Storytime with Trollheart

[Trollheart]

Some of you may know I sometimes scribble the odd word or two. Here are a few of my efforts. Hope you enjoy them. Feel free to comment as usual.

INDEX

The Foundling: A little girl all alone in a hospital makes friends with a strange old man.
Homeward, or, Where's Ripley When You Need Her? : A seventeenth-century ship limps for home, the crew unaware of the horror they carry with them.
Flak: There's a good reason why Halloween is the most hazardous night for witches to fly...
Fake News; The trouble is, when you believe nothing, you miss the real news and then it's too late.
All the Time in the World: Ever asked yourself the question, where does the time go? This guy knows. You may not want to.
The Perfect Man: There's always one little thing wrong...
                                         

[Trollheart]

                                          THE FOUNDLING

She felt, rather than actually saw or noticed someone sit down beside her. For her, the world had suddenly and quite unexpectedly become a cold and empty place, but Jonah still needed her, and it was, by her own childish estimation, some time before she glanced up without much interest to see that it was an old man who had taken the seat beside her. How old? Hard to say: at seven years, everyone seemed older than her, and she as yet had no real way of gauging age, nor any particular reason to want to. "Older" was a word that fit all the grown-ups, and it sufficed for her. However, she knew enough from her own grandfather to understand that the grey thinning hair, the matching moustache, the lines marking the man's face as if he had stayed too long submerged under the water in the bath (her own hands got those lines when she stayed too long in the tub, though they always vanished very quickly once she was taken out) and the awkwardness with which he sat down, breathing heavily, like it was hard for him to do so, marked him as old in any world.

Like Grandad, the man emanated a feeling of safety and trust, though she recalled keenly mummy's warnings about talking to strange men, and that even older men could be dangerous, so she quickly returned her attention to Jonah, ignoring the old man's overtures at conversation; the simplest of hellos, but to answer meant to talk, and she had her instructions. She knew it was rude not to answer a question you had been asked, especially by an older person, and was torn between conventions. In an effort to reconcile the unwanted sin of impoliteness with her need to protect herself, she said, without looking up and in her most important, grown-up voice "You'll have to excuse me, sir. Jonah is not well and he needs me."

But rather than dissuade the old gentleman from engaging her in further conversation, her explanation seemed to have the opposite effect, drawing him closer, acting as an unintentional invitation as he leaned down – slowly, so as not to startle her or give her the wrong impression – closer to her, shaking his head sadly.
"He is in a bad way, isn't he?"

Despite herself, she looked up. The voice, now that she actually listened to it and was not studiously ignoring it, and now that it had said more than just hello, was filled with such earnestness and sympathy and goodness that she simply could not conceive of this man being one of those against whom mummy had cautioned her. Surely, the pure love and warmth in this man's voice confirmed he would never hurt her. Or anyone. She found herself smiling, a smile answered by his own, which was like the sun rising, the two old, kind eyes shining with an inner light of their own.

Then  her face dropped, the lips curving down again as she stared down at the bundle in her small lap.
"I – I can't fix his arm." She sighed, tears pricking at the corners of her soft green eyes. "He – He's my best friend." She paused, looked down at her shoes. "My only friend," she amended.

"May I?"

His hand (so much bigger than hers, and absolutely covered with small hairs, while her own were so smooth and white!) reached out, and without knowing why, but trusting him, she passed the precious object over to him. She watched Jonah as he rose up into the air, the old man's grip on him firm but gentle, and she kept her eyes rivetted on him as he again smiled and fished for something in his pocket. With a grin of triumph, he extracted a small spool of thread, with a thin sliver of metal attached to it.

"This is what we need," announced the old man, his eyes deliberately avoiding the door to the right of where they sat, as the clack of high heels on the tiled floor were joined by a slight creak as the door was pushed open, a murmur of voices from within merging with the steady beeping of machinery, then all sound muffled as the door snapped shut again. "Tape will only last for so long," he told the little girl, expertly unwinding a length of the thread, poking one end through the narrow eye of the needle and tying it. "Jonah here needs some proper attention."

To her amazement and delight, the old man quickly sewed up the bear's dangling left arm, which had been hanging on by the slimmest of threads, and handed the child back her repaired friend, good as new. She beamed at the old man, who smiled back.

"Jonah!" she exclaimed, laughter bubbling up in her throat. "You made him better!"

The old man shrugged. "He just needed a bit of TLC," he told her. She looked at him askance.

"TLC?"

"Tender loving care," he explained, winking at her in a way that she could not help but grin at. "We all need it, from time to time."

The ocean of sound ebbed again on their shore as the squeaky door bumped open again, and this time he did look, as a hospital bed was wheeled past them by two orderlies, who did not for once engage in the usual banter you would expect. The white sheet, drawn fully over the figure on the bed, told half the story, while the sign on the wall which they followed, with shaking heads and downcast eyes, filled the rest in. Some people passing along the corridor, both staff and visitors and even one patient pushing before them an intravenous drip on wheels, all stood back, some blessing themselves as the small, silent procession made its way down the hall. At the black sign marked MORTUARY, the bed swung in the direction shown by the arrow, and a collective sigh ran through the disparate group, before they resumed their own progress.

None of this sad scene had been marked by the child, who was, with the single-minded attention of her age, only concerned with her most treasured possession, now good as new. If the old man had been a potential threat before, he was certainly not considered as such now. Bad men did not go around fixing up teddy bears for young children.

"Thank you," she said seriously, smiling, then, remembering her manners, adding "I'm Genevieve. It means fast woman."

His eyes twinkled. "Does it, indeed?"

"Yes." She frowned. "I think so. Mummy told me..." She stopped, uncertain. "I'm not sure," she admitted. He laughed.

"I believe you're close," he told her, merriment in both his voice and his eyes which, while certainly not forced, seemed to mask a deeper sadness, one he did not wish to be seen. "If I remember correctly, it means woman of the race."

She looked at him, trying to work out if he was mocking her.

"That's what I said," she advised him. Knowing better than to argue with a seven-year-old, he nodded.

"Yes," he agreed. "Yes, you did. Well, I'm very glad to meet you, Genevieve." He extended his hand. She looked at it. She knew how to shake hands of course, but at her age most people just patted her on the head or kissed her cheek. Kisses, hugs, pats: these were the usual modes of greeting when you're seven, yet none of these seemed appropriate in this situation. Nervously, she allowed her tiny hand to be swallowed up in his big, gnarled one.

"You can call me Mister Haniel," he told her, smiling. "I saw you sitting here all alone, and I thought you might enjoy some company. Are you waiting for your mother?"

As he said it, a shadow passed before his slate-grey eyes and for just an instant the light vanished from them, but it was quickly back before its absence could be noticed. The memory of the sheet-covered bed making its sombre journey down the corridor flashed into his mind. He pushed it to one side.

"Mummy's gone." The little head was hanging now, as Genevieve busied herself with critically examining Jonah's newly-repaired arm. "It's just me and Jonah now." There was a hollowness in the child's voice, an almost fatalistic acceptance that cut him to the quick.

"You're not alone, little one," he whispered, returning a sharp, quizzical stare directed at him by one of the doctors who was walking past, reaching for a pager at his side as it beeped, demanding his attention. The doctor frowned, turned away, was gone. Mr. Haniel did not look after him. Gently, and after ensuring the corridor was clear of prying, judgemental eyes, he reached out and stroked her hair. "What about your father?"

"Daddy got squished," she responded in that matter-of-fact way that children have, almost without emotion, but that's because they don't quite understand how to feel at that age. Haniel frowned.

"Squished?" he repeated blankly. Holding Jonah tightly, she looked up at him. Perhaps it was more distressing that there were no tears in her eyes, no catch in her voice as she spoke of her father's death.

"He got killed by some terrapins," she explained, leaving the old man even more at a loss.

"Terrapins?"

"Bad men." She heaved a sigh, but not of grief. More of annoyance or exasperation, as if she had told this story many times before, or been told it so often that it had just become another fact of her young life. "Daddy worked in a very tall building," she told Haniel, raising her arm as high as she could. "This tall," she clarified, looking at him seriously. "He was a very important man. Mummy says he used to be able to look down on the people in the street below and they were tiny as ants. Then one day some terrapins flew an airplane into his building. It fell down. Daddy tried to get everyone out, but he got squished when a wall fell on him." She shook her head. "I don't like terrapins."

He smiled, but it was a grim smile. He didn't let her see it.

"I think you mean terrorists, little one," he gently corrected her, "not terrapins."

She shrugged; the details seemed unimportant to her.

"They're bad men," she said simply, and he had to agree.

"Yes, indeed they are. It sounds like your father was a very brave man, Genevieve," he told her. "I'm sure you miss him very much."

Again she shrugged. "Don't remember him," she said, and he was unsure if there was a sense of loss or regret in her voice. "I was only a baby. Mummy says he was nice, though."

"I'm sure he was," agreed Haniel.

[Trollheart]

There was a long, awkward pause then. Awkward, at any rate, for the old man: a seven-year-old girl doesn't recognise awkward silences. It was, in fact, she who broke it, repeating something she had said only moments before, but with a special poignancy in the words, now that the full story was known.

"So it's just me and Jonah now."

He reached out and gently touched her hand. She should have drawn back, frightened or at least wary, but she did not.

"No, little one, it's not," he assured her. "I'll look after you now, I promise."

She shot him a suspicious glance. Perhaps she had been wrong about him, after all.
"Why?"

"Because that's what I do," he told her. "You might say it's my job."

"What is?" She was holding Jonah tightly now, either protecting the bear or hoping he would protect her.
"Taking care of young girls – and boys – who have lost their parents. Do you know, Genevive," he asked her suddenly, "who the patron saint of children is?" She shook her head. "Saint Nicholas," he told her, and this time she shook her head, but in negation rather than ignorance.

"No he isn't!" she said tartly, giving him a pitying look. "Saint Nicholas is Santa Claus! Everyone knows that!"

He nodded. "Indeed. And who is the most precious to Santa Claus? Children. You see, a saint can fulfill many roles – do many things. Stand for several..." He sighed, trying to explain the concept without sounding condescending. One thing you do not want to be is condescending to a seven-year-old. "Saint Nicholas can be Santa Claus and the patron saint of children. Besides," he winked and placed a finger alongside his nose, "Santa only works at Christmas. What do you think he does for the rest of the year?"

Her eyes widened as she considered this information, and then she nodded slowly.

"And I'll tell you something else," he went on, looking around to check they were alone. "There's a saint you're named after, too. You know what she's the patron saint of? Well, among other things of course – people like to get their money's worth out of saints." This last was said more to himself, a comment really rather than anything directed at her.

The little girl's eyes widened even more. "Saint Genevieve?" There was awe in her tiny voice, but doubt, too. He nodded.

"Patron saint of Paris," he told her, with a hint of pride. Then, "You know where Paris is, little one?" She shook her head. "Did your mother ever mention a country called France?" he asked her, and again she shook her head, making him think to himself how insular and self-absorbed so many Americans were. For it seemed the majority of them, the world outside the United States was something that concerned other people. Still, he had to admit, at seven years old she could be excused, and her mother could be excused too for not telling her about that most wonderful of cities, one of his favourites.

A thought occurred to him, as a man swept up the corridor, seemingly in a hurry, his long white coat billowing out like the wings of some great seabird behind him as he walked in that way people do when they can't or don't want to run, but are nevertheless in haste, that kind of long-striding walk. He had a chart in his hand, at which he glanced as he banged through the door out of which the shrouded bed had exited some minutes before. A woman's sobbing could briefly be heard as he entered, quickly cut off as if the air had been sucked out of the room as the door sealed itself behind him.

"We could go there now if you like," he suggested, the twinkle back in his eye. She looked up at him doubtfully. Visions of a blacked-out van waiting in the car park pushed themselves into her thoughts, as the scary stories her mother had impressed upon her came back to haunt her with terrifying clarity. But then, she reasoned to herself, Mr. Haniel had been kind to her, had fixed Jonah. How could he be a bad man?
And that smile...

She nodded, coming to a decision. She hated it here anyway. Nobody would speak to her, which had struck her earlier as weird. There she was, sad and lonely, just her and Jonah, sitting on a bench while people rushed to and fro, and nobody even stopped to ask if she was all right. Wasn't that what grown-ups were supposed to do? Make sure you were all right? But nobody had even come near her, looked at her. In fact, everyone acted as if they couldn't even see her, as if she was invisible.

She wouldn't miss this place.

But she would miss her mummy.

Just then, the door hissed open – quietly this time, not forced inward by the people going in and out, or the necessarily loud and abrupt if respectful exit of the bed – and two figures walked out. One she did not know, though she assumed him to be a doctor.

But the other she did.

"Mummy!"

Abandoning her new friend in her joy, Genevieve ran towards the woman, almost, but not quite, dropping Jonah in the process. The lady, a tall, not unhandsome but hardly pretty woman in her late forties perhaps, was wearing a dark blue serge suit with black shoes and a black handbag. Her head was bowed, and she held a small linen handkerchief with which she dabbed at her eyes, seen, when she removed the kerchief, to be red-rimmed and swollen. Evidently she was the source of the crying Haniel had overheard coming from the room moments ago.

The man beside her – surely the doctor – looked sad too, but in a grimmer, more matter-of-fact way which suggested he dealt with this sort of grief all the time. Not that that made it any easier, of course, but he was uncomfortably aware that this was not the case with the woman. It wasn't right, he cursed angrily to himself. But then, whoever said the world was a fair place? Allowing the woman to inhabit her own private sphere of grief into which he would not intrude, the doctor walked slightly ahead of the woman, not noticing the child running towards her.

To her intense dismay and confusion, Genevive's mother did not look up, her eyes did not widen in happiness at the sight of her child. She, in fact, continued walking, ignoring the cries of the little girl, who ran towards her until she ran right into her.

And out the other side.

Dumbfounded, the child watched with puzzled and disbelieving eyes as her mother followed the doctor, who was mouthing some platitudes he usually trotted out upon such sad occasions. Not that she, her mother, was listening to them, but he felt wrong saying nothing. Calling after her in rising panic tinged with annoyance and then fear, Genevive watched her mother reach the corner where the shrouded bed had made its turn, and follow its path. In another moment, she was gone.

Feeling his gentle hand on her little shoulder, Genevieve looked up with tearstained eyes into the kind face of Mr. Haniel. Her hand, clutching Jonah tightly as if he were the only real thing in this whole world, the only thing she could hold onto and be sure of, shook, trembled. Her pretty little mouth opened to form words, but no sound came out of her young throat. No words were needed; Haniel knew the question she desperately needed to ask, and he, sadly, had the answer.

"Come, little one," he said with infinite love in his voice. "It's time to go."

Whether comprehension suddenly dawned upon her, or whether it was the rebuff from her mother, or even whether it was just that everything was too much for her to bear, to take in, the floodgates opened and Genevive collapsed in Haniel's arms. He enfolded her tiny body in his strong grasp, smoothed her hair, kissed the top of her head.

"There, there," he soothed her. "No need for tears. We'll go to Paris, you and I, right now. I'll show you all there is to see. We'll go there, and anywhere else you want to go." He looked down at her, his gentle eyes also bright with tears, tears he was not accustomed to but could not resist. "Is there anywhere else you would like to see, little one?"

She looked up at him through her tears, considered. "Mummy used to tell me that we'd go to  Disneyland," she said, wiping a little hand across her nose. "Once I got better. I remember." She frowned, looking for a moment very grown-up. "She always cried when she said that. Why did she cry, Mr. Haniel," she asked her new friend. "I didn't want her to cry."

The old man shook his head. "I'm sure your mother loved you very much, Genevieve," he told her.  "Some day you'll meet her again, I promise. But till then, I know someone who will treat you as her very own daughter."
"Who?" The child's face was intent with the question. Haniel smiled.

"Oh, you'll love her," he promised, "and she'll love you. Why, she's the mother of all the children in the world. And all the grown-ups, too."

A thought seemed to strike the little girl, and her tears began to dry up.

"I don't feel sick any more," she announced, with wonder in her voice. Haniel's smile could have lit up the city.

"You'll never feel sick again, little one," he told her. "Now come: it's time you saw Paris."
Genevive looked at Jonah, seeking his approval. Then she held her arms out, up high, and allowed Mr. Haniel to pick her up. She felt safe in his grasp, and a smile began to creep across her face.


A woman with a clipboard  walked into the waiting room, her eyes surveying the huddled mass of humanity piled before her. Another busy night, she swore to herself. Her expression bore the clear and unambiguous promise that she would cheerfully surrender her immortal soul to Satan to get off an hour early today, though looking at the heaving, restless, moody mass of humanity before her, she seriously doubted that even the Prince of Darkness could pull off that kind of miracle.

Some of the waiting patients (she smiled grimly to herself: patient they certainly were not) were sprawled on chairs, a few leaning against the sterile walls of the holding area, one or two disconsolately trying to watch a television that was not only well out of date but only received one channel, this constantly running infomercials. For a moment, she feared for the sanity of those brave or foolhardy few who sat enscorecelled by the spell of the screen, then she blinked.

At her appearance all, or most eyes snapped towards her like soldiers coming to attention at the arrival of a general, all hoping their name might be called and their long vigil come to an end. The nurse ignored them all, a scientist seeking a specimen and not much caring which it was, looking down at her clipboard.
"Haniel?" she called, in the kind of voice that warns that she's not going to repeat herself, so if you don't respond you'll find yourself at the back of the queue again.
"Mr. Nicholas Haniel?"

Shaking her head, she retreated back through the doors, marking in red ink the name down as a no-show and, like a politician embroiled in an embarrassing scandal avoiding the press, ignoring all attempts to attract her attention, all pleas, all those who explained, with varying and declining degrees of patience, how long they had been waiting. She had not the answers they wanted. She was but another cog in the huge, remorseless, pitiless and uncaring machine of the hospital system.
For just a moment, she thought she caught the sound of flapping wings, but that was absurd: no bird that large could get into the hospital.

Time for her cigarette break, anyway.
*******************************

Nodding his head, Dr. Turner was, on some level, aware that Mrs. Allen knew he was not really listening to her, but then, she probably didn't care, and was just talking to try to hold back the dark emptiness into which she must eventually, inevitably fall. He didn't blame her: nobody wanted to face the reality of what she would have to go through in a moment. Filling up the space with aimless chatter meant she didn't have to think about the ordeal awaiting her.

"She- she was so young," the woman went on, again touching the handkerchief to her eyes. Turner made vague soothing noises, inwardly wishing the short trip to the mortuary could somehow be shorter. He was a brilliant doctor, but his people skills left a lot to be desired. But then, after all, he reasoned, what do you say to a mother who has just lost her only child? What can you say?

"So young," Marnie Allen repeated, a catch in her voice, "to go through so much. The doctors didn't give her six months, you know," she informed him, "when she was born. Dangerously underweight, they said. But I prayed. Lord, how I prayed! And she survived. But she was a poorly child, and her immune system... well, it was just so weak..." She stopped, dissolving in tears. Another man, a more gentle, understanding man might have draped an arm around her shoulders, sought to comfort her with some well-chosen but ultimately empty words. Not Mark Turner. He had no truck with emotions. Distance yourself, they had taught him in medical college. Don't get emotionally attached to your patients, or their families. He had taken this very much to heart, and was, he knew, known around the hospital as Spock, in reference to the Star Trek character whom everyone who did not know the show believed had no emotions, when in fact the Vulcan merely controlled them better than any human.

But though they might frown at his bedside manner, nobody could deny that Turner was the best in his field, so when little Genevive had needed the best, she had been moved here under his care. But even the best can only do so much, and unlike his nickname, Dr. Turner was only human. In the end, he couldn't save the little girl, and though on some deep-hidden level he grieved for the loss of the child, the pragmatic part of him shrugged and reminded him he couldn't save everyone.

"Ah, just down here, Mrs. Allen," was the best he could muster, and whether consciously or not, quickened his pace slightly. Again, as if talking to herself, she went on, moving slowly. He almost wanted to pull her, drag her, force her towards the mortuary, but of course he couldn't do that.

Even Spock had more emotion than that.

"She was so sick, but such a fighter!" For a second, sorrow and grief were replaced in Marnie Allen's eyes by fierce pride. "Never gave up. Beat everything thrown at her. We were told even small infections, cuts, even a cold might be the end of her, but she came through it all. I truly believed..." She choked back a sob at the memory, collected herself, went on. "I used to believe that she must have a guardian angel watching over her." She blew her nose noisily. Turner made a face but made sure she didn't see. "I guess I was wrong," she sighed.

As they entered the small room wherein resposed the body of young Genevive Allen, the doctor was surprised, and then annoyed, to hear music, faint and low, drift along the corridor. The sound was muted, muffled, the kind of thing you hear when someone with an ipod passes you and the music leaks out from their earbuds. It sounded vaguely... French?

He swore to himself. Those bloody French students! If he'd told them once... And then he remembered. They had all gone home last week. Well, supposedly they'd passed on their native music to one of his staff. He wished the board had approved his proposal to have music players banned in the hospital.
Had people no respect?

Though, as he listened, what was stranger still was the very clear and unmistakable sound of a little girl's laughter.

He shook his head again as he followed the grieving Mrs. Allen into the brightly-lit darkness.

[Trollheart]

Homeward, or, Where's Ripley When You Need Her?


Beating hard against the wind, the ship's sails filled as the bark tacked to port. The storm screamed its fury at the vessel, the roiling sea doing its best to swamp the decks. Huge frothy white breakers came surging up over the sides, like the grasping, questing hands of some enormous sea beast beneath. The sky was hard and dark, the stars glittering like baleful staring eyes as the ship made its way nor-by-nor'west, the island dwindling to the size of a small rock in the distance. The remaining crew members shivered, and not only from the lashing rain which seemed to have decided that if the ship could not be drowned from below then it would be drowned from above. Carsten jerked a thumb back in the direction of the rapidly-receding atoll.

"Fucking dusky maidens, my arse!" he grumped to Deveraux, who was trying to splice the mainbrace, or some damn thing. "An island Paradise, that's what he promised us! And what did we get?"

The Frenchman ignored him. The question did not require an answer; they all knew what they had got. Those that had survived, that was. But he had his own problems, small and insignificant as they seemed now.

Deveraux had not the first idea how to be a seaman, much less splice a mainbrace, whatever that was. He had sneaked aboard the ship when it docked at Marseilles. After what they had all faced, he now wondered if he might have been better throwing himself on the tender mercies of Jacques Dupont. The man wasn't known as "The  Guillotine" for nothing, of course, and he took a very dim view of those who could not pay, but at least it would have been quick.

It certainly had not been quick for those they had been forced to leave behind.

O'Donnell was, as usual, drunk in the hold, and of no use to anyone, but he was alive. A burden, yes, and one they could barely afford as they fled from that horror, but there was no way Captain Harrison was going to have left him back... he shuddered, a cold hand running down his spine ... there.


Nobody deserved that.

Of course, Harrison wasn't the captain, but the acting captain. The last he had seen of Captain Grayson, the man had been standing on the shore like some titan, holding them off as they approached like a black cloud. He had one of those new flintlocks, take down a maneater at fifty paces. But these maneaters were not to be stopped. The bullets seemed to have no effect on them as they pressed forward.

Mentally, he doffed his hat, though he wore none. Captains traditionally go down with their ships. Grayson had gone down, but not with his ship. The last glimpse Deveraux had had of him was forever now seared into his memory, the man surrounded by a black cloud of bodies, shots, and a scream that would haunt him to his dying days.

But the captain had bought their escape with his life, and the jolly boat was halfway to the ship before the creatures turned towards them. Thank the good Lord in Heaven, he thought, that they seemed afraid of the water and could not pursue them.


He thought of the men left behind. All dead now, of course.
Or at least, he fervently hoped so.


His thoughts returned to O'Donnell. The man had a good excuse to be off his face, though in fairness he seldom needed one. But this time he did. They all did. Matter of fact, Deveraux thought, it was a wonder they weren't all nine sheets to the wind after what they had gone through.

As soon as they reached port, he intended to remedy that situation. Alchohol would not block out the horrible things he had seen back there on that cursed island – nothing would: he would most likely live with those memories for the rest of his days. They would come screaming out of his dreams and reach for him in the night, and he, a man who did not scare easy and who had many enemies, though none of them alive, would cry like a newborn.

No, drink would not take away the events of the past three days. But it would help dull the horror.
Maybe.
He could never have believed such things existed.
Nobody could.


Down in the hold, O'Donnell could.

When they had shoved him down into the darkness to sober up, his head had felt like it was splitting.
That was no longer a metaphor.
The Irishman was no longer drunk, nor would he ever be.

But something was.

His cries, never audible above the shriek of the wind and the groaning of the ship's timbers anyway, went unheard, and now the only sound was a horrible crunching, slurping, sucking.
Red eyes gleamed malevolently in the darkness as the ship lurched towards home.
The snap of a human bone. Gnawing sounds.

Soon, they would all believe.

[Trollheart]

Flak

Clara watched the long trail of bright light as it spun down towards the ground, arcing out of sight over the distant hills.

"There goes Hilda."

She shook her head, just as the 'stick veered hard right and a long, thin tube trailing coloured sparks whizzed past her. A moment later she felt the concussion as the rocket exploded, forcing her to wrestle the 'stick back under control.

"I fucking hate Halloween!" she spat feelingly, and nodded somewhat gravely as another broomstick flew up alongside her.

"What do you think of it?" asked the other witch, pointing at her vehicle. Clara have her a thumbs-up, which was all she could do as another big one exploded just to the west of her, again buffetting both her and her friend. When the report had died away in the night, she shouted over the general noise of whistles, whooshes and explosions.

"It's fucking brilliant! This is going to change my life!"

The other witch grinned. "I told you so. You need to move with the times, Clara. That machine is going to revolutionise flying for us. The lives it's going to save!"

"I kn -

Clara was suddenly dragged upwards as the broomstick climbed, and a moment later a particualrly loud and big explosion rocked the night. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted another of her luckless sisters spinning down, out of control, desperately trying to find a place to land, while smoke trailing from the end of her broomstick showed where the firework had hit her. She turned her eyes away; nothing she could do for Gemma now. Hopefully she'd make it.

She brought the 'stick back down to a safe altitude, gasping a little as she descended. The machine had saved her, yes, and not for the first time tonight, but the air was a little rareified at the altitude it had taken her up to. She found herself alongside Minnie again.

"There sure is a lot of flak out tonight," she commented. Minnie looked at her askance, one hand holding onto her pointed hat as the shockwave from a distant explosion washed over them.

"What's flak?" she asked.

"Something that had in the war, I think." Clara had to admit she was not sure, but she had heard Old Bertha go on about it a few times, and she assumed it was a thing. She couldn't clarify though: you didn't go talking to Bertha. Not unless you fancied living your life in a pond, catching flies and auditioning for Budweiser ads, that was.

"What's it -"

Three rockets came straight at the two witches, Clara slamming her 'stick hard a-port while Minnie swerved off to starboard. The rockets whizzed harmlessly by and took out Nasty Linda, who sadly had not the machine installed. Both women tutted and shook their heads as the younger witch literally exploded in a shower of sparks, flame and smoke. There wasn't even enough of her to spiral down to the ground. Obliterated.

"What's it mean?"

For a moment, Clara was stunned, seeing such a close-up destruction of one of her sisters, and paid Minnie no mind. Then she remembered that she had owed Nasty Linda a hundred dollars, and she let out a traditional cackle of glee.

Well what do you expect? Witches aren't nice people.

"What did you say?" she shouted over to Minnie, who repeated the question.
"What does it mean? This flak thing?"

Clara had to admit she had no idea.

"Stands for something, I suppose."
"Does it?"
"Well, yeah." She considered. "Must do, mustn't it?"
"Must it?"
"Stands to reason," she insisted. "Got to."

There was a moment of silence, during which a triumphant cackle from about three hundred feet below told them that Black Cat Bessie had, after all, been prevailed upon to buy the machine.

"What's it stand for, then?" Minnie demanded. "Go on. You said it stood for something. What's it stand for?"

Afraid to look silly in front of her friend, Clara shrugged. She knew Old Bertha had mentioned the war, so she took a wild stab in the dark.

"Uh, Fucking Loads of Airmen Killed," she hazarded, imbuing the incorrect acronym with all the confidence of someone who wants you to believe they know what they're talking about. Minnie shrugged.

"Bloody stupid thing to call it," she declared. Clara decided to offer no comment.

"So," Minnie asked her slyly, "you gonna buy it?"

"Damn right!" Clara patted the side of her broomstick, where a small red box had been attached. There was a green light on it, and as it flashed now her 'stick was hurled down and to the left. Or port, if you prefer. It's not important. What is important is that a big firework exploded just then, exactly where she had been. Minnie was buffeted by the blast, but the machine had saved her too.

"Amazing thing." She looked down at the box. "Calculates the flight trajectory of every firework in a six-mile radius and takes the necessary evasive action. Guarantees you a safe ride through even the biggest fireworks display."

"What will they think of next?" marvelled Clara. "I wouldn't have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes."

Minnie seemed suddenly pensive.

"Why do they let off all these bloody fireworks anyway, Clara?"

The other witch shrugged. "Who the hell knows?" she replied testily. "I heard once it was in remembrance of some guy."
"What guy?"

Clara thought, but her mind was occupied with flying. And surviving. Though the machine was making this less a chore, she still preferred not to turn control over entirely to any magic box.

"Someone in cutlery, I think."
"Cutlery?"
"Yeah. Guy Forks I think it was. They're upset cos he tried to blow up some book they like."
"What book?"

They watched an air-bomb explode off to the east. It was too far away to do any damage.

"Bible or something."
"Bible."
"Yeah. They wanted to blow up the King James, was what I heard."
"So let me get this straight." Minnie pursed her lips. "They commemorate some guy, this Guy Forks, trying to blow up a book, by shooting rockets into the sky that... blow up?"

Clara shrugged. "Who knows why they do anything?" she said philosophically. "All I know is it makes it hell to go out on Halloween night."

Minnie looked confused.

"So why do we?"
"Why do we what?"

Off to the northeast, the universally hated Smug Samantha was tumbling in a shower of sparks and smoke towards the ground below. Both witches clapped, and cackled in unison.

"Real boobs my ass!" Clara crowed. "She paid for that job, and it weren't cheap. Why do we do what?" She looked over at Minnie.

"Why do we go out on Halloween?"

Clara looked at her hard.

"Got to go out on Halloween!" she said. "We're witches. It's what we do."
"True, that," sighed Minnie.

A moment later a tinny voice filled the night.

THANK YOU FOR TRYING THE BROOM-O-TRON 900, THE ONE FLYING AID EVERY WITCH NEEDS. YOUR TRIAL PERIOD IS ABOUT TO EXPIRE. IF YOU WISH TO PURCHASE THE PRODUCT, PLEASE HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD READY.

Clara reached inside her coat. She felt around, pulled out a keyring with three keys on it, and a plastic black cat. Annoyed, she rummaged around again until her bony hand finally closed on a plastic card. She drew it out, and held it over the barcode reader on the Broom-o-Tron 900.

Nothing happened.

I'M SORRY, said the tinny voice, in that kind of tone that leaves you in no doubt that the speaker is anything but sorry. YOUR CARD IS NOT RECOGNISED. WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRY ANOTHER CARD? TIME REMAINING ON TRIAL PERIOD, TEN MINUTES.

"Fuck!"

Clara turned the card towards her. The word BLOCKBUSTERS glared at her in the moonlight.

Dropping the video club membership card she hadn't used for thirty years, she started pawing through her coat pockets. Handkerchiefs, receipts for eye of newt and tongue of frog went fluttering out into the night. A half-eaten roll of peppermints slipped out, bounced off the 'stick and fell away into the night.

IF YOU DO NOT WISH TO PURCHASE THE BROOM-O-TRON 900 AT THIS TIME, the voice advised her with what had to be sarcasm, YOU MAY OPT FOR AN EXTENSION ON YOUR TRIAL PERIOD.

"Yes! Yes!" gasped Clara, as Minnie looked on with a worried expression. "Do that! Extend! Extend!"

IF YOU WISH TO EXTEND YOUR TRIAL PERIOD, PLEASE INPUT THE SPECIAL CODE YOU RECEIVED FROM THE SALES AGENT. Almost maliciously, it added TIME REMAINING ON TRIAL PERIOD, NINE MINUTES.

Clara's face was pale. "Code? What code? I never got any code!"

Minnie frowned at her. "You didn't? Oh now Clara!" She wagged an admonitory finger in her direction. "You did go to an official stockist, didn't you?"

If her face had been pale before, the witch's visage was now white as a ghost.

"I – that is I – well, he said he was a friend of – you know how it is..." She spread her fingers helplessly, then in a fury tore off her coat and began frantically going through the many pockets. "It doesn't matter about the code! I know I have my credit card: I just need to find it!"

Minnie watched as Elsie the Lesser was taken out by a SeekNDestroy(TM) Powerglide missile. A moment later Elsie the Greater followed her to oblivion. It was getting crazy up here. Must be near midnight, she reasoned.

"Head for the ground, Clara!" she hissed. "While you still can!"

But the other witch was not listening. Complete tunnel vision now as she searched for the card she knew she had brought with her, but just could not find.

TIME REMAINING ON TRIAL PERIOD, EIGHT MINUTES, buzzed the voice helpfully.

"Shut the fuck up!"

She turned to Minnie.

"Loan me your card, Minnie! I'll pay you back as soon as we land."

Minnie tsked. "I'm sorry Clara," she said sadly. "That's what you said when I loaned you fifty dollars for that black dress, and I never got that back."

"But you will!" Clara was desperately shifting her gaze from Minnie to the approaching rockets, and the Broom-o-Tron 900. "I promise! You'll get it all back!"

SEVEN MINUTES, the machine reminded her, as if she needed reminding. WE ARE SORRY YOU DO NOT WISH TO PURCHASE THE BROOM-O-TRON 900 AT THIS TIME. PLEASE STAND BY AS MANUAL CONTROL IS RETURNED TO YOU. WITCH WORLD HOPES TO GAIN YOUR FUTURE CUSTOM. WITCH WORLD: EVERYTHING A WITCH NEEDS, AND MORE. SIX MINUTES TO DISENGAGEMENT.

"Clara," Minnie told her patiently. "This isn't a new black dress for fifty dollars, darling.The Broom-o-Tron 900 costs six thousand dollars. I don't even know if my card has such a limit."

FIVE MINUTES.

"Minnie!" Clara was desperate, looking down at the blinking red light. "Please! You're my friend."

Minnie seemed to think it over, then shrugged.

"All right, Clara," she agreed. "But I expect to be paid back, and not in installments, you understand?"
She reached into her pocket, extracted a small leather-bound purse, flicked through the cards as the voice boomed out again.

FOUR MINUTES. CAN WE PREVAIL UPON YOU TO ANSWER A SHORT SURVEY ABOUT THE PRODUCT, TO HELP US IMPROVE ON ANY ASPECT YOU FEEL NEEDS ATTENTION? PRESS THE BLUE BUTTON TO BEGIN. THREE MINUTES.

"NO!" screamed Clara, her voice cracking. "Fuck off!" She glared over at her friend. "Minnie! How about that fucking card?"

Minnie tsked again. "I really should wear my glasses," she mused, more to herself. "I can't see a thing up close. But they mist up so at these altitudes. Ah! Here we are!"

She flipped out the card and threw it over to Clara.

The card sparkled in the moonlight, arced over towards the other witch, who snatched desperately at it.
The card vanished into the night.
Clara stared after it, stupefied.

"What in the name of Satan did you do that for?" she bellowed.

"Not my fault you're a terrible catcher," grumped Minnie, sniffing. "My Sheila would have caught that, and she's only five."

"Couldn't you have handed it to me?" Clara's voice was suddenly flat and dead as she caught sight of a worrying sight. About a mile to the northwest, three rockets were heading their direction.

"What do you think this is," Minnie demanded defensively. "The Red fucking Arrows?"

TWO MINUTES TO DISENGAGEMENT, chimed in the voice.

"And you can shut the fuck up too!" snarled Clara. The rockets were now about four hundred feet away, heading directly for her. Minnie pointed.

"Clara, forget the card!" she shouted. "Forget the Broom-o-Tron 900! You don't need it! Use the skills you've honed over a century of flying your 'stick. You can still avoid those rockets! Clara!"

But her friend was waving frantically at another witch who was flying nearby. She appeared to be reading a magazine as her 'stick chugged along, completely oblivious to the dangers around them. Halfway up the shaft, Clara saw the now-hated red box blinking on and off. No wonder she wasn't bothered.

"Agatha! Agatha!" she yelled. "Can I use your credit card? It's an emergency!"

The reclining witch yawned, looked up for her magazine.

"Sorry dear. I only ever carry cash these days. Never know where those hackers are going to strike next."

ONE MINUTE. YOU ARE FORMALLY WARNED TO PREPARE FOR DISENGAGEMENT OF THE BROOM-O-TRON 900 AVOIDANCE NAVIGATIONAL SYSTEM. WITCH WORLD WILL NOT BE HELD RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY DAMAGE, INJURY OR LOSS OF LIFE INVOLVED AFTER HANDOVER. YOUR STATUTORY RIGHTS ARE NOT AFFECTED. WITCH WORLD IS A WHOLLY OWNED SUBSIDIARY OF THERESA'S MAGIC ARTEFACTS AND SPELLS, LLC, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ALL SALES, INCLUDING TRIALS, ARE SUBJECT TO OUR TERMS AND CONDITIONS, SEE OUR WEBSITE ON WWW.WITCHWORLD.COM. FORTY SECONDS.

The rockets were coming straight for her. Minnie's Broom-o-Tron would move her out of the way, but Clara? Well, she had only one chance. As her friend had pointed out, she had over a century of experience flying 'sticks.

THIRTY SECONDS.

She had been flying long before this fucking mechanical pilot thing ever came along.

TWENTY SECONDS.

She set her jaw grimly. The rockets were so close now she could read the brand name on the nose.

TEN SECONDS. FINAL WARNING. DISENGAGING IN NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN, SIX...

No substitute, she told herself, for good old-fashioned manual flight.

FIVE, FOUR, THREE...

The rockets filled her view.
She gave them the finger.

TWO, ONE – TRIAL PERIOD EXPIRED. RETURNING TO MANUAL CONTROL. DO YOU WISH TO UNSUBSCRIBE FROM OUR MAILING LIST?

"Oh BOLLOC -!"

**********************************************

Mark ran after his little brother. Honestly, he had to keep his eye on the kid all the time, or he'd be picking stuff up off the ground and trying to bring it home. Here he was now, with some piece of junk he'd grabbed.

"Look, Mark!" Tommy was beaming. "Look what I found! A witch's hat!"

Mark grabbed the battered headgear from his brother, snarling at him.

"Give me that! You don't know where that's been! How many times, Tom?"

As he made to chuck the tattered old thing away – scorch marks on it, he noted; must have been on one of the bonfires and blown off – his fingers brushed against something hard and plastic. Something caught in the band that wound around the brim. He picked it out, brushed at it with his elbow, grinned.
MS. C  APPLEGREEN was embossed on the card, just to the left of the VISA logo.
He pocketed the card.
Maybe this Halloween wouldn't suck after all.

.

[Trollheart]

Fake News

Welcome to PatrioTalk, where you can meet other Patriots just like you!
Username: Freedom1001
Password: ******
Freedom1001 has joined the chat.
Freedom1001: Sup dude
Texas99: Sup
Freedom1001: Fukkin dems dude
Texas99: yeh.
Texas99: wot pacifically
Freedom1001: fukkin fake news dude. Tryin to steal election again
Texas99: fukk dude
Freedom1001: yeah nuttin dey wont stop at
Texas99: wot dey up to? Spill dude
Freedom1001: u aint herd dude? Fuk wer u bin?
Texas99: where havent i been dude [grinning emoji][ascii of womens genitals]
Freedom1001: Rite on dude. [animated high five emoji]
Texas99: so dese dems den wots the story dued
Texas99: dude
Texas99: ?
Freedom1001: smae old same old dude. Fake news
Freedom1001: same
Texas99: yeah but wot they at
Freedom1001: do anyting to steal votes dude. Fukkin alien invashun
Texas99: [alien emoji][shock emoji]
Freedom1001: [grin emoji]
Texas99: yeh der cummin 4 us dude. Better vote dem quick
Amendement2911 has joined the chat
Amendment2911: dudes u seen cnn
Texas99: fuk off dude fake news
Amendment2911: looks real guys. Check it out.
[video embed: CNN report on alien attack on New York. Thousands killed. Queens disintegrated. State of emergency declared. Air force scrambled. White House evacuated]
Freedom1001: dey'll fake anything to stop us voting
Freedom1001: anyting
Texas99: yeh. Run away cowardz.
Freedom1001: Trump sez just a dem trick
Amendment2911: Looks real tho
TheRealDonaldTrump has joined the chat
TheRealDonaldTrump: JUST ANOTHER DEM TRICK WANNA ASSURE ALL PATRIOTS NO NEED TO WORRY!!! GET OUT THERE AND VOTE FOR ME!!! LIBERAL HOLLYWOOD MEDIA IN ON IT!!! FAKE NEWS!!!!! DONT BE FOLLED!!!!!!
Freedom1001: Yes SIR!
Texas99: Right on Sir!
[TheRealDonaldTrump has left the chat]
[Amendment2911 has left the chat]
Freedom1001: see? Toldya
Texas99: Take more than a few fake reports to scare REAL repubs!
Freedom1001: Yeah
Texas99: U voted yet dude?
Freedom1001: In line as we speak
Texas99: [high five emoji]
[GOVERNORS OFFICE OF NEW YORK has joined the chat]
GOVERNORS OFFICE OF NEW YORK: THIS IS NOT A DRILL! PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE NEAREST EVACUATION STATION! THE CITY IS IN FLAMES! GOVERNMENT HAS COLLAPSED! I REPEAT THIS IS NOT A DRILL!

Texas99: fuk off pinko
Freedom1001: fake news
[Amendment2911 has joined the chat]
Amendment2911: dudes its real i'm here in new york wer bein overrun. Fukkin ali
[TheRealDonaldTrump has joined the chat]
TheRealDonaldTrump:  JUST ANOTHER DEM TRICK WANNA ASSURE ALL PATRIOTS NO NEED TO WORRY!!! GET OUT THERE AND VOTE FOR ME!!! LIBERAL HOLLYWOOD MEDIA IN ON IT!!! FAKE NEWS!!!!! DONT BE FOLLED!!!!!!
[BLDM2028 has joined the chat]
california is gone! California is gone!
[video embed: NBC News: America reeling from shock of huge alien attack. Entire west coast destroyed. California gone. God have mercy on us]
Texas99: good fx
Freedom1001: nah u can c wer its photosopped
Freedom1001: photoshopped
[MarcoRubio has joined the chat]
MarcoRubio: save urselves its all over!!
[video embed: Fox News report: President Trump has slammed as fake news footage reportedly released by his opponents showing him boarding a purpose-built escape spacecraft as America burns. In other news, traitor Dr. Anthony Faucci's planned hanging has been postponed WE APOLOGISE FOR THE LOSS OF VIDEO SIGNA - ]
[video embed: CNN report a direct hit by an alien laser torpedo on the broadcasting headquarters of FOX News. We'll try to SIGNAL LOST]
[MTG has joined the chat]
MTG: JEWS AND MUSLIMS JEWS AND MUSLIMS AMERICA AMERICA FREEDOM JESUS PRAIZE GOD!!
[video embed: MSNBC: reporting alien fleet heading towards Tex SIGNAL LOST]
Freedom1001: Fake news. Let them try to take Texas, huh dude?
Freedom1001: Dude?
Freedom1001: u  kick der ass dude rite?
Freedom1001: rite?
Freedom1001: dude?
Freedom1001: dude?
Freedom1001: uh, dude?
Freedom1001: uh, anyone?
Freedom1001: hello?
Freedom1001: [scared emoji]
[TheRealDonaldTrump has joined the chat]
TheRealDonaldTrump: JUST ANOTHER DEM TRICK WANNA ASSURE ALL PATRIOTS NO NEED TO WORRY!!! GET OUT THERE AND VOTE FOR ME!!! LIBERAL HOLLYWOOD MEDIA IN ON IT!!! FAKE NEWS!!!!! DONT BE FOLLED!!!!!!
Freedom1001: Sir? Sir? Are we in are we in danger sir?
Freedom1001: Sir?
JUST ANOTHER DEM TRICK WANNA ASSURE ALL PATRIOTS NO NEED TO WORRY!!! GET OUT THERE AND VOTE FOR ME!!! LIBERAL HOLLYWOOD MEDIA IN ON IT!!! FAKE NEWS!!!!! DONT BE FOLLED!!!!!!
Freedom1001: Sir?
[Freedom1001 has left the chat]

[Trollheart]

All the Time in the World

Bob sighed. The life of a barman was supposed to be filled with interesting stories, but all he ever heard was the same old thing from the same old people.
Like this guy.

"Nonsense," the old feller slurred in response to the barman's gentle reminder of the imminence of closing time. "There's time, son. Lots of time." He  winked. "All the time in the world."

He grinned, as if he had just made a private joke.
He beckoned Bob closer.
"You know what time is, son?"

Must be a foreigner, thought Bob;  guess he don't speak English too good.

"Um, ten past," he replied. The old man looked at him strangely. Sometimes Bob had the weird impression there was nobody on the barstool, that he was talking to himself, at other times it seemed like he could see right through the guy, like he was some sort of ghost or something..

"Didn't ask you what time it was, bud," the old guy grunted. "Asked you what time is?"

Bob decided to hold his peace. People who posed these sort of questions almost always answered them themselves. The old guy stared into his glass for what seemed a long time, muttered something like "How to explain it", then looked up, clicking his fingers as if he'd just worked it out.

"Bubbles!" He snapped his fingers, dry twigs cracking in a fire. "You blew bubbles as a kid, right?"

Bob nodded, though the only bubbles he ever blew were bloody ones out his nostrils after his dad had staggered in drunk again. Still, he knew what bubbles were. Who didn't?

"Think of time," went on the old guy, "like a stream of bubbles, blown out by the universe, some master bubble blower somewhere, I don't know.."

If only to have something to say, to appear as if he was paying attention to the old guy, Bob offered "God?"

The old feller looked like he was going to laugh, or snap at the barman, then he shrugged.

"Sure, why not?" he agreed. "God. Do as well as any other. Why not? God then. Bubbles blown by God." He gave Bob a wry smile. "You know what happens to bubbles, son?" It was Bob's turn to shrug.
"They pop?" he ventured.

The old man nodded, pushed the glass towards him.
He sipped now at his refreshed drink.

"They pop," he agreed, returning to his subject. "But that's bubbles of air. Now, your bubbles of time, well, they can't just pop. Where would we be," he asked, "if time – if the past just popped out of existence? Nobody would remember anything past the last few seconds. No history. No memory." He wiped his sleeve across his mouth.

"Nah, bubbles of time can't just pop," he repeated. "So you've heard that old phrase, where does the time go?"  He tapped at his chest with one bony finger. For one horrible second Bob fancied it was a bone, but no, just a trick of the light.

"They go to my office," he announced, with a certain pride. "Well, my warehouse I should say. I collect 'em, sort 'em, keep 'em safe. Bring 'em out when needed, so whenever a historian is researching a past time or someone is trying to recall a childhood memory, I provide the exact bubble they need. Well," he winked, "not just me, you understand. Got a whole staff to do the legwork, and let me tell you there's a lot of it. But I run things."

Bob swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Drunks were one thing. He dealt with drunks every night, Crazies too, the odd time. But this guy was on a level all his own, a special kind of crazy. Collecting time? Storing it? He wondered if the guy was armed, then remembered the guy had walked in with the aid of a stick. Not exactly a weapon. Unless the press of a stud revealed a blade, a scythe or something...

"Hard to find the staff though." The old guy shook his head, then looked up sharply. "You know we got this new kid, only been on the job a day when he misplaces the entire fourteenth century! I mean, come on: it's hard to keep track of every bubble, so yeah, a week, a few months, even a  year, I can understand. But who loses an entire fucking century?"

Just as Bob made his mind up to call Harry on the door, the old guy shrugged, the anger draining out of him.
"Ah, I don't know," he grinned. "Maybe I'm just being an old dinosaur, but when you've been around as long as I have..."

Bob frowned. "I'm sorry, an old what?"

"Dinosaur." He looked oddly at the barman. "You folks still use that word?"

"What's a dinosaur?" Bob asked, puzzled.

"You're kidding, right?" He looked worried now. "Dinosaurs. Big lizards, lived about sixty-five million..."
He stopped, looked at Bob almost in desperation.

"Never heard of such a thing," Bob admitted.

The old man jumped up off the bar stool, moving faster than anyone his age should, his face black as thunder.
"That fucking kid!"

Growling, he opened his hand, the bubble sitting in the palm. He muttered "Time I wasn't here. And I wasn't. This last hour never happened."

He closed his hand.
The bubble popped.

*********************

Outside, the old guy looked up at the stars, as if communing with them.
"I know, I know!" he grumped. "But it's not like I go around doing it all the time. Besides, who's going to miss one lousy stinking hour? In a bar of all places! They lose more time there than anywhere else."

As if listening, he shrugged.
"Well, do you want that guy remembering what I told him?" He paused, nodded. "Yeah, I thought not."

*********************

Bob sighed. The life of a barman was supposed to be filled with interesting stories, but all he ever heard was the same old thing from the same old people.

He glanced at the clock on the wall,  shook off the strange feeling of having lost the last hour, shrugged.

"Time, gentlemen, please," he called.

[Trollheart]

The Perfect Man

Day One:

I awake to the soft whisper of the shower running in the bathroom, and smile. It's the first time any man has been so attentive, and it makes me feel special. Stretching, I rub the sleep from my eyes and throw the sheet back, sliding out of bed. Padding across the carpet I join him in the shower, luxuriating in the warm spray that caresses my skin. I imagine the water is his hands running all over my naked body, and it feels delicious.

After showering I dress and go downstairs to start breakfast. To my delight and surprise, it's already prepared, waiting for me on the table. I sit down and smile gratefully at him. He does not respond, but I understand. As I leave for work I blow him a kiss. It seems odd, and yet strangely appropriate.

Day Two:

It's the weekend, and while I would normally go out to the clubs, come home disappointed and drunk, either alone or, more likely, wrapped around some guy I met who will share my bed and be gone in the morning, tonight that holds no appeal for me. Perhaps it never will again. We sit in companionable silence and look out at the glorious sunset through the bay windows, and I realise that in all my life I have never before watched the sun set. It's so quiet and peaceful, the almost muted hum of the ambient music he has put on perfectly complementing the stunning scene as the sun slips below the rolling hills. I am, perhaps for the first time ever, completely at peace, and though it makes no sense, I want to put my arms around him. I want him to put his arms around me. I reach back and drape my arm along the top of the sofa. It's almost as if he is holding me.

Perfect.

Day Three:

When the doorbell rings I am annoyed, wanting this Sunday to be as perfect as yesterday was, but I am faced with some bright spark who is desperate to convince me of the benefits of changing my broadband. I try to explain to him but he's persistent and won't go away. Why is he annoying me on a Sunday? Why can't he just leave me in the peace I've found, peace so precious I will do anything to retain this feeling. Suddenly his grin turns to a rictus of pain and he begins to shake. I notice thin tendrils of smoke rising from his jacket, and a moment later he drops to the ground. I call the paramedics but he is pronounced dead at the scene. I'm shaken by the tragedy, feel guilty for the thoughts I had of him. I know it's not my fault, a random accident, some short circuit or something, but I can't help feeling bad.

Day Four:

He tells me that he will never leave me, never cheat on me, never take me for granted. He won't push me into anything I don't want to do, he won't get drunk and stagger home to take me by force. He'll never call from jail looking to be bailed out at three in the morning. He is, he tells me, the perfect man. This should sound arrogant, and it would, from any other, but from him, it seems right. It seems true. It is true. He is the perfect man.

Day Five:

The dream begins to fracture. My family came to visit, and as usual, dad and I got into it. The argument blew up into a real row, and as he left, the strangest accident. The garage door came down before the car was clear, chopping off the back bumper. Dad was really shaken; he says he was lucky to get out alive, and says he worries about me, alone in this house.

Day Six:

After a tense, stilted day in which we barely spoke to one another, I awoke with a horrible feeling of being unable to breathe. His voice was in my ears, seemed to be everywhere, demanding to know who the guy was I was with last night. Just a friend, I gasped, and eventually the pressure on my chest eased and I could breathe again. But I couldn't go back to sleep. I'm scared now. Really scared. I don't trust him anymore.

Day Seven:

I've had some silly thoughts about him. I've believed I love him, I've had a row with him, and now I have started to believe that he's trying to kill me. What happened last night? Was it him? Am I losing my mind, thinking such things? Can he really be... possessive? jealous?

Day Eight:

Screams rouse me from bed, and I find the body in the kitchen. There's a butcher's knife sticking out of the neck, and blood everywhere. He was a one-night stand. I think his name was Brett, but I can't even be sure of that. I suspect, I know who killed him, crazy as that may sound, impossible though it should be.
I have to get out of here before he comes for me.

But how? He's everywhere, he sees everything.

God help me, I'm his prisoner.

**************************

"This is the fourth murder at this goddamn house this year," declares the detective. "Place just seems to make people go crazy." He  picks up a brochure from the the table.  "Artificially intelligent residence with built-in emotional sub-routines. Able to anticipate and faciltate every one of its occupant's desires. The most technologically advanced habitat ever built. Your perfect home." He snorts derisively.

His gaze flicks from the prone young man on the floor up to the limp body of the young woman, turning slowly as the ceiling fan rotates.

"Just one thing I don't get," he grunts. "She murders him, and then commits suicide. Okay. But then how the hell did she manage to get all the way up there?"