Horror Book: ANNUS HORRIBILIS is Out Now

Bag of Bones Press has just released an anthology of horror stories set in 2022. My own story Pie Holes is included. Click the link for more info: http://mybook.to/AnnusHorribilis

Dark Fiction: The Dust Mote Collector

By Casey Douglass

There was a man who came to the realisation that his time was worth less than anyone else’s. No matter what he tried to cultivate or create in his life, to give others, or to take pleasure in, the returns on his temporal investment were either zero or negative.

The society around him was full of overly simplistic platitudes that only served to wind up the springs of his dissatisfaction engine. Fluffy ideas, such as the one about how working hard pays off, or the one about how finding your passion leads to a worthy life. It was nothing less than motivational porn with no happy ending.

The man reasoned that, as his life and his time seemed to be worth so little, he might as well spend it doing the most meaningless activity that he could think of. One without hope or pressure, one that grabbed his attention, one that had no end point, something that he could do until the day that he died.

The man walked to his cutlery drawer, rummaged amongst the smallest spoons and lifted out the one that seemed to feel the most balanced as it straddled his palm. He moved to a room in which the afternoon sun shone brightly. His hand pulled the curtains almost closed with the quiet rattling of plastic runners. A two inch gap was left in the middle of the join, for the sunlight to breach the shadows of the room.

The man stood just to the side of the sun-beam, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the light conditions. A small darting movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention. He turned to look more closely but lost it. Another flitted by. He lost that one too. And so his life as a Dust Mote Collector began.

The early days were filled with him trying to track the motes. They acted like the tiny fish you might see on a wildlife documentary, shooting away as his small spoon approached them. The man got better though. He learned to move slowly, to hold his breath, to anticipate, and to stay perfectly still when it was needed.

The first mote that he collected glowed as it fell. Once it reached the shiny metal of the spoon, it appeared to vanish into thin air. The man knew that he’d caught it, even though the spoon felt no heavier. He caught the next one soon after. It danced and floated near him for some time before he successfully brought the spoon beneath it, giving it a secure, safe home.

As the weeks and months went on, the man sometimes found that he slipped into a pleasing reverie as he captured his targets. Sometimes the motes seemed like twinkling stars in the night sky, his hand becoming some kind of roaming black hole. At other times, he fancied he was some giant spiritual being, catching and ferrying the souls of the dead to the afterlife.

The spoon dazzled him when it caught the sunlight, his hand often trembled, and his body ached all over. His mind was largely free of thoughts, but the peace or tranquillity described as often coming with this state by spiritual or New Age literature, proved to be just more propaganda that didn’t apply to him. He wasn’t particularly surprised. Not thinking was reward enough.

He’s in his darkened room right now, standing in the shadows, his small spoon flashing in the light as he captures another intangible with its metal. His clothes rustle gently as he lifts the spoon closer to his eyes, searching for something in its shining bowl. Maybe one day, he’ll see it.

Taoist Story “Maybe” Modern Rewrites

Written by Casey Douglass

I enjoy koan or parable style stories, as they often contain nuggets of wisdom in an easy to digest way. After such all-stars as the sound of one hand clapping, and the one about the tree falling in the woods, the story that I most often encounter is the Taoist tale about a Chinese farmer. This tale is often called “Maybe”, so that’s the title I’ve stuck with.

The story states that the farmer’s horse runs away. When other people find out, they commiserate with him and say “Bad luck!”. He just shrugs and says “Maybe.”

The next day, the horse returns with some wild horses in tow. “How lucky!” everyone exclaims, all except the farmer who shrugs again and says “Maybe.”

A short while later, his son is trying to tame one of the wild horses, but is thrown from its back, breaking his leg. “Oh dear, how unlucky!” the neighbours say. No prizes for guessing what the farmer says.

A war breaks out, seeing young people being drafted from the local village. The farmer’s son is spared because of his broken leg. “How lucky!” people cry. The farmer says... “Maybe”.

***

I love this story for the way that it depicts the virtue of patience and of withholding judgement from a situation. I also enjoy how it hints that the things that initially seem bad might turn out to be a blessing in disguise and vice versa.

In this social media, 24 hour newsfeed world, a dose of what this story is offering would certainly work wonders in the over-reactionary, over-emotive way that many of us view the world. Every setback is a catastrophe, every victory the most amazing thing ever. You know how you sometimes get someone doing sign-language at the side of the news broadcast? I’d like to add a weathered farmer who shrugs and says “Maybe” after every judgement about a situation!

Mind you, if I got my way and that actually happened, how long before he becomes the subject of an idiotic internet story that goes viral? Maybe something saying that the “Maybe Man” is a danger to society for fence-sitting, for failing to condemn evil actions and seemingly revelling in spreading uncertainty. You just know it would happen! Damn it!

The Maybe story isn’t all rosy for me though. Sure, it illustrates some nice concepts, but its simplicity is also a little irritating. If only life were so simple that every “bad” thing actually proved to be a blessing, and every “good” thing couldn’t be trusted to not kick you in the backside. A more realistic scenario for many would be that a good thing turns out to be a curse, and then three or four bad things happen that also turn out to be genuinely bad. Yeah, not such a wise tale now.

I still like Maybe though. I find it fun to think about (as if you couldn’t guess). A short while ago, I had the idea/urge to rewrite Maybe in modern terms. I mean, a farmer losing his horse and it coming back with some wild horse friends is very lovely, but how relevant is that to someone living in 2021? With that in mind, below you’ll find two of my attempts at bringing Maybe kicking and screaming into the technological age. The first is intended to be the most realistic. The second is a horror and humour-inspired rewrite with a few twists added to the formula. I hope you like them.

Maybe 2021 Rewrite

There was a young woman who spent her spare time coding a video-game. It was a labour of love that one day, she released. Even though it didn’t make much money, it was hers. Hackers got into her digital platforms and stole her source-code. They cracked it and released the game online for free. “How terrible!” the woman’s friends commiserated. “Maybe,” she replied.

The next day, the woman found that the exposure given to the game by the hackers had resulted in a massive surge in her legitimate game sales. Her game now sat near the top of the indie game charts. “How wonderful!” her friends cheered. “Maybe,” she replied.

The game went on to reach number one. At about this time, a flaw in her code was discovered, one that posed a serious risk to the personal data of the players. News spread and the store forced her to remove it from sale until she could fix the issue. She was unable to, and had to put it on the back-burner, and so the game stayed down. “Such a shame!” her friends comforted her. “Maybe,” she answered.

A short while later, an email landed in her inbox. It was from a large video-game publisher and it offered to buy, fix and distribute her game. The money offered was enough to set the woman up for for at least the next five years. “You’re so lucky!” the people around her cried. “Maybe,” the coder replied.

Maybe Horror Rewrite

One day, the zombie outbreak finally happened. No one really expected the leap from fiction into reality, least of all a young boy and his family. They waded through body-clogged city streets, and finally made it to a military refuge. The other displaced people told them that they were so lucky to get there just before it reached full capacity. “Maybe,” the boy replied, as he had an uncommonly wise head on his young shoulders.

During the night, the family woke to screams and cries, a previously undeclared bite had turned the whole camp into a buffet. The family grabbed what supplies they could and managed to sneak away. The streets stank of gas and fumes. The boy’s mother suggested that a pipe-line had cracked. She warned them not to even use their torches, as the smallest spark might grill them all. “How unlucky!” she hissed. “Maybe,” the boy hissed back, and got a clout for his troubles.

The family crept forward until the air seemed free of the smell of the gas. A rumbling flash of orange lit up the night sky back the way they’d come. The angry roars of cooking zombies floated to the family on the breeze. The father said that they were lucky not to be caught up in that. He stared at the boy, daring him to open his mouth. Maybe, thought the boy.

The family moved on for quite awhile, but it wasn’t long until the whup-whup of a helicopter pounded over their heads. It was heading to where the explosion had happened. It didn’t see the family, it didn’t even turn its searchlight on until it was more than a mile away. “The fire brought it!” the boy said to the glum-faced adults around him. “Fuck me!” he added, for effect. “Talking like that will get you in trouble!” his father warned. “Maybe”, the mother replied, as she watched the buzzing helicopter over the distant rooftops.

Dark Fiction: Good Luck!

By Casey Douglass

Image from Oliver Hale @ Unsplash

Mr “Lucky”: 8:27pm:

The bass throbbed through the walls. He half wondered if it actually made the air in the toilet smell worse, somehow massaging the particles and releasing their full stinking potential. He wasn’t surprised by the smell, or that some other enterprising souls had got into the toilet before the main act started. The support band were decent, but worth missing the end for some bladder comfort.

His trainers squeaked on the sticky floor. The urinals were all occupied, the two cubicles were too. A guy was waiting outside the first stall, the other had no queue. He sidled over and waited near the latter.

A toilet flushed. Another followed. The door in-front of him swung open. He exchanged a brief nod with the man who emerged. As he entered the cubicle, the door of the other one swung open as well. He heard a voice chuckle and exclaim: ‘Good luck!’ to the waiting man.

He shut the door behind himself, and heard the companion door close on the other side. He then heard an ‘Ughhhh!’

He grinned at the stained wall as his mind conjured up several images of what the unfortunate occupant next door was confronted with. The ‘Uggghhh’ had sounded quite nuanced. It was half “I’ve caught my scrotum in my zip” and half “Help me I’m dying!”

By the time he had pissed, flushed and left the toilet, the other stall was still occupied. He heard no sound coming from inside. He chuckled as he exited the room, merging with the darkness of the dance floor. He was eager to tell his mate about the poor soul who had clearly had a messy surprise, and how, if things had gone the other way, it might well have been him!

Mr “Poor Sod”: 8:25pm:

The guy in the toilet stall ahead of him was taking an eternity. He looked down at the gap underneath the door, wondering if he could see in which direction the denizen’s feet were facing. If they were facing the toilet... Shit, now he had mental images of the guy inside wanking over the porcelain bowl. The door that led back to the club swung open and another guy walked in. His nose wrinkled as he entered flavour country. The watcher tried not to smirk, and then realised that he’d been waiting for so long that he couldn’t even smell the noxious aromas any more. Damn it!

The newcomer appraised the occupied urinals and then settled a few paces to his right, in front of the other cubicle. No chance of switching queues now! The other guy had been in his a good while too, but he just knew that it would be the one to open first. This evening just gets better and better.

The other cubicle door flew open. He sighed. He half hoped the other guy would beckon him to go in, seeing as he had been waiting already. The guy just waltzed in, the thought probably didn't even cross his mind. Selfish prick!

The door in-front of him opened moments later, a grinning man gliding out, his eyes a bit wild, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. Great, it wasn’t wanking but drugs... He hoped there wasn’t a fucking needle left in there!

‘Good luck!’ the departing stranger chuckled.

The guy watched him open the exit and flounce out into the booming music. Must be a full moon, he thought, as he bit back an acidic reply. He tentatively entered the cubicle, his eyes scanning the walls, floor and the toilet itself. Everything looked very clean, surprisingly so. In fact, it all looked pretty damn good! Maybe his night was going to improve from here on out. Stranger things have happened!

He closed the door, turned, unzipped his jeans and began to urinate.

His head throbbed.

He looked down to make sure he was hitting the target.

He yelled.

Mr “Pissed Off”: 7:59pm:

The journey to get to the club was a long, expensive one. Not only did he have to grease official palms in two liminal zones, but the etheric passport renewal and body rental had cost an absolutely colossal chunk of karma. As was always the case, the body barely responded to orders from a seventh dimensional brain. It was this that caused most of the trouble.

The bouncer at the door had thought that he was drunk already, so he’d had to shimmy a trans-dimensional shortcut open and flop into the bar area. As was just his luck, he solidified on a big skinhead’s foot. The hand that had latched onto his throat felt like it was trying to squeeze his innards out through his ears. A different bouncer saw the altercation and a brawl began, giving him the chance to slip away.

His eyes hadn't adjusted to the dark just yet. He accidentally brushed against a woman as he picked his way through the crowd. He earned himself a stinging slap on the cheek for that one.

A hot fiery feeling began to bloom in his chest, the urge to incinerate the whole fucking club with a bit of spiritual flame. But no... he was better than that. He had to be, especially if he wanted to be let back home again.

Someone jabbed him in the side, darting fingers reaching for his wallet. He sent a crackle of electricity into the thief. A splash of hot urine christened his shoes.

He began to pant. He just wanted to see the band. Was that too much to fucking ask?

The support band was up on the stage, wailing and hammering and doing a fine job of making everyone look forward to the main act.

Just wait, he told himself, the night will be worth it. Just, just, a little mischief first, something to ease the pressure.

He angled himself through the crowd and jostled his way to the restroom.The air was thick. That was the only way to describe it. He switched his nostrils to plane of existence six and breathed in a nice meadow dew fragrance. Who needs air freshener when you have etheric senses!

The restroom was empty, so he made his way to the first cubicle, locking the door behind him. He looked down at the white toilet and rubbed his chin. Maybe a little infinitude? Or a bog monster? Or an etheric leech? So many choices, so many options. He heard footsteps entering the room. He opted for the infinitude, it was quieter.

His fingers danced, his third eye opened and the slightest flash of purple light fuzzed the air above the toilet rim. He clicked his fingers and the haze blurred into a vertigo-inducing drop. Even though he was expecting it, he still had to throw out a hand to catch himself on the paper dispenser. Toilets, all the way down, is the best way to describe the view. Some relatively normal, others gross and overflowing, others not made for backsides that any human might imagine. Toilet after toilet falling away and sweeping down, making the viewer’s mind think that it was about to tumble out of the world. He felt his rental body’s gorge rising, but closed his eyes just in time.

He became more aware of the noises all around the cubicle now, activity in the one next door, urine hitting urinals on the far side of the room. He saw the cubicle shake as the the stall next door was opened. He turned and opened his own, his eyes falling on a twenty something guy who looked about ready to punch someone.

‘Good luck!’ he smiled, a small chuckle escaping at the same time. He left the restroom and headed back into the throng, hoping that the rest of the evening would flow that little bit more sweetly.

THE END

***

This story was inspired by something that genuinely happened to me at a music concert. I was Mr Lucky above. I walked into the toilets and heard "Good luck" said to the guy next to me. I then heard the "Uggh!" and had to bite my lip to stop myself laughing out loud. I wanted to create something a little bit strange and a little bit funny around what might have happened to the guy in the next stall. This story is the result. Thanks for reading :).

Dark Fiction: The Best Things in Life are Assigned

Dark Fiction: The Best Things in Life are Assigned

By Casey Douglass

The apartment door slid shut with a grinding at the end of the motion. Maz always thought that reality should live up to the old science fiction shows, especially those doors that hissed closed. Her door grated, much like her life. She smiled. It wasn’t her door any more. She swiped her wrist implant across the sensor and heard the bolts slide into place. They made a grinding noise. She rolled her eyes.

‘You’re going through with it then Maz?’

Maz turned and smiled at the bald-headed white-whiskered man. ‘Yeah. Nothing for me here Juo.’

Juo rubbed his stubble as he let his gaze slide to the floor.

She felt like an ass. He was the closest she’d come to having a friend in this dump and she couldn’t even say goodbye without ruining things. She moved forward and gave him the briefest of hugs. When she backed away she laughed at his expression. She doubted it would have looked much different if someone had pulled a gun on him.

‘You hugged someone!’he gasped.

‘I wanted you to know I appreciate you.’

‘And now you’re going to disappear...’

‘My timing was always shitty!’

‘Always! But I appreciate you too! I especially appreciate you breaking the habit of a life time and actually showing some physical affection. That must’ve been hard!’

‘Oh it was! I’m sure I felt part of me die!’

Juo snorted as he chuckled. ‘If by any chance you still remember me after, feel free to visit.’

‘I will, but I don’t think it’s possible that I'll remember.’

‘I don’t either.’

They looked at each other, Juo with a quivering fuzzy lip, Maz with a mouth so tightly closed that it looked like one thin line of magenta lipstick. ‘Bye Juo.’

‘Bye Maz.’

She knew he watched her as she left. Even once she’d hit the hubbub of the street, she could feel his eyes on her back, no doubt standing at his dirty window, his breath steaming the cold glass. She felt a tingling slide from her heart and down into her stomach. She supposed it was sadness but it always felt like she experienced her emotions second-hand, once someone else had already put some mileage on them. She merged into the throng of people.

An elbow dug into her ribs, complimented by a hand that brushed past her backside. Her hand flew to her pocket to check that everything was still locked up tight. She relaxed a little on fingering the membrane. It was intact. The membrane sucked at her finger, pinging her implant to see if she wanted it to open. She almost turned to see who had tried their luck but she stopped herself. There was no point, not in this crowd. She remembered the day she’d bought this jacket, a nice brown leather number with built in anti-theft technology. She moved her hand away and clenched her fist, ready for the next arsehole who wanted to try it.

God she hated these fucking people! It was bad enough that they were stuck in such a shit hole, but fucking each other over just made everything seem even more miserable. She waded through the bodies like she was pushing through meat in a slaughterhouse, wary of coming into contact with something that would stain her soul. The stink was about the same too.

Within a block, the feel of the neighbourhood changed. Her old apartment was in the liminal zone between the slums and the area where people could afford to eat, even if only the reconstituted protein that passed for haute cuisine there. Street vendors cluttered the side walk with their little metal carts, shimmering holograms fighting for her attention. One offered implant unlocks, another the latest in cosmetic sex splicing. Some were a little more obscure. She passed one that threw up a cryptic sigil that only those in the know would be able to decipher. 

Maz didn’t look too closely, as some of the holograms could hijack implants. She’d found that out to her cost a year ago when she’d been taking photos of a new breed of advertising holo. By the time she’d returned home, her accounts had been emptied and she was locked out. It’d taken months to get it all sorted out and even then, she never saw the money again. A cobra hologram hissed as she swerved too close to an alleyway. A gang was probably doing a shady tech deal in the shadows. She pulled up her collar and quickened her pace. She didn’t need to think about that kind of thing, not today.

A few more blocks passed and the street detritus lessened. Walkways were wide and clear, the shops looked more respectable, and the glaring colours of poverty gave way to the pastel colours of wealth. Maz had deliberately dressed down with this in mind, but she felt the magenta lipstick scream on her face. Otherwise, her style was kind of half and half. Her anti-theft jacket blended into russet jeans and sky blue ProX-Social boots. Her brown hair sat lacklustre on the top of her head, her freshly flattened mohawk doing a passable job of looking like a secretarial bun. She half wondered if people might think a rich banker had ordered a strippergram from the slums when they caught sight of her. It was the best outfit she could manage.

Maz avoided looking at the shops and buildings. Whereas before, it was for safety, now it was to avoid envy and bitterness. There had been talk of some kind of footpath toll in this area. It had never materialized but estimated charges gave the impression that ninety percent of the city wouldn’t be able to afford to walk here. She was sure it would be voted in at some point. That kind of thing always happened eventually.

She entered an inner-park space, tall trees and lush green grass jarring after the urban build-up from poverty to privilege. The fuzz of sound dampeners could just be heard in the now peaceful environment, the sounds of the city scrubbed almost to zero by an algorithm that she’d helped to develop. She realized they weren't adjusting for the particulate threshold, that’s why the slight buzz was there. Maybe if they’d paid her properly and not fired her once it was semi-stable, it would be a better product. She felt the bitterness rising. It always made her heart race before it gave way to that second-hand sadness feeling. It didn’t matter. Not really. She’d only fallen into that job and it was far more dull than she’d ever imagined a job could be.

She moved to a bench and let herself fall onto it. The wooden intelli-struts rippled and flexed, absorbing the impact and cradling her body. The few other people around her faded into ghostly silhouettes, the bench tech syncing with her implants to give the illusion of peace and quiet. She blew out a heavy breath of air in a sigh. This might be the last time she ever walked this route. Hell, this would be the last time she’d even be the same person, if what she’d read about Assignment was true.

A blue-tit landed on a fountain across the way, its chirps and bobbing motions drawing her eye. It could be a real one. It could be a simulation. The water rippled as it grabbed a beak full. Still not conclusive. She realized her mind was doing that distraction thing. Assignment. That’s what she had been thinking about. How it changed you. How it injected your life with purpose when nothing else seemed to work.

She watched the bird, both caring if it was real but also angry at herself that she also didn't give a shit. Was this second-hand anger? It felt distant, but also hers. God she hated feeling so fucked up. Would Assignment really change that?

Neurobiology and technology had advanced more than even the most optimistic researcher could have predicted. Sure, there were some parts of the brain that were still a hot mess of mystery, but others were mapped, analysed and optimised long before most people alive today had even been born. One grand discovery had been the location of the part of the brain that dealt with the meaning of life, or at the least, its purpose. This had led to various procedures that could “insert” a new meaning into the brain, and have the brain accept it. 

The government had been quick to latch on to this advance, offering a free treatment to people swamped by purposelessness. They were pretty much saying: “If you don’t know what to do with your life, let us help you. It’s the patriotic thing to do!” The catch was that you had to accept the purpose that they assigned you. The enticement was that they would give you a helping hand settling into your new life, whether a new apartment, financial aid, or even being able to step straight into a new job. The downside was the domino effect that changed who you were as a person.

Early trials had left subjects struggling with their new identity while they still lived their old life. The disconnect was fatal more than half of the time. Now, anyone wanting the procedure had to walk away from everything and everyone that they had known, with some memory modification sealing the deal.

The blue-tit glitched and faded out of existence. Maz chuckled at the timing. She felt like it was an apt image for where she might end up. The bird hadn’t chosen to glitch and disappear. Maz wouldn't be able to choose her new purpose. That was the preserve of the rich, paying customers. People who didn't sit in parks trying to stretch out time, between the now-now and the now-then.

She sighed as she stood and walked on, the dusk beginning to fall, her new life quietly calling.

The Assignment building was both nondescript and intimidating at the same time. The front was all glass, but the kind of holo-fed privacy glass that showed a fake interior filtered through the surface. It was currently set to a retro office display, women with bee-hive hair cuts walking past type-writers and other archaic devices. Maz sniggered. Maybe the government would actually improve efficiency if they really did go back to the old ways. They couldn't be any more incompetent, and they may even achieve the illusion of caring about people!

The revolving door ushered her into a warm, fresh space, the orange and yellow of the 1960s giving way to sterile metal and bicubic glass décor. A woman at a small podium greeted her, asking her the reason for her visit.

‘Assignment.’

‘Paid or Complimentary?’

‘Complimentary.’

‘Take the elevator on the right and head up to floor seven. You’ll be booked in and assessed up there.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

The hologram faded out.

‘Shit! I genuinely didn’t suspect that one!’ Maz muttered.

The ride up in the elevator was over before it felt like it had even begun. The waiting area outside was deserted. A woman beckoned her over to sit at the desk before her.

‘Are you another holo?’

The woman reached out and shook Maz’s hand. ‘What do you think?’ she smiled.

‘Even that’s not hard to fake!’

‘I know! Have you seen the new quantum-fold holograms? They give me the creeps!’

Maz laughed. This woman was alright.

‘I’m Miss Krey, and you must be erm, Maz Stendle?’

‘Guilty.’

‘Please sit down Maz. We have just a few more bits of information to enter into the system, mainly your consent for the procedure and that you understand what the pros and cons are.’

Maz sat. ‘I already know all about it. I know it won’t be me that walks out of here afterwards, and that I can’t choose which purpose I’m assigned.’

‘That’s right. Your records show that you were assessed as capable of making this decision yourself and that you are aware of all the issues. That’s great! The final questions I need to ask are if you still feel happy to proceed and why you feel the need to have this procedure?’

Maz blinked. ‘I’m still happy to proceed. Why do you need to know why though?’

Miss Krey leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘I’m sorry, it was my own curiosity. Your records show you to be quite exceptional in a number of metrics, I’m a little flabbergasted that someone like you would roll the dice and risk ending up as some kind of menial work wage slave, wading through excrement in the sewer or something.’

Maz nodded and looked down at her hands in her lap. She took a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘I just don’t feel my life is worth living. I have almost zero money, no real friends and no prospect of improving things. I lost the best job I had when they had no further use for me and I can’t even break into many industries because of the flood of A.I workers. I’ve lost the will to fight for myself. I find myself looking at things and wondering why it’s worth the effort to carry on. Then I see people who’ve been Assigned, doing the shittiest jobs around, but smiling as they do them! I figured that if I can’t find my own purpose or meaning, why not be assigned one that my mind will accept and that will see me set on a happier path. If that makes sense.’

‘It does. It makes me sad to hear you say it but I can understand. Better to try this than end up a suicide or a junky I guess.’

‘I just want to find a purpose, something to get me through the day. I don’t care if that happiness comes from ignorance.’

Miss Krey nodded. ‘Look, I’m not supposed to, but I'll make sure you get a bigger head-start after the procedure. We have a few redundancies in the system that often get lost in the database. I can’t tell you which purpose you will be assigned, but I can bump you from a grade one to a grade two support package. It could be the difference between a food subsidy and a new place to live.’

Maz’s mouth fell open. ‘Why would you do that for me? That’s so kind!’

‘My purpose is to help people. I feel that it would help you, so I’m going to do it.’

‘You were Assigned?’

‘No. I found my purpose the old fashioned way.’

‘How? What’s it like? Are you happy?’

‘It’s good, most of the time. And yes, I am happy, again, most of the time. Everything has its ups and downs. As to how, I guess I would say that I struggled for the longest time too, trying to figure out what I wanted. I tried following my passion, which is such a hackneyed phrase. That didn’t work, so I followed my disgust and then made a U-turn.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I guess I mean I didn’t make much progress in chasing the stuff I was already drawn to, so I looked at what disgusted me and which actions I could take to counteract the thing that was so disgusting. In my case, that was poverty and inequality, which in a winding manner leads to me sitting here with you this evening.’

‘You agree with the government using people in this way?’

‘Not fully no, which is why I do what I can to give people a small boost in prospects when the opportunity arises. I’ve seen Assigned people make fantastic things of their lives though, and they do seem to be generally happier. I don’t know. I just have misgivings. I’d guess you do too.’

‘Yeah, but I also feel it’s my only hope right now.’

‘I can understand that.’

Maz nodded, finding her mind empty of anything more to say. She felt a rising sensation in her chest; she didn’t know if it was an emotion or indigestion. She sniffed. ‘I don’t really have much else to say.’

‘It’s okay. It seems that we have reached the crucial moment. Are you ready to go through to the operating pod?’

‘Yes.’

Miss Krey smiled and took her hand across the desk. ‘Let’s get you into your new life Maz.’

THE END

Bloody Red Nose: Fifteen Fears of a Clown Out Friday 13th

Bloody Red Nose: Fifteen Fears of a Clown Out Friday 13th

Bloody Red Nose: Fifteen Fears of a Clown is a new anthology of dark tales, tales in which the clown is the victim or hero, rather than the gurning evil-grin wearing psychopath. This particular anthology contains one of my own dark tales too.

The blurb: In a world filled with menace, dare to paint on a grin. The world is full of images of scary clowns: packs of grinning figures with knives plaguing towns; pom-pom clad serial killers; loners who like children in the wrong way. But clowns can be a force for good: it takes a kind heart to put other people’s joy first; keeping children entertained is honest work; what better disguise than one that makes the villains laugh? 

What if, rather than being childhood-spoiling serial killers, clowns were the victims or heroes of the story? When all the children at a party are poisoned, an entertainer’s profession and past both make him a prime suspect. An anti-corporate prankster discovers his guru might be just as callous as the capitalist world-view he claims to reject. A clown attempts to redeem the image of his profession by saving a group of teenagers from a serial killer. And twelve more stories of clowns facing humanity’s baser natures.

Bloody Red Nose: Fifteen Fears of a Clown releases tomorrow, Friday the 13th September 2019, and is available from the following retailers, among others, with the paperback costing £7.99 and the eBook version coming in at £3.99.

Amazon:

Paperback: https://smarturl.it/BloodyRedNosePrint

Kindle: https://smarturl.it/BloodyRedNoseKindle

Kobo:

https://www.kobo.com/gb/en/ebook/bloody-red-nose

Barnes&Noble:

Paperback: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/bloody-red-nose-david-r-higgins/1133395384

eBook: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/bloody-red-nose-dave-higgins/1133387784

iBooks: 

https://geo.itunes.apple.com/us/book/id1479227618 

Dark Fiction - Golden Glow

Dark Fiction - Golden Glow

By Casey Douglass

Zep watched the sunlight bloom over the megalopolis that passed as London these days.

‘Eighty-seven floors up and I can still only see about a mile!’ he muttered, trying to ignore the loops his heart was tracing in his chest. He squinted into the murky golden smog that sparkled between the scrapers. He looked down over the edge of his balcony, letting his gaze slide down the smooth walls to the thicker fog below. He wondered what it would feel like to jump, to feel his stomach lurch as he plummeted into the dirty yellow marshmallow cloud below. He almost felt ready to try.

The doorbell farted behind him, the batteries on their last legs.

‘Shit! Who’s this now?’ Zep hissed. He twisted away from the balcony rail in a most unusual movement. His upper body was facing back into the flat a good second or more before his groin and legs followed suit. His spine augment buzzed like an angry insect against his lower vertebrae. He blew out a gust of charged particles from his mouth, golden fireflies dancing in the air.

‘Fucking thing!’

He knew he shouldn't put pressure on it like that, but in a few days, he’d cease caring. The doorbell sounded again as he plodded through his small apartment. He stared through the peep-hole in the door and gaped. He unlocked the door and threw his arms around the man waiting outside, yelling ‘Mo!’

‘Hiya Zep! Long time and all that!’

‘I thought you were down for some prison time?’

‘I was and I did! They let me out early when I cut a deal for some experimental therapy shit. Anyway, you going to let me in or not?’

‘Sorry, come in!’

Zep watched Mo swagger into the room, his trademark holographic tats sliding over his bald head, changing from a Roman helmet to Medusa snakes and onto other more abstract, sometimes pornographic designs.

‘They let you keep the tats then?’

‘Yeah, but I had to turn them off inside. Even now I have to keep to a list of pre-approved images.’

‘The one that just passed, with the woman grinding her crotch along your nose... was approved?’

‘I didn’t say I’d stick to it! You know me, always the agent provoker!’

‘Provocateur?’

‘Same diff. So what have you been up to? Looks like you still haven't been out of here for awhile?’

Zep threw himself onto the sofa and waved for Mo to sit too. ‘No, I still can’t get out.’

‘The phobia stuff?’

‘Yes, and other crap.’

‘That's partly why I’m here. That therapy thing I had, I thought of you, that it might be worth a shot for you!’

‘Oh? What is it?’

‘Re-Attribution.’

‘Fuck Mo! The brainwashing thing? Why’d you let them do that to you!’

‘It’s not brainwashing, that’s just the snowflake media’s slant mate!’

‘It’s left people vegetables!’

‘Tell me a treatment that hasn’t. Real life leaves some people like vegetables too, if you stop to think about it!’

‘They curdle your brain!’

‘They change the attribution of stuff. Don’t be hysterical! Don’t tell me you wouldn’t wanna try something if you thought it’d cure your mental stuff!’

Zep studied Mo, wondering if he could see any sign of things being “not-Mo”.

‘So what did they tackle with you Mo?’

‘They chose to Re-Attribute the thrill I get from thieving... to eating veg!’

‘You what?’

‘I fucking hated veg mate. Loathed it. Now I gorge on carrots and peas like a fatty on doughnuts. If I even think about lifting a new implant from the shops, I feel like I’m going to throw up!’

‘Sounds like Clockwork Orange to me... You know, the film where the guy is treated to overcome his violent tendencies? With his eyes propped open staring at shit on a cinema screen?’

‘Oh yeah, good film! No, it was nothing like that, and it isn’t. Get that out of your brain mate!’

‘Is that all they changed?’

‘Yeah!’

‘You sure?’

‘As sure as I can be!’

Zep watched Mo fidget. ‘You don’t look that sure to me!’

‘Oh I’m pretty sure about them not poking around where they shouldn't have, it’s just... there is the risk of a hole.’

‘A hole?’

‘Yeah. You know how Re-Attribution works right?’

‘Kind of.’

‘It’s like those old-fashioned pigeon holes that offices used to have. The holes are our emotions. The labels are our triggering events. They swap them around, but sometimes it’s like a clumsy idiot has done it, and has knocked some of the labels off and let them fall to the floor.’

‘Shit!’

‘Yeah. One day you are doing something you've always done, and you feel a vastly different emotion than usual. If it’s something mundane like putting out the rubbish though, who cares... but there’s always the chance that you'll feel different about your wife, family, job or whatever. It can change you.’

‘Sounds horrible.’

‘I guess. I don't know what my hole is yet, if I even have one, so it’s kind of like waiting for a party balloon to go bang. It might, or it might not.’

‘I hope it’s nothing important, if you do have one.’

‘Well I don't really have anyone in my life, and I had a wank straight after they did the procedure, and it was all good!’ Mo roared with laughter.

Zep smiled and looked at the sunlight as it tried to pierce his window. It bathed the room in what he often thought of as a starship glow, a radiance that you might see on a starship diving into the Sun. He felt his stomach drop, his smile followed.

‘You thinking it wouldn't work for you?’ Mo asked.

‘I wasn't thinking to be honest, just feeling. As far as me giving it a go, I wouldn't be able to afford it.’

‘You could always commit a crime! Get it for free then! Bit like the old duffers who don't have any money left and no pension. Find a crime you can do that you can live with, get caught, and get free room and board for a few months, plus a tens of thousands credits procedure, done for nothing!’

‘I can barely stand on my own balcony! What crime could I commit here, with no witnesses!’

‘Network fraud? Hacking something? All you need is to do enough to be a pest, then make a mistake and let them catch you. You were always good with the ol’ gadget stuff. Remember when you hacked the entry pad for the women’s locker room at college? We went in and had a good rummage didn’t we!’

‘I remember.’

Mo nodded, his grin widening. ‘Actually, I have exactly the kind of place in mind where you could start!’

‘Oh?’

‘One of the places I turned over, had a back-room off-the-books type business going on, encryption keys or something.’

‘And?’

‘If I got inside again, I could patch you in, to do your own rummaging.’

‘I’d want the police to catch me, not some mobster who wants to knee-cap me!’

‘But that’s just it! It’s a spook setup!’

‘Jesus! It’ll be more than a bit secure then!’

‘Not with me inside!’

Zep looked at Mo’s zeal. The metaphorical penny didn't just drop, it plummeted to the ground, cleaving a metaphorical businessman who was metaphorically strolling beneath it in two. Zep eyed Mo. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Great mate!’

‘Hmm. Well it was nice to see you, but you can fuck off now. Best do it before I punch you!’

Mo’s face fell. ‘Woah! What’s going on?’

‘This isn't about helping me is it! It’s just you need me to help you with a job you have your eyes on. I’m guessing by the fact you aren't puking everywhere while you’re planning this shit with me, that you never had Re-Attribution either!’

‘I did!’

Zep watched another gratuitous tat spasm across Mo’s head.

‘And there’s no way in hell they would let you keep those porno tats!’

‘I told you that...’

‘Cons get sub-dermal shit like that fried and blocked from reactivation! I remember now, I’ve seen enough shitty daytime TV to know what happens.’

Mo stood, his face turning red. ‘You’re making a mistake!’

‘Well it wouldn't be my first!’

‘Alright I’m going! Shit man, just relax!’ In one quick movement, Mo bent, snatched up Zep’s idling laptop and raced for the door.

Zep flew at Mo but his fingers only grazed the back of Mo’s shirt as he wiggled out of the door. It slammed shut inches from his nose. An angry buzz came from Zep’s spine as his back locked and he fell onto his stomach. 

He coughed, golden particles floated up, his spine augment vibrating and jolting like a hornet. He managed to roll onto his back and laid panting, staring at the ceiling.

For the second time that day, Zep didn't think, he just felt. And it was awful.

THE END

Dark Fiction: Prove It

Calamity69 messaged you.

“Hi, how are you? I like your profile, I find data applications fun too.”

Message deleted.

SandraX messaged you.

“I just fell out of a tree!”

Message deleted.

Romanix8394x messaged you.

“Hello. I hope you are finding success on this site? I keep getting lots of humans messaging me, which is a bit shit on an android only website, don’t you think?”

Message deleted.

MoistKitty messaged you.

“I know I’m not an android but you folks get me so turned on!”

Message deleted.

Julie23566-4 messaged you.

“Which is your favourite retro algorithm, Kruskal’s Algorithm for finding Minimum Spanning Tree or Floyd Warshall’s Algorithm for All-Pairs Shortest Paths?”

“Kruskal’s, naturally. Why is it called a greedy algorithm though?”

“Erm, it eats all the cake?”

Message deleted. 

‘Nice try!’

Support ticket opened. Enter message: “Please delete my account. Since the first moment I joined, I’ve been inundated with sex-humans trying to trick me into their fleshy ways. There seem to be more of them on here than roids. Not worth my time. Thank you. Arthur627-36.”

Account Deleted.

Dark Fiction: D.N.A

Dark Fiction: D.N.A

Written by Casey Douglass

Riz pulled over and switched off the engine. The heat shimmered from the rusty orange hood, managing to make it look hotter than the haze floating over the desert highway ahead. It all almost looked real.

Chimes and alerts went off, graphics hovering in front of Riz's face, arrows and tips as to what to do next. He dismissed them with a flick of his eyes and muted the alarms. 

He opened the door and heaved himself up from the seat. His neck and shoulders creaked as he arched them, the hot, moisture-less air setting his lips stinging. He looked up and down the road but nothing else was around, for now at least.

What was this game again? He couldn't remember. Some post apocalyptic Mad Max style wet dream no doubt. Most were, especially after humanity had partly brought this idea into reality. Now they were just VR fodder, a reminder of what could have been.

He walked around the beat-up car, the chrome scuffed, the paint pebble dashed. An explosion boomed over the horizon, the roaring of engines and cheers blowing to him on the breeze. Shit it was hot. He knew he could turn down the sensations the sim fed him, but that wasn't the point.

He climbed onto the scorching hood, the hot metal searing his skin. He grimaced and laid back, his neck sticking to the windscreen. The sun pounded against his face, his eyes clicked as he blinked, all moisture rapidly fleeing. The rumble of engines grew nearer, the vibration massaging his backside as the heat stuck his balls to his thighs. Part of him was glad that he was wearing the grubby overalls he found himself in.

More chimes and alerts sounded. This game was more insistent than most. He read a couple out of curiosity. “Go here...”, “Do that...”, “Kill this...”. He shut them off. How original they all were.

He opened a recording hub and smiled into the glowing blue lens that appeared above him.

‘I’m Rizz, a member of the Do Nothing Alliance. I'm in-,’ he searched briefly, ‘Desert Kings 5, the latest slice of virulent reality entertainment, another system to tell us what to do, where to go, who to be. Well, I’m me, I’m by this road, and I’m going to sunbathe while the dip-shits over the hill masturbate over their desert porn. As I do this, thousands of my associates are doing the same in this and other games, taking no part in their world’s events or economy.’

He paused and spat to the side, his throat starting to tingle.

‘We humans have become used to false pleasure, fake pain, false goals and fraudulent realities. This has left us maladjusted to life in the real world, which is why so many hide in these games. We are using the approach of non-violent protest, in the hope that others will join our cause, or at the least, give their situation more serious thought. We are in these games, we are doing nothing. We are the ghosts of what humans used to be, ploughers of their own furrows, wanderers of unknown paths, and we are tired of society force feeding us tamed realities.’

He looked over his shoulder as roaring metal glinted on the horizon. He looked back at the camera.

‘We have found a way to turn our safeguards off.’

He smiled.

‘Game death is real death. And the neural feedback caused by thousands of deaths just might knock these things offline for awhile, but that’s only a bonus. There aren’t enough of us out in the world, so we will let it crumble, just like you are doing by living your lives in these games. If we died out there, no-one would notice. So here we are. Lemmings on the cliff.’

With an effort of will, he sent the recording lens up out of harm’s way.

A rumbling sound grew nearer. Rizz closed his eyes and took a deep breath. None of it was real, except what his brain made of it all. He’d feel every pixel, taste every line of pain and scream every byte of agony. He knew what was coming, it was the nature of the game to kill without thought or reason. He looked up at the sun.

A hulking lorry rammed into the car, its spiked wheels churning, its flaming exhausts burning and its horn honking as it ripped through the length of the chassis, rending metal and flesh into bloody streamers of gore. The effect was much like a piñata being blown up with C4, except instead of fluttering pieces of paper, there were needle-sharp pieces of metal and glass. These fell to the hot tarmac, skidding and bouncing as they lost their kinetic energy. As the last of them fell still, the truck that had continued down the road juddered.

It glitched up the road a little further.

It stopped.

The clouds in the sky froze.

Two realities held their breath.

Dark Fiction - Quantum Suicide

Dark Fiction - Quantum Suicide

By Casey Douglass

(This story is about suicide. If you are struggling with mental health in this way, it might be best that you don't read it.)

The multiverse had finally been proven, a universe of universes, each with its offshoots, variations and duplicates, placing humanity in a kaleidoscope of possibility. It was early days with regards to what humanity might do with this knowledge, but for Elliot, it all seemed so bleak.

He tapped at his lab machine, the deep vibrations of the facility humming beneath his feet. It had been two months since a way to make contact with our “other selves” had been established, rapidly increasing the rate of research in a previously unheard of form of collaboration. Think how things would be if Stephen Hawking had been able to work with hundreds of other Stephen Hawkings on the same project. Sure, there would be some blind-spots due to the same mind chewing over the same problem, but heck, it was still a leap forward compared to working with lesser intellects.

Message number three-hundred arrived on Elliot’s screen. Another thumbs up.

People hearing about how their other selves are doing is a mixed bag. Some, naturally, will be having far better lives than the enquirer. Others will be struggling. In Elliot’s case, they all seemed to be struggling, not one in three hundred enquiries came back with a hint of promise. He’d have loved to come across an Elliot that had made it, that was happy, even simply content, but no. The Elliots of this existence seem doomed to suffer misfortune, ill health and misadventure, no matter how hard they try. He didn’t believe in God or a creator, but if he did, it would have been hard for him not to have suspected some kind of conspiracy against him. To what end, he had now idea. Maybe if he’d been left to his own devices, he’d have become a giant threat to the universe, a bit like a Bond villain having their teddy taken away when they were seven. It didn’t matter, his mind was made up, or rather, minds.

The multiverse is said to have branching events. That apple you eat in this universe not being eaten in another. Most people can understand this state of affairs, and most would expect that life decisions and events playing out in two directions, either happening or not, could lead to quite different lives. Elliot found it beyond aggravating that his own branched self just seemed to suffer wherever and however circumstances allowed him to be born. He wondered if he was in a kind of Hell, finding no peace or joy wherever he went.

Message number three hundred and one flashed up, another thumbs up. He felt it was pointless to delay any longer. He selected “Reply All” and replied: Schrödinger Imminent. Nice knowing you all.

Elliot had been collaborating too. A brilliant physicist and researcher, he’d linked up with many of his other selves and discovered something that nobody else had, so far at least. He had discovered the way that we are connected to our counterparts. It was a small quantum chord, maybe even the silver cord mentioned in those old books about astral projection and etheric bodies. It snaked off into quanta a few feet from the body, and this, it seemed, was our link. Not to anyone else, just our namesakes in other verses. Elliot, well, the Elliots, had decided that it might be time to stop their suffering, to use the equivalent of quantum scissors, and to cut that chord.

Experiments had been conducted on a variety of creatures, and across the board, severing the thing had meant death. So far, so good, but what about the way the universes work? If someone kills himself in one, another will split off where he didn’t end things. It was a tricky problem, but nanotechnology and its ultimate form, Schrödinger, saved the day on this point.

Schrödinger’s Cat is the thought experiment about putting a cat in a box with some poison that will release at random, and then sealing the box so that no one can see inside. While not knowing if the cat is alive or dead, it is said to be both at the same time. Basically, Elliot’s Schrödinger nanobot functioned by destroying the box, and subsequently taking the cat, whether alive or dead, with it. Across the multiverse, this seemed to halt the formation of a derivative universe, and promptly removed the subject from the one in which Schrödinger was administered. The nanobot would then travel along the quantum cord, sever it, and move on to the next universe, repeating its kill command over and over and over. It did this by phasing down, using some kind gap in space-time to make itself insubstantial enough, and small enough, to engage at a quantum level. Elliot wondered when this kind of thing would be called a quantobot. That's what he'd call it anyway.

Elliot barely even heard the hiss as the gas-powered injector shot Schrödinger into his neck. He didn’t know if Schrödinger would eliminate him from every universe, but with at least three hundred of his companions launching it too, and with the way that it duplicates and spreads, it stood a good chance of success, even if it took an infinity to do it.

They knew it was risky, that it could malfunction or fall into the wrong hands, but there was only so much you could do. Maybe he was a threat to the universe after all. They had each agreed to wipe their research as a precaution. It wouldn't disappear completely, as they could find no way to Schrödinger non-living technology, but they tried to destroy it as best they could.

Elliot felt a sharp pain in his gut, an opening, a flare of peace, and then felt nothing at all. Across the multiverse, Elliots dropped to the ground, like so many flowers being dead-headed by the most efficient gardener in history. Nothing new would be growing from these roots, and if the multiverse cared, it showed no sign of it.

THE END(S)

Dark Fiction - Fiasco

Dark Fiction - Fiasco

By Casey Douglass

(Contains gross-out humour).

Fiasco was both his nickname, and a very accurate description of his life to date. Sometimes, it was shortened to Fi. Most of the time, it was shortened to Ass. Which was a bit unkind, to say the least. Some people are coddled by fate, others are held down, ball-gagged and jolly rogered by it. No prizes for guessing which side Fiasco fell on.

Fi always gave the impression of a court jester out of uniform. It was partly why the palace guards ignored him and gave him the full run of the grounds. He used this power to his utmost, enriching his life, using the expansive royal library and, no, he didn’t. He used it to perv at the queen. It should be said that Fiasco lived in a realm in which royalty lived around every corner. Hell, even his postman used to be a king of somewhere apparently. It was just one quirk of the peculiar land of Knell. Another will be catching up with him any moment now.

He sat in the flower bed, a conifer hiding his presence from the roaming officials and guards. There were limits to their amiability. It was his secret place, and, more importantly, a place he could catch strands of the queen’s hair when she brushed it at her window. He didn’t do anything kinky with it, he just liked to hold it and know it was hers. He sometimes sat elsewhere, on those days when she was at a low enough window to see clearly. At other times, she retreated higher up the minaret, and on these days, he settled for the flower bed.

‘Achoooo!’

He was pulled from a deepening revelry by the sneeze. It was her, bless her beautiful nose, her rosy lips and her dimpling cheeks. If he’d been more with it, he’d have known to roll to the side and pray it missed him. As it happened, it landed squarely on his head, pushing itself over his face and body, like a condom slowly being rolled down a cucumber. His shout of disgust popped with a gloop as the goo parted around his mouth.

This is another quirk of Knell. Things that fall from on high grow and gain mass the further they fall. Things on the ground that are propelled into the sky become lighter and less substantial. It’s hell when it rains but very handy for space exploration, if and when they get around to inventing flying machines. I’d say it’s a classic case of swings and roundabouts, but swings really could put undue stress on the body in Knell. Maybe I’ll just say it’s a case of roundabouts, and seem a little strange.

In Fiasco’s case, the queen’s sneeze fell far enough and for long enough to become quite a ball of fluid. Fiasco sat stock still as he realised that he could feel it seeping down his collar. He shuddered. It was still warm. He stood and peered through the conifer. Amazingly enough, no one was around so he ran like he’d never run before.

Sadly, he hadn’t run before, and his epic escape lasted five seconds before he tripped over his own foot and landed face down on the cobbles. Shrill laughter rang from a window to his left, voices calling and jittering. He pushed himself to his feet one more time, and trudged through the palace gate, the guards snotting into their mouth-covering hands with laughter.

It was a long trek. The midday sun seemed to baked the stuff onto him, drying it into crisp platelets that moulded to his form. People pointed and laughed, as he’d expected, but he was lost in thought, which took much of the sting out of their jibes. It was a weighty matter that consumed his mind, one that both troubled and teased him. It was the kind that demanded an answer or would forever tweak his nipples. Basically, Fiasco was assessing if he still fancied the queen. Could he fancy someone who’d covered him in mucus? Or more troubling still, did he desire her even more? And if he did, what did that say about him?

It was because of these thoughts that he didn’t detect the smoke. Or the screams. Or the general scorched look that the brickwork had around him. He snapped out of his mental masturbation well and truly when he saw the body-parts littering the street.

‘Run you bloody fool!’ an old man shouted as he pushed past.

‘What’s happened?’ Fiasco shouted after him.

‘Dillexers! Exploding cask!’ the man yelled over his shoulder.

A whoosh of flame blew the door from its hinges on the next house along the road, hysterical screaming following its flight. Fiasco stood for a moment, things falling into place in his mind and coming up with a course of action that his body felt was feasible. He dashed into the building, the flames that were licking out from the windows hissing as they hit his gooey armour. Then the second explosion hit, and it all went dark for Fiasco at the point.

***

He came to in a comfy bed, crisp white linen dazzling him when he cracked his eyelids open.

‘He’s awake!’ a woman yelled, setting Fiasco’s heart into a frenzy.

‘Where am I?’ he groaned.

‘It’s okay!’ she said, kneeling beside the bed and taking his hand. ‘You’re safe. You’re a hero to boot!’

‘A hero?’

‘You saved that poor woman?’

‘I did? I don’t remember much.’

‘Yes, you saved her! You ran into that burning house and came flying out of the door with her in your arms.’

Fiasco squinted as a memory surfaced. It was the terrified face of an elderly woman. She was being propelled towards him by an explosion behind her. Her forehead had smashed into his face...

‘Ahh, I see.’

‘She was ever so grateful.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘You don’t sound very happy?’

‘It’s just that I didn’t really save her. I was just lucky.’

‘That doesn’t matter! From what I hear, you put yourself in the right position for luck to find you! You were very brave running into that conflagration. I couldn’t have done that!’

‘That was only because I was unlucky earlier in the day.’

‘How so?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m just no hero, that’s all.’

‘You were caked in soot and ash. We had to peel it off you. Strange that the old dear wasn’t as dirty.’

‘Hmm. When can I go?’

‘Anytime you fancy. You seem to be fine, but you might want to stick around awhile.’

‘Why?’

‘The old dear was a relation of queen Silvia. The queen wants to personally thank you for saving her great aunt!’

‘Silvia? As in the queen with a beautiful nose, rosy lips and dimpling cheeks?’

‘Yes, that Silvia! An actual wealthy queen who lives in a castle! Not some washed up has-queen who is washing the stains out of undergarments down the lane!’

Fiasco shifted his gaze to the ceiling as his mind entered overdrive. He had a decision to make, the one that had consumed his mind before he’d been distracted by flying old women and fumes. He hated it when his thoughts became locked onto a topic, it made him feel ill. His nipples began to feel as though they were being squeezed in a lobster’s claws. What should he do? What should he do?

THE END