Mandy White's Blog: Dysfictional, page 17

Your Heart Will be Mine

It wouldn’t be Valentine’s Day without a romantic story of some kind. When I write romance, it inevitably turns dark and somebody dies. On that note, here we go… ~*~

You twist through my heart

Like a bolt through a nut

I am a nut

Think twice before you bolt

Megan wept, curled on her side in the tightest ball she could manage.

She had been curled up in the fetal position on her bed for hours – days, actually, doing nothing but cry. Barely moving except to use the bathroom and drink a bit of water. She couldn’t eat, she couldn’t sleep and the ache in her chest wouldn’t go away no matter how many painkillers she took.

So this is what a broken heart feels like.

She now understood why they called it heartbreak. What she felt was beyond sadness; it manifested as a tangible physical pain in her chest that radiated down into her belly. It was the most horrible sensation ever, and it was all HIS fault. How could he have been so cruel to her when all she had done was love him? She didn’t know where she had gone wrong. She had given him everything; waited on him hand and foot and catered to his every wish but in the end it wasn’t enough. He took her heart and tore it to shreds and then walked out the door as if the last two years had meant nothing.

She wanted to die.

If I died, you’d be sorry! You’d have to live with it for the rest of your life, knowing that YOU were the one who drove me to suicide!

Died of a broken heart.

That would show him how much she loved him.

Nobody else will ever love you the way I do! You’ll see! One day you will come crawling back to me with your heart in shreds, then you’ll know how you made me feel. And then I can kiss you better. We can heal together.

No, she would not end her life. Life was worth living as long as there was a chance of winning him back.

She would get him back.

Or die trying.

Richard tried to leave her several times during the last year but each time she convinced him to stay. She begged and pleaded and promised to be everything he wanted in a woman but he became cold and aloof nonetheless. He didn’t want intimacy anymore. He participated in sex when she was persistent enough to make his physical urges overcome his mental reluctance but his lack of desire was obvious.

She was willing to accept his lack of enthusiasm in their relationship as long as he didn’t leave. They could work things out. She would make it better. She just had to make him see how much she loved him and he would know they were destined to be together.

The pregnancy changed everything.

The one thing that should have cemented them together forever was the catalyst that ended their relationship. He was willing to stay for the sake of the baby. He even agreed to marry her after much pleading and cajoling on her part.

It would be the perfect wedding. She had already chosen her dress – a high-waisted design that would look stunning even with the bulge in her belly. She booked the church and hired the caterer and sent out invitations. It would be the beautiful fairytale wedding of her dreams. Afterward, he would take her in his arms and carry her over the threshold and make love to her, tenderly and passionately the way a husband should. Their life together would be picture-perfect.

There was just one small detail:

She wasn’t pregnant.

Megan thought she was pregnant, without a doubt. Even though the pregnancy tests (three of them, to be exact) were negative, she assumed it was too early for them to be accurate. She experienced all the symptoms – the missed period, tender breasts, bloated belly, and irritability. She even felt sick in the mornings. When her period arrived late, it was easy to hide it from him since he showed no interest in her physically. Since their engagement Richard had become even more distant, never meeting her eyes and only speaking to her when necessary.

It didn’t matter that the pregnancy was a false alarm. She would be pregnant by the time they got married; she would make sure of it.

She managed to convince him to have sex once during the following month but it did not result in pregnancy. Panicked, she redoubled her efforts to seduce him, but the harder she tried, the less receptive he became. When they did try, he couldn’t sustain an erection long enough to finish.

Four months passed. Then five, and still she wasn’t pregnant. She faked the symptoms, pretending to get sick in the mornings and eating like a horse so she would gain some girth and appear pregnant. The wedding was just six weeks away and she only needed to keep up her charade until after the minister declared them husband and wife. After that, she could fake a miscarriage and he would be there to comfort her and they could try again to start a family.

She began to wear padding under her clothing to keep up the appearance of an advancing pregnancy

* * *

She didn’t hear him come into the house that day.

The past few months, he had been moving around the house like a ghost, silent, never speaking unless spoken to. On that particular day, he came home from work early. Megan wasn’t expecting him. She stood in front of the bedroom mirror; trying on the next size pillow she was going to bind to her belly to make it look thicker.

She had no idea how long he had been standing there, watching her in silence.

He said nothing, but his eyes spoke the rage in his heart.

He refused to speak to her, no matter how she cried and pleaded. He started packing immediately and left that night, taking only the bare necessities. She clung to his leg, begging him to stay but he peeled her off of him in disgust. He walked out of her life without giving a second thought to their future together, leaving her blubbering on the floor.

Megan was not only heartbroken; she was humiliated. He told his family and all of their friends about her deceit and his reason for leaving. Nobody would speak to her.

She was alone.

* * *

A year later, Megan still sobbed herself to sleep but not as often. The pain in her chest had diminished to a dull ache but it never went away altogether. They said time heals all wounds but she knew that in her case it wouldn’t. She still loved Richard heart and soul and would never stop. They were meant to be together. He was hers and no amount of time or distance would ever change that.

She wasted her Saturday afternoons wandering through the mall, gazing at the gowns in the bridal shop, the sexy lingerie in Victoria’s Secret and the endless displays of adorable children’s clothing. From infant to toddler to preschooler… there were too many cute outfits to choose from. She should have been buying clothing for her own child – for their child. Instead, she could only look and dream.

She wandered toward the food court to feed her craving for sweets. She had been living on junk food and had gained a considerable amount of weight. It didn’t matter because she had nobody to stay thin for. At that moment, Cinnabon called to her.

A baby stroller blocked her path as she navigated through the tables to get to the food counters. She edged around it, pausing for a moment to admire the baby, a little girl about three months old, dressed in an adorable pink outfit. The parents, engrossed in conversation, giggled and shared an intimate kiss.

Megan froze.

No.

It couldn’t be!

It was him. Richard.

Her Richard.

Judging from the age of the infant in the stroller, he hadn’t wasted any time after leaving her. He might have already been seeing that woman behind her back! That would explain his lack of interest in Megan. The slut had already tired him out before he got home.

Rage boiled inside her when she saw the engagement ring on the woman’s finger – a large, stunning diamond solitaire. Nothing like the cheap little band he had grudgingly given her.

“YOU BASTARD!” Megan roared, sweeping the food and beverages off the table onto the couple’s laps.

“YOU DIRTY CHEATING MOTHERFUCKER!”

“Richard?” the woman said, her voice fearful. She pulled the baby stroller away from Megan.

“You stay out of it, slut! I’m talking to my husband. You’ve done enough already!”

Richard finally spoke up. “Get the hell away from my family, you crazy bitch.”

“YOUR family? YOUR family?” Megan sputtered. “What about OUR family? The one you couldn’t even give me because your dick was always limp!”

“I never wanted you, Megan. I never loved you. You were a mistake. The biggest mistake I ever made.” Richard’s tone was calm. He spoke the words without emotion. How could he not feel anything after sharing his life with her for two years?

Richard’s bitch had taken her child and moved away from the table. She was talking to the clerk at Cinnabon and a security guard was making his way toward them.

“You think you’ll be happy with her?” Megan yelled. “She’s nothing! You and ME! WE were meant to be together! Nobody will love you the way I do. Nobody!”

The security guard stepped between them.

“I’ll have to ask you to move away, ma’am. Leave these people alone.”

“Fuck you!” she spat, leaning around the uniformed man to make eye contact with Richard once more.

“You can’t escape fate, Richard. You’re mine! One day you’ll come crawling back. You love me. I know you do.”

Two more security guards came from behind and took her arms, leading her away from the food court. They demanded that she leave at once or the police would be called.

Megan left. She had said her piece.

Richard knew the truth.

She would make him see the truth.

* * *

Megan’s outburst with Richard energized her; freed her from the shackles of depression. She felt electrified, filled with new hope. She had a purpose again: Richard, and her future with him. She just needed to take the place of the baby-making whore in the food court and everything would be perfect again.

She would win him back. His heart had always been hers; he just didn’t realize it yet.

Having been banned from the local mall, Megan’s Saturday shopping trip took her to the streets and a new neighborhood where she had never been. Her Obsessive Compulsive Disorder made it difficult to deviate from an established routine. As a result, she seldom visited new places. Occasionally change was forced. This time she found it refreshing instead of disturbing. Her therapist, whom she hadn’t seen in more than five years, would have called it “a positive step”.

The weathered red brick buildings offered a nice change of scenery from the icy-smooth grey concrete downtown. The new neighborhood featured a wealth of second-hand stores, a few hippie bong shops and some dusty-looking used bookstores. It was in one of these bookstores that she found it.

The tattered brown binding of the book caught her eye and immediately she reached for it.

The Joy of Spellcasting.

She chuckled at the silly title.

It sounds like a cookbook. Why not? It could be fun. Megan purchased the book and walked home with a spring in her step.

She opened the book to the table of contents and quickly found what she sought.

Love Spells – page 131.

She noticed handwriting at the bottom of the yellowed page. The ink had blurred over time but was still legible. Megan held it up to the light to make out the words.

“Be warned, ye who goest here. Think ye long on what thou desirest. The spells contained within be those most powerful. What thou desirest, thou shalt receive.”

Megan smirked. It sounded like something out of a low-budget after-school Halloween special.

Good to know. Let’s see if it’s true.

She turned to page 131 and began to read.

There were several love spells and potions but most of them looked complicated. They contained ingredients she had never heard of and took too long to yield results. They ranged anywhere from six months to three years to complete a spell. Megan wanted results now.

She settled on the One Moon Love Charm. It claimed to return a lost love in one month and she had all the ingredients to make it work:

A container made from wood or metal.

A likeness of your lost love. OR

An object belonging to your lost love, OR

A sample of your loved one’s blood or flesh.

Write on a piece of parchment exactly what you desire.

Seal with your own blood or flesh to bond with your lover’s flesh for all eternity.

Bury the container three feet deep in dark soil under the light of the full moon.

Stand over the burial site and turn around three times and then say the incantation every night for one month. When the moon reaches its next fullness, the object of your desire will come to you.

Megan selected a heart-shaped wooden jewelry box Richard had given her when they first started dating – back when he still knew he loved her. The box held no jewelry except the engagement ring she no longer wore. She had been using it to store her favorite photos of Richard, all carefully cropped with a pair of scissors to a heart shape.

A likeness of your lost love.

What better likeness than an actual photo? She left all of the photos in the box.

OR an object belonging to your lost love.

Richard had left most of his belongings behind when he left, so why not add that as well? She selected a watch she had bought him for Christmas that he always seemed to forget to wear and his razor, which he had left in the bathroom.

OR a sample of your loved one’s blood or flesh.

Technically, the razor already had that covered, since it contained beard stubble and probably skin cells as well. She wanted to add as much punch to the spell as possible. More would be better, right? She cleaned the bathtub drain, extracting a slimy hairball made up of both his hair and hers. That covered both samples of their flesh.

On a plain white piece of paper, she wrote the words she had chosen:

Richard Cole, I desire your heart and nothing else.

She folded it neatly and placed it in the box.

She sliced her index finger with a razor blade and let the blood drip over the contents of the jewelry box.

Under the full moon she stood, on the fresh mound of dirt beneath which the box was buried. She turned around three times and then recited the incantation, which she had memorized:

“By the Earth below and the moon above,

You will be my one true love.

Bound in blood and sealed in Earth,

Waiting for our love’s new birth.

Empowered by the Law of Three,

Richard’s heart will come to me.

Three times Three.

So mote it be.”

She repeated the incantation two more times just for good measure. If the Law of Three was a real thing, then it made sense to do everything three times to amplify the power threefold.

The following night she repeated the ritual, chanting the incantation three times. After a pause, she recited it three times more.

She couldn’t stop the pattern once it had begun. Richard had hated her OCD but it was one of the things that made her organized and precise in everything she did. Every night she added three more repetitions to the incantation. When she reached the 29th night she recited it a total of 87 times. When she went to bed at night, the rhyme played over and over inside her head until she fell asleep.

The moon had reached the first day of its three days of fullness. It would be at its fullest the following night. Megan snuggled happily into her bed, confident that Richard would be with her soon.

* * *

 “Jenkins! Get in here! You gotta see this!” Ralph Anderson shouted to his assistant.

Jenkins wandered through the double doors of the morgue, stuffing the remains of a tuna sandwich into his mouth.

“I’m still on break. Couldn’t you have waited another ten minutes?”

“No, I need you to see this. You gotta tell me I’m not crazy.”

Jenkins approached the table where his superior was conducting a routine autopsy. The ribcage was splayed open, revealing the inside of the stiff’s chest.

“So what’s the deal? You find an alien in there? Looks pretty normal to me.”

“Look again. Tell me what you see. More specifically, what’s missing?”

Jenkins leaned over the corpse to take a closer look, licking mayonnaise off of his fingertips.

“Yeah, so it looks like you’ve already removed the heart, and—”

“But I haven’t,” Anderson said, almost in a whisper.

“Sure you have. It’s not in there.” Jenkins looked around at the empty stainless steel trays that surrounded the autopsy table. “So, where’d ya put it?’

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t in there when we got him.”

“So, what is this then, a serial killer case?”

“No. Probable heart attack. Sudden death, cause unknown.”

“So, where’s the heart?”

“That is the question, isn’t it? There was no incision in the body, no sign of hemorrhage inside. It’s just… missing.”

“We gonna record this?”

“Who’s gonna believe us? I’m closing him back up and labeling him a coronary.”

* * *

Megan woke the morning of the thirtieth day, feeling well rested and energized. Today, Richard would return. She would take a nice long bath and put on something pretty and fix him a nice dinner. It would be the perfect day – one for which she had worked very diligently.

She stretched and yawned, rolling over to caress the pillow where Richard would lay his head that night.

Her hand touched something wet.

Something rounded, about the size of her fist.

It was warm, and pulsed with a steady, rhythmic beat.

Copyright © 2012 Mandy White

Published in Dysfictional

Out, Damn Spot!

~ A mysterious spot on the ceiling of a jail cell: Is it imagination, or a doorway to elsewhere? ~

The spot has grown larger. At least I think it has. Maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me. Maybe it’s my mind playing tricks on my eyes. I just don’t know anymore.

It’s been nearly three weeks since I first noticed the spot. I was lying in bed before lights out, glaring at the ceiling as I have done every night since I arrived here.

My first thought was that the brownish-yellow spot looked like a water stain from a leaky roof but of course that’s impossible in this place. Day after day, night after night the strange blotch on the ceiling has mesmerized me, commanding my attention day and night, even after the lights are out. I sense its presence even in pitch darkness; it emits some sort of invisible energy, like a thick phosphorescent glow that I sense to the very core of my being instead of merely seeing it with my eyes.

What the hell is it?

After the first week it began to grow, the edges rippling and undulating like a puddle of water lapping at the cold gray ceiling. It seemed to feed on my anger; I noticed that the fouler my mood, the faster the spot grew.

I was able to reach it by standing on my bed. The spot was warm to the touch and my fingertips detected a slight buzzing sensation. Was it a burn mark? Perhaps it was an electrical wire shorting out in the ceiling. Faulty wiring wasn’t uncommon in old buildings such as this one.

Sometime toward the end of the second week the spot had enlarged to the edge of the room and begun to spread down the wall. I began to get the feeling it was coming for me, to swallow me into wherever it came from.

I tried telling the guards about it but they just laughed and told me to shut up. They didn’t see any spot. They denied my request to be moved to a different cell, calling me crazy before resuming their never-ending poker game. I had no neighbors to confide in. The whole block was… well, dead. Except for me – the sole occupant of death row at that particular time.

The more I stared at the ever-expanding blemish on the ceiling and wall of my cell, the angrier I became. I was angry at my situation, at the people responsible for putting me there but most of all I was angry at the spot itself. How dare it invade my private space? What did it want?

One morning after I finished my breakfast I lost my temper and threw my coffee cup at it. I expected the plastic mug to rebound and rattle to the floor but instead it just disappeared. I swear it did, as God is my witness. It vanished without a sound as if swallowed by quicksand.

I caught a lot of shit for that one. The guards didn’t believe my explanation even though they tossed my cell twice and didn’t find the missing mug. They are still convinced I have it hidden somewhere.

Standing on my bunk, I reached up to touch the spot where the cup disappeared. To my surprise, the ceiling was no longer solid. My fingers slid right through the concrete as though it were soft butter. My whole hand disappeared past the wrist. I groped around but found nothing but an empty void on the other side.

Today, the spot is large enough to accommodate my entire body and I now know what I must do. I am going to follow that cup to wherever it went. I have no future here. I’ve just been served my last meal. Tomorrow is execution day, or E-Day, as I have come to know it.

I’m leaving, but not on a jet plane. Don’t know where I’m going but I won’t be back again. I ain’t sticking around to be put to death for a crime I didn’t commit. Ok, I admit I DID kill a man but it was justified. He had it coming for fucking my wife. I served justice in an unjust world and this is the thanks I get for it.

The spot ripples like water in a breeze, calling to me. It’s my way out of here, I’m sure of it. I don’t know if I will find the regular world on the other side but if I do you can bet I’ll finish what I started. After all, it takes two to tango. That S.O.B. couldn’t have slept with my wife if she wasn’t willing. She won’t get away with it if I can help it.

“I’m coming for you, Rosalee! You hear me? I’m coming for you!”

* * *

She sat with her head down and a wadded tissue clutched in a shaking hand. She dabbed at her eyes from time to time; not out of grief for the man who had just died from lethal injection but for the other who had died at his hands. Her ex-husband was an evil man and she was glad he was dead. Rosalee had attended the execution to see for herself that without a doubt he was gone forever. Maybe now the nightmares would stop.

Kevin hadn’t handled the divorce well. When she remarried, he lost his mind.

She would never forget the day she returned home from a shopping trip to see a barrier of yellow police tape surrounding her home and the ominous sight of a coroner’s van parked at the curb. When they wheeled out a gurney carrying a black plastic body bag she collapsed, wailing in anguish.

Rosalee knew Kevin was the one responsible for Troy’s death and he gave the police no resistance when they arrested him. In court, he said nothing in his own defense despite his court-appointed lawyer’s insistence that an insanity plea would be in his best interest. Kevin’s silence was almost as good as a confession.

Now, the monster that had made her life a living hell and destroyed her second chance at happiness was dead. Rosalee knew she should be feeling relief as she stood on shaking knees but she was still rattled from witnessing the last moments of her ex-husband’s life. The nightmares were still fresh in her mind – the much-too-real vision of a hand emerging from the ceiling of her bedroom, reaching, groping as if searching for her. And then there was the plastic cup that had inexplicably appeared on her bedroom floor one morning. Who had put it there?

As she waited for the guard to escort her back to the prison’s front entrance, Kevin’s voice still echoed in her head. Those last words he shouted just before losing consciousness from the injection:

“I’m coming for you, Rosalee! You hear me? I’m coming for you!”

Copyright © 2014 Mandy White

Goose Egg

“Mark! How ya doing?” Alex greeted him. Best Sandwiches in Pasadena! The brightly painted sign on the food truck boasted. Mark tended to agree. “Got something for you.” Alex handed Mark a cup of coffee and a paper-wrapped sandwich.

Mark shook his head. “Thanks Alex, but you don’t have to…”

“I have to throw these out if they’re not sold by the end of the day. You wouldn’t believe how much good food I waste. I’d rather see someone eat it. Seriously, dude. You’d be doing me a favor.”

Mark accepted the sandwich. “Okay, but you owe me one.” He returned Alex’s grin. “Seriously, though, thank you.”

Mark sat on a bench adjacent to Alex’s truck. He ate slowly, savoring each bite. Alex’s sandwiches really were the best in town.

A young guy on a skateboard swerved too close and threw a handful of wadded-up dollar bills in Mark’s face.

“Get a job, ya fuckin’ hobo!” he shouted.

Some people were nice to him, like Alex, but a lot were assholes. The assholes had a multitude of colourful names for him.

“Piss off, ya little bastard!” Alex shouted after the kid. He shot Mark a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry about that. Some people are just dicks.”

“No worries,” Mark said. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean that up before I go.” He nodded toward the money scattered on the ground. He wouldn’t leave a bunch of trash in front of Alex’s truck.

“Thanks man, I appreciate it,” Alex said.

Mark continued to eat his sandwich in between sips of coffee.

Alex leaned on his counter and regarded him quietly, as if hoping for a conversation.

“I designed it, you know.” Mark hadn’t even realized he was going to speak until the words were out.

“What?”

“The Imperium.”

“No you didn’t.” Alex gave a nervous chuckle. Mark may have been homeless, but Alex didn’t take him for a nutjob. Maybe he was wrong.

“Yeah, I did. Swear to God. I used to be a software developer. When they made the switch to cryptocurrency after the plague, I was one of the guys who worked on it. In fact, it was my code that they used for the final product. The money you use is my creation.”

“Ok, man. If you say so.” Alex wiped the already clean countertop and then busied himself inside the truck to avoid carrying the conversation any further. He liked Mark, but one had to be careful about encouraging crackpot fantasies.

Mark gathered up the money and shoved it in the pocked of his tattered coat. When he returned to his crate, he would stuff it into the pillowcase with the rest. Assholes often threw worthless cash at him as a cruel joke.

And he had done it. What he’d told Alex wasn’t a lie.

Mark hadn’t always been homeless. Once, he was happily married with a house in the suburbs, a cottage on the lake, and a promising career. Until one day it all fell apart. Divorce. Ain’t it a bitch, though?

* * *

Before his life fell apart, Mark had worked for Csilitech, a corporation that designed high-tech security systems for banks, governments, and the like. As one of the firm’s top programmers, Mark was assigned the world-changing cryptocurrency project. The idea of digital currency was nothing new, but the world’s governments had no interest in investing in Bitcoin. They wanted something new; something that was theirs alone to control.

Banks had talked about converting to digital currency long before the plague, but the idea never materialized. Citizens trusted cold hard cash. After the pandemic decimated two-thirds of the world’s population, the public was more receptive to the idea of abolishing physical cash.

During the pandemic, few businesses accepted cash and people grew used to other forms of payment. Cash was touted as a carrier of infection, although there were mixed reports as to the validity of that claim. By the time the plague ended, the only people using cash anymore were petty drug dealers and organized criminals.

World governments took the opportunity to use the public’s fear and uncertainty to push a common agenda: a global change to digital currency. They phased out physical cash and introduced the new monetary system with minimal push-back from citizens. They convinced everyone that cash was the reason the pandemic got out of control.

In reality, it wasn’t the cash the governments had a problem with. It was the illicit cash. The truckloads of undeclared income earned by tax evaders, from petty panhandlers and drug dealers all the way up to sophisticated cartels. It was this cash the governments sought to eliminate and thereby collect their share of. The best way to control all of the world’s wealth and eliminate organized crime (other than their own) was to convert all money to a medium fully within their control.

The new cryptocurrency would be one hundred percent accounted for and impossible for citizens to hide from taxation. The Imperium, as it was called, would be the foundation of a new global banking system. The Imperium could only be obtained and transferred through legal means. No person could give money to another without the tax man knowing about it. The goal was to render all other forms of currency obsolete.

The banks added an incentive to encourage people to accept the new money: For a limited time, the banks doubled the value of each account converted to Imperiums. Citizens started turning up in droves to get in on the easy dough. They offered a similar incentive to Bitcoin holders: Double the value, for a limited time only. As more and more Bitcoin was cashed in, its value tanked and urgency to get rid of it grew. Before long, Bitcoin was worthless and only the Imperium remained.

Individuals accessed their Imperium accounts through a debit card, but a premium option was also available: a microchip implant. The chip could track a person’s financial worth, store personal information and medical records, and even keep track of shopper’s rewards. As old forms of payment faded away, the chip became ever more convenient.

Of course, the idea of a microchip was abhorrent to some. The old-school types trusted only cold hard cash. Many didn’t trust banks at all. Doomsday fanatics and conspiracy theorists wailed that it was the beginning of the end, that science fiction writers had predicted it. Too bad nobody listened to the crackpots, because they were right.

In order to flush out the die-hards with mattresses stuffed full of greenbacks, the governments offered temporary amnesty to anyone who wanted to convert cash to Imperiums. No questions asked. It was the last chance, before paper money was rendered useless. Holders of illicit funds came out of the woodwork. Even cartels got in on the action. Truckloads of cash, instantly laundered. Once cash was turned in, it was destroyed, no backsies. Imperiums could not be converted back into paper money. There was no giant Treasury building bursting at the seams with dough, no mints printing any more money.

Two years after the launch of the Imperium, physical cash had zero value. Anyone who had held onto their cash had nothing but a stack of paper.

By the end of the third year, every child would have a mandatory chip inserted at birth. Just like science fiction had predicted.

If Mark had known the outcome, would he have done anything differently? He pondered the question many times during cold, lonely nights in his crate. If he hadn’t done it, someone else would have. In hindsight, Mark figured he would have done it anyway, just to see if he could.

* * *

If it wasn’t enough that his wife was cheating; her affair was with his employer. Within a matter of weeks, Mark’s perfect life fell to pieces. His wife took both houses and all of their savings.

Maybe he overreacted. He thought he under reacted, given that nobody died. He punched his boss in the face repeatedly and walked out, and then detonated a bomb he had planted in his office.

Mark was sentenced to two years in prison. He served 14 months.

Upon his release, Mark found a key in his personal effects, left for him by his ex-wife when she brought the divorce papers. The address of a storage unit was written on a Post-it note. Inside, he found a suitcase containing some of his clothes and a few personal items. The contents of that suitcase were all he had left in the world. It also contained about half a million dollars in cash: the emergency fund from the safe in their bedroom. Why leave the cash when she’d taken everything else? He soon learned the answer. A lot had changed during the time Mark was locked up. The explosion hadn’t damaged his work as he’d hoped. Csilitech had already launched the Imperium using the code he had written, and cash was fast becoming obsolete.

Finding employment in his chosen field was not so easy. Nobody wanted a felon designing security software or having access to their company’s sensitive information. It also didn’t help that his former employer was well known and had blacklisted him. He couldn’t even land a data entry job.

With nothing left to lose, Mark turned to drugs and alcohol. He moved from one skid row hotel room to another until he could no longer find a place that would accept cash. After that, he slept wherever he could; parks, dumpsters, cardboard boxes – it didn’t matter as long as he was high. When the drug dealers stopped accepting cash, he bartered for drugs, usually with indecent acts.

* * *

The overdose saved his life. It also killed him, but he’d already survived worse. It took three doses of Narcan to bring him back.

Without so much as even a thank you for saving his life. Mark barked at the paramedics:

“I need a pen and paper!”

“Please, sir, you need to relax. You’ve just had a medical emergency.”

“What’s your name?” Mark asked.

“My name? I’m Becky.”

“Becky, can you please find me a pen and paper. NOW!”

Becky fumbled in her jacket for a pen and fished some blank forms from the shelf of the ambulance.

“Here. Will this do?”

Mark snatched the items from her and began furiously scribbling.

Becky peered at the paper to see what he was writing. “What is that?” she asked, “It looks like alien language.”

“Close,” Mark muttered, “It’s code.”

“Like computer code?”

“Yeah.”

Maybe something in the combination of street drugs created the ideal hallucinatory state to induce the revelation, or maybe it was the Narcan. Maybe Mark reached into the other side in that moment of death and tapped into the knowledge of the universe. All he knew was, in that brief moment between life and death he touched the divine. When he woke, it was as clear in his mind as a printout: the perfect lines of code, so simple in their complexity. How could he have missed it, in all his years of programming? He needed to write it down before he forgot.

Mark quit booze and drugs that day. He no longer needed to escape; he had found a new reason to live.

He did not, however, get a job, a home, or any of the other things one would expect of a reformed addict. Nor did he get a chip. He moved from his cardboard box into a wooden crate that he fashioned into a makeshift shack in the alley behind Lee’s House of Wok. The restaurant owner didn’t mind Mark living in the alley. Mark washed dishes in exchange for meals and an occasional shower. Kindly Mr. Lee even offered him an apartment above the restaurant and to pay him a wage, but he declined. He couldn’t earn a wage because he had no Imperium account and no intention of getting one. Mark intended to stay off-grid at all costs. He installed Lee’s new point of sale system in exchange for an old laptop. Using the restaurant’s WIFI from the comfort of his crate, he had the world at his fingertips.

* * *

Mark finally had a chance to test the code he had hastily scribbled in the back of the ambulance. It performed better than he could have imagined. He had achieved something programmers only dreamed of. He named it Nerdvana.

Nerdvana was like a master key in the hands of a cat burglar who left no fingerprints. It unlocked anything and everything, without leaving a trace. No security software could stop it. Mark could figuratively walk into the door of a bank and help himself to everything. To test it, he started small, with a local bank in a town he’d never been to. He accessed the bank and removed a million Imperiums… then what? The next step was to put it somewhere. But where? Where exactly could he put the money where he could use it? He had no bank account. No chip. He started to laugh. Quietly at first, then louder as he realized the utter absurdity of the situation, until he was rolling on his mattress, howling, with tears running down his face. He had access to all the money in the world. But he couldn’t use any of it.

If he couldn’t have the money, then what good was having the means to take it all? He felt the crunch of paper under his head. His pillow was stuffed with the remnants of the cash from his suitcase. He had been adding the worthless bills people threw at him. He laid his head every night on close to a million dollars, all worth exactly zero.

Zero.

That was it.

If he couldn’t use the money, he could still take it away from the people who had it.

His first impulse was to delete the bank accounts of everyone who had ever wronged him, starting with ex-wife and his former boss at Csilitech.

No. Too small. He needed to think bigger.

He could take down the banks themselves.

No. Still too small. Taking out a few bank accounts, or even a few banks would have no effect other than to attract attention. He needed to take it all down at once, so quickly they couldn’t recover.

He needed a bit of help to pull it off.

Mark went into the restaurant for a fresh cup of coffee, then set about creating the help he needed: a virus. A logic bomb called SubZer0, which he concealed inside a Trojan Horse called KatMeme.

He modified facial recognition software to recognize only the faces of cats. KatMeme would seek out any and all images containing cats and attach itself to them. KatMeme itself was harmless, and invisible to any known anti-virus software. It was merely a vehicle for SubZer0, which was also harmless until activated. Once activated, SubZer0 would work rapidly to perform its sole function, which was to seek out numerical values and change them to zero.

Using Nerdvana to open doors for KatMeme, he released the package onto the internet, embedded into cute cat photos and viral memes featuring Grumpy Cat and Smudge. The virus sought out its whiskered brethren and attached itself to every cat picture it found.

And then he waited. By the time anyone realized there was a problem, it would be too late.

KatMeme infiltrated the internet via cell phones, tablets, office computer systems.

Everyone, no matter where they worked, looked at stupid internet shit at some point during the day. A quick glance at a social media page was all it took. Nerdvana traveled through WIFI connections from cell phones into secure systems around the world, flinging open their digital doors. KatMeme strolled in on padded paws to banks, governments, and corporations and then curled up in the corner to wait. Nothing was immune. Any device or software that had contact with the internet, even indirectly, became infected. A few weeks after its release, KatMeme occupied even the deepest, darkest corners of the internet.

From his shack, Mark typed the activation key into Google’s search engine: KatMemeSubZer09876543210 and pressed Enter. He shut the computer off to prevent it from being infected by its own spawn.

He wasn’t sure how long it would take, or exactly what would happen, but if his calculations were correct, he could expect dramatic results.

As it turned out, KatMeme exceeded his wildest expectations.

Within a few hours, the first telltale sounds of chaos rose outside: horns honking; voices shouting. People had discovered their money was missing and they were not amused. He heard glass shattering not far away. Looting had begun. Gunshots echoed in the distance.

* * *

In the days that followed, panic and chaos grew. Tires squealed. Vehicles crashed. The sound of explosions echoed through the city and the air stung with smoke. Los Angeles was burning.

Someone knocked on the outside of his shack.

“Mark! You okay in there?” It was Lee.

“Yeah, Mr. Lee, I’m fine.”

“Look, I know you always say you don’t want help, but you need to get your ass inside now!” The urgency in Lee’s voice was too much to ignore. Mark gathered his few belongings, including his laptop and cash-stuffed pillowcase, and followed Lee into the back door of the restaurant.

“C’mon, we don’t have much time. It’s all goin’ to shit out there!” Lee said.

Mark followed Lee through the restaurant’s kitchen and into the walk-in refrigerator.

At the back wall of the cooler was a metal door. Lee pulled it open.

“What the hell is this?” Mark asked.

“Home.” Lee said.

As Mark followed Lee down steep metal stairs into darkness, he had a fleeting thought that he might be about to become the restaurant’s next daily special. And then a light clicked on and Mark gasped.

He was standing in the ultimate man-cave.

A luxurious leather couch flanked by twin recliners faced a wall with a big-screen TV mounted on it. Shelves below the screen contained a variety of gaming systems, with games and DVD movies. Bookshelves filled with books and more DVDs lined another wall.

“C’mon, I’ll give you a tour.” Lee said.

Mark followed Lee, agape in wonder. There was a kitchen with gleaming stainless steel appliances; a walk-in pantry stocked with food. A room off the kitchen was dedicated to food storage, with freezers full of meat and shelves of canned goods. A locker along one wall of the storage room contained guns and ammunition.

“Where does that lead?” Mark stood facing a padlocked metal door in the storeroom.

“Emergency exit. It leads to an old sewer tunnel. If the worst happened, and the building up top was destroyed, we might get trapped down here. This would be the way out. Don’t worry, nothing flowing through there now. The city upgraded the system back in the eighties. Nothing in there now ‘cept rats and roaches.” He pointed to a key hanging on the wall. “The key is right there. It’s locked from the inside for security.”

They continued the tour to two bedrooms, each with a double bed and a bunk bed. The bunker was designed to comfortably accommodate eight people.

“Is it just us?” Mark asked, looking at the bunk beds.

“Yes. I had hoped that I’d have a wife and kids with me when this day came, but no such luck.”

“Why me?” Mark asked.

“There wasn’t anyone else I liked enough to invite. Does that make me an asshole?”

“Not at all,” Mark said. “It makes you human.”

They wandered back to the open kitchen and living room area. Mark sat in one of the recliners and examined the assortment of remote controls, trying to figure out which one operated the TV.

Lee opened the fridge. “You hungry?”

“Not right now, thanks.”

“You want anything, just help yourself, ok? This is your place too.”

“Thanks. Just curious, what happens when we run out of food?”

“That won’t be for a long time. But don’t you worry about that. You’d be amazed at what a guy can do to survive. There’s plenty to eat out there. Why, back in China…” he trailed off. “You want a beer?”

“Sure.”

Lee handed him a beer and sat in the other recliner. “You want the big one for the TV and the one next to it for the surround sound. Here.” Lee picked up two remote controls and turned on the TV. The words BREAKING NEWS flashed at the bottom of the screen. Scenes of chaos and rioting played on a newscast. “Looks like we’re just in time to watch the fun.” Lee said.

“You seem to be really ok with all of this,” Mark said.

“Why shouldn’t I be? Got everything I need down here. You think I ran that shitty little restaurant to get rich? My real passion is this place.”

“This is really incredible what you’ve built here. But I have to ask, why?”

“When I was a young man, I left my family’s farm and moved to Beijing to go to school. The city is very crowded. Apartments are expensive. The only place I could afford was a room in the catacombs under the city. They were originally built as a bomb shelter during the Cold War. Now there’s a whole community down there. It gives a new meaning to ‘sub-urban’.” Lee chuckled. “Anyhow, the thing I remember most about my underground room was the sense of security it gave me. Of course, it wasn’t the sanctuary I pretended it was. Bad air, unclean conditions. I told my family I had a nice apartment so they wouldn’t worry.”

“I saw something about that. It sounds awful.”

“Well, it beats living on the street, sleeping in a crate.”

“Touché,” Mark said, “In a world with no riches, the poor man is king.”

“Where’s that from?”

“I can’t remember where I heard it.”

“Reminds me of Proverbs 13:8: The ransom of a man’s life is his riches, But the poor hears no threats.”

“I didn’t have you pegged for the religious type.”

“I’m not. I just like to read a lot. The Bible is interesting because it has so many different versions, which can leave some of the verses up to the reader’s interpretation. The book of Proverbs is my favorite; lots of interesting little snippets of wisdom in there. That one basically means, the rich have a lot more to worry about than the poor. They are held hostage by their wealth, while the poor have nothing to lose.”

Mark nodded thoughtfully. “I like that. It fits.”

“It’s amazing how well adaptable we humans are. Those days in the catacombs taught me how to survive. I went to school during the day and ran a food stand at the Donghuamen Night Market. The tourists always made me laugh. They always want to try to eat bugs on sticks even though it horrifies them.”

“Wait – you don’t have cans of bugs in that storeroom, do you?” Mark said.

“No, dumbass. It’s all normal food. Besides, you don’t have to can bugs. Plenty of fresh ones running around. Rats and roaches, right through that door.” He pointed at the storeroom.

“Fuck off!”

“Seriously, though. You people waste so much perfectly good – ”

Mark threw his empty beer can at Lee. Lee laughed and ducked.

Lee got up and retrieved two more beers from the fridge.

“Anyway, eventually I made it to America. I bought this restaurant in particular because of the large basement. This building was built during prohibition. This space would have been a speakeasy back in its heyday. Later, it was converted to a bomb shelter. I’ve spent twenty years restoring and upgrading it. Got a generator, air and water filtration. Once it was finished, I realized I liked living down here better than the suite above the restaurant. That’s why I offered it to you.”

Mark cracked the fresh beer. He had to admit, it was nice to have some comforts of home. Home. He froze. This was Lee’s home. Which meant –

“You got internet down here?” Mark asked.

“Sure! We got everything you could want.”

“Unplug it. NOW!”

“What?”

“The router. Unplug it. If you have a cell phone or tablet, shut off the data. Shut it all off. Just do it. Trust me.”

Lee did as Mark told him, then sat back down. He stared into Mark’s face. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“You going to tell me what that was about?”

“The internet is broken.”

“Well it is now, smartass. What do you know about it?”

“You just have to trust me on this. You do not want to connect to the internet right now. Or maybe not ever.”

“What did you do, Mark?” Lee said softly.

“I ended it, Mr. Lee…wait, what is your first name, anyway? I feel like I’m about to make a major confession here, and I’d at least like to know your full name.”

“It’s Tommy, but everyone just calls me Lee.”

“Fuck off. Your name is Tommy Lee?”

“Yeah. No relation to the rock star. My real name is Li Wei. When I got my citizenship here, I changed it to something more American. I didn’t find out about Motley Crue until after I’d made the change. Now, I just go by Lee. Somehow, ‘Tommy Lee’s House of Wok’ doesn’t work. It sounds like the name of a heavy metal bar spoken in a bad Chinese accent.”

Mark joined Lee’s laughter. It felt good to laugh.

They talked well into the night over more than a few beers. Mark told him the whole story, starting with his job at Csilitech and his role in creating the Imperium.

* * *

The next morning, Mark woke to the smell of bacon frying in the kitchen. Lee had breakfast underway.

Mark rummaged in the fridge for something to quench his thirst. He poured a glass of orange juice. The beers had left him with a dry mouth and an aching head. He had forgotten what a hangover felt like.

“Tylenol in the bathroom, medicine chest,” Lee said.

“Thanks.” Mark wandered to the bathroom.

As they ate breakfast, news reports flashed on the TV screen in the background, blaming the crisis on any number of crackpot theories: aliens, terrorists, rival governments, the rapture, and more. Nobody had a clue what had actually happened.

There was no trace of a virus, according to the world’s brainiacs. Banks had no money. Governments were broke. It wasn’t just that the money had been stolen. Stolen would indicate it had been moved from one location to another. It hadn’t moved, it was just gone. World leaders assured citizens everything was under control, but there was no mistaking the panic in their voices.

Mark took a shower, and then sat in his recliner with a cup of coffee to watch the world end.

Panicked reports continued to flood the airwaves; reports of failures of major websites: Google, Amazon, Apple, Microsoft. The internet was disappearing. As it turned out, SubZer0 was a hungry little virus. Mark had theorized what might happen, but without actually testing SubZer0, he had no way of knowing how it would behave in the wild.

It appeared that once SubZer0 had finished devouring all the money in the world, it went after numerical values anywhere it could. Citizens’ tax bills disappeared. In fact, all bills were reduced to zero. Real estate values also plummeted, you guessed it, to zero. Everything that contained numbers became a big fat goose egg. One place abundant in numerals was software. The virus burrowed deep into the computer systems and attacked the binary code, changing all values to zero.

Mark was curious. He booted up his laptop and connected the internet. He watched with fascination as the virus he created devoured the operating system. Windows eroded, giving way to binary code. The rows of ones and zeros changed before his eyes until nothing but zeros remained.

SubZer0 had pressed STOP on the world, returned home and devoured all traces of its origin. It was the perfect crime, if anyone ever figured out that a crime had taken place.

The world was his. No more sleeping rough. No more scavenging for food. He had everything a guy could want: a place to live, plenty of food, and a cool roommate who happened to be a great cook. Of course, if Lee tried to feed him bugs, they might have to renegotiate their arrangement. He would eat Lee before he ate rats and roaches. But he wasn’t worried about him and Lee becoming the next Donner Party. There was plenty of food out there, and anything else he wanted, ripe for the taking.

In a world with no riches, the poor man is king.

He would be that king. The time had come to claim his throne.

He leaned his chair back and closed his eyes, envisioning his future. It looked bright indeed.

What could possibly go wrong?

* * *

Elsewhere around the world, countdowns changed to zero. Every missile launched.

Copyright © 2020 Mandy White

Published in the apocalyptic anthology, Goin Extinct Too: Apocalypse A Go-Go by WPaD

Blind Trust

~ ~ Photo by  K Zoltan  from  Pexels ~ ~

This year, Gina’s gift to her husband would be extra special. It had been years in the planning; an interminable wait list, clandestine phone calls, hasty arrangements with the help of her sister when the time finally came.

Keeping the secret from Stuart had been agonizing; usually, they told each other everything. Conveniently, he was away on business when Gina and Maxine boarded a taxi for the airport. She told him her sister was recovering from surgery and needed an extra set of hands around the house for a couple of weeks. It was a half-truth; she did stay with her sister in Boston, but it was Gina who was recovering from surgery.

Gina had spoken to Stuart on the phone several times while she was away, but hadn’t told him she was returning early. He wasn’t expecting her for another day. The surprise would be perfect. His birthday wasn’t for another week, but she would give him his gift as soon as he arrived home that evening.

The sunset faded from orange to purple as the taxi pulled up at the curb. Gina stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes after getting out of the car, savoring the view.

The first thing Gina did when they reached the house was remove Max’s harness. She wouldn’t be needing it anymore, but she had left it on for the flight so Max could fly as a guide dog and not as a pet. The German Shepherd gazed up at her, puzzlement in her amber eyes. Gina reached down to stroke her head.

“It’s ok, sweetheart. As of now, you’re retired from active duty. Let’s go inside and get some dinner, shall we?”

Gina brought her suitcase into the bedroom. Though previously accustomed to navigating in darkness, she now noticed the dimness of the room with the curtains drawn.

She clicked the switch on the lamp and gasped. She saw its beauty with her own eyes for the first time. In truth, she was seeing it through someone else’s eyes; those of a young man killed in a motorcycle accident, whose family had donated his organs.

The lamp was one of Stuart’s creations, handmade in his workshop. His art took many forms, mostly jewelry and small figurines carved from hardwoods – yew and walnut, he told her. He had a process for curing the wood that hardened it to almost a porcelain consistency, except much stronger. The lamp was one of his finest pieces.

He had made the lampshade as well, from soft calfskin leather, scraped thin in places to create an intricate design of tree branches, which would light up when the lamp was turned on.

Even though she couldn’t see it, for years she had felt the design with her fingers and formed a picture in her mind’s eye. The base of the lamp formed the trunk of the “tree”. The curve of the wood mimicked a tree trunk perfectly, right down to its graceful curve and non-uniformity of its shape. On the surface he had carved a heart with their initials inside. Tiny bumps covered the surface of the trunk, each painstakingly carved by her husband. It was a Haiku, written by him and inscribed in Braille for her:

Sun may fade from sight

Love for you burns ever bright

My eternal light

Now, for the first time, Gina saw the lamp in all of its glory, and it was exquisite. The glow of the lampshade projected the intricate tree branch design on the walls, giving the illusion that she was surrounded by forest. Gina caressed the shade, which she had felt hundreds of times, but now she could see what her fingers felt.

What unusual leather, she thought. It was unlike anything she remembered from the days before she lost her sight. She had expected it to be more of a tan color, but this was a pale cream shade with a pinkish hue. A muted floral design decorated the edge of the shade. The trunk looked different than she had expected as well. She had always envisioned it being the deep brown of walnut, but it too was a light cream color, almost white.

Stuart was a true artist. She wished he would give up his sales job and focus on his craft, but Stuart insisted that the things he made weren’t worth selling.

“I do this because I enjoy it, dear. Nobody wants to buy a bunch of homemade junk. Knowing that you like them is enough for me,” he had told her.

* * *

After feeding Max and making some dinner for herself, Gina contemplated calling Stuart to find out when he would be home, but resisted the urge. She didn’t want to ruin the surprise, but the anticipation was too much to bear. She paced nervously, stopping to stare at herself in the hallway mirror every time she passed. She had been born with blue eyes; now they were brown. She compared her reflection to the wedding photo of her and Stuart that hung on the wall next to the mirror. It was hard to tell the difference from the photo, but she found it unsettling nonetheless.

Gina turned on the TV but couldn’t find anything interesting to watch. What to do? She could take Max for a walk, but it was dark out. She chuckled. Too dark! Darkness had never been a problem before. Maybe she could take Max out into the yard at least. She hadn’t looked at her garden yet. She shoved her feet into her shoes and slipped into a light jacket. It was late spring, but a chill lingered in the air. She called Max and opened the sliding door to the backyard. Max stayed by her side at first, waiting to be harnessed. Once she understood that her mistress didn’t require her assistance, she bounded across the yard and busied herself sniffing all the nooks and crannies.

The tulips were in bloom near the shed Stuart used as a workshop. Their colors stood against the darkness, bathed in a glow from the window. That was odd. He must have left a light on.

Or perhaps it wasn’t odd at all. Gina knew nothing about the methods he used in creating his art. Maybe part of the wood-curing process required light of some sort. She didn’t know because she had never seen. She had never even been inside his workshop.

I shouldn’t. I should wait for him to show me. It didn’t feel right to snoop, as curious as she was. She would ask Stuart to give her the grand tour when he came home.

Maybe just a little peek. What harm could it do?

Gina tried the door. It was unlocked. She pushed it open a crack and peeked inside. A curtain hung in front of the door, obstructing her view of the inside of the shed. She pulled the curtain aside and entered her husband’s workshop.

Something tickled her hair and she jumped back, startled. Eerie shadows danced on the walls. A string swung next to her shoulder. She brushed it away and looked up. The string was connected to a chain, which was attached to a dangling light fixture. The swaying bulb was the sole source of light in the workshop.

The workbench was cluttered with tools and debris from partially finished projects. A bit of wood here, a scrap of leather there. A pale stick of wood was clamped in the vise, a work in progress judging by the half-worn sheets of sandpaper and fine layer of dust on the bench below. She caressed the graceful curve of the piece with her fingertips, wondering what it was going to be. It always amazed her; the way Stuart could create such elegant contours from an ordinary chunk of wood. She couldn’t wait to watch him work.

A large barrel sat in one darkened corner of the room. Curious, Gina lifted the lid to peer inside. A powerful odor assaulted her nostrils. The barrel was filled with some sort of dark liquid with a strong chemical smell. Things floated inside the liquid, but she couldn’t see what they were. She wasn’t about to poke around in that nasty stuff. Her toe bumped against the barrel, causing the liquid to slosh a bit. Something floated to the top. A recognizable shape, but no – it couldn’t be that – it had to be a trick of the light. Gina used the pull-cord to swing the light bulb in the direction of the barrel. Back and forth it swung. Light splashed over the barrel, then dark. The thing disappeared between the surface of the liquid. She kicked the barrel again and swung the light.

Light. Dark.

Light. Dark.

Light. The thing came into view again. The light swung, revealing the shapes of skeletal fingers.

Gina screamed.

The bulb swung another arc, illuminating the far corner of the room. A wooden crate came into view. It overflowed with sticks much like the one currently clamped in the vise. Now she saw that they weren’t sticks at all, but bones.

Human bones, she was certain. What else could they be?

She stumbled backward, scrambling for the door. She ran outside and tripped over Max, who had heard her scream and come to her rescue. She landed face down in the grass. Max whined and rushed to lick her face.

She heard vehicle approaching and headlights flashed across the driveway. Stuart was home. Gina ran to the house with Max close on her heels. She dashed inside and ran to retrieve the Max’s harness from her bag. With shaking hands, she slipped the harness on the dog and fastened it in place. She dove onto the couch and managed a few deep breaths to appear calm before the door opened and Stuart walked in.

“Hey, beautiful! You’re home. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow. Why didn’t you call? I could have picked you up at the airport.”

She took care to look past him rather than at him to maintain the illusion of blindness. But she did see. She didn’t miss the dark splotches of red on his grey t-shirt. He looked like he’d been in a fight.

And won.

“I wanted to surprise you. Besides, I know how busy you are. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You’re never a bother, sweetness.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek.

She smiled and kissed him back, keeping her eyes downcast for fear he would see that they were different.

“I’m going to take a shower. Have you eaten yet? We could order pizza,” Stuart suggested.

“Yes. I mean, no, I haven’t eaten. Pizza would be fine. I’ll call while you’re in the shower. You want the usual?”

“Whatever you like, my love.”

Gina couldn’t fathom eating, but she knew she needed to keep up appearances. She couldn’t let him suspect anything was wrong.

* * *

A week passed. They celebrated Stuart’s birthday with dinner at a nice restaurant and she gave him a watch as a gift. She maintained her façade of blindness, kept Max harnessed and allowed the dog to guide her everywhere she went. Max knew something was different, but Gina’s secret was safe with her.

She wracked her brain to devise a way to escape her predicament. Leaving Stuart without an explanation didn’t seem like a viable option. She was afraid of him now. A homicidal monster lurked beneath his kind and loving exterior, and she had no idea what it would take to trigger his wrath and turn that monster on her. She needed to know more about what motivated him to do the things he did.

She waited patiently and watched his daily activities. Soon a pattern emerged. Monday through Thursday he was home for dinner, but on Fridays he worked late. Or so she had always thought.

One Friday night she looked out the window and noticed the light was on in the shed. Stuart was out there, and yet his van was not in the driveway. Gina slipped out the front door with Max in harness and walked around the block, where she discovered Stuart’s van parked in the alley behind their house. It seemed he was parking in the alley and sneaking in through the back gate. He didn’t want her to know he was home.

As she watched, a truck pulled up behind his van. A strange man got out and the two of them unloaded a large plastic-wrapped bundle and together they carried it through the back gate and to his shed.

A chill ran down Gina’s spine. She didn’t have to think very hard to guess what was inside that bundle.

Who was the man? Stuart had an accomplice? She tried to get a look at the license number, but it was too dark.

What was she to do? Call the police? With what evidence?

She didn’t even know what kind of truck it was. She couldn’t tell a Ford from a Dodge because she had never seen different types of vehicles up until now.

Gina realized she had a long way to go in acclimating herself in the sighted world before she could be a reliable witness to anything.

Gina spent the following week studying everything she could to fill her brain with visual information – books, websites, and just going for walks with Max and taking in the sights in her neighborhood. She had sworn her sister to secrecy about her sight restoration. The neighbors still believed she was blind, and it was easy to fool them as long as she wore her dark glasses. She could carry on conversations while studying the minute details of a person’s face, clothing, and immediate surroundings and no one was the wiser.

She spent hours in the attic, searching through old boxes, some of which had been there prior to their marriage. The house had been in Stuart’s family for generations. She found old photos of his parents and grandparents and marveled at the resemblance he bore to them. Another box held photo albums from a more recent era, from Stuart’s childhood through to adulthood. She pulled a white album from the bottom of the box and gasped when she saw the photo on the first page. It was a wedding photo, of Stuart and another woman. He hadn’t told her he’d been married before. Why?

Then again, it wasn’t the only thing he hadn’t been honest about.

She flipped through the pages, studying the woman’s face. His previous wife was in other albums as well; vacation photos, mostly. There they were standing in front of the Grand Canyon, and here on a beach in Mexico. His ex-wife had a nice figure for a bikini, curvy but not quite plump, and had a lovely floral tattoo down the length of her thigh – some sort of delicate vine with little pink flowers on it. What kind of flower was that? She was sure she had seen it before, recently. It had to be recently, since she had only had her sight for a few weeks.

* * *

One afternoon Gina gathered the courage to take another look in the shed. She let Max run loose in the yard. Stuart wasn’t due home for hours.

The sludge barrel was empty. It smelled foul and strong. No hands or feet to be found. The same crate of bones sat in the corner. In the daylight they somehow didn’t look as ominous. What should she do? Take some of the bones to the police? That would probably be the best way to proceed. She crouched beside the crate and reached toward it.

“I see I’m not the only one with a secret,” Stuart said behind her.

Gina screamed and leaped to her feet. She stumbled backward, tripping over more bones.

“How long, Gina?”

“I – don’t – know what you mean,” she stammered.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why would you hide it from me? Jesus, Gina, you can see!” Tears shimmered in his eyes. “It’s a miracle, and the biggest event of your life – of our lives – I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t share it with me.”

“I’m sorry. I meant to tell you. I wanted to surprise you, I just – I didn’t know when to tell you, and then I found… I found…” Gina looked down at the scattering of bones at her feet.

“I guess I owe you an explanation. I should have told you. But it was easier to let you think I was crafting with wood. People find bones a bit creepy, even when they’re just animal bones.”

“Animal bones?”

“Of course! Gee whiz, Gina, what the hell did you think they were?”

“But I came in one night, and I saw… in that barrel… it looked like…” Gina looked down at her hand and spread out her fingers, then looked back up at Stuart.

“A hand? Is that what you thought it was?” He laughed. “I think I understand now. Sweetie, have you ever seen a human skeleton? Or an animal one for that matter?”

“Well, no, I guess not,” Gina admitted.

Stuart put his arm over her shoulders. “Come with me, darling, and I will show you. I think we can clear up this whole misunderstanding.”

As they walked back toward the house, Stuart hugged her close and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I can’t believe you can see! I want you to tell me all about it!”

Gina’s heart warmed with renewed love for her husband. He had already forgiven her lie and suspicion. She beyond embarrassed that she could have suspected he was a murderer.

Back at the house, Stuart sat Gina in front of the computer and showed her pictures of bones on the internet.

“You see? This is a human hand, without the flesh. Does that look like what you saw?”

“Yes, actually, it does.”

“Now look at this. This is a bear paw. Do you see the resemblance? Once the flesh is removed, the toes actually have a finger-like appearance. Could this have been what you saw?”

Gina hung her head. “Yes. The lighting was poor, and I only saw it for a few seconds. It could just as easily have been this that I saw.”

“Just for comparison, this is a fox, this is a wolf, and this – this is the fin of a whale. All mammals share the same characteristics in their skeletal structure.”

“Who was that man I saw you with? I saw you and another man carrying a bundle into the shed.”

“That was Lars. He’s one of the hunters I work with. He brings me carcasses after he’s stripped them of meat, so that I can clean the bones and make things from them. That was a bundle of moose bones we were carrying. I almost have enough for a matching pair of rocking chairs. I wanted to try my hand at building something larger.”

“That sounds amazing.” Gina hung her head, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

“Hey,” Stuart said, taking her in his arms, “Don’t do that. What’s the matter?”

Gina sniffled. “Being blind most of my life, I’ve always had these pictures in my mind of what I thought things looked like, but now that I can see, everything is so different! I feel like I’m in an alien world, and I don’t know what to trust anymore.”

“Shh,” he said. He held her against him, stroking her hair. “It’s ok. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through. Just tell me what you need so I can be there for you.”

“I have everything I need. I have you.”

She felt ashamed for thinking he could be capable of anything so unspeakable. Her husband had an odd hobby, granted, but his art was beautiful and she couldn’t have been more proud of him.

She decided not to mention the old photo albums and wedding photos she had seen. Whether or not he had been married before was none of her business unless he chose to tell her. It was a conversation for another time.

* * *

Later that night, after a romantic candlelit dinner, Stuart led her upstairs, where they made love by the dim glow of the handcrafted lamp. Along the edge of the lampshade a faded design was visible – a delicate vine with little pink flowers.

Copyright © 2018 Mandy White

Published in Dysfictional 3 and WPaD’s

 Published in Dysfictional 3 and Creepies 3 by WPaD

Vegan Meat

~ ~ But is it organic? ~ ~

“The cow and pig are not even natural animals. Tell me, where in nature can you find a cow? A farm is man-made and cows and pigs are hybridized animals. A pig is cross bred between a muskrat, bobcat and hyena! So you’re eating muskrat… just let that sink in!”

The man on the TV screen continued to rant, struggling against the police officers, who cuffed him and wrestled him into the back of the cruiser.

Sinead sipped her lukewarm coffee, too engrossed in the newscast to pour a fresh one.

Sinead knew the crazy man. She also knew he wasn’t as crazy as he looked.

* * *

Scott Cameron was a former co-worker of Sinead’s, back in the early days of their careers. Fresh out of university and bursting with optimism, Sinead eagerly accepted a job offer from a large corporation. It all sounded so environmental, so save-the-planet perfect, in her idealistic young mind. Even the name sounded environmentally friendly: Evergreen Research. She didn’t learn until later that Evergreen was owned and funded by Monsanto.

Those early days in the laboratories were filled with excitement and discovery, and it was there that she met Scott, also fresh out of university. Sinead truly believed she was making a difference, developing things that would change the world for the better. It wasn’t until reports of the negative effects of their work began to surface, that Sinead realized perhaps her employers weren’t the saints she thought they were.

When Sinead made the decision to part company with Evergreen, they demanded she sign a document bearing the Monsanto logo. It was a gag order, which prohibited her from divulging any information about the work conducted in their laboratories or using knowledge obtained therein to profit herself or others. She had no interest in what went on in those laboratories. She signed the document and moved on, eventually finding employment in genetic research for disease prevention.

Scott stayed on with Evergreen for a while after Sinead left, but she heard through a mutual friend that he had been fired for “ethical differences”, whatever that meant.

* * *

Five Years Later:

Sinead’s contract expired, and the company opted to not renew it. She decided to take some time off and enjoy a much-deserved holiday in Mexico.

One tequila-soaked night in Puerto Vallarta, Sinead spied a familiar face in the nightclub: Scott. He whooped when he saw her, and pulled her into an off-balance bear hug that nearly landed both of them on the floor. He slung an arm over her shoulder and sprayed her cheek with saliva as he shouted into her ear over the music.

“You gotta come see what I’m doing! I made a breakthrough like you never seen before. Makes those ashhats at Monshanto look like kinnergarten! This shit’ll revolutionize the food innustry. It’s gonna be huge! As shoon as the patents go through, I gonna be a billionaire, and I ain’t talkin’ peshos!”

Sinead wiped her cheek and adjusted her balance to counteract Scott’s drunken sway.

“Sounds interesting, but I’m on vacation. Taking kind of a hiatus from work.”

“Thass even better! I’m gonna need a partner when this shit breaks. I’m gonna be so busy. I’m sherious. You’d be perfect for the job. I’ll let ya in on the ground floor.”

“I admit I’m curious. Give me your number and I’ll look you up when I get back home.”

“No, you don’t unnerstand. It’s here. My lab. I live here now. Can’t do this in the U.S. Too many regulations. It would take years to get where I am now.”

“Your lab is here, in Mexico?”

“You betcher sweet ass, baby!”

“Then how can I say no? For old times’ sake.”

Scott raised his glass. “For old times’ sake!”

* * *

Scott’s “lab” was the second bedroom of a two-bedroom rented condo. It didn’t look much out of the ordinary; complete with the occasional bug-hunting gecko. A row of mismatched refrigerators lined one wall of the second bedroom.

“I can’t wait to hear what you’re working on here,” Sinead said, peering into the room. She nodded toward the fridges. “I can’t imagine what those could be for.”

The effects of the previous night’s drinks lingered in the dull throb behind her eyes and parched throat. Scott looked worse than she felt.

“I’m dying of thirst. Let’s get something to drink and then I’ll give you the tour.” He led the way to the kitchen, where he rummaged in the fridge for refreshments.

“I have bottled water, orange juice, or cola. What’s your preference?” Scott had already placed the orange juice on the counter next to a package of Solo cups.

“That’ll do,” Sinead said, reaching for a cup. Assorted bottles of liquor cluttered the counter beside the cups.

Scott added vodka to his orange juice and then offered the bottle to Sinead. She accepted the bottle and spiked her juice as well. What the hell, she thought, I’m on vacation.

Scott went into the living room, where he plopped onto the couch with a weary sigh. Sinead followed and took a seat at the opposite end. She sipped her drink, waiting for him to talk.

“I don’t know how much you might have heard, but I left Evergreen due to some irreconcilable differences,” he began.

“I heard you were fired.”

“Same thing. Potato, potawto. Best thing that ever happened to me. I learned a lot working there, but of course, you know we’re not allowed to talk about that.” He gave her a knowing wink.

“I hate to point out the obvious, but we’re also not allowed to apply any of their research to other projects,” she said.

“I believe the gag order specifies that we’re forbidden to use knowledge gained while in their employ to further the exploits of other corporations… or some shit like that. Basically, it means we can’t divulge their trade secrets to their competitors.”

“But what does it say about becoming a competitor yourself?”

“Well, you can’t do that either, per se. Meaning that you can’t start a company and employ their knowledge in research and development of products similar to theirs. And of course, with all the regulations in the U.S. and FDA approval and all that shit, there’s no way you could do anything without the big M finding out.”

“But you aren’t in the U.S.”

“Bingo! I’m also not a competing corporation. I’m just a guy doing science projects in his back bedroom.”

“But what happens when you try to bring… whatever this is… back into the U.S? You can’t get a patent based on someone else’s research.”

“I’m not. This is all mine. Yeah, I learned a lot working in those laboratories, but they can’t regulate what’s inside my head. I developed this all on my own, and none of it resembles anything those assholes are doing.”

“Somehow I think they’d find a way to claim it if they wanted it.” Sinead drained her cup. “Enough with the suspense. Let’s get to the part where you tell me exactly what you developed.”

“To put it simply, it’s food. I have developed a line of revolutionary new food products. Trendy stuff. Vegan, gluten-free, all that shit. Not processed, but grown. The granola crowd will go nuts for it, pun intended.”

“Like what?”

“Bacon seeds, for one.”

“Fuck off.”

“Seriously. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Scott led the way to the lab-bedroom, where he opened a fridge at the far end of the row. Shelves with rows of fluorescent lighting filled the interior of the appliance. Sinead realized that it wasn’t being used for refrigeration, but as a sort of green house. Trays of small seedlings covered the first two shelves, and larger plants were housed on the lower racks. On closer inspection, Sinead recognized the leaves.

“Corn? You’re growing corn in a refrigerator.”

“Not just corn.” Scott closed the door and opened another, a couple of fridges down the row. Inside were cobs covered with a substance Sinead couldn’t identify. She looked at Scott for clarification. He grinned.

“I give you…” he tapped his fingers on the door, simulating a drum roll. “Bacon on the cob!”

“Bullshit.”

“I shit you not.” He removed one of the cobs from the shelf and held it up to the light. “It grows just like this. All you have to do is cook it.”

Tiny pale rolled-up buds covered the cob. He took one in his fingers and unrolled it, revealing to Sinead what appeared to be an ordinary slice of bacon. The grain of the meat, the fat, the color – all nearly perfect. It was perhaps a bit too uniform, like the vegan fake-bacon sold in stores, but it looked close enough to pass for the real thing. Sinead slid her fingers over it and gasped at the greasy texture.

“It feels real!” she whispered.

“It is real. Pretty cool, huh?”

“It’s edible?”

“Hell yeah! Just like the real deal. It’s delicious, low in calories, high in protein. Gluten-free, too. It’s grown, not raised. Nothing gets slaughtered.” He chuckled. “Except for the plant, of course.”

“So it’s vegan, too.”

“As vegan as a corn cob. Sure, I had to make a few modifications, and maybe there is some pig DNA in there, but that’s science. Ever wonder why vegans always seem so angry? I know I’d be pretty miserable in a life without bacon. They taste this, maybe they won’t be so angry, huh?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s right to generalize. I know plenty of vegans who are very nice folks,” Sinead pointed out.

Scott dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

“That’s beside the point. This shit is revolutionary.”

“I do agree. Wow. This is amazing. If it’s as good as you say, and it gets approval… you could be sitting on a gold mine here. But what if the FDA doesn’t approve it?”

“They will eventually. I’ll start growing it here. Americans will get wind of it after a few thousand tourists get a sample. Get the right billionaire to back it and badda-bing! Suddenly the FDA won’t have a problem with us bringing it into the U.S. And of course they will want it produced there, to corner the market.”

Scott moved to another fridge. “The Bacorn is just the start of it. I also have KFG, but still working the bugs out of it.”

“KFG?”

“Working title. Stands for Kentucky Fried Garbanzos. Modified chick-pea with eleven herbs and spices bred in. But it’s a magnet for fruit flies. Like I said, still working the bugs out.”

Sinead peered into the fridge. Pod-shaped crispy golden brown clumps hung from scrawny vines. A cloud of small black flies rose toward her face and as she waved them away her nostrils caught a delicious savory aroma.

“It smells like…it’s already cooked!”

“Yeah, I think this one is going to be a winner, but it’s not ready yet. We also have the Hamkins, which will require a bit more growing space than I have here, on account of the vines.”

Sinead reached to touch one of the pods and something moved behind the plants. She jumped back with a little scream.

“Oh, don’t worry about him. That’s just Leonard.” Scott reached into the fridge and coaxed the gecko onto his hand. “He helps me with pest control. He loves the fruit flies.”

Sinead concluded her tour of Scott’s refrigerators with a promise to consider his offer. She accepted his business card, which simply read: Scott Cameron – Innovations in Eating, and an email address.

As much as she hated to admit, his offer was tempting. She’d spent all her professional life working for others, following instructions. This project of Scott’s was something new and refreshing. It stimulated both her scientific and creative sides. Breaking new ground by designing never-before-seen products… it was why she had become a scientist. It had endless potential. It could end world hunger, if the plants were hardy enough. If she took Scott’s offer, she would make him see the big picture. If plant-based meats could be engineered to grow on barren land, entire countries could be saved. Appeasing angry vegans was merely a bonus.

* * *

In the end, Sinead dodged a bullet. Her decision not to join Scott’s research “team” turned out to be a wise one. Scott did not get FDA approval for his products. It turned out, people had an aversion to eating genetically engineered meat, even if it was grown organically. Supposedly “health-conscious” people preferred to eat substances processed in factories from unknown ingredients than something they could grow in their own gardens.

Stymied by legal channels, Scott brought his products into the U.S. illegally and grew them in secret. The problem was, he couldn’t mass-market any of it without giving up the secret of their origin. He marketed the stuff as manufactured corn-based products and sold them at hippie festivals and farm markets, but eventually the FDA caught up with him. When they raided his greenhouses, the scandal broke internationally.

What they found… Sinead wasn’t surprised, given Scott’s mental state at the time of his arrest.

There were the Hamkins he’d mentioned, growing on vines like pumpkins. They looked like a whole pig, minus the innards. The torso was solid; savory, smoky meat all the way through.

The KFG had evolved from fried chicken pods into whole pre-seasoned chickens, which solved the pest problem by feeding on the bugs themselves. The disturbing part was that the “chicken” had the head of a gecko.

There were other things – the media declined to mention all of them – but Sinead heard through a source in the scientific community that beef and lamb had been involved as well.

The public was outraged, and of course the ethical argument made headlines: Were they plant or animal? Did they have consciousness? More importantly, was this food truly vegan? Scott argued that it was, since it was plant-based.

Sinead was shocked when they announced the charges, which were not at all what she had expected.

Scott was charged with two offences:

The first was violation of FDA regulations by creating and selling unapproved food substances. For that, he received a fine and probation.

The second was more serious, and it involved a lawsuit levied by their previous employer, Evergreen Research. Scott was charged with theft of intellectual property and breach of the gag order he had signed upon his departure.

Evergreen accused him of stealing the formulas for his products from their company. Their lawyers stated they were prepared to provide proof in a court of law that those exact products had been created in their laboratories years earlier, prior to his employment there.

Copyright © 2018 Mandy White

Pod People: Invasion of the Laundry Zombies

Ernest sat up in bed. “ You hear that?”

Louise looked up from her book. “What’s that, dear?”

“There it is again! It’s the basement door. It’s those damn zombies.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. Just the wind.”

“Wind my ass!” Ernest muttered, glancing at the shotgun leaning against the wall in the corner of the bedroom. These days he kept both barrels loaded, just in case. “It’s zombies, I tell ya! I thought I told you to get rid of those fucking laundry pods.”

The door rattled again. Ernest had installed sturdy new locks, but they would never give up as long as what they desired lay on the other side of the door.

“Dammit, Louise! This is your fault!”

Louise peered at him over the rims of her glasses. “Seriously, Ern? And what do you expect me to do with them? Just throw them away? I paid good money for those, and I can’t buy them anymore. I’m not going to throw away perfectly good products! Besides, they get the laundry so clean and bright!”

“Clean and bright isn’t worth risking our lives.”

Louise gave him one of those looks reserved for naive children and simpletons. “Isn’t it? Stain-free clothes are worth a little risk. Don’t be a coward, Ernest.”

Ernest opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. He knew when he was licked.

“Ok, fine, use them up then. How many are left?”

“I bought the Mega Pack from Costco. I got in on the sale just before they pulled them from the shelves. It was one of the last ones, and I was lucky to get it. People are so rude. Fighting, clawing, just to save a few dollars.”

“Isn’t that the same thing you were doing?” Ernest pointed out.

Louise shrugged. “Well, I got them, so I’ll be damned if I’m just going to throw them away.” She sighed. “I’m sure going to miss those things. They get the laundry so clean and bright.”

* * *

What had started as a stupid YouTube stunt turned into a disaster of epidemic proportions. The idiots who ate Tide laundry pods experienced unfortunate side effects from the chemicals contained in the detergent. Brain function slowed. These individuals, clearly short on brains to begin with, became shambling, babbling shells of their former selves. (one still might argue that it was an improvement) The other, more disturbing effect was the hunger. The Pod People craved the colorful packets of toxin and would go to any lengths to obtain them. They possessed an uncanny ability to sniff them out. Stores stopped selling the detergent after the first few weeks of the epidemic to stop the looting. Citizens were ordered to turn their Tide Pods over to authorities. Anyone found with the pods in their possession would not be eligible for police protection in the event of zombie attack. Attacks were the biggest concern, because bites were the way the plague was spread. And Pod People were bitey little fuckers. They were faster than they looked, in spite of their shuffling gait, and inordinately tenacious when focused on something they wanted – that something being Tide Pods, of course. A bite from one of the Pod People would transfer the toxins that flowed through their veins. Victims of bites began to crave laundry pods, overcome with an irresistible urge to eat them. If not apprehended and incarcerated, they wouldn’t rest until they found and ate some of the detergent. Over time, brain damage set in, transforming them from desperate junkies into shuffling, mumbling zombies. Pod junkies were more dangerous than full-fledged zombies because they still retained some of their (albeit limited) intelligence and still looked like regular people, aside from their desperate, pod-craving behavior. They were also contagious; a bite or scratch from a pod junkie was all it took to spread the addiction.

* * *

And now someone was trying to open the basement door, attracted by the scent of those godfucked laundry pods Louise was so bloody insistent on keeping. Ernest hoped it was just a zombie and not a junkie. Pod junkies were crafty enough to find a way past a locked door. Zombies just bumped against the door like a trapped Roomba until something else caught their attention. Either way, Ernest knew he was in for another sleepless night. He checked his guns to reassure himself they were loaded, and prayed the locks would hold.

* * *

The next night Ernest awoke sitting in his recliner, where he’d dozed off while watching TV. He heard a sound in the laundry room downstairs. He raced to the bedroom to grab his shotgun. The locks hadn’t held after all. One of the bastards had gotten in and from the sound of it, was in the laundry room chowing down on Tide Pods.

A fucking pod junkie.

Ernest cussed silently and crept toward the sound, shotgun at the ready. The hunched figure in the laundry room had its back to Ernest. He raised the gun and clicked the safety off. The junkie stopped munching and turned to face him, streaks of blue and orange running down its chin.

“Clean and bright!” Louise giggled. “Yummy! And they make everything clean and bright!”

Louise wiped an arm across her mouth and Ernest saw the deep red scratches on the underside of her arm. The scuffle at Costco had yielded more than just a bargain on detergent.

“Join me, Ern. It’s Heaven! Heaven, I tell you!”

“Stay back, Louise. Don’t make me – ”

Louise lunged at Ernest and he squeezed the trigger.

Published in Dysfictional 3

Copyright © 2018 Mandy White

Chernobyl Charlie

A heroic dog is the best friend a boy can have.

The old man placed another log on the campfire.

“You kids ready for a story?”

“Yes!” Kylie and Joel chorused together.

Every summer, his daughter-in-law Laura brought the grandchildren on weekends for a backyard campout. The kids got to sleep in a tent and enjoy fireside stories, just like they’d done with their father. Since loss of her husband, a Marine, Laura tried to maintain a connection with his side of the family. The old man appreciated the effort she made. The kids enjoyed his stories and he enjoyed telling them, and boy, he had a lot of stories.

“Get comfortable, ‘cause tonight I got a great story for ya. This one’s about Chernobyl Charlie.”

“Wait!” Kylie ran to the tent to grab her blanket. She returned and nestled in her lawn chair with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. “Okay, I’m comfortable now.”

Her brother rolled his eyes. “Ok, are you ready now? I want to hear the story.”

The old man began,

“There once was a boy, we’ll call him Nathan. This boy only wanted one thing for his entire life: a dog. He didn’t want anything else, not ever.

Every year, his parents would ask him what he wanted for Christmas or his birthday, and his answer was always the same:

‘I want a dog!’ he’d say.

And every time, the answer would be the same: ‘No’.

It wasn’t that his parents were mean, or didn’t want him to have a dog. It was just that they lived in an apartment, and weren’t allowed pets in the building, other than fish or birds. Birds gave him the creeps and goldfish just weren’t the same. Fish were boring. They just sat in a bowl. You couldn’t take them for a walk or pet them or play ball with them.

But one year, the year he turned twelve, Nathan’s life changed forever.

His father had started a new job a year ago, and was making more money. Enough money that they could finally buy a house. A whole house! With its own yard and everything! Most importantly, there was a fenced area for a dog! This year, when Nathan’s parents asked what he wanted for his birthday, the answer was yes. He could have a dog.

His mother agreed to the dog on one condition: they would adopt, not shop. No pet stores or fancy breeds; they would find a shelter dog that needed a home. Nathan was fine with that. Any dog would be a great dog, and he would love it with all his heart.

They registered with the SPCA and a bunch of other rescue groups, looking for a dog that would be a good fit for their family. One day, Nathan’s mother called him to look at something.

She was sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop open to some website.

Nathan took a look over his Mom’s shoulder to see what she was looking at. The screen had a picture of a group of dogs on it.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘There are puppies available for adoption, and you’ll never guess from where. Chernobyl!’ she told him.

‘Isn’t that place like, radioactive or something?’ he said.

His mother explained, ‘According to this, hundreds of dogs roam the woods in the exclusion zone near Chernobyl. They are the descendants of pets that were left behind in the evacuation. Some of the puppies are being brought to the U.S. for adoption. The adoptions will be done through the SPCA, and we’re already registered with them. We can ask to be put on a wait list for one of these puppies if you want.’

It sounded pretty cool, but Nathan had some concerns. He asked his mom, ‘Is that even safe? Like are they mutants or anything?’

‘No, not at all,’ she told him, ‘Many of the dogs are perfectly healthy. No radiation sickness, and they are carefully vetted before they are put up for adoption.’

Nathan was sold. ‘Cool! I want a radioactive puppy!’

‘And if we don’t get one, we will find another shelter pup that needs us, agreed?’ his mom said.

‘Okay!’ Nathan said.”

“What happened that they had to evacuate, Grandpa?” Kylie asked.

“It was a meltdown!” Joel said. “We learned about it in school. Some kind of power plant in Russia. It went nuclear. Like, psssh!” He made a sound that mimicked an explosion and motioned with his hands.

“Well, it didn’t actually blow up, but it was really bad. It happened back in the eighties. They used some pretty dangerous stuff to make electricity in the old days. The power plant at Chernobyl had a bad accident. All the land around it became poisoned from radiation, and the people had to evacuate. The place is still deserted today. You can see pictures on the internet of all the empty buildings. There’s even a deserted amusement park. And nobody can go there even now, because it’s still radioactive.”

“But what about all the animals?” Kylie asked.

“A lot of them got left behind to fend for themselves. Some died, and some just went wild. There was still a working power plant there, thirty years later. And the workers started feeding some of the wild dogs that were running around. And, as dogs do, some of them became friendly again. Eventually, some rescue organizations got wind of it and started to capture the dogs. The wilder ones got checked by vets, fixed so they couldn’t have any more puppies, and then set free again. And they started catching the puppies and finding homes for them.”

The old man took a sip of his coffee, which had gotten cold, and continued the story.

“June twenty-fifth was a date Nathan never forgot, because it was the happiest day of his life. School was out for the summer, but most importantly, the time had come to bring home the new puppy. Surprisingly, their application for a Chernobyl pup had been accepted and they were minutes away from meeting their new family member. Nathan and his mother paced the waiting room of the SPCA, too excited to sit down.

They didn’t know much about the puppy, other than it was a male, approximately four months old, and would grow to be a medium to large-sized dog. The breed was anyone’s guess, but it was said that some of the wild dogs had been running in wolf packs, so the puppy might even have had some wolf in it.

A woman came from the back room, holding a wriggling bundle of black-and-white fur in her arms. When the puppy saw the new people, he squirmed away from the woman. He ran to Nathan, slipping and sliding on the floor on huge, clumsy feet. The puppy whined and wagged his tail so hard his whole body wagged. He licked Nathan’s face, covering it with dog slobber, but Nathan didn’t mind.

‘I’m going to call you Charlie, and we’re going to be best friends!’ he told the dog.”

“Oh!” Kylie squealed. “Just like –”

“Will you shut up and stop interrupting!” her brother said.

“That’s ok. She’s just excited. Right sweetie?” The old man gave Kylie a knowing wink.

“Anyway, where was I? Ah yes. Charlie. He named the dog Charlie, and they were the best of friends from that day forward. They were inseparable.

To most people, Charlie seemed like an average puppy; he liked to chew, had boundless energy and loved Nathan more than life itself. As far as Nathan was concerned, Charlie was exceptional. He was bright and obedient, and easy to train.

Charlie loved to fetch, and his favorite toy was the Frisbee. After he had shredded several regular Frisbees, Nathan bought him a special chew-proof one designed for dogs. Every day they walked to the dog park, rain or shine, to play fetch. Charlie didn’t really need a leash, but Nathan put one on him to and from the dog park to keep the neighbors happy.

One particularly blustery autumn day, Nathan threw the Frisbee and a gust of wind caught it, sending it sailing over the fence and onto the busy street next to the park. Charlie was in hot pursuit. Without missing a beat, he leaped over the fence – a six-foot-high chain link fence it was – and dashed into the traffic. Nathan didn’t have time to wow over the amazing feat of fence-jumping he’d just witnessed – he had to get his dog.

He dashed through the gate, shouting, ‘Charlie! Stop!’ but Charlie was on a mission.

Nathan was too late. The driver of the truck couldn’t possibly have stopped in time, even if he had seen Charlie.

It happened in slow motion, to Nathan’s eyes. The big eighteen-wheeler mowed Charlie down and ran over him, first with the front wheel, and then both sets of wheels on the trailer. He watched in horror as Charlie was flung like a rag doll from one set of dual wheels into the path of the second set.”

“No!” Kylie cried. “You didn’t tell us he was going to die! I don’t like this story.” She looked like she was going to cry.

“Shh! Don’t interrupt!” Joel hissed.

“Don’t worry, it gets better,” the old man assured her.

“Anyhow, there Charlie was, lying in the road, just a limp bundle of black-and-white fur. Nathan’s knees felt weak. He wanted to collapse, but he willed himself to stay standing. He wasn’t going to leave Charlie out there in the traffic, even though he knew it was too late to save him. Tears streaming down his face, Nathan ran toward the scene of the worst horror imaginable.

He reached the edge of the road, and then the unthinkable happened.

Charlie stood up, shook himself off, and walked over to pick up the Frisbee from the street. He trotted happily over to Nathan, holding his head high in the air all proud-like. All he cared about was that he’d gotten the Frisbee. He knew he was a good boy.

Nathan checked him over, and he looked fine. Not a scratch on him, just black marks on the white part of his fur from the rubber tires. He rushed home to tell his parents, but they didn’t believe him. They thought he was exaggerating, but they brought Charlie to the vet just in case.

Dr. Michaels found nothing wrong with him. No injuries of any kind. She explained to Nathan in a condescending way that the wheels of the truck had missed Charlie when the truck passed over him.

‘But what about those black marks in his fur?’ Nathan said. ‘That’s rubber from the tires. I saw the tires run over him.’

“That’s probably grease from the underside of the truck,’ Dr Michaels said. ‘See? That reinforces what I was telling you. The truck straddled him. The tires missed him. He’s one lucky dog.’

Nathan didn’t argue further, but he knew what he’d seen. The most important thing was, his best friend was okay.

Fall turned into winter. Charlie loved the snow as much as he loved everything else. He found fun in everything he did. He learned to ride a toboggan and tried to fetch snowballs. He discovered hockey, which Nathan and his friends played on the frozen pond. Charlie was an excellent goalie.

One day in the middle of a game, they heard screams. Nathan and his friends rushed to help, with Charlie racing alongside.

A crowd of kids were gathered around, and it turned out a small child had fallen into an ice fishing hole. Usually they’ll put some kind of barrier or safety cones to let skaters know there’s a hole, you know. But this jerk, whoever the fisherman was, had just left an open hole there.

The little boy had been skating with his mother. She had already called 911, but time was running out. The poor woman was in hysterics.

Nobody could reach the kid; the hole was too small and the kid had sunk too deep. By the time someone got there with something to cut the hole bigger, it would be too late. That little boy was a goner.

Charlie pushed through the crowd and slithered into the hole like an eel. Nathan wouldn’t have believed the dog would fit, but he did. But how was he going to get out? Now they had lost Charlie as well. Nathan peered into the depths of the hole, trying to get a glimpse of Charlie or the little boy, but saw only blackness. Minute after agonizing minute passed.

They heard sirens in the distance, but Nathan knew help wouldn’t get there in time.

There was still no sign of Charlie. More than five minutes had passed since he dove through the hole in the ice. Nathan started to think that this time Charlie wouldn’t be so lucky.

And then, he saw a glow under the water. The light grew brighter, and then Charlie surfaced, holding the collar of the little boy’s jacket in his teeth. The boys pulled the child out of the water and passed him to his mother.

Nathan helped Charlie climb out of the hole. The dog shook the water from his fur nonchalantly, as though he had just taken a fun little swim.

Nathan hugged him tight and told him what a good boy he was.

The paramedics arrived and performed CPR on the little boy and wrapped him in blankets, then carried him to the ambulance.

The boy survived, thanks to Chernobyl Charlie.

And then there was the time when Nathan was sixteen, and he took a camping trip with a few of his friends. And Charlie, of course. Charlie was a great camping buddy because he was also a night light. You see, he glowed with a soft greenish light when he was happy. All it took was a belly rub or a scratch behind the ears to turn the light on. Or telling him he was a good boy; that worked too.

So, on this camping trip, the boys hiked a ways into the wilderness, to a spot beside a nice little lake. They planned stay a couple of days and do some fishing. The first day, they caught a nice bunch of trout. They cooked a few over the fire for dinner, and packed the rest in ice in the cooler.

Well, it turned out, a bear had caught the scent of their fish. Late at night after the campfire had died down, the bear came into the camp to steal the fish. It was a big bear, too. A Grizzly. The boys had hung all their food in a tree, the way you’re supposed to when you’re camping, but this bear was determined. Mr. Grizzly smelled that food and wasn’t leaving until he found it.”

Kylie shivered and pulled the blanket more tightly around her. “This is scary.” She glanced over at the tent, where she and her brother would be sleeping that night.

“Don’t be a fraidy-cat. There aren’t any Grizzlies around here. Right Grandpa?” Joel said.

“Right. Don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe. I promise there are no Grizzlies here. Remember, the boys were high in the mountains, out in the wilderness.”

“What happened next?” Kylie asked.

“Well, the boys woke to the sound of the bear rampaging through the camp. And I’m not gonna lie, they were plenty scared. They had hung up the food, but not all of it. They had snack foods in the tent with them. A bear’s nose is sensitive enough to detect even a small amount of food. They didn’t have anything to use as a weapon. All they had was an axe, and it was beside the fire.

Charlie started growling. Nathan tried to shush him, but he wanted out of that tent something awful. He started tearing at the door of the tent until he found an opening in the zipper and forced his way through. He charged at the bear, barking and snarling like he’d lost his mind.

He chased the bear away from camp, and in the distance the boys could hear the sounds of a horrible fight – snarls, roars, branches breaking. Once again, Nathan thought his dog was done for.

A while later, Charlie returned. He was covered in blood but otherwise just fine. The boys were pretty shook up. They cut their trip short, packed up the camp and left as soon as it got light. On the hike back, they came across a gruesome sight on the trail. The remains of a large Grizzly bear. The bear had been ripped to shreds. Like it had gone through a meat grinder or something. One of the boys commented how lucky they were that the marauding bear had killed another bear instead of them.

Nathan knew that the bear hadn’t been killed by another bear.

Chernobyl Charlie just panted and smiled. He knew he was a good boy.”

“Time for bed, kids! Say goodnight to Grandpa!” Laura had joined them sometime during the part about the bear.

“But Mom! He’s not done the story yet!”

“I’m done for tonight. We’ll tell more stories about Chernobyl Charlie tomorrow.”

“Give Grandpa a hug.”

Kylie and Joel hugged their grandfather.

“Goodnight, Grandpa. Thanks for the story,” Joel said.

“What happened to Charlie? Like, did he live with Nathan forever?” Kylie asked.

“Well, you know, sweetie, dogs don’t live as long as we do, but I’m sure he had a good long life. Charlie was pretty special.”

After the children were tucked into their sleeping bags, Laura returned and sat next to the fire.

“You know, Nate, I wish you wouldn’t tell them scary stories before bed. Grizzly bears? Can’t you make up something a little, I don’t know… nicer?”

“What’s nicer than a dog that saves the day? Besides, it’s all true.”

“I mean, I know you believe it’s true, but seriously. It’s pretty far-fetched.”

“I promise I’ll tell them a ‘nice’ story next time, ok?”

“OK. Thank you.” She stood and gave him a hug. “You’re a good grandfather. I appreciate all you do for them.” With that she went into the house.

“Don’t mind her, Charlie,” Nate said to the old black-and-white dog that lay at his feet. “I know how special you are.”

Charlie thumped his tail on the ground and a soft greenish glow emanated from his body. He knew he was a good boy.

Published in Dysfictional 3: Down the Psycho Path

Copyright © 2018 Mandy White

The Murphy’s Paw

This story was my entry to a fun little contest the Evil Squirrel’s Nest runs every year. They have lots of great merch and I won a cool mug. The theme of 2020’s contest was Murphy’s Law. This happened back in January-February, when the world was still normal and we had no idea just how appropriate that theme would turn out to be. As 2020 winds to a close and we reflect on the past year and say, “What the actual fuck just happened?”, I thought this story would appropriately fit the mood.

~ Ashley ducked into the first shop she saw with an OPEN sign, praying it had air conditioning. The bell jingled and she breathed the cool air with relief. She had an hour to kill before her audition and didn’t want to sweat away her perfect makeup. If she waited in a coffee shop, she was sure to eat a donut or three, and she was desperate to keep her weight under control. The last three auditions, they had told her she was too heavy for the role. She wasn’t fat, but by Hollywood standards she was twenty pounds overweight. If she wanted to land a breakthrough leading role, she needed to slim down.

She wandered through the dusty little shop, examining the odd assortment of objects in the display cases. What the hell kind of store is this? she thought. She hadn’t noticed a sign on her way in. The place seemed to have a little bit of everything: old jewelry, books, odd ornaments, even some taxidermy. A stuffed possum lay belly-up on a log with a squirrel standing triumphantly atop holding a tiny sword to the possum’s chest. The squirrel was dressed in an adorable Confederate soldier uniform.

An item in a glass display case caught her eye. She paused and leaned forward for a closer look.

“Interesting, isn’t it?”

Ashley looked around for the owner of the voice. “Hello?”

A thin old man stood up from behind the counter. “Sorry ’bout that. Cleaning is a full time job around here.”

From the look of the place, he hadn’t been cleaning for long.

He nodded toward the object in the case. “It’s an interesting piece, isn’t it?”

“It looks like a… a hand.”

“That, me lass, is none other than the Murphy’s Paw.”

“Don’t you mean Monkey’s Paw?”

“No, Murphy. It belonged to me great-great grandfather, Seamus Murphy. He lost it in an accident.”

Ashley jumped back a little. “You have an actual human hand, and it’s from your grandfather?”

The store proprietor beamed proudly. “Great–great grandfather. Yes, indeed!”

“Isn’t that kind of gross?”

“Not at all. It’s well preserved.”

“What’s that mean?” Ashley asked, pointing at the sign. It read, Wishes Granted, Results Guaranteed.

“Just what it says. Legend has it, the hand has the ability to grant wishes.”

“Interesting, if true. How much?”

“Fifty bucks.”

“Are you kidding? For a stupid hand?”

“This is no ordinary hand. This is the hand of THE Seamus Murphy.”

“Never heard of him. What did he do that was so great?”

“Oh, it’s a heck of a tale. Y’see, Seamus was a bit of a drunk. He was also accident prone, probably due to the fact that he spent most of his time drunk. He was always falling down stairs, or tripping over things. As the story goes, one night in a Dublin pub he met a shifty salesman who convinced him to buy some salve he called ‘The Luck of the Irish’. Being the shrewd fellow that he was, Seamus refused to buy anything without trying it first. The salesman instructed him to rub some of the stuff on his hands and then try his luck at a card game. Seamus won, of course, given that the fellows he was playing against happened to be accomplices of the salesman. Seamus gave the salesman all of his winnings, plus the rest of the cash he had in exchange for what was probably just a big jar of lard. He slathered the stuff all over himself from head to toe, boasting that he was now the luckiest man on earth. He staggered out the door of the pub and promptly slipped on the ice and fell. Greased up as he was, Seamus slid down the stairs at lightning speed and shot out into the street like an Olympic luge racer, right into the path of an oncoming tram. The tram car missed his head by inches, but ran over his arm, severing his hand. Seamus kept the hand as a souvenir, calling it his ‘Lucky Paw’. By his reasoning, having lost only a hand in such a freak accident was a stroke of luck, when he came so close to losing his head. Seamus carried the hand with him everywhere, which was usually to one pub or another. In exchange for a pint of beer, he would allow people to touch the hand for luck, and make a wish. After Seamus died, his ‘Lucky Paw’ was passed from one family member to another, and eventually ended up with me.”

“So it’s kind of like a family heirloom, and you’re selling it? Why?”

“I sell antiquities and oddities. This is both. And I believe that it may be of use to someone.”

“Why would someone want a gross old hand?”

“For its power. According to the old stories, it really does grant wishes. Of course, every wish has its price.”

“You stole that from that monkey story.”

“No, no, nothing quite that dark. The Murphy’s Paw will give you luck. Grant wishes even, in exchange for the equivalent in… misfortune. Nothing devastating, of course. Just a bit of inconvenience. Give and take.”

“I’m no stranger to bad luck,” Ashley said. As she gazed at the hand, a sense of calm came over her. She felt oddly attracted to it. “It does have a kind of gothic charm. I could do with a little luck right now.”

Ashley purchased the hand and went to her audition. As she waited for her turn, she wished and wished to land a role – any role. She was nervous, as she always was before an audition. She reached into her bag to find her lipstick and felt movement. A finger caressed her hand, almost lovingly. Instead of scaring her, it had a calming effect.

The audition went well. They liked her, but not for the lead role. She was cast as the lead character’s chubby sidekick. Work was work. She accepted the role, but she wasn’t satisfied. She wanted to be a star.

Back home, Ashley removed the tissue-wrapped hand from her bag and examined it. It didn’t disgust her the way she thought it would. It felt warm and comforting, like a hug from an old friend. She clasped the hand in hers. The fingers seemed to close over hers, surprisingly warm. She closed her eyes and wished. She wished to lose weight effortlessly and stay thin forever. She wished to be thin enough to land a role that would make her famous. She wanted to see her name in lights.

Six weeks later, Ashley arrived at an audition for the lead role in a major motion picture. She nailed it. They said she had the perfect look for the role. She had lost more than twenty pounds. Sure, the sudden onset of multiple food allergies, gluten and lactose intolerance was inconvenient, but it did keep her thin. She couldn’t eat anything anymore without suffering severe gastric distress, except for salads and plain rice.

The movie was a box office hit. She became one of the biggest names in Hollywood, and her face – at least the face of the character she played – was on the cover of every magazine. The problem was, nobody was interested in seeing her. All they saw was the disfigured serial killer with a unibrow that she played in the movie.

It wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind when she wished for stardom.

She held the hand once again, and wished.

She wished for an Academy Award. But no ordinary one. She wanted a truly historic Oscar moment; one that people would be talking about for years to come. She would be world famous, and nobody would ever forget her face. When she walked down that red carpet, all eyes would be on her.

* * *

Oscar night arrived, and Ashley had been nominated.

She was so nervous, she downed a bottle of champagne in the limo on the way to the awards.

Her stomach gurgled. That salad she’d had earlier wasn’t agreeing with her. She had ordered gluten and dairy-free, but the salad dressing tasted suspiciously good. When she inquired about it, the waiter informed her that their house dressing contained cream and the kitchen had gotten the order wrong. It was too late; she’d already eaten it. It was probably fine; there couldn’t possibly be that much cream in it. The champagne calmed her nerves, but it made her a feel bit queasy. Walk it off, Ashley. You’ve got this, she told herself. She took a breath and checked her makeup one last time. She was ready for the red carpet.

Ashley stepped out of the limo to a flurry of camera flashes, a vision of glamor in her sparkly white gown.

Everyone was there. OMG! Was that Meryl Streep just ahead of her? It was! She waited until Meryl had entered the building, then began her walk down the red carpet. She smiled and posed, ignoring the perfect storm brewing in her belly.

Someone from People Magazine was asking her a question. She leaned forward to hear, and then suddenly with a huge URP! she vomited champagne all over the reporter. The force of the puke unleashed a geyser at her other end and she splattered the red carpet with foul brown liquid.

People screamed. Cameras flashed. Hands holding cell phones raised high, all recording video.

Ashley did win the Oscar, but was not present to accept it, having fled following the incident, which became known in headlines as “The Shittening” and “The Shart Heard Round the World.”

We’re Not So Different

~ Published in Tinsel Tales by WPaD ~

My daughter was clearly upset when she arrived home from school. Crystal tossed her pink, sparkly book bag into the corner and gave it a kick.

“Bad day, honey?” I asked.

She didn’t answer at first. Instead, she ducked her chin and pouted as only a twelve-year-old can.

I waited. Finally she looked at me.

“Is it true?” she demanded.

“Is what true, sweetie?”

“That we’re going to Hell?”

“What? Where on Earth did you get that idea?”

Crystal mumbled something unintelligible.

“Pardon me?”

“Becky Bullock! I hate her so much!” she ranted. “Just because her father’s a minister she acts like she’s God and treats everyone else like dirt!”

“Now, I hardly believe God would treat anyone like dirt, honey. Come here and talk to me.” I sat on the sofa, shoving aside a pile of towels I had been folding. Crystal plopped into the cushion, arms folded, glaring at the wall across the room.

“Why exactly does Becky think we are going to Hell and she is not?” I asked her. I suspected I already knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from her classmate’s perspective as well as hers.

“Because of my report,” she said.

“Your report?”

“Yeah, we were all supposed to do an essay about holiday traditions and I did mine about the Christmas tree. I didn’t know the stupid teacher was going to make us read them in front of the class.”

I nodded knowingly. I saw where this was going.

“Go on,” I prompted.

“So anyway, my essay was about the Christmas tree, and how it’s Pagan in origin. Like the story Grandma told us, about how in the old days it was a custom to bring a live tree inside the house to symbolize life and good luck and all that junk.”

“You actually said it that way?” I laughed.

“Not really,” she went to her book bag and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to me.

I relaxed into the cushions to read the essay. I was impressed; it was quite good. Crystal explained how ancient Pagans believed evergreen trees had the power of eternal life because they stayed green through the dead of winter. During the winter Solstice, the darkest days of the year, they adorned their homes with the boughs of evergreens in hopes that the magic of the trees would bring the sun back for another year. It was said that the ‘sun was born’ during the Solstice. Feasts and celebrations were also held during this time to keep people’s spirits high and fend off the starvation that threatened during the lean months.

It was clear that Crystal’s depiction of the pre-Christian roots of some holiday traditions had offended her classmate, who had no doubt learned a different story in her household.

“So, at lunchtime Becky and a bunch of her snotty friends corner me and start teasing me, telling me that my whole family is going to Hell. ‘Jesus is the reason for the season!’ she says to me. Then she starts calling me a witch and a Satanist and a h-heretic!” Crystal sniffled and began to cry.

“What did you say to them?” I asked.

“I called them a bunch of assholes and then I ran away.” She peeked warily up at me from beneath tearstained eyelashes, checking to see if she was in trouble.

I burst out laughing. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help myself. The mental picture of Little Becky Bible-Thumper and her friends’ faces after my daughter called them assholes just wouldn’t leave, and try as I might, I couldn’t help cracking up. That’s my girl, I thought. Your Great-Grandmamma would have been proud.

“That wasn’t very nice of you to say that. And it wasn’t nice of them to make fun of you either,” I told Crystal, who had begun to giggle through her tears at my reaction. “But, you could have gotten yourself in trouble. Remember the old saying, ‘two wrongs don’t make a right’. Becky is entitled to her beliefs just as much as you are.”

“But Mom!” Crystal insisted, “She doesn’t have to be mean about it!”

“No, she doesn’t,” I agreed. I put my arm around my daughter and cuddled her close. “You remember all the stories Grandma used to tell? The ones about her ancestors?”

Crystal nodded. “Yeah, that’s where I got the one about the tree stuff.”

“Well, then you also remember that our family lineage goes way, way back, to long before Christianity was even thought of. Our kind has been through happy times, and there have been dark times as well. Many of our ancestors were persecuted by the church and burned at the stake for things as trivial as practicing herbal medicine, or for voicing their own beliefs, much as you did today.”

“Which is why they’re a bunch of assholes!” Crystal said.

“From your perspective, it may seem that way. Try to think outside the box for a moment. Christians have also been persecuted for their beliefs in the past. Jesus was executed for the ideals he taught. Look at the Jewish people, and think of all that they have been through, or the Native Americans. No matter which culture, which religion you look at, you will find some point at which those people were victimized because their beliefs were different from someone else’s.”

“So everyone gets bullied, no matter what they believe, then. That doesn’t make it right.” Crystal observed.

“No, it doesn’t. It’s not a question of right or wrong, good or evil. From our own personal perspective, each of us is right, and the Creator has given us many paths to choose from. What’s great about the times we live in is that we are no longer in fear of being slaughtered for our beliefs. Neither is Becky Bullock’s family, or Jimmy Goldberg’s. We live in a time when a Wiccan child like you can learn in the same classroom as Becky, Jimmy, and all the other children who come from different cultures and backgrounds. Opinions will always differ, but if God is perfect, as Becky’s father teaches, then all must be right in the Universe.”

“So how am I supposed to deal with Becky next time she calls me a Satanist? Put a hex on her, or just punch her in the face?” Crystal asked.

“Neither!” I laughed. “What you put out there is what you will get back, threefold. To quote your grandmother, ‘Remember ye the law of three. For what ye do comes back to thee’. Or, to put it in terms Becky might understand, ‘Ask, and ye shall receive’. So, to answer your question, if you approach a situation expecting disharmony, you will encounter disharmony. If you go into it intending harmony, then that is what you will get back. Somebody famous once said, ‘Peace is achieved through understanding, not conflict.’ Remember that Becky is not so different from you. She deserves to be treated with the same tolerance for her beliefs that you expect for yours.”

“Fat lot you know about bullies, Mom. The whole, ‘walk away’ thing doesn’t always work. I may still have to punch her in the face, just warning you.”

“If walking away doesn’t work, then ask her how Jesus would have handled the situation. That might make her stop and think. You think about it too. How do you think Jesus have reacted?”

Crystal shrugged. “I guess Jesus would have turned the other cheek. Isn’t that what the Bible says? To love your enemies and stuff like that?”

“Exactly. Treat others with compassion, even those who oppose you. It’s what my mother taught me, and what I’ve always told you. Our beliefs are not much different from what Jesus taught.”

“But I don’t love Becky! I can’t stand her! She’s just so… mean to everyone. Especially me.”

“You don’t have to be her best friend or anything. All I’m saying is, think before you react. Negative reactions won’t result in peace. If that doesn’t work… well, be sure to ask your teachers for some homework if you get expelled.”

“Becky might get expelled, too,” Crystal commented, a hint of hope in her voice.

“See? I told you, you aren’t so different from each other.”

We giggled and snuggled on the sofa. The Christmas tree sparkled in the corner and the angel at the top smiled down at us as we gazed out the window at the falling snow.

Copyright © 2013 Mandy White

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