooden box. He understood instantly. He reached into his pocket. There was something on his key-ring that he hadn’t thought about in years. He inserted it into the key-hole and turned. The lock released.

He opened the lid. Inside was a small piece of paper with familiar handwriting. It had three words on it.

“Told you so!”

No. 107 - The Bird Part 2

“There’s a dead bird,” she said, pointing.

“What?” he asked.

 “You got your phone on you? Maybe if you delete the picture of the last one, then you can bring this one back to life.”

“Oh, are you still on about that? That was months ago!”

“There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” she said with a grin. “Besides, I know you didn’t kill this one,” she told him, while poking the tiny body with a stick.

She paused for effect.

 “Unless you were sneaking around the woods last night with your digital scythe, that is.”

He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “I’m just going to keep walking. Enjoy your dead little friend.”

“You’re not even going to try?” she called down the trail after him.

“Nope.”

She gave the bird one last good prod, and then dropped the wood. “Goodbye, poor bird, I’m sorry he had to be so cruel. He won’t give you back your life-force,” she pouted outrageously.

“Hurry up,” he yelled back. “I’m thinking about taking a picture of you!”

“You wouldn’t!” she gasped in mock horror.

“I might.”

“Monster!”

No. 106 - The Origami Dinosaur Part 4

Life at the table had been dulled by the turning of the years. Over time, the residents had exhausted their imaginations and their wit.
One day, in late July, the glass rabbit detected a faint energy.
“Something will happen soon,” he told his stuporous friends.
The drowsy origami dinosaur opened one eye. “Will it happen to us?”
The rabbit shook his ears. “I do not know.“

In the afternoon the premonition was confirmed.
The trio were removed from their home to the confines of a cardboard prison.
Bobble-Head, recalling prior experience, was not unsettled like the others. He attempted to communicate what was happening to his uneasy friends.
“We are to move,” the rabbit understood.
The dinosaur did not reply.

The cohort was transported across the vast expanse of office, a journey of forty-six steps.
The box was emptied and the three surveyed their new surroundings.
“What’s this?” asked the dinosaur, peering with guarded curiosity at a new vista before him.
“I believe it is called a ‘window’,” replied the rabbit.
The origami dinosaur looked out over the new world and felt the spark of discovery once again.

No. 105 - Closed Part 3

“Sit down,” said the old man. “We have certain ways of doing things around here.”
“Where’s Able?” demanded Sawyer Nolan.
“Like I said, sit down. Maybe you’ll learn something.”
Nolan realized that he wouldn’t be able to find his friend by arguing, and he didn’t particularly want to go back outdoors to look around. He pulled up a ragged stool and sat down beside the mysterious stranger.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he told the man.
“I didn’t give it,” replied the man.
“Right. What happened to my friend?”
More than anything, Nolan wanted to fix the problem quickly and leave. He figured he could get home in about three hours if he ignored the speed limits on the highway. Damn Able for getting caught up in some hillbilly superstition.
“Here,” the old man said firmly as he passed a low tumbler of something potent down the bar. “Drink this while I tell you a story. You don’t mind listening to a story, do you?”
Nolan took the drink and sipped it, fighting the urge to cough violently. It had such a kick he had trouble identifying the liquor. He chose “whiskey” and tried to pretend to be interested in what the coot had to say.
“Go ahead,” he wheezed through the burn of the “whiskey”.
The old man leaned back on his stool. “Don’t worry, you might still have time to save your friend.”
“Tell the story,” Nolan snapped.
“A few years back, a couple outsiders came through. They had big promises. ‘We’re gonna grow this town,’ they said. ‘Plenty of money for everyone’. They had plans for a mine up in the hills. Well, winter comes and they disappear back to the city, and we here, we start seeing things.”
“So you're blaming Winston and me for whatever’s going on?” asked Nolan.
“Did I say that?” the man questioned. Then he carried on. “A couple of McMaster’s boys went out to take a look. Only Jarrod came back. Seems these two fellas from the city had gone and messed around in Dark Hollow before they left.”
“I don’t remember Dark Hollow being on the map,” said Nolan.
“Remember what my name was?” answered the man by way of a question.
He continued his tale. “In the early days you’d see one, maybe two. But there’s more, now. Makes it difficult to get around at night, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. I reckon your boy’s been snatched up by the little one. She’s the meanest.”
“There are things in the woods?” asked Nolan.
“Not in the woods, boy. Things in the sky.”