Disclaimer - Table of contents

Based on true childhood fears

“Really. It’s at times like these that I’m at a loss for words,” Jack was saying. “Us cuddling, candles, wine, that delicious free-range turkey meal we prepared together. It’s at times like these I marvel at how the vagaries of life have brought me, puny little me, to precisely this point. If I hadn’t met you, I would probably be extremely unhappy.”
“So you’re saying I make you happy.”
“I guess that’s one way to put it.”
Jill cleared her throat. “I love you, Jack.”
“Hmmm.”
“Wake up, sleepy-head. I said I love you.”
“I’m not asleep, Jill. I heard you perfectly well. And I’m genuinely thankful that you think I deserve that.”
“But don’t you love me?”
“Course I do!”
“You just never say it. If I want to hear you say you love me, I’ve got to beg for it. I’m beginning to think you don’t trust me or something.”
“Oh, that’s not it. You know what I feel for you! I try to make that abundantly clear in my actions and in the small but appreciative gifts I regularly bestow —”
“Oh Jack! We’ve been through this before. I just like to hear you say it. Once in a while. Without me having to pull the words out of your mouth one by one.”
“Jill, you know that I really care for you —”
“I’m sorry, Jack, but that simply won’t do.”
“But —”
“I don’t want any of your indirect assertions of extensive affection — or however you choose to phrase it. I want you to tell me in plain words that you love me.”
“Ok. ‘I love you.’”
“Oh, stop it! What is your problem? Why do you need to hide behind those elaborate indirect phrasings you’re so fond of?”
“I’m just not comfortable with saying this kind of thing outright. I never have been, not even when I was little.”
“That just means you don’t care for me.”
“No, Jill, it doesn’t. I hate it when you try to emotionally blackmail me into something.”
“You’re right. But that doesn’t change the fact that I need some confirmation now and then, and that you’re providing me with precious little indication of your feelings for me.”
“Yes, I can see how you’d like me to corroborate your mental image of our relationship.”
“You’re trying to make me angry, aren’t you?”
“Listen, Jill, this is not a matter of me understanding and having insights, as opposed to me feeling and having emotions.”
“You’re right. This is about you showing your emotions for a change.”
“Anything I say now is going to sound forced anyway, just because we’ve been talking about it so much. Look. This is simply something I’m trying to figure out. It’s like religion: I’m still not sure about that, and I probably never will be, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be sincere about it.”
“You mean you know what your problem is, but you won’t tell me?”
“Well… “
“Oh, this is just grand. Come on. Let’s hear it.”
“I take it we’ve stopped cuddling until I’ve allayed your concerns?”
“Yes. That is absolutely correct. And no more silly hiding strategies, either.”
“It’s going to sound irrational, you know.”
“Is this about your mother again?”
“Not this time. It’s like, — argh! This is like talking about those little superstitious things you believe in that you won’t really admit to. I feel uncomfortable about walking under ladders, and I actively avoid doing so, while at the same time being fully aware that my behaviour is utterly irrational. But I don’t really want to scrutinise that silly superstition, decide it really is mere silliness, and then throw it away, because, well, you never know, do you?”
“Ok…”
“Next time a stroke of bad luck disrupts your day, you’ll be left wondering whether you should not have walked under that ladder, or whether touching that lamp-post with your right arm but not with your left did have something to do with it. It’s amazing, the connections the human mind comes up with. It’s probably the root of all creativity. Perhaps I ought to blog about that — superstition and art being two sides of the same coin.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Just let me think about it some more. This isn’t anything that would stand up to a rational discussion.”
“Perhaps you just ought to go home, Jack. It’s getting late.”
“No, you’re right. You deserve an explanation. I’m warning you, though, —”
“Out with it. Come on!”
“Ok. It’s to do with something I religiously believed in when I was a kid. I’ve found it hard to shake that attitude off. You see, when I was, six, seven, I used to live under the apprehension that everything I did was rigorously videotaped. I had somehow acquired the belief that I was being watched at all times, day and night, by invisible people rotating in shifts, who filmed absolutely everything I said and did. I couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, somewhere, a camera lens was pointed at me wherever I went. These people would particularly be watching out for the times when I was naughty, or when I didn’t do as my parents or my teacher had told me. They’d also pay specific attention to all the dumb and stupid things I said or did, you know, like when I didn’t understand something. Or whenever I made a fool of myself in some way. Basically, anything that could be used to ridicule me.”
“That’s a little odd.”
“It was horrible. I was absolutely convinced that at some point I’d be picked up by two men in black suits and brought to a room where I’d be shown a compilation of all the stupid and naughty things I’d done, all the lies I’d told, all the accidents I’d tried to cover up, all the times when I had hurt our dog, or said nasty things to grandma, and so on. Absolutely everything. And my family and my friends would all be there, and they’d all see what a horrible person I really was. They’d all take a good hard look at the real me, the no-good moronic simpleton that I am and reject me outright. And I’d be left all alone. All the kids at school would continually bully me in the worst ways possible. My family would openly denounce me, drag me out into the streets, and spit on me. My parents would be disgusted by the disobedient monster they had raised and they would surely take away all my books and toys and burn them under my very eyes, and then they’d kick me out of their house. Absolutely everyone I knew would completely ignore me for the rest of my life, except when they’d come up with new ways of ridiculing me, and I’d have to go live with the beggars and the homeless people.”
“But that’s terrible! I don’t know what to say. I don’t know whether I should I laugh at you or hug you to death.”
“It’s true! I remember even expecting to be invited to other people’s public shaming. Every time I witnessed a friend or a classmate doing something they weren’t supposed to do, I thought, now that’s something they’ll show us in that video of his.”
“You’re not making this up just to change the subject, are you? This is not some elaborate way of telling me to mind my own business and stop asking you about your vulnerability issues, is it?”
“No, no, this is relevant. You have to know all this in order to understand my position. It’s background material, if you like. Also, this is just the first time I’ve talked about this to anyone. I guess I’m just venting a little, too. But trust me, I’m getting there. Just bear with me.”
“Ok…”
“And I couldn’t escape from them. They’d always be there, in some alternate dimension or something. I’d never be able to see them, but they were watching me. I couldn’t hide under the blankets, either, because that would be as good as telling them I was up to no good. I remember unexpectedly turning my head or glancing furtively out of the window to try and spot the camera lens. Whenever I was doing something that I knew my parents would disapprove of, or when we went to visit relatives, and my mother would call me a gluttonous pig for taking too many biscuits, I would think, That’s one more shot for my compilation.”
“So this is about your mother after all.”
“Well, there were times when I suspected her of being in league with the camera people, ratting on me… When I grew older and realised that it would be impossible to film everyone at all times, I decided it would be more realistic if they just checked in on people at random. I remember realising that I might have been in luck a few times and that some of my stupidities might not have been filmed. I was quite chuffed about that. I also remember deciding that that meant I could be disobedient more often. But even when I was consciously disobeying, so to speak, I could never be sure if they weren’t coincidentally filming me right then.”
“And just how is this relevant to you not wanting to tell me you love me?”
“Well… It’s to do with me thinking I’m stupid and really gullible. Whenever something really good happened to me, like discovering a girl was interested in me, or the time I was told I had won a prize in essay-writing, I used to wonder whether these things were really happening, or whether they were just a joke at my expense that I wasn’t aware of. It’s like my life was one great candid camera show: at any time someone could be walking up to me and go ‘Look, this is how stupid you really are. You think you’re good enough to deserve all this?’ I assumed at least some of the good stuff happening to me was really just a set-up, intended to make me believe that I was liked because of my wonderful personality, or that I really was good enough to win, when in reality, of course, they were just exposing me for the worthless idiot I really was.”
“You mean that you think that if you tell me you love me, a camera crew is going to crash through that door and yell ‘Gotcha, you stupid bugger!’?”
“That’s putting it very bluntly. And it does sound like raving lunacy. But yes. Sort of.”
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me. You don’t honestly believe that, do you? Do you?”
“No, but it’s just the thought. Look, I told you in advance this was going to sound like pure madness! I know it’s not true, and I’m fully aware of just how stupid this must sound, but I can never be really sure, can I? There simply is no way to prove it, and that is making me uncomfortable. I swear, there’s times when you undress and I expect to see one of those tiny microphones hidden under your shirt. It’s just a subconscious thought that’s nagging at me. I keep expecting you to wear a microphone or something. It’s sheer indoctrination, but there it is. I can’t change it.”
“Jack, you’re getting on my nerves.”
“Don’t blame me. You wanted to hear this, remember?”
“I didn’t know you were going to tell me something like this.”
“See? Now I’m wondering if you’re just going to dump me and never look at me again. And now you know about it. I’ve let the secret out. Every time I hug you, every time I try to make it apparent that I care about you, I’m going to expect you to say ‘Gotcha!’ Not really, of course, but just for a second, that thought is going to pop up.”
“Ok. I didn’t mean that quite like it sounded. It’s just, I didn’t realise how traumatising your childhood was. It actually puts some things in perspective. Like the way you hesitate to show your true feelings.”
“Perhaps. Even admitting that I’m afraid you’re going to leave me is hard.”
“Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t leave you. Not for something like this, anyway.”
“Don’t say things like that! It’d be the worst thing you could do to me right now.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“That smile on your face really takes the sincerity out of that, you know?”
“I do. C’mere Jack. Hug me. I know you want to. And I promise I won’t call in the camera crew.”
“That is not funny.”
“I was just thinking: all I need to do to terrify you is whisper “peekaboo” while I hug you. I’d feel you tense up just a little every time.”
“You’re being mean. Would you really want that?”
“No, Jack, I wouldn’t. I’m glad you realised. Now come here and let me hug you.”

Disclaimer
For some time I have been toying with the idea of writing out in full some of the more coherent of my dreams. This text would then be the first in that series. It is a complete account of a dream I had a few days ago, one of the few I find memorable enough to write down right after waking up. I thought this one was pretty bizarre (that’s why I jotted it down without bothering to get dressed first), but it was only while editing and typing out the whole thing that I realised its coherence. The setting of the dream moves from one kind of booth (stalls at some kind of market or public event) to another kind (public toilets). There’s an undercurrent of liquids that runs through the entire dream: rain — urine — coffee — breast milk — huge amounts of water. And two incongruous items that occur at the start (clippers and socks with holes) are connected at the end. But I don’t dare make any claims about meaning or coherence beyond that.
Oh: and bonus points if you know what the name of this series (“shoedroopings”) refers to.

The boulevard is broad, the sky is open, and the booths and vendors promise all kinds of possibilities. Shall I buy a poster? Shall I steal a book again? I might even go listen to that pregnant weather forecaster who appears to be reading her children’s novel to the people around her. Who knows? Perhaps it will rain later today (you can never tell, can you?) and if so, that will only add to my current sense of the countless options that are about to be fulfilled.

I feel like I’m not really here at all. I have retreated to a misty area just behind my eyes and I’m observing myself much like I am observing other people. This dreamlike detachment from my surroundings is what I usually claim I live for. A little woozy, high on the sense of unreality pervading the atmosphere. If this were a film, I’d be shown walking across a bridge, slightly slower than reality, from an angle slightly below my chin. To make the experience complete I try to roll up my eyeballs so only the white shows. But of course I don’t manage to get them all the way up. I’d have to pull my cheeks down, but that would be unsightly. People walking past me are now no more than colourful hazy shapes. One is much like a rainbow of various hues of tomato soup. A blob of oil, too, wetly slick. It suavely slides past. In a gentlemanlike response, I swerve graciously to the left in order to avoid it. I like making elegant gestures. Oh the dramatic poses I can strike! Let’s do that again. Ready? Annd swerve — ! Ha! Wonderful! Today is such a lovely day. I’ve got my clippers and I’m wearing holeless socks today, so I know I’ll do fine, whatever chooses to come my way.

This is a thoroughly enjoyable experience. I pick up the pace to a rhythmical march, overtaking elderly folk with their hands clasped on their back, narrowly dodging, never colliding, never missing a beat. I imagine the partly digested food in my stomach and my bowels churning left and right, and I suddenly realise I need to pee.

I keep on meandering through the crowds that have gathered at various booths, my elegant weaving bringing me closer and closer to the public toilet in the far left corner. I can’t be interested in local products today, so I just observe the people and try to imagine what they ate today. Eggs, bacon and parsley? Quails’ eggs and mushrooms? Overcooked pasta and soy sauce and — oh, oh, oh, I know: coffee!

Thinking of liquids makes the pressure in my abdomen rise, and I decide that walking in a straight line will get me to a toilet faster. I briefly consider pissing in the street. That is definitely something I would be capable of, right? I mean: if I wanted to, I could, no problem, right? I decide against it.

I make my way to the pavement on the left, between the booths and the houses. Between two stalls covered with white cloth is a crowded area where the weather forecaster, sitting on a small dais, reads to a thronged audience. She’s eight or nine months pregnant and her belly is bulging, her breasts so swollen it’s disturbing. She’s reading something about a mermaid. Rows of chairs have been positioned around her, nearly obstructing the pavement. All seats have been taken and numerous people are standing about. Children sit on their father’s shoulders.

I keep close to the houses, but a lady dressed in black on the last row jumps up cheering, throwing her chair off balance. I can’t dodge it and it smashes into my hip and then to the ground.

“Whoa!” I say. I tip the chair back into balance. The woman swirls around and looks at me with an expression of utter shock. She is about fifty and has the face of an English teacher at secondary school. Her mouth opens and closes a few times. She’s obviously flustered, but I can’t imagine what it is that has so upset her. In the end she turns and runs away; she’s practically fleeing. I shrug and start walking again, but because she’s running in the same general direction I can see how she’s addressing random people and complaining about what I just did to her. “Do you know what just happened?” she cries. Her voice is high-pitched, nearly child-like, and she’s close to tears. “He called me “Mom”!!”

She only gets more anxious when she sees I’m still around, apparently following her. I’m feeling unreasonably angry all of a sudden. This delusional and obviously deeply disturbed woman is making people think I am the crazy one!

She reaches the public toilets before I do, and I hear her whining to someone sitting on a chair beside the door. I don’t immediately realise it’s my mother sitting there, but when I do, I get really angry. I march resolutely towards the two women and start shouting. “Oh shut your face! One, I just said ‘whoa’ when your chair crashed into me, and two, you’re not my mum!”

Still angry, I push open the right half of a double door in dark wood with a deliberately unceremonious gesture. The room beyond is a regular public toilet area: dirty, smelly, and with a floor colour that’s slightly reminiscent of vomit. There’s toilet booths to the left, and a sink in the right-hand wall. I get into the first booth — it doesn’t really matter which one I take: surely they’re all the same, aren’t they? There is a hole in the floor, under the toilet bowl and slightly to the left, and there is a wad of greasy hairs in it, as if someone’s been showering there. The toilet bowl is ridiculously oval, spotted with reddish smudges — rust or cigarette burns? A tangle of rusty pipes protrudes from a hole in the wall.

I toss my bag in a corner — I’ll wash it later — and flush before peeing, to get rid of the slight disgust I always feel when I imagine my urine mingling with someone else’s. Exchanging body fluids is slightly too intimate for me to feel comfortable doing so in a public toilet. But something’s not right. The water keeps pouring from under the edge of the bowl. I push the flush button again a few times and try to pull it in neutral again, but the toilet won’t stop flushing. The water rapidly fills up the bowl, and I see water coming up through the hole in the floor as well. It is rising unnaturally fast, filling up the hole in a matter of seconds. When the hole overflows and the water spreads out over the floor, it keeps rising at a steady pace, as if the increased surface to be covered is of no importance. Have the laws of physics been suspended? I pee as fast as I can, but the water reaches my knees and is soaking my thighs before I’m done.

So someone’s drowned in here, I think, That’s how those hairs got in there.

I open the door of the booth. The water, which so far has apparently been slowed down by the narrow opening under the door, now spreads through the larger room. It is still not showing any signs of slowing down. I slosh through it to the double doors — what if it floods the area outside at the same rate? I’ll just have to accept it will drown the rest of the people along with me, then. It has reached my hips when I try to open the double doors. I’m pulling against the pressure of the water, but when I manage to open one half at a slit, the water rushes through. The water level within this room drops rapidly — only my shoes are submerged now. I can hear surprised shouts and exclamations of the people on the other side. I realise, though, that this is only a brief delay.

The strange woman is nowhere to be seen. My mother has risen from her chair: “What the hell did you do?”

“I just flushed, mum, and all the water came out of a hole in the ground. I didn’t do nothing wrong!”

She just grunts in irritation, unable to find words, or just too much in a hurry, and pushes the door open. The water now coolly laps at my heels, but I can sense it’s about to rise again at its unnatural speed. So much for delaying it.

Together we squeeze into the booth. The water is knee-high again.

“My god, will you look at that?” she says, pointing at the corner with my bag. “That’s where that doggy went. And now it’s all over your stuff. Have you no sense at all?”’

I say nothing, but inside I’m urging her to get on with it.

She points to the dirty pipes: “You’ve got to hold the installation shut for fifteen minutes; That’ll stop it.” I haven’t got the slightest idea what she’s talking about, and it’s making me feel hopelessly incompetent.

She takes out her handkerchief and wraps it twice around the central water pipe, real tight. It is identical to all the others, but she obviously knows what she’s doing. There is no time to knot the cloth, so she just clutches the tips in her left hand and holds it firmly in place. She wraps her right hand around the juncture of two pipes and squeezes. The water is chest-high now — my chest. She is at least a foot smaller than me: she’s in up to her neck, her chin dripping. I stand ready to take over when her fingers grow too numb, but I already know she won’t let me.

A thought strikes me. If today feels so much like an independent film, and if those are quite close to incomprehensible post-modern literature, then perhaps a solution might be found by approaching the issue on a deeper level? The idea seems plausible. This water hole might have something to do with the lack of holes in my socks. If I tear a hole in my socks, the water hole might close. I don’t see how this motif could make sense, but I realise that if I don’t do something, I will drown here, in a public toilet where a dog has urinated in the corner. I lift my right leg and hold it with my left hand. It moves sluggishly under so much water. I remove my shoe and dangle it from a finger. I need something sharp to tear the fabric. Of course! My clippers! They have a pointed nail file that folds out. With one hand holding my leg and my little finger holding on to my shoe, I fumble for my clippers in my pocket.

Will it work?

Disclaimer
This dialogue has been sitting on my hard drive for nearly six months. I started compiling bits and pieces of a story it would be part of shortly after becoming a member here, but I let the whole thing slacken. I’ve got a broad outline of where this was heading (it was going to involve unanticipated and unpredictable accidents), but I just held a mirror to its nose and there was no sign of breath there. It’s officially going nowhere, then, although I do think this section looks decent. Oh: and please bear in mind that the conversation takes place in a non-English-speaking country. And I suppose I should mention it contains a number of four-letter-words, in case anyone’s allergic to those; but at least the ones here are used functionally!

I was pleased to notice that the company’s phone number was as easy to track down as I’d expected. Just enter the full name in Google — spelt correctly, of course — et voilà: the first link that pops up is the correct one. I notice there’s two phone numbers on their web site: one general number (that’ll lead to the receptionist — possibly a pretty lady); the other one is for complaints.

Well, what I’ve got to say isn’t so much a complaint, more a remark. Of course, they could just as easily regard it as a complaint, but then I’ll just have to not phrase it as a complaint, just a friendly remark, like. Ah, well, who gives a fuck anyway? They’ll just have to reconnect me to the right service then.

Well, then. I dial the number; At the other end of the line the phone rings four times and a half, and then a voice: “Recycled Papers, how may I help you?” Drat. I’d expected her to be young, but she doesn’t sound young. Ah well.

“Good morning —”

“Good morning,” she interrupts me. Well, at least she’s friendly towards customers.

“Um, I have a remark about the pads your firm sells. I’ve noticed a little mistake on them.”

“Would you like me to connect you to the person who handles the complaints?”

Superficial and unnoticeable but very real sigh. If I had a complaint, I’d have called that number, right? I mean, it’s right there, on their website. I knew this was going to happen.

“No, it’s not a complaint, more a remark, really.” It sounds lame now. But a telephone is no channel for subtlety of thought. Ah well.

“Yes…?”

“I don’t know whether you’ve got one of them on your desk, but on the back of the cover it says: “More information, see backside.” Um. There’s a mistake there. You see, the word ‘Backside’ in English means, well, your behind, your bottom.”

“Uh huh. I see.”

“Well, I mean, your firm has been printing that mistake on their pads for quite a few years now. So I thought I’d point it out.”

“Sir, I think it’s best if I connect you to our complaints service.”

“No, no, it’s not a complaint, just a remark.”

This conversation is going downhill. It needs some spontaneity.

“I mean, look, I thought it was funny. I just thought I’d point it out.” I try a little spontaneous-sounding chuckle.

“I see. It’s an interesting remark. Uh, I didn’t know that. What is your profession?”

Ah. Now that sounds more like a real conversation.

“I’m a teacher. English. Heh.”

“Uh huh. Ok, sir, I’ve made a note of, um, your remark, and I’ll pass it on to the people who decide on these things, but I don’t know whether they’ll change it. I’m just the receptionist, you see. So, um, thank —”

“Is it because it costs too much to replace the blueprints?” Gah, I’ve interrupted her. “That’s what I think.” Shit. Now I’ll come across as rude, and a nerdy freak to boot, or she’ll think I’m dying for attention (I’m not), but ah well. What’s done is done. Who gives a fuck anyway? Besides, it is a relevant question for someone who knows something about books and printing.

“Well, I don’t know that, sir. But I thank you for your - remark” — still caught your hesitation, bitch — “and I wish you a very pleasant day.”

“Sure, thanks. You too,” I add, as is my wont. One very pleasantly surprised receptionist once thanked me for it, but no such luck today. I wait till she’s hung up (or pressed a button on some control panel — I don’t know which), like I always like to do. Sometimes it may take a while for the other one to hang up; that’s how I know I’ve been having a conversation with a kindred spirit. This lady breaks the connection very professionally: firmly but without being rude or impatient.

Shit, shit, shit. Shit. Why did I have to stretch and wind that telephone cable around my fingers so much? She’s bound to have heard that. And why bother calling anyway. Is there anyone who gives a fuck? Who’d mention such a silly insignificant little detail like that. Why can’t I ever act like a normal person?

But what’s done is done, I tell myself. I’m most likely not the only freak to call them; who knows what kind of calls she gets. Pranksters and the like. Besides: I don’t even know her, so the good part is that I’ve made an arse of myself when it’s inconsequential. Chalk it up as experience, my man.

Ah well. It’s done, and I can’t change a damn thing about it. Who gives a fuck anyway?

[This was just a spur of the moment thing. It’s quite silly really, but petroglyph convinced me to post it anyway…]

The crying wife & confused husband

I gasped and dashed towards the abandoned lump in the middle of the field. I ran and ran, unable to think clearly. I fell to my knees in a puddle of blood. For a brief second I thought there was still a chance she was alive, but realized that there was no such hope. All I could do now was try to identify the little girl. I started to cry and cry. Who would do such a thing? My heart was pounding, my head burning. I didn’t think I could ever stop the tears falling onto her mangled, lifeless body. She was pale and yet beautiful. Her little mangled head still managed to look peaceful. How could I break the news to her mother?

“Are you alright?” I hadn’t noticed my husband coming towards me. He put his arms around me and let my tears soak into his shoulder.

“She must have been separated from her mother,” I swallowed after every word, hardly being able to talk through the lump in my throat. What a horrible thought! She must have ran and ran and then…

“It’s okay, darling. Things like this happen. And her mother has another.”

“No, you don’t understand. Imagine losing one of our children, Richard!” I pushed him away and picked up the little body. Her guts were showing and her woolen coat was torn. I headed to who I assumed was the mother, she was standing close by looking distressed. I felt so sorry for her as she sniffed her little baby and my heart sank even lower as I thought of scratching yet another number out of the book.

“Come on, Helen,” I heard Richard call, “that bloody sheep hasn’t got a clue what’s going on!”

I couldn’t leave, though, not untill she had said a proper goodbye to her half-eaten lamb. The tears were still rolling down my cheeks. May the fox burn forever!

I co-wrote these with BethanyM — or actually: I wrote them, and we edited/finalised them together. The booger spotting story was her idea, though.

Metallica separates people

Zwolle, Netherlands — Two days ago a curious bicycle accident took place in our fair town, involving two fans of the American metal band Metallica. 17-year-old Julie K. riding down the Luttekestraat, crashed headfirst into Lies F. (17), who was crossing the road, and sent her flying into a porch with three steps. She sustained only minor bruises. Julie K. injured her knee and suffered some road rash, and was later transferred to a hospital by the emergency services. She was diagnosed with a minor sprain and was back home in a matter of hours.

“I was listening to my mp3-player, and I always tend to walk or ride in sync with the music. You know, tapping the rhythm with my fingers, drawing the melody line in the air, or just moving my arms or feet or head to the beat, that kind of thing.” This time she was trying to pedal in sync with a song with varying rhythms. This led her to accelerate unexpectedly, which in turn caused the accident.

“I was listening to the song “One” by Metallica, do you know that? Well, about halfway in, the song picks up and there’s this massive drum bit. I was trying to keep up, even though the drummer’s too fast to keep up with peddling. I was trying so hard that I didn’t focus on traffic, and next thing I know I’m sailing through the air.”

Interesting detail: both girls happened to be Metallica fans who like the song that indirectly led to the accident. “I don’t think I ever met Lies before this happened, at least not that I recall,” Julie says. “It’s quite possible that we were at the same concert, possibly even more than once. Maybe this accident was a sign, maybe Lies and I should be friends.”

Lies F, however, has turned down all friendship offers and has stated that she has no interest in continuing her acquaintance with Julie.

“The accident hasn’t changed me at all,” Julie K. told our local correspondent. “True, I won’t be able to ride a bike for some time, but I haven’t changed on the inside. And because I walk everywhere these days, I always carry two pens with me, so I can drum on traffic signs, drain pipes and so on. It’s heaps of fun!”

Herd of “experimental” sheep bully goat

Invercargill, Southland — New Zealand. A well-meaning sheep farmer in New Zealand has suffered a major setback when his own sheep, through pure bullying, sabotaged a project that was to change the future of his business.

“I’ve been a sheep farmer all my life, and together with my wife I’ve taken the decision to reduce the sheep-part of my business over the next few years and try to work my way into the goat market.” 47-year-old Martin L. explains. “But since sheep are such stupid animals, we decided it would be best not to scare them too much and to allow them to get used to the idea of competitors in the meadows. That was my wife’s idea — she’s really concerned about animals.”

The farming couple then decided to acquire one goat and to place it in a meadow along with some twenty sheep. “We figured that would be the best way to go about things,” Martin says. “But the sheep apparently didn’t like their new comrade and kicked her out of their group”

Indeed, whenever the goat tried to ingratiate herself with the sheep herd, she met with brutal aggression. “These sheep were just plain nasty to her. Sometimes they came over specifically to bite her, or to drive her off a soft grassy patch or something. Sometimes for no reason at all. I guess she just didn’t fit in the pecking order or something.”

“It was purely a dominance issue,” Christine L. (37), Martin’s wife, told us. “It was heart-wrenching to see that poor creature stand there all by itself in one corner of the meadow. Sometimes it bleated softly to itself. And even then would that herd of aggressive beasts descend on her.”

In the end, the couple had to resell their goat, and calm and tranquillity returned to the herd. However, Martin L. is planning on trying a similar experiment next year, once his sheep have re-adapted to their current situation. “I’m thinking of introducing cows next time round,” he told our local correspondent. “They’re a lot bigger than goats, and I bet a half-tonne grazing machine won’t be intimidated as easily. Also, part of the problem was that goats are very intelligent animals, whereas sheep are pretty much the stupidest critters you’ll ever come across. Cows are much like sheep in that they’re quite dumb and rather affectionate in a silly kind of way, which means that if this year’s debacle repeats itself, the cow will probably be too dumb to understand.”

Sheep and more broadly, dairy products, are New Zealand’s biggest export product, totalling 21%  of all merchandise export.

Booger spotting

Waarschoot — Belgium. Sometimes we don’t need to go scouting for good stories. Instead, they find us. Last week our local correspondent in Belgium got an interesting letter from Marie-Josée V. (77), and she immediately went to investigate:

FOLC: What made you write to FOLC?
M-J.V. “Don’t you think we live in a disgusting world? We do, don’t we? That’s what my husband used to say, may he rest in peace. I’m sure he’d be utterly indignant at what I have to witness at a daily basis. It’s definitely repugnant. He’s surely turning in his grave.”

FOLC: Could you explain what the problem is?
M-J.V. “It’s those repugnant motorists I see every day. They have absolutely not the slightest understanding of the notion of “good manners”. Do you realise what they’re doing? They’re picking their nose! While driving! Fully grown-up men! Adults! Women even! Judging from their behaviour, you’d say they were children, but no: they are allowed to drive cars. And nobody does anything to stop them!”

FOLC: Was FOLC the first organisation you notified?
M-J.V. “I got to the police first. They thought I was batty, and one of the younger ones even told me in so many words. I set him straight then and there. Since then I’ve always been sure to bring my grandson, who is six, with me when I go for my daily walk; sometimes my daughter. He’s my main witness: he’ll vouch for me. He’s got sharper eyes as well, so he can see the offenders’ licence plates better. You really should see him being all proud just because he can write down all the letters and all the numbers on their license plate. He’s a smart kid.”

FOLC: So why did you write to FOLC?
M-J.V. “Because the police weren’t doing anything with the lists we sent them, that’s why! They told us to stop interfering because they weren’t allowed to fine those dirty people. “What about offending morality, huh?” I asked them “What are you gonna do about that? Are you just gonna let them help the world go to hell?” — and I’ll tell you this: they didn’t have an answer to that. No, they did not! And still they refused to talk to these people, tell’em to stop. That’s when I thought I’d write to a number of newspapers. And here you are!”

FOLC: What is the source of your hatred against nose-picking?
M-J.V. “I didn’t raise any of my children to be a nose-picker — nor any of my grandchildren, I’ll have you know! It’s a filthy and disgusting habit that should be exterminated. I feel revolted every time I see someone do it. (shudders) And don’t give me any of that “so why don’t you avoid them” talk — you know what I’m talking about. ”

FOLC: Are there any special observations you’ve made? For example, are people in expensive cars more likely to poke their nose than people in cheap cars?
M-J.V. “I couldn’t say that: all I know is that these unmannered people are to be found everywhere. There’s even one license plate we got three times. Three times! And that’s only when we spotted her on my daily round! Can you imagine the size of her nasal cavities? Her husband and her children must be awfully ashamed of her! If she’s got those, of course, cause these days you never can tell…”

FOLC: Alright, Mrs V. Thank you —
M-J.V. “You are going to print the list of license plates I gave you, aren’t you?”

FOLC: Yes, of course we are. Thanks a lot for this interview.

A complete list of license plates, as well as contact information for Mrs. V, can be obtained by sending an email to the FOLC Secretariat

List of offenders:

AZS 436
FHD 451
GTA 911
HDP 402
KBH 735
LIM 962
OLF 861
PJV 639 (× 3)
USA 589

Curtain opens onto a modern flat: white walls, plenty of lights and open spaces. There are a bathroom and a bedroom to the right side of a central corridor with a nearly-empty coat rack directly behind the front door. To the other side there are a kitchen and a living room. The living room, farthest away from the bathroom, is clean but messy: numerous books and bundles of paper are strewn about. The rest of the flat is both clean and tidy.

Jill is leaning against the bathroom sink, wearing a stylish black evening dress. A light green towel is wrapped around her head. She is clipping and filing her fingernails. Then the sound of keys in the front door lock. Jack enters the flat, wearing a black ska hat and a suit underneath a black trenchcoat. He steps inside, then slams the door shut loudly on purpose. Jill looks up and turns her head towards the sound.

JACK

Loudly

Jill? I’m home!

JILL

I’m in the bathroom, Jack.

Jack takes off his hat and his coat and hangs them on the coat rack. He carefully unties his shoes, places the laces inside, and arranges them neatly right under his coat. Jill enters the hallway and greets him with a hug.

JILL

How did it go, honey? I want to hear all about it.

JACK

Oh, just swell. Is that make-up you’re wearing? You know I prefer to look at you without that stuff on your face. And what’s that dress for? Business supper again?

JILL

Sort of. How do you like it?

Turns around a couple of times. Her tone and attitude are coy and playful

Will this make me look out of place in a posh and expensive restaurant?

JACK

Looks at her, tilts his head, then purses his lips and nods.

Not at all; you look lovely. I would advise you to get rid of the towel, though.

JILL

Oh hur hur. So tell me: have you got some lovely news to tell me?

JACK

Oh, it was absolutely wonderful. You know those days when everything that happens makes the world seem like such a wondrous place? I had one of those today. It already began when I rounded the corner down the street, you know? The one with the Moroccan shop?

JILL

Yes, I do. I live here too, you know.

JACK

He takes off his jacket. During the story he tells, he talks enthusiastically while absentmindedly picking hairs and specks of dust off the shoulders and back

I’m merely setting the scene, Jill. Right. Just around the corner, I spotted a boy riding a bike. He was about five, six years old, and he was obviously learning how to ride, because his bike was fitted with training wheels. There was a man walking along with him, just a bit behind. He was too old to be the boy’s father, so I suppose he was the grandfather.

JILL

Was that the Peters’ kid? Reddish hair, big nose?

JACK

How would I know? No, this one had brown hair. Besides, I’m not really all that interested in the people who live in this neighbourhood. I don’t think I know more than three, actually. It’s funny, really, you practically spend your life —

JILL

Not playful any more

You’re getting sidetracked. What about the boy?

JACK

Right. The boy. So he was happily riding his bike, and his grandfather was following him at a brisk pace. “Wait a second, Tommy”, he cried, “Don’t ride so fast!” But Tommy-boy didn’t listen and he just rode on. He wasn’t even going any faster, he just kept going.

JILL

Slowly, not knowing where this is going

Ok…

JACK

His grin grows broader as he gets closer to the point of his story. When he’s hung up the coat, his hand movements illustrate his enthusiasm

So then his grandfather was getting behind further and further, so he started jogging, but he had to give up after a few dozen metres. So then he was walking at this brisk pace, hurrying along but not wanting to run, or not being able to run, more likely. You could tell he wasn’t used to walking at this pace at all. By that time little Tommy was way ahead of him. The old man tried calling out to Tommy to make him wait, but the boy just ignored him, or perhaps he didn’t hear, because the old man’s voice didn’t carry all that far. In the end Tommy had disappeared around the bend, and his grandfather was bravely plodding on, cursing under his breath. And the funny thing was that he was desperately trying to maintain his dignity: no real shouting or yelling, no swearing, no running. I like to think that perhaps he didn’t catch up with the boy at all and his daughter — or his son, perhaps — would be cross with him for letting his grandchild ride home all by himself. Isn’t that cool?

JILL

During Jack’s story she’s stepped away from him. She now leans with one shoulder against the wall arms crossed

Well…

JACK

apologetically

I thought it was the funniest thing I’d seen all week.

By
this time, Julia, their cat, has heard the sound of Jack’s voice and trips to the hallway. Jack, pets it a couple of times, then turns and walks into the kitchen, partially to cover up his disappointment that Jill does not share his enthusiasm. She follows and sits down in a chair: her attitude and tone of voice during the next conversation should make it clear that she’s used to Jack’s roundabout way of approaching things. She grows more impatient as Jack’s story strays more and more from the point

JILL

And this is what made your day? This is what made the world seem to you like “a wondrous place”?

JACK

He pets the cat on his way to the fridge and takes out a bottle of orange juice. During his next story, he alternates between preparing his own drink (taking a glass from the cupboard, pouring his own drink and putting everything away), petting the cat that’s clamoring for attention and food, and carving up a tin of cat food (also from the fridge) in a plastic tray (Chinese take-away style) with a fork

But it is, Jill. And this was only part of it. Don’t get me wrong: I think that in and by itself it’s marvellous to have witnessed such an event. But there’s more!

JILL

sarcastic

Wait, don’t tell Me. The old man’s shoes didn’t match!

JACK

Tilting his head, briefly considering the idea

No, that was not it. The other thing that happened to me on my way to the railway station was something else altogether. Or maybe not. You see, there was this old lady was standing next to me at the traffic lights — we were waiting for them to turn green. She was the most pitiable lady I saw today — she wore a run-down coat, three pairs of mismatched socks, and she had several layers of filthy clothes with colours that didn’t really match, to put it mildly. It wasn’t all that cold today, but it was definitely too warm to wear that many layers of clothes on top of each other — two separate t-shirts and jumpers, in fact. But I suppose she didn’t have anything to carry them in. Or she’s just one of those people who decide to hang away their winter clothes each year come June 10, or something like that, instead of adapting to the variable weather conditions. Anyway, that’s not important. She was smoking a cigarette without filter, too. And right when the light turned green, she staggered over to the pole and started retching. Let me tell you: it was such a hideous sound! Like a packet of sandpaper and a rough concrete brick were being scraped across each other in her chest. Must be all the smoking, I thought. And then she spit it all out, at the base of the traffic light. Have you ever seen an old lady being sick, in broad daylight?

JILL

Sighs and rolls her eyes

And of course you stood there and watched it all happen.

JACK

Of course I did. How could I not? She spit out a surprisingly colourful amount of mucus, too. There was so much of it; she just kept on retching and spitting. By the time she’d finished, the light had turned red again, so we were forced to wait until they’d change again.

He notices Jill is not amused, then talks faster, wanting her to understand

I mean, you’d expect this sort of thing from a man, right? Not from a woman. Certainly not from one this old. Oh, she’ll have been at least eighty. Or that’s how she looked. It was hard to tell, though. She had a tan, and she was wearing sunglasses, too, but she was definitely past seventy.

His voice trails off

JILL

I’m thrilled. Are there any more fascinating anecdotes that happened to you today? Any other stories you’d like to tell me?

JACK

hesitant

Well, there was that group of scouts whose leader nearly lost his hat when the wind blew it off.

JILL

In a dry tone, getting impatient

Oh. Really.

JACK

Yep. But I don’t suppose you’ll want to hear about his comical attempts to catch it. The boy scouts helped, too.

JILL

piqued

No. I do not. Are you making these stories up?

JACK

smiling uncertainly

No. No, I’m not. This is the sort of thing that’s impossible to make up, Jill. This is life displaying its superiority to imagination! You know I’m sensitive to that…

JILL

Starts off exasperated, then lowers her voice somewhat. It’s clear they have had this conversation before

Jack! You just want me to ask you directly, don’t you? Look: I usually don’t mind you wrapping up important news in layer upon layer of your observations, but not today, please, not now. I just can’t handle these things today, alright? Just tell me already: how did it go?

JACK

It went great. I got the job.

JILL

That’s great.

she gets up

I booked a table at the Auberge cramoisie at seven. I’ll go put up my hair, you go get freshened up. I want you to be ready to leave
in ten. That suit you wore today will do nicely.

she leaves the kitchen, untying the towel on her head, and goes into the bathroom

JACK

Quickly overcoming his surprise, grinning broadly

Ok. right. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Um, thanks, Jill! It’s nice to know you’re so confident in my abilities.

JILL

Muffled, a hairgrip in her mouth

I just know you better than you realise, Jack. And don’t stand there grinning like an idiot. You’d better be ready in time!

Jack starts toward the bathroom. Curtain closes

I co-wrote these with BethanyM. We intend to make this a semi-regular thing. Whenever the silly ideas strike us…

Tumored toddler saved by 10.000 litres of milk

By D.A.F.

This wasn’t the first tragedy to befall the disaster-stricken toddler. Last year he had been diagnosed with a lethal brain tumor, one that had been progressively constraining his physical movements. “It was heart-breaking to see him try empty his bowl of corn flakes every morning,” his mother, Wendy M. (26), says, “He’d been showing some progress lately, though, which is why, we think, he managed to crawl all the way to the highway.”

Little Tommy’s mother got the surprise of her life when she discovered her son was still alive after his accident. “He was still moving, and crying, and he snuggled up against me,” she says, all the emotions coming back. “I noticed his head first. It had become so incredibly small and vulnerable.” Indeed, Tommy’s head before the accident had devolped a lump the size of a tennis ball at the back, where the tumor was located. The incident with the truck compressed his skull just enough to squeeze out the tumor, miraculously enough without causing futher brain damage.

“He’s so badly scarred back there that he’ll be bald on that spot for the rest of his life.” Tommy’s mother explains. “But he’s alright now, he isn’t dying any more, and that’s what matters. We are a happy family.”

Neurosurgeons think they might have found a way to cure people who suffer from similar tumors as Tommy, and have begun attempting to recreate the accident under laboratory conditions.

CHAIR INCIDENT

By Y.M-E.

Yesterday, while John M. (46) was walking across the living room to pick up his glass of wine, he studded his toe against a chair leg. The pain was immediate and intense, but he didn’t swear. His condition has improved since.

By BS

Last night another law-abiding citizen fell prey to the ruthless gang of robbers that has been plaguing the city park for the last two months. This time the victim was Noah W. (36), president of the local “Friends of the Abbey” community.

“I was taking the shortest way home, through the park. I was only minding my business, enjoying my ice cream, when suddenly four masked thugs surrounded me and started shouting abuse at me.” In no uncertain terms, the robbers then threatened to hurt him if he didn’t give them all his money. “They sounded quite young, like teenagers,” Noah M. declared to the police later, but out of pure shock he wasn’t able to provide a better description. “They grabbed hold of my ice cream and made it very clear that they would stomp on it if I didn’t do as they told me. It was horrible. They refused to listen to reason.”

In the end, Noah W. gave up his wallet and the robbers took off without inflicting further harm.

He immediately notified the police, and less than one hour after the incident more than five officers were avidly combing the park area for a gang of four teenagers, wearing dark outfits, most likely with a brown ring around their mouth; but their search was in vain. As of yet, the criminals have not yet been apprehended.

Any critique is welcome as to the elements of the story.  I’m especially interested in whether or not the ending satisfies. 

RESIDENCE REMOVAL

By Mitch Komro (A.K.A. Bud Budderly)

Death has this consolation: it frees us from the thought of death -Jules Renard

The Murman Funeral Home with its severely sloping roof lines and gargoyle spouts stood in sharp contrast to the horizontal, one-story bungalows that dominated the North side Chicago neighborhood. Within, Gina Loci had become lost in the maze of hallways as she tried to find Red Murman, the funeral director. She encountered a number of doors, all judiciously locked and noticed that the carpet was the color of port wine and exceptionally spongy. She wondered if this were intentional, with floors and walls designed in such a way as to suck away the sound before it could intrude upon the silence.

Finally she came upon an unlocked door, one that was wider than the rest with the letters ‘ER’ embossed in fancy script. Gina knocked but the door was hard and made no sound. As she opened it she found it quite heavy. The room was dark but the light from the hallway allowed her a glimpse of pale flesh on stainless steel.

"Can I help you?" came from behind making her jump.

"God!"

"No, just the mortician," a large man laughed, "and proprietor. I’m Randall Murman, but most just call me Red."

Murman thrust out a fleshy hand and Gina grabbed it instinctively, shocked more by its warmth than its size. She always imagined a mortician’s hands would be frigid, but ‘Red’ Murman was not in this or any other way what she had expected. He was huge, at least six-foot eight, Gina guessed and she thought he looked a little silly in his suit, not unlike a polar bear stuffed into a neat, gray flannel. His head was also sizable with big salmon-colored jowls and if it weren’t for his unusual physical proportions, she thought he might blend in easily at any insurance seminar.

"You must be…"

"Gina…"

"Loci, right," Red smiled, revealing a set of yellow teeth that seemed strangely neglected for a man so otherwise spruce in appearance, "you’re early, that’s a good thing."

"Yes, uh," Gina felt awkward, running her fingers across the raised letters on the door, "Is this your office?"

"No," he said, "E.R. stands for embalming room."

She recoiled, pulling her hand away from the door. Murman seemed amused by the reaction. After a moment of silence, the man turned, motioning with an arm for Gina to follow.

"We’ll have to do this interview on the fly I’m afraid…oops, hang on a sec.” Murman went back and opened the ER door just far enough to poke his head into the dark room but not enough for Gina to see inside. “Dennis, how’s it going with Mr. Cafarelli?”

Gina thought she heard a faint reply but she couldn’t be sure.

”Did you do the arterial injection yet?” Murman queried. “Good man. How about the abdomen and thorax?”

Murman paused seeming to wait for an answer. “Use a high index cavity fluid, OK?” Pause. “And put some goggles on for God’s sake,” he ordered. “He won’t put the goggles on,” Murman said as he closed the door. “I glanced at your resume and noticed you have some medical background or something,” he said leading Gina down the hall, around a corner and into a garage area.

”Well not exactly but I will be starting medical school at Loyola in a few weeks.”

”Hey good for you,” Murman said opening the passenger door of a hearse for Gina. “But why do you want to work here then…aren’t you going to be a little busy?”

”Yes but I was hoping to find a quiet job with some flexible hours, evenings perhaps.”

”What about studying?”

”I was hoping I could do some of that at work during downtimes,” she said.

”When are you planning to sleep?”

”I don’t know, I guess I haven’t thought all of this through yet,” Gina said, sensing she wasn’t exactly acing the job interview. She had sat down in a hearse without realizing it and as Murman got in the driver’s side she noticed a mildewy smell that seemed out of place in the vehicle’s plush interior. “Are we going somewhere?” she asked.

”You didn’t really answer my original question.”

”What was that again?” she asked.

”Why do you want to work for me? Aside from the money of course, I assume you need the cash.”

”To be honest, I’m a little nervous about medical school, and anatomy class in particular.”

A smile of recognition washed over Murman’s face. “Ah, so you think working in a funeral home will, shall we say, desensitize you to the dead?”

”I suppose you could say that, it’s just that I’ve never been in close contact with a cadaver…”

Murman winced at Gina’s use of that term. “Well as it happens, I was looking for someone to help me evenings and perhaps a night or two on the weekend.”

”Would those be night shifts?”

”The nights would be akin to an on-call shift, something you’ll need to get used to if you want to be a doctor. The evening shifts would involve minimal contact with the deceased,” Murman explained, “you’d just be helping me facilitate the viewings, directing traffic, keeping the coffeepot full, that sort of thing. Think you could handle that?”

”I think so but what about those nights? What happens if I get called in?” Gina asked.

”The on-call component of the job would involve wearing a beeper at home, nights would be business as usual for you, unless I need you to come in and do a removal.”

”What is a removal?”

”That’s what we’re doing right now,” he said. “going to remove the deceased from a location.”

Gina’s heart started to beat irregularly and her breath quickened. “I don’t think I can…”

”Sure you can, ” he said, laughing. “Listen, do you want to get through gross anatomy class? Or do you want to be one of those students who runs screaming from the lab and quits medical school the first day?”

”No but…”

”If you got a call, all you would be responsible for is transporting the person from the nursing home, the hospital morgue, the residence or wherever back to the funeral home. You would do just a little of the initial prep work for me, just enough to keep them fresh until morning when I come in. This way I can get some sleep.”

Gina mulled things over as the black vessel cut a wake of mixed reactions through the populated, urban neighborhood. She studied the responses of pedestrians as they drove past. One kid pointed and tugged on her mother’s sleeve as her mother frowned at the sight of the hearse. Then there was a group of teenage boys with pants three sizes too big that looked as if they might fall down around their ankles at any moment. They paid the hearse no notice. Invincible, death was the last thing on their minds. There were also many elderly, babushka-covered Polish women who all seemed very concerned with crossing the busy street without becoming a hood ornament. If they noticed the hearse, they didn’t show it. Murman noticed Gina staring out the window.

”As you can see, this neighborhood has a fairly high percentage of older adults,” he said, as if he had read her mind. “So business is very good—too good in fact for me to do alone. I’m just exhausted.”

”Yeah I live just a few blocks from here,” she said. “It’s where I grew up.”

”Perfect! You could walk to work then,” he said.

Gina seemed lost in space. Everything was happening so fast.

”I’ll pay you seventeen dollars an hour, including your time at home on call of course,” he said. “Are you interested?”

Her mouth dropped. “Uh yeah, I guess I am,” she said, accepting his offer without a second thought.

”Excellent!” Murman extended a paw, “Welcome aboard.”

He pulled to the rear of one of the ubiquitous nursing homes in the neighborhood. “A little discretion and common sense go a long way in this job,” he said as they exited the hearse and began the long walk around the building to the front entrance. “Always make a professional appearance, and park in back if at all possible."

”I guess it would be bad form then to just bust through the front door with a gurney and ask them where to find the stiff?” Gina said, a bit giddy after being quickly hired at such an attractive wage.

Murman didn’t laugh as Gina had expected. “A sense of humor is a good thing in this line of work, it keeps the job from getting to you but there is a time and a place for it. Don’t make me second guess my decision to hire you.”

”I’m sorry,” Gina said. “I thought a little levity…”

”Don’t worry about it — now just isn’t the time or place. Have you ever lost a loved one?” Murman asked seeming to move on.

”Yes actually, I lost both of my parents,” she said, brushing aside her windblown, black hair revealing a face with deep brown eyes and thin, long yet attractive features.

”Oh, my sympathies,” he said turning solemn. “Has it been long?”

”About a year now,” Gina paused, looking away from her new boss. “They were on their way back from the Wisconsin Dells one night and a drunk driver passed out and crossed the median I guess. He hit them head on.”

”How terrible, do you have any other family?”

”No I’m an only child, I have an uncle but he lives in California,” she said. “My parents had the house paid off so I don’t have to worry about rent but tuition, food, bills and stuff, well it all adds up…”

”So no big inheritance I take it?”

”No my parents were working class people just trying to pay for my college and make a better life for me than what they had known.”

”You must have been devastated,” he said.

”Well, you know…” Gina’s eyes began to well up. She stopped to take a moment to collect herself as Murman walked ahead a bit to give her the space she needed.

When they entered the nursing home Gina looked around the day room as Red exchanged papers with someone at the nurse’s station. The residents were placed about the day room like wheelchair-bound gargoyles Gina thought. Nothing seemed to move but their eyes, and all eyes were on her it seemed.

As they entered Mrs. Rubicuski’s room, Red quickly went about the business of removing the dead. Gina focused on Murman’s technique, trying to avoid looking at the woman’s face. Murman worked like a machine as he wrapped her body in her bed sheet; there was simply no wasted motion. He sent Gina back to the hearse with instructions to bring a cot through the rear entrance. When Gina returned, Mrs. Rubicuski was wrapped as tight as a fish in newspaper and ready for transfer to the cot.

Gina nervously awaited the moment Murman would ask for her help in lifting the body but that did not happen. Instead, he lifted the body himself effortlessly and transferred it to the cot. She figured Mrs. Rubicuski must be unusually light because certainly Murman couldn’t be that strong.

“Once they’re on the cot,” he said, “make sure to prop the head up with a pillow to prevent a purge.”

”What’s a purge?” she whispered.

”It’s a nasty mess, for now I’ll spare you the details,” he said.

Murman told Gina to push the cot back out through the back door to the hearse then he disappeared out of the room mumbling something about a form he forgot to get signed. Gina, only weighing 102 pounds herself, soon realized that the cot was heavy and difficult to maneuver. As she became preoccupied with keeping the conveyance from bumping into the corridor walls, she didn’t realize it when she missed the turnoff to the rear exit. Instead she pushed Mrs. Rubicuski down the long main hall and halfway through the crowded day room before it occurred to her that she went the wrong way. One old man who appeared especially glum shuffled over to Gina who froze in her tracks like a deer in headlights. The man put a hand on the deceased woman, somewhere in the vicinity of her shoulder.

”Goodbye Emma,” he said as Gina noticed a single tear streak down his wrinkled cheek like a shooting star. The man tried to wipe it away but it was already gone.

Murman, who was standing by the desk noticed Gina stranded in the middle of the day room. Gina felt like a piece of flotsam in a sea of frightened nursing home residents. Red motioned with his arm and pointed giving her a look that seemed to say, “the damage is already done, just wheel her out the front door, quickly.” As Gina resumed her motion, the old man latched onto her wrist, halting her in her tracks.

”When you come for me,” the man said, “when it’s my time and you come to take me back to the funeral parlor. Will you promise to leave the lights on?”

Gina looked to Murman for help but he was already out the front door.

”Yeah sure,” she said. Gina would have said anything to get the man to release his vice-like grip. “Why do you want the lights on?” She had to know.

”I’m afraid of the dark.”

* * *

”Sorry about that,” Gina said as they drove back to the funeral home.

”Don’t lose sleep over it,” Murman said. “I’m confident it’s a mistake you’ll only make once. I’d like you to begin your new employee orientation tonight, if that fits with your schedule of course.”

”Sure that would be no problem,” she said sensing in Murman’s tone that she might be on thin ice after the nursing home fiasco.

”Good. Tonight you’re going to learn the nuances of a residence removal,” he said.

”OK so we’re going to pick up a body from a residence,” Gina intuited.

”Yes, from your residence.”

”I don’t understand,” she said, rubbing her wrist. It was still sore from the grip of that sad old man.

”You said you live alone?”

”Yes, but…”

”Good. Do you have any nosy neighbors?”

”No, not really but I’m a little confused,” she said. “Whose body are we going to remove from my residence?”

”Yours.” Murman drove in silence, staring expressionless at the road ahead.

”Could you explain please?” she asked, her voice cracking.

Murman didn’t answer initially. Gina thought he seemed to be carefully weighing his response.

”You want to be a doctor eventually, correct?” he said finally.

”Yes.”

”And for the time being, you also want to be a mortician’s assistant, correct?”

”Yes.”

”Can you ever remember in your experience as a patient, meeting a doctor you didn’t like?” he asked.

”Sure, quite a few actually,” she said, wondering where he was going with this.

”What kind of people were they? The ones you didn’t like that is. What one word would you use to describe them?”

Gina thought about that for a minute. “Insensitive,” she said. “They didn’t seem to care about me as a human being. I was just a diagnosis, a body to them.”

”And how would you describe that one particular doctor you liked? If there was one.”

”Sure, uh my pediatrician, Dr. Lorenc was really nice,” she said. “He never rushed our appointments. He always took the time to ask me how I was doing in school, how things were at home. He really cared.”

”So you might say he was fairly empathetic?”

”Oh sure, I mean he seemed totally interested in me as a whole person, not just the scientific, medical aspect,” she said. “God, he’s the reason I decided to go into medicine. So yes I would say he was very empathetic.”

”And so it is with a good mortician.”

”Well of course,” she said. “I’m sure we have to try to understand what the families are going through…”

”Well,” Murman cut her off. “Empathy with the bereaved is a prerequisite, a given. If I didn’t think you already possessed that quality, you wouldn’t be sitting here Gina, but the really enlightened morticians display that same level of understanding and respect with the dead, not just with their families. That’s what I intend to teach you tonight.”

”How’s that?” she asked.

”By helping you to get a feel for what it’s like from the perspective of the dead.”

Gina laughed nervously.

”You see what we have to remember is that the body is not just some slab of meat we’re working with but there is a soul as well.”

”But doesn’t the soul pass after the physical body dies?” she asked.

”No, not immediately no,” he explained. “There is the first death, the physical death of the body which is what you’re thinking of but there is also the second death. The second death occurs only when the body is properly embalmed or cremated. Until then, the soul stays within reach of the living.”

”I wasn’t aware of that. So you’re saying I should treat the body as if the person, that is, the soul which inhabited that body were still present?”

Murman beamed. “Yes exactly! Assume they are right there with you because they are! You see it’s not just mortuary science for us just like it’s not just medical science for the good doctor. There’s an artistic, mystical side as well which you can learn working for me. These are skills that will transfer well to your medical career making you the kind of doctor you want to be—another Dr. Lorenc.”

”I never would have imagined,” she said, “and here I always thought morticians were a pretty cold bunch, no offense or pun intended.”

”None taken,” he said. “You’ll begin to understand my point even better tonight when I come to pick up your body.”

”My body. OK now let me get this straight. You want me to pretend to be dead to understand what it’s like from that perspective. Is that right?”

”Now you’re catching on,” he said. “I’ll pick you up sometime after 2:00 AM so leave your porch-lights off and your back door unlocked.”

”OK I understand, you don’t want to freak out the neighbors,” she said. “Not a problem.”

”And don’t wait up, I want you in bed when I arrive,” he said further.

”OK, so I died in my sleep then,” she played along.

”Yes, precisely,” he said. “I want you to really get into the role.”

* * *

Gina stared at her digital alarm clock display glowing red in the darkness of her bedroom. 2:46 AM. This is slow torture she thought and sleep was an increasingly remote possibility for her. “Get into the role,” she remembered Murman saying so she folded her arms across her chest and held her breath for twenty seconds, then forty.

”This is crazy,” she said aloud expelling stale air. She needed this job however. Where else could she sleep the night away with a beeper on her nightstand and get paid well for it? Murman made a cogent point; perhaps this job would teach her something about sensitivity and respect for her patients. What doctor couldn’t use a little more of that?

She thought about her parent’s funeral. She had attended only part of it, mainly the church service. The wake simply would have been too painful, open caskets and all. She heard the mortician had done a marvelous job with facial reconstruction after the accident but she had to take people’s word for it.

She had been racing along a country road with the top down during the interment. Seeing her parent’s caskets being lowered into the ground would have been too excruciating; too final. She would have been an emotional, whimpering mess at the sight of that and Gina Loci doesn’t whimper. Gina is always in control and she would stay that way now.

Yes, she needed the job and if she couldn’t handle the death of her parents, how could she function as a doctor where death would be a day to day reality? This could turn out to be a debilitating weakness. Would she have the strength to go into that private room at the hospital? This being the same room where she had learned from a young doctor that her parents, despite heroic efforts by the medical staff, hadn’t survived their injuries?

She imagined herself going into this same room herself, only this time she would be wearing the white lab coat. Could she tell the parents huddled together on the couch that their daughter, in whom they had invested 18 years of their love was dead? Could she tell them that her perfect face had been rendered unrecognizable by its impact with a windshield? Could she tell them that their honor student’s brain had been turned to mush? Gina’s eyes became moist as this scenario and its images flashed through her mind. She knew in her heart that the answer to all of these questions might be “no.”

Gina was jarred back to reality by the swooshing sound of her back door opening. Moments later, she saw the lumbering dark outline of an ursine figure duck under the doorway to her bedroom. It had to be Red Murman.

”You’re here,” she said. “What took so long?”

There was no response. She heard the rumbling, metallic sound of a cot being wheeled over the hardwood floor through the darkness. She looked at her clock which now read 3:15 AM. “I thought you would be here earlier, you’re la…”

A cold hand touched her lips preventing her from finishing her sentence. Gina smelled latex. Murman’s white gloves seemed to glow in the dark as he used his free hand to firmly push her back into the prone position. He yanked her comforter off the bed then quickly wrapped her in her own bed sheets just as he had done with Mrs. Rubicuski at the nursing home earlier that day. The darkened room now was black and she felt like a tightly wound mummy as her body was whisked onto the cot as if Murman were moving a five-foot piece of balsa wood. Gina forced herself not to panic as she felt him fasten a strap snuggly across her chest then her legs. She was secured to the cot but she could barely breathe.

”Mr. Murman, could you loosen that strap a little?” she asked but there was no response. Apparently, he was just getting into the role as well she reassured herself.

They moved and for a while the air became cooler as they glided through the night. She felt the regular bumps of the cot on the sidewalk running from her back door to the rear alley and other than the hooting of an owl in the distance, the night was unusually quiet. She felt her body shake as Murman shoved her into something. The familiar, smell of mildew told her that it was the hearse and the sound of the rear door closing seemed to add a sense of finality to her situation.

Gina was getting angry. She thought this was carrying the role-playing thing too far. The least Murman could do was talk to her—if she was supposed to learn something from this she didn’t know what it could be. She felt movement again as the hearse glided slowly through the back alley.

”Let me out goddamn it!” Gina yelled but her voice was muffled in the hearse in the same way that sounds were silenced by the architectural structures of the Murman funeral home. Her voice simply didn’t reverberate in the back of the black transport and she suspected that the glass that separated her from Murman was soundproof.

”Son of a bitch, let me up,” she said, with fear rapidly replacing her anger. In the darkness of her own bedroom, Gina’s night vision had allowed her to see shapes but in here in this rolling sarcophagus and enveloped in her own sheets, it was blacker than black. She had never been claustrophobic in the past but Gina’s respirations and heartbeat had nearly doubled. Beads of moisture collected on her hot face as if she were shoveling snow with a ski mask pulled down over her face. She thought when all of this was over, she would never again take her senses or her freedom to move about for granted. If that was the lesson Murman was trying to teach her, she didn’t like his methodology.

The next thing she felt was her body shake again as Murman removed it from the hearse.

“Let me up!” Gina’s voiced echoed off walls telling her she was probably in the garage of the funeral home.

There was no response.

Just the sound of the cot as it rolled across the concrete floor. That sound ceased as the wheels met the padded carpet of the building’s interior hallway.

”What are you trying to prove? What’s your goddamn point?” she screamed as she was rolled through a door off the carpet and onto a smooth tile floor. The cot came to a halt and Gina could hear the sound of Murman’s heavy footsteps first away and then back again pushing another cart of some kind. As she heard the sound of metal instruments clinking on the cart next to her she experienced a shortness of breath which took away her ability to speak. Her heart wasn’t so much pounding as it was spasmodic, like a red balloon, writhing with worms.

With the straps still digging into her skin, Murman undid the portion of the sheet that covered her head. The bright florescent lights blinded her for a moment but when her vision returned, she saw Murman’s puffy, smiling face looking down upon her. His yellow, plaque-encrusted teeth and his hair-sprouting nostrils were nothing compared to his eyes which were blacker than the night. What she saw in those eyes suggested something beyond confusion and chaos, his eyes reflected—an evil sadness.

Then it came to her. Death was only a preparation for life. The scalpel that Murman held in his hand above her, like the Reaper’s scythe, could only reap her world of apparent reality. His weapon of death held no power over her because this was a world of perishable illusions. Realizing this, she began to smile.

”Go ahead, do it,” she said calmly.

”Do it!” she repeated.

There was no response.

Only the sound of Murman gently replacing the scalpel upon the stainless steel tray.

I co-wrote this story with a fourteen-year-old girl. I’m quite chuffed with how it turned out. It’s entertaining. It’s well-written. It has an interesting protagonist. And above all: it keeps making unexpected turns. It’s a good story, even if I say so myself. I’m proud of this one. I really am.

Please note that this is just the three first pages of the story. If you want to read the rest (an additional 5 pages), PM me and I’ll send you a pdf version.

I was enjoying a sense of purposefulness, feeling comfortable in knowing I was fully prepared and that I was nearly there. My left hand was clutching a bag of bread, this week’s leftovers, and my happy pace was taking me fast along nicely kept paths to the bench and the ducks. All around me were familiar noises: giggling toddlers, yapping dogs, the bell over at the ice cream booth, the shoof shoof of joggers overtaking me. For a brief moment I let my excitement get the better of me and I waved enthusiastically at a fisherman sunbathing next to his rod who politely pretended he didn’t notice. But I was in too good a mood to feel put off by this.

My mood made it difficult for me to stop smiling smugly at everyone I caught pretending not to be staring at me. Whenever I overtook someone, I could feel their eyes lingering on my back even before I turned around and saw them quickly look elsewhere. They were most likely noticing my happiness. It had happened before, when someone I didn’t even know had actually addressed me for that precise reason: “You look really happy,” she said to me. I can hardly be blamed for wanting to walk with a spring in my step, now can I? There’s too many sour faces around as it is. And I wasn’t the only one in a good mood around, either: There was plenty of laughter, from multiple voices, just a bit further ahead.

It took a while before I realised where exactly it came from: a number of youngsters had taken possession of the bench. There were five of them, all baggy trousers, baseball caps and sitting on the back of the bench. Already several empty beer cans lay strewn around. They weren’t even crumpled up properly.

No full cans seemed to be around, so it looked like they were boozing their way through their last round. I decided to wait until they had left, b