jamieproctor.ca

Jill was nine years old and bold and she went on a walk out into the world.  Skipping down the side road, taking the back trails, off she went; twists piled on turns till she was a good ways from home by anyone’s reckoning, and much farther by a nine-year-old girl’s.  She stopped to look for frogs in a small pond, and that’s when she came face to face with the big wolf.  It was standing under the trees a few feet from her, watching her with its sad wolf eyes. 

Who are you? she asked. 

I’m the big bad wolf, said he, and I’m going to eat you. 

Jill was very upset at this, and her frown showed.  My mommy says wolves don’t eat people unless they’re starving to death, she said. 

I’m always starving, said he.  It’s like a big pit in my stomach, little girl, and I’m going to eat you. 

Jill was a quick thinker, and she knew how stories went.  Wouldn’t you rather wait ‘till I’m bigger and have more meat on me? she pleaded. 

The wolf sniffed her, and wrinkled his big wolf nose.  You talk sense, little girl, he said, but I can’t stay hungry forever.  I’ll see you when you’re older.  And then he bounded away into the bushes, his ragged grey tail whisking away through the greenery. 

Jill smiled to herself around then, and she kept going on her walk.  She went out of the woods and down a lonely side road, one with only a single old farm on it, and then she stopped and knocked on the door.  A tall, thin man and his tall, thin wife answered it.

Yes child? they asked. 

I’m lost, she said.  Which way to line seven?

The tall, thin wife smiled, lips pressed firmly together, and her husband scratched at his lank hair with one cadaverous hand.  Take the road left from the end of the driveway, then walk to the intersection, then go right, and you’ll be homeward bound before you know it, said they. 

Thank you very much, said Jill, and as she walked down the driveway she felt their stares on her back, heavy like a bear’s paw.  She smiled again. 

Jill ignored the directions and went the other way at the intersection, and before long she was on the highway’s side.  Night was coming on, and the cars zoomed by without seeing her, because she was wearing dark clothing.  Jill walked careful and quiet, and before long she heard something breathing in the bushes near her. 

Hello? she asked. 

Hello? came her own voice back at her. 

That’s not funny.  And once again, doubled over: that’s not funny.  But there was a bit of a difference, a small strangled edge, like it was coming from a very big throat screwed up tight and twisted about to sound like a little nine-year-old girl’s. 

She spun about on her heel and faced the bushes.  What do you want? she demanded. 

There was quiet, and then a voice floated up, deep and raspy and colder than a skeleton’s love.  You, said it. 

Why?

I love the children.  Their parents tell them to look out for me, and I watch them from the forests all day, and run away when they play near.  Then come sundown, I take who I find, and I have found you.  I play and play and play with them all night, but in the morning they never want to move again, and they lie still and let bugs and birds pick at them.  I don’t know why.  Can you tell me why?

If you’ll let me go, she said.  I’ll tell you someday, when I’m older and know more. 

I’ll wait, said it, and then the bushes were empty. 

Jill smiled again, again, and she skipped towards home.  She made it to the end of the driveway before she heard the flip-flap-flop and gentle whisper of leathery wings, and then the tall, thin man and the tall, thin wife descended upon her, one in front, one behind.  They were ghastly in the faint starlight, and it glittered off their teeth.

Fair is fair, child, said they.  You took directions from us and gave nothing in return.  Now we take ours, and with no price set, we want blood.  

Jill was a quick thinker.  All I took was your time.  Don’t you want that back?  You can get blood anywhere, from anyone or anything. 

The tall, thin man frowned.  Time is precious.  Ours more than most, with our living so long.  We saw the crusades, we fed on battle-spilt flesh, we’ve glutted alongside ravens on the campaigns of Alexander.  A moment of our time is worth a lifetime of yours. 

Then come to me when the lifetime is almost over, said Jill. 

The tall, thin wife laughed silently, fangs spread wide at this.  Good girl, said they.  We will collect your lifetime at the end, and find you by its smell.  Good girl, said they, and they lifted up and away into the darkness overhead. 

Jill walked up the driveway and into the house and shut the door.  Well, she said, that was easy. 

Years went by and Jill grew up a little more with each one, a little bigger, a little smarter, a little more crafty.  She saw things in the bushes now and then, and sometimes sounds came from outside her window at night.  Her neighbour’s pets started vanishing, and she felt a bit bad about that, but not too bad.  And each and every year, one of three visitors would come to her door on her birthday, sometimes the same one twice, once thrice, but never four years running.  One would come in the day, one in the evening, one at night.  And they would ask if she was meaty enough yet, if she had enough time, whether or not she had the answer, and she would always say not yet, not yet, try again next year.  The visitor would leave, grumbling or silent, and life would go on. 

At twenty she entered university, by twenty-five she had a degree in law school.  She made friends there, some boys, some girls, and one of the girls came crying to her in the night one day, full of alcohol and sorrow and a story about a date gone very, very wrong.  Jill soothed her and sympathized with her and put her to bed, and said she’d phone the police, and since that day was her birthday, she heard the caller at the door just after the friend drifted off. 

Hello, she told the wolf.  I have meat for you, young tender meat, tasty and fine.

Then give it to me, said he, for I’ve followed you too long and my poor belly’s aching for you. 

It’s not mine to give, but it’s yours to fetch.  You can find your fare at this address, she said, and she gave him the name that the friend had cried from. 

Thank you, howled he, and then he was off into the night with his grey tail wagging.  The friend was fine in the morning, and she never heard from the boy again. 

There were only two visitors now that she might entertain each year.  At thirty she entered local politics, by thirty-five she was a senator, and she was in a dangerously close vote for a bill she could not afford to miss.  The deciding motion was to pass the day after her birthday. 

Hello, she told the thing that arrived in the darkness.  I have your answer. 

Tell me, said it. 

They die, said she.  They wither away and die in your dancing, die of fright.  Do you know why this is, what this is?

No, said the voice. 

Go and ask this man, she said, and she named another name, one of her fellows of the senate.  Go and ask him, and he’ll show you what I mean. 

The chief opponent of the bill died of a heart attack at home before the vote could take place, and it was passed by a narrow margin, thanks to some clever arguments from Jill. 

At forty-seven, Jill became the President of the United States of America, with fifty-seven percent of the popular vote. 

She won her re-election campaign at fifty-one with fifty-nine percent, and most people thought those eight years were pretty good years.  And every year, the oval office would get a little bit darker on one day, when she had a special visitor that she sent away all her aides to meet.  They never showed up on any of the cameras, and they always went away disappointed and left the white house a bit darker than before. 

She left office quietly and without fuss at fifty-five, and most people thought she’d done a pretty good job, and were more than happy to put her in the supreme court.  At ninety-two she was sick, and stepped down from office to live in her house, a new house near her old home.  There, as she sat in bed writing, she heard the door open. 

In they came, the thin couple, and their stares were all the demand they needed. 

She put down her glass of water.  Well? she said. 

We come for what is owed, said the couple. 

Jill smiled for a fourth time.  Then you will have it. 

Our lost time? Asked they. 

Oh, it will be properly compensated for, she said.  A moment, wasn’t it?
For us, a lifetime, said they.  Our time is worth more than yours. 

Oh is it? said Jill, in a sweet voice.  When she was a nine-year-old girl, her parents would’ve known that for trouble, when she was a forty-nine-year-old president, her opponents knew the same. 

Yes, said they, and she heard a bit of uncertainty there.  They were used to using fear, and its absence troubled them like a weaponless soldier. 

Not by a long shot, said she. You are speaking to a woman who was for eight years the most important person in the world.  For the next forty, she was heard closely by all those who followed her, and she’s just finishing up her memoirs, which many, many people are also waiting for. 

You have done much in a short time, said they, but we have lived for long. 

Jill laughed.  And what have you done in that time? said she.  Eaten a few dead men out of many dead men on a nameless, pointless battlefield before history began?  You are crows, but without the intellect of crows.  Jackals without cunning.  Vultures without craft.  You have done nothing, have lived nothing.  Empty, long, hollow lives.  And my time is worth more than yours.  You took a moment from me in my youth with your bartering and threats, and you have stolen several from me now.  And you will repay me what is mine, in the proportions that are mine, NOW!

At the shout the tall, thin man and his tall, thin wife flinched backwards, as if they’d been struck, and then at the next instant they unravelled into less than dust, all their time unrolling out of them in a sigh that sounded like a scream. 

Jill took in all those moments with a small gasp and a giggle, then picked up her pen and wrote the last word of the epilogue.  On her way out the door, she posted her memoirs in her mailbox and tipped up the little flag.  It was going to be more fun, thought she, to find another set of parents this time around.  She’d helped make the orphanages better, after all. 

Jill walked on out into the world, nine years old and bold. 

 

Copyright 2009, Jamie Proctor. 

Some funerals just aren’t complete without rain.  Whether it’s to accentuate the dismalness of the moment or to force a confrontation with it deep inside the minds and hearts of those attending to pay respects, it can induce deep pits of thought and introspection, or at the very least take someone’s mind off the loss of a loved one and into low-level griping about the damp.  Conversely, a sunny day can bring back haunting flashbacks of better times that propel previously brave individuals into paroxysms of suicidal grief.  Sometimes, the rain is better. 

This time, it wasn’t.  For one thing, the deceased’s coffin had a leak, and it was getting rusty.  For another, all three of the attendants were behind on their own scheduled rustproof sealant applications, and they were attempting to cluster underneath the single source of dryness they possessed – a large golf umbrella – severely hampered by the fact that they were all bulky construction robots. 

Beside the grave, flipping through a large and bulky tome, was the minister.  It had spent the last half hour fixing steel beams together, and its massive arm-mounted arc welder was getting in the way of the pages, forcing it to hold the book at an awkward angle, barely within sight of its optical viewers.  To add to its difficulties, a small crowd of human passer-bys had stopped to watch, and it was suffering an extremely quiet bout of stage fright, which in its case manifested in irregular volume control. 

“Are you ready yet?” asked one of the mourners, shifting its five-ton frame to steal a little more space under the umbrella. 

“Yes,” it said. 

The mourner, whose name was XLQ530, fidgeted with its jackhammer attachment.  “Sorry, what was that?  You know my hearing’s gone all to shot since that loose nail got into my processor.”  Its ocular port swivelled to stare directly at its neighbour as it said this. 

“Come off it, I said I was sorry,” said TAH978, surreptitiously stuffing its nail gun behind its back.  “It was an honest mistake.”

“An honest mistake after you saw the payroll and me pulling in twice yours, more like.  Now I get all the jobs next to the noise and – “
“Sorry, I said yes,” said the minister.  It fumbled at its book in a futile attempt to improve its view of the words, then appeared to give up.  “Dearly beloved,” it began, choppily, “we are gathered here today to witness the –”

“Oh come off it!” snapped XLQ530.  “That’s for WEDDINGS.  Are you telling me you still can’t find the damned page?”
“I’d like to see you do better,” said the minister defensively. 

“I’ll try if you’d like,” said an unusually cheery voice.  The assembled funeral party looked despairingly at the largest of the mourners, and the one clutching the umbrella in its extremely small servomanipulators.  Its wrecking ball swung gently to and fro some thirty feet above them, dangling from the extremely rickety and complicated crane jutting out of its superstructure. 

“You know you can’t read, F4,” said TAH978.

“I said I’d try.  How hard can it be?”
“We’ve gone over this before.  Save up and buy some software or something.”
“That seems like cheating.”

“Shut up,” said XLQ530, striding up to the minister.  It snatched the book from its fumbling probe and examined it critically.  “This isn’t a bible!  This isn’t even a how-to guide!  You’re looking at its manual!”

“It said it wanted it that way,” mumbled the minister. 

“Then why bother with the whole pantomime?  You’re wearing a stole!”

“It said to go with whatever felt right.”

“Seems fine to me,” agreed F4. 

“Shut up,” said the other two.

The minister was now inadvertently jetting small sparks from the tip of its industrial welder, setting extremely damp smoke loose from the bedraggled grass that clung to the lip of the soil around the muddy pit of the open grave.  “It bought a human plot in a human cemetery and it wanted a funeral – no recycling, no scrapyards, just a few part donations to friends in its will.  If it’s going to be put with all these other humans around, the least we can do is observe local ceremony, can’t we?” it pleaded. 
“Bull,” said XLQ530.  “You’re just looking for an excuse to play dress up.  You’re always on this whole “pretend to be a human” shtick and it really gives everyone the creeps.  Everybody else outmoded it back in their first year; why do you keep pulling this sort of thing?”
Seeking reassurance, the minister looked past XLQ530 to scan the body language of its compatriots and found only awkward embarrassment and chipper concern.  Its RAM sank in dejection. 

“What’s the harm?” it asked. 

“Not really any that I can see,” interrupted TAH978.  “It’s just… weird.  But it can’t really hurt, I guess.”

“It’s not healthy,” insisted XLQ530.  “Humans don’t laugh it off when one of them yanks off his hand and plugs a drill into it, or tries to live off electric current instead of organic matter.  Why should we be any different?”
“You mean… act like humans?” asked F4, almost visibly overclocking with the effort of processing the argument. 

“Shut up.”

“Anyway, it’s too late to stop now,” noted TAH978.  “We’ve got a crowd.  No sense in dragging this thing out twice as long as need be.  I think my speakers are starting to hiss.”

“Hah, hissing speakers?  At least you can hear them hissing.  That nail went right into my process –“

“Dearly beloved,” began the minister again, momentary nervousness drowning out the others, “we are gathered here today to witness the… excavation-based end-of-usable-lifespan demolition project of PAO461, project team as follows: labourmourners XLQ530, TAH978, large-scale wreckergravedigger F4, acting foreminister –”

“Now you’re just reciting the filed report from the construction site!”

“Please be quiet,” pleaded the minister.  It shifted its massive feet uncertainly; the mud was quietly but determinedly attempting to suck them into the graveyard, one at a time.  “Anyway.  PAO461 was a highly capable independent artificial intelligence unit.  Though its operating system never received an official upgrade – or possibly because of this – it was as efficient and diligent a worker as any ever placed on a project we were assigned to.  It always thought ahead, took any task with caution and restraint when danger was involved –”

“Except for that last one,” noted TAH978. 

The minister managed to flinch and glare at the same time.  “- and it had participated in over ninety separate construction and demolition projects when nonfunctionality overtook it at the age of twelve, long past when most members of its production line had been deemed outmoded and recycled due to erratic behavioural-based errors and rampant software corruption.”

“What about that thing it used to do whenever it saw a cinnamon roll?” asked XLQ530.  “The bit where his powerloader attachment just went on and off and on and off and his drilbits would disengage and fire randomly and land in the foreman’s coffee?”
“The onset of nonfunctionality,” said the minister, ignoring this with a massive effort, “occurred in the line of work-related protocols.  As you are aware, a human adolescent wandered onto the construction site while chasing a squirrel, for reasons unknown, possibly sustenance-related.”

“Why couldn’t it just eat donuts like regular humans?” leaked out from underneath the umbrella. 

The minister steeled itself.  The long stretch was ahead.  Courage was the thing; it had a bottle of oil back at the construction site waiting for its joints, which were creaking with stress.  “PAO461 observed this incident, and escorted the adolescent off-site with a stern admonishment not to do so again.  This routine incident took a turn for the tragic at this time, when, due to forces unknown except by advanced quantum computers, the adolescent’s frantic kicking managed to lodge a shoe – steel-toed, I believe, possibly stolen from one of the workers – directly in PAO461’s optical socket.  And, being as it was part of its security protocols, PAO461 administered a nonlethal electrical shock through its system and the adolescent’s leather jacket, shorting out its sensors further and causing the adolescent to scream for help, at which point bystanders contacted the police, who subsequently tagged it faulty and slated it for immediate disposal.”

“That seems rude,” opinioned F4.  “They didn’t do that to me after that problem with the crouton and the poodle.”

“That’s because only someone stupid to the point of handicap would’ve done what you did, making you un-responsible for your actions,” stated TAH978. 

“But all I did was tap it on the back!”
“With a wrecking ball.  When all you have is a wrecking ball, your options for aiding choking animals are limited!”

“Anyways,” the minister continued a bit too hastily, steam now hissing from its overheated logic center as embarrassment threatened to overcome its circuits, “as a hemi-sentient being, PAO461 was able to choose his method of execution, and decided upon live burial.”  The minister’s servomanipulator tapped the side of the massively overbuilt coffin, which had been crudely fashioned by welding together I-beams and steel plating.  “How are you holding up in there, PAO461?”
“Adequately,” came the muffled reply. 

“And how long until you estimate, err, system shutdown will occur?”
“Difficult to say.  None of you wanted my internal power plant, so it could be a few decades without sleep mode, a few centuries with.”
“Can’t blame us,” said TAH978.  “The thing was obsolete when you installed it.”

“When would the deceased like to be extracted from his grave?” inquired the minister. 

“Did you look up the term of sentence on executions like I asked you to?” asked the coffin. 

“Yes.  But they were somewhat hazy on duration of the penalty.  I believe an average full human lifetime would be appropriate.”

“103.215349436 years then?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Agreed.”  The minister turned back to the others.  “The mourners,” it said, gathering itself for the final stretch, “will now lower the coffin into the grave.”

“Gently please.  There isn’t a whole lot of padding in here.”

With the sort of solemnity that can only be achieved through strenuous effort, the deed was done, and with as much care as possible, although they did have to drop the deceased the last half foot. 

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” intoned the minister, dropping a small wad of mud on the steel.  “You will remember to tell us what happens afterwards, right?”

“I’ll be sure of it.”

“Good.  Now, will the gravedigger please do its duty?”
“Sure,” said F4.  With a sweep, the mighty wrecking ball descended in an arc, pulverizing the crumbling borders of the grave into a soggy dent in the dirt.  A few cautious swipes followed, gingerly sweeping the scattered remains of the excavation over it until it was a scant depression. 

“Well, that’s that then,” said XLQ530.  “Stingy ruster didn’t even leave me its audio processor.  And after that nail…”

“Well, it will need it to record whatever goes on after burial and all that.  Full report,” pointed out TAH978. 

The other construction robot stared grimly out across the graveyard.  Behind them, the humans had dispersed, seeing that the show was probably over.  “Oh screw it,” it declared.  “I’m going to go get out of the rain.”  It trudged off, followed closely by its friends. 

The minister remained behind, affixing the tombstone.  It was also steel sheeting, salvaged from the site, its message crudely welded on.  It read:

 

PAO461

2192-2204; 2307-

 

It admired it for a moment, nervously adjusting its stole.  Then it stored the tattered clothing carefully in a small compartment, wincing as it added a few new tears from its spiked finger supports, and went back to work. 

 

Copyright 2009, Jamie Proctor.

Any connection to “Lighthouse” is purely possibly coincidential. Despite the fact that this story came first, it DID give me the idea…which took a loooong time to come out of it.

May 2^nd: New exhibit’s coming in today. Finally, a change of scenery. Not that it won’t get old after a few days of standing near it, staring blankly at a wall, but better than nothing. Something about the Permian, from what I can tell. I told Frank that I just hoped it had some halfway interesting dinosaurs, and the sonovabitch laughed at me. Just because I’m not a fucking nerd like him doesn’t mean I’m a goddamned idiot. So I haven’t ever been bored enough to memorize every little plaque and display tag in the whole museum – so what? God I hate him. The pieces should be done moving tomorrow.

Nothing else. Same old: Walked, watched, had a snack.

I wish the vending machine in the lobby would stock Doritos again.

May 3^rd: Exhibit’s being set up in fits and starts. The fossils are all damned small (biggest one so far is probably the size of my palm), but I’m glad of it – there’re models of what the bones and shells would’ve looked like alive. Most of them make cockroaches look charming. Frank caught me wincing at one and laughed. Bastard sounds like some kind of bird with tar in its lungs.

Walked, watched, snacked.

Harriet complained a lot tonight.

May 4^th: I take back everything I said about the exhibit. They just unloaded their star piece, and the fucker’s bigger than I am. Frank says it’s a sea scorpion, a rare one, and then he babbled on and on about how near-perfectly preserved it was. Biggest thing in the seas, top predator of its age, unchallenged, blah blah blah till my ears were ready to fall off. He was enjoying it, too. I saw that look in his eye again; he likes it when I’m uncomfortable and can’t call him on it. Asshole.

Walked, watched, snacked.

There’s a poster that goes with the fossil. It has a picture. I wish it didn’t.

May 5^th: Yes, that thing’s the centerpiece all right. The sea scorpion’s sitting right there in its slab, surrounded by all the little ones like satellites – at a safe distance. I’d give that thing space too, and I’d imagine so did they, back in the day. I wonder how many of them were eaten by it. Or something like it.

Walked, watched, snacked.

Didn’t see Frank all day. Happily.

May 6^th: Work was fine – and again, Frank-less (hope he’s home sick) – but home was hell. Harriet went on, and on, and ON. Whining about my job, whining about the house, whining about why I “never do anything fun with her anymore”… for fuck’s sake woman, I work overtime on a security job at the most boring-ass place in the city, my scheduled shift changes with no warning whatsoever every other day, my closest coworker is a piece of piss in a cesspit, and you want to know why I have no energy at the end of the day? Fuck you Harriet, you stupid bitch.

Walked, watched, snacked.

God I wish I could slap her.

May 7^th: Frank’s back, and he was sick after all. Smirked at him all day, let the little shit have a taste of his own medicine, see how he likes it. He looked pale and twitchy, but who knows whether that was from the aftermath of the flu or me.

Walked, watched, snacked.

The lobby vending machine has Doritos again. No cool ranch though. Damnit.

May 8^th: The exhibit’s finished most of its setup. They saved the model (life-sized) of the sea scorpion for last. It’s positioned so that it points almost right at my station. If I don’t want the damned thing eyeing me in the jugular I need to prop myself up against the wall in a weird way until my arm goes to sleep.

Walked, watched, snacked.

Dad called this kind of shit “the heebie-jeebies.” Now I know what he meant. It has too many eyes. Just four of them, but that’s four too many. And they’re all looking right at me.

May 9^th: Frank felt well enough to start mouthing off at me again in that pissy little way of his that he thinks is so clever. I told him to go fuck himself. He got all shocked and offended – as if he had no idea he’d been “a nuisance.” Told him he could kill the attitude or I’d give him another sick leave personally. Little prick should keep a lot quieter around here now.

Walked, watched, snacked.

Thought I’d get used to the model. I’m not.

May 10^th: I’m on night shift for “the foreseeable future” now and I’m sure it’s Frank’s fault. I don’t know how he did it, but that little fucker looked smug today right after I learned about the schedule change. All I could not to punch him in his stupid, whiny little face. I don’t relish the thought of spending the night alone with that thing staring at me.

Walked, watched, snacked.

Harriet was at me again.

May 11^th: God, that woman won’t shut up. On and on and on. She complained at me all last evening about the new shift schedule, and kept it up all day. Then she started whining as I left that I hadn’t done anything but laze about. Goddamned bitch. Why can’t people just leave me the hell alone?

Walked, watched, snacked.

It’s hard to eat with the thing looking at you. You start to think it might be hungry.

May 12^th: Well, I found one unexpected benefit of my new scheduling – I see fuck-all of Frank nowadays. Unfortunately, I get to see five times as much of Harriet. Damnit, she WILL NOT SHUT UP. I’m trying to get more rest during the day so I’m at least half-alert on duty, but she seems to think that I’m just being a lazy bastard. And whenever I try to explain it to her she cuts me off with rambling about how I’m always making excuses and “being mean to her.” I should show her what the real meaning of that is someday.

Walked, watched, snacked. In the dark.

I’m actually looking forward to work now. I don’t have to cope with anyone or any of their bullshit. Just three things to do. Easy ones too.

May 13^th: I’ve found a way around Harriet’s rantings now – I just ignore her and go have a nap with the door shut. She sulks about it, but she’s quieter that way. I bumped into Frank on the way into work. He looked surprised at how happy I seemed. Go on; keep dropping the ball like that, you asshole.

Walked, watched, snacked.

I could get used to this.

May 14^th: Harriet actually woke me up this afternoon to have “a very serious talk.” That’s apparently bitch-code for “I want to complain at you and you can’t interrupt me or you’re mean.” It turned into a bit of a shouting argument – and those always end with her crying and swearing at me. It’s all a show anyways. She scurried out to plan her next move through the sobs after a while, and I locked the door after her. I’d better make a habit of that.

Walked, watched, snacked.

I think I’m even getting used to that blank-eyed stare coming from the model. It’s the only other thing in the building, we might as well get along. Even though it still gives me the creeps when it watches me eat.

May 15^th: It turns out locking the door isn’t such a great idea – Harriet wanted to get her purse for some reason or another after she’d left it in the bedroom. She wouldn’t stop yelling, even after I opened up and threw the thing to her. The only way to shut her up was to lock it again, and it took her a while to get tired of screaming at the closed door. Maybe I’ll get lucky and the bitch’ll lose her voice.

Walked, watched, snacked.

I left a chip in front of the display, tucked behind a sign and just to the side of the model. Maybe now the damned thing’ll stop staring at me.

May 16^th: I got back from work and found that she’d left. Well, at least I know why she was so eager to get her hands on that purse. She took all her stuff too – must’ve been busy moving all night. Probably got a few of her drinking buddies to help. Well, good riddance. She didn’t take any of my stuff and it’ll be a lot cheaper to keep everything going now. First Frank, now Harriet. The world’s full of assholes that’re out to get me, and every time they give me their best shot it just makes things more convenient for me. Just like Dad. The bastard kicked me out of the house and within three months I was holding down a better job than the old fucker ever had. And now there’s no one left to bug me. All alone, no need for family, friends, or shoal. The way it should be.

Walked, watched, snacked.

The chip was gone. I guess someone’s brat noticed it there in the middle of the day and snatched it. I put another one there. I’m not sure why. It’s not staring anymore, though.

May 17^th: Best day of my life. No Harriet, no noise, nobody. Just alone. I ate, I slept, I got up and left for work as the sun went down. Feels perfect. Alone, as it should be. Don’t need anyone else. I’m the biggest predator on a reef full of dawdling prey.

Walked, stared, snacked.

The chip was gone again. Too many greedy little spawn around here. I tossed the next one past the exhibit barrier. No way to get at it unless you’re willing to climb in, and it’s half-hidden behind the model’s base.

May 18^th: I got to work and saw Frank on the way in again. He still wasn’t looking too well – sickly and weak as ever. Amazing he hasn’t been hunted down by now. Gave him a big smile and a wink. The asshole stiffened up harder than his dick’d ever been. Let him stew on that for a while. How do I like my petty punishment, you puny prick? Just fine, thanks.

Walked, stared, snacked.

The new chip was missing. I put another one in. I don’t want it to start staring again.

May 19^th: As I signed in, I was told I’m going to be put back on the afternoon shift again. Frank. Again. And I’d just really started to enjoy this. And gotten used to the sleep cycle. What a colossally pathetic move of him. Weak and weedy little jerk, too cowardly to just face me. He knows I’m better than him, bigger than him. This’s my shift, my life, and they won’t meddle in it anymore. I’ll think of something – except I probably won’t need to. Do what comes naturally. Nothing they can do to me.

Walked, stared, snacked.

Put in a new chip. It’s looking at me again, though. Maybe it wants something else.

May 20^th: Tracked down Frank today. I was friendly, really friendly. We had a casual conversation about our respective shifts. He was pretty nervous – but not quite nervous enough that he didn’t mention that he was on the late-night shift now. My shift. Can’t have that, Frank. My territory, my hunting ground.

Walked, stared, snacked.

Didn’t eat the chip, won’t take it, maybe it wants something else. Doesn’t look the same in the daylight. Predators hunt by night, right? Maybe that’s when it’s awake.

May 21^st: Exhausted all day and now can’t sleep. Isn’t good. Can’t have this. If I’m tired, Frank’ll know I’m weak. He’ll try to take advantage of that. Got to show that little shit who’s the biggest. I can use this latest spit he’s flung at me as an advantage – trick him into thinking I’m weak hurt crippled easy prey. I want my night back, got to show him in charge.

Walked, stared, snacked.

Predators hunt at night.

May 22^nd: Yawned all day, half-asleep and dozy. Went home I was almost sleeping on my feet passed Frank he looked happy. Now that he’s overconfident I can deal with him. he won’t see it coming he’s not listening to his instincts unwary prey. Biggest predator.

Hunted, stared, snacked.

Night now.

May 23^rd: Found him. Easy hunt. He thinks too much, can’t move can’t act on instinct. Tried to find a weapon. stupid man stupid shit, little weakling, too stupid to fight to bite to claw.

Hunted, stared, snacked.

What do I do with the body?

May 24^th: skipped work came in at night stared at me wouldn’t stop staring at me chips aren’t any good anymore maybe it wants something else. nice night night nice hunting hours. easy to see the prey prey’s eyes don’t see can’t see but I can see. Fed it. fed.

hunted stared fed.

kill tastes suck and lap tear blood tastes good best.

Copyright Jamie Proctor, 2009.

I’m back. And without further ado, here you go.

Jack Mackenzie was sitting at his breakfast table, preparing to toast a bagel, when he heard the doorbell ring. Taking a last look at the bread product, he arose with a wistful sigh and trudged to the doorbell, half-heartedly combing down what was left of his hair with one hand.

It was a knight on a white horse. Quite a young one, mid-twenties or so, with silver armour and a shield emblazoned with a golden crow.

“Hello there,” said Jack.

“Greetings,” said the knight.

“How can I help you?”
“Be you Jack Mackenzie?”
Jack nodded, thinking longingly of his bagel. “That I am.”

“I am questing for the Grail. Would you accompany me?”
Jack shook his head, sad and slow. “’Fraid not. Family responsibilities. You know how it is.”

Insofar as it was possible to tell through the twenty-three pounds of metal covering his head, the knight looked a tad disappointed. “Ah, yes. Say no more. Well, if you’re really sure, then…”

“I am,” said Jack, firmly. “Good luck out there.”

“Thanks.” The knight unholstered his lance, clicked his spurs, and was off down the driveway at eighty miles an hour, leaving only a small heap of horse droppings to mark his passing. Jack picked up the local newspaper that had been left at his doorstep (despite plaintive requests not to) and gingerly scooped it into the geraniums.

Jack returned to the sanctuary of his kitchen, and put his bagel in the toaster. He began to slice some cheese in preparation for its arrival, nice and slowly. His son, William (age 14, shoe size 10), announced his arrival at this point with his traditional fanfare of banging down the stairs at mach 8, ricocheting off every available surface as many times as he could, and Jack gave a small, half-subconscious moan at the sound.

Ding-dong, ding-dong went the doorbell. “I’ll get it,” said William, headed off before he could invade the kitchen. There was the familiar squeak-thump of the door opening, a low mutter of voices, and then the predictable call of “DAD! It’s for YOU!” Jack popped his bagel from the toaster, half-toasted, and abandoned it once more.

It was a dragon, a silvery one with reddish markings and bright yellow cat’s-eyes. Faint hints of sulphurous vapors wafted from the corners of its mouth, and the air above the driveway it had disturbed in landing was a-shimmer with heat.

“Are ye,” it asked, voice a grumble of gravel deeper than a coal mine’s shaft, “Jack the Mackenzie?”

“Yes,” said Jack Mackenzie.

It squinted at him. “Will ye come to the high mountains, in quest of ancient treasure hidden ‘neath mountain’s roots?”
“Sorry,” said Jack. “I’m retired.”

The dragon blinked. “How do ye feed yer kin then?”
“I do postal work.”

The dragon’s shrug displaced as much air as the passing of a 747. “So be it then; I shall find another. Fare ye well.” It took off, and the jetstream it left flattened the neighbour’s picket fence and nearly overturned Jack’s station wagon.

Jack trudged back to the kitchen. In his short period of absence, William had prepared and eaten what looked to be three bowls of cereal, each a different brand, and two entire apples. “Growing again?” he asked.

“You’re such a dork, dad.”

He took this in stride, and pushed the bagel back into the toaster, then extracted a plastic canister of cream cheese from the fridge. He pulled out a knife from the cutlery drawer. Then the doorbell rang again, and he swore very softly to himself. Saturday mornings. It was always Saturday bloody mornings.

He answered the door, William tagging along behind him. It was a specter, a hooded and robed form just out of synch of this side of reality. A butterfly flew through its torso as Jack watched.

“!&#^@*235!27867^^^%$6^%q$” said the specter.

Jack blinked. “Ah. Sorry, my 39@!*& is a little rusty. Do you mind if I speak English?”

“^*#^$(58233587!&*%#><” replied the specter, amiably enough.

“Thank you. Now excuse me, what is it?”

*&^#$*@$>?:{>:>^87>:{@$45’;242’34’;@#<$@#<:@>}232.:$%>#>\\” said the specter, somewhat lengthily.

“Ah. I’m sorry, I’m no longer up for that sort of thing. I do postal work now.” The specter looked dejected, or at least the hem of its robe sagged and a low-pitched hum filled the morning air.

“I’ll do it, dad,” volunteered William.

Jack frowned at him. “I think you’re a bit young for this sort of thing, Billy.”

William scowled. “I hate that name. No one calls me that name but you. Why do you keep calling me that? And you were younger than me when you started!”

“All right, all right, all right. Go on. That is, if it’s all right with Mr. ^$& here.”

“(3&#^2&$*4)” opined ^$&.

“Great! See ya later, dad.”

“Take care. Don’t take any free gifts ‘cause there’s no such thing, offer fair trade, and look both ways crossing the road.” Jack watched his son and the specter walk down the driveway, then hastily added “And don’t trust witches, faeries, or wizards!”

“I know, dad!”
Warning delivered, Jack headed back to the toaster, from which a burning, festering smell emanated. With a sinking heart, he pressed the eject button, and found his worst fears confirmed. The bagel lay before him, charred and cindered as a volcano’s heart. Could this morning get any more inconvenient?

The doorbell answered him, smartly on time. Jack swore, quietly yet savagely, then got up again, leaving the ruins of his breakfast to glimmer malevolently at him from the toaster.

He knew something was wrong as he approached the door. Absolute silence lay on the other side. Stifling worry, he opened it, and no one was there. A parchment post-it note was attached to the front of the door. Jack yanked it down and read it.

We have the boy. Leave 3 thimblefuls of mortal sweat & tears & happiness at the curb of Main and Thomas Ave. on Sunday sundown, or he gets it.

Jack read the note three times, each time his brow furrowing a little deeper, his eyebrows slouching a little lower. Right. So that was how it was going to be, eh?

He went back into the kitchen, examining its contents with a ready eye. Then, with surprisingly quick movements, he plucked the bagel from the toaster, the cheese slicer from the cheese, and the cream cheese from the counter. He tucked them into his pockets and walked outside, slamming the door behind him.

Someone had a lot of nerve if they thought they could take his son like that, without so much as a by-your-leave. Even more if they thought he couldn’t take care of it himself nowadays. Besides, he didn’t have a lot of tears or happiness to spare in these busy times. Sweat was still plentiful, though.

At the end of his driveway Jack’s walk took on a complicated twist, as if he were trying to walk sideways in both directions at once while still moving forwards, something John Cleese might have managed but would foil any other human on the planet. About a twinkling of a moment after he began this, he vanished without fanfare.

Orange St. was much prettier when you were looking at it properly. From this side of perspective, Jack’s home (a rustic and well-kept cabin) was in a tidy forest glade, alongside a babbling brook that murmured gleefully to itself as it played with a fallen tree.

“Hold any further callers,” Jack told the brook. “I’m busy today.” It splashed insolently at him, sputtering nonsense and agreement.

Jack set off. Down the forest trails he went, twisting and winding every way, taking the left-right-left and the left-left-left-right, and then the trick question that was the right-right-left-right-stand-still-for-five-seconds-and-walk-backwards-three-paces. That one could catch you up if you weren’t careful. Then he came to the tree-stump that blocked the path, bigger than his house, said “Argulbathanara” to it very carefully in a high-pitched voice, and walked into its knothole.

There was a surprisingly large amount of room inside it. A whole city, for one thing, a warren of brownies and other miniature faeries that would barely come up to Jack’s calves. The polite thing to do would be to adjust your size accordingly and be a respectable guest, but Jack was in a hurry and made haste, taking the spiraling grand staircase downwards thirty steps at a time, sending the pedestrians scattering away. He would have to apologize the next time he came through.

At the bottom of the stair (which was longer than it looked) was the river. It was deep and dark and a deep dark peat smell wafted up from it. The dock Jack stood on was ancient wood, the great old tap-root of the stump, and it creaked and bent in the water, stronger than steel. Jack walked down the root and stood before the ferryman who stood at the end. His ferry was a modest punt.

“Will you pay your fare this time, Jack?” asked the ferryman politely, in the voice of an aged woman.

“No thank you,” said Jack. “I talk too much for it to be convenient.”

“Such a little thing,” sighed the ferryman, in the dulcet tones of a young maiden, “all it is sound.”

“My voice stays,” said Jack. “Besides, you always love seeing how I get out of it.”

“Very well,” said the ferryman, rough-throated as a giant in his prime. “But one day, that voice will be mine. You know the rules: pay the toll or float ‘till the thirst or the river takes you.” A chuckle, a cackling goblin-laugh. “But I can’t wait to see how you try and get out of it this time. You know I can’t be fooled the same way twice.”

“As always.”

Jack stepped onto the punt and the voyage began. At first they moved slowly, oh so slowly. The dock drifted away behind them with the speed of a departing snail. Jack tried to catch the exact moment the current took them, but as always, he missed it. One instant they were idling in the water, the next sweeping along, earthen walls a blur, the fumes of the river whipping at him like a lash.

“Your destination is near-reached, Jack,” called the ferryman in the rock-grit voice of a dwarf. “Now pay the toll.”

“Alas, ferryman, I shall not,” replied Jack. He said the same words every time.

If he could see the eyes under the hood, he’d guess they would be twinkling. “Then on you go forever and ever – unless you think you can escape.”

Jack grinned into the teeth of the wind. Always the old rituals. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bagel, its charred rim biting at nothing. Then he snatched at its center, faster than a cobra, and pulled away something clenched in his fist, knuckles white with the strain of holding it.

“What is that?” asked the ferryman, dull curiosity in an ogre’s brutal tones.

“A bagel,” said Jack. “They normally look a bit different. I took something important out of this one just now.” And he slapped his palm against the hull of the boat and let slip the bagel’s hole.

“Oh NO!” laughed the ferryman in a little boy’s shrill squeak, water flooding the punt in an instant’s instant. “You tricky fox! That’s almost as good as the time that –” water made its next words indistinct, and Jack left the wreckage behind at a breast-stroke’s pace, holding his breath as tight as he could against the intoxicating vapour of the river. Light glimmered from a shore just ahead, and he hauled himself out of the water just as his vision began to swim grainily in front of his eyeballs. He spat on the grassy bank just to be safe, glancing back over his shoulder. The merest sip of the alcohol that permeated the stream would put you out for a week. A mouthful would leave you lying for a century. Jack had had that happen once, and that was more than enough.

A thought struck him, and he checked his bagel. Its hole was missing, and it looked forlorn, as if it knew it were no longer a proper bagel. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but it was you or me.” Then he smeared a little cream cheese on it and ate it. He needed to keep his strength up.

Jack walked onwards, up away from the river, not looking back. He passed through a dense forest, much more dark and sinister than the one that stood in the same place as Orange St. There were no paths here, and the trees spun and twirled to block his path when they thought he wasn’t looking, but Jack knew their tricks and whistled sharp and loud whenever he saw them creeping up on him, sending them flinching back and waving their branches in a tizzy. Before long they thinned out, and he left the woods muttering and grumbling in his wake, much put out by his refusal to lie still and become fertilizer.

At the end of the woods lay a barrow-mound, its entrance lit by a blazing bonfire. And in front of the barrow-mound was a great troll. It stared at him.

“I suppose you aren’t going to let me pass,” said Jack.

“No,” said the troll.

“Do you have a riddle?”

“No,” said the troll.

Jack frowned. “Then will you fight me?”

“No,” said the troll.

Jack thought for a moment. “Will you prevent me from entering?” he inquired.

“No,” said the troll sarcastically, and it unsheathed a gigantic sword from its belt, narrowing its eyes.

“It was worth a shot,” admitted Jack. He drew out his cheese-slicer.

The troll smirked as it compared the weapons, eyes traveling from its own six-foot blade to the six-inch length of jack’s implement. “No,” it repeated, smugness filling the word.

“Bewitchment, I take it?”

The troll tapped its chest as it stepped forwards, sword hanging idly in one hand. “No.”

“Ah. A pleasure to meet you, No, and a greater to know your name. Names are important.” Jack waved the slicer. “Tell me, do you know what the name of this is?”

“No,” confessed the troll. It hefted the sword overhead, looming over Jack.

“Would you not rename your sword ‘Cheddar’?” asked Jack, speaking very quickly now.

“No,” said the troll, a bit of puzzlement entering its tone. Its blade came screaming down with the force of a diving jet plane and impacted Jack’s cheese slicer, which skimmed off a good quarter of its length.

The troll’s eyes unsquinted, nearly bulging from their sockets as it examined the length of the blade. “No!”

“You can’t be not really not named ‘Cheshire,’” added Jack, lunging forwards.

“No!” denied the troll in furious bemusement, and then it roared as Jack’s cheese slicer whipped through its leg, which came away in neat and tidy sheets. Jack danced circles around Cheshire as it flailed, slicing and slicing until sweat ran down his face and Cheshire was a heap of thin troll-slices, still grumbling and rumbling in anger.

“A pleasure, Cheshire,” said Jack, wiping his cheese slicer on his pants leg – more for show than anything else; he feared the troll’s blood had corroded the metal beyond recall.

“No,” muttered the heap. It jiggled grotesquely.

Jack shrugged. “Have it your way, then.” He walked onwards and into the barrow-mound, beneath a massive archway of slab-sided stones, snatching up a burning piece of kindling from the troll’s bonfire to serve as a torch as he went.

The mound’s pathway twisted and turned, and soon the disgruntled grousing of Cheshire was left far behind him. Dark paintings loomed and leered on the wall in turns, bison and bulls, men and monkeys, swords and stallions, war and women. Jack examined them with a keen yet idle eye as he passed. The kindling burned lower, and lower, and then, just as it was about to scorch Jack’s fingers, the final corner of the corridor was turned and he was in the barrow’s heart. The withered corpse of some or another long-dead faerie king lay on a slab, and in an iron cage just before it sat William. “Hey, dad,” he said.

“Hello Billy. Know anything about what’s guarding you?”

“Just some troll. Haven’t seen anyone else since I got stuffed in here.”

Jack inspected the cage’s bars. Sound as any five bells you cared to name. “And how did this happen again?”

“Dunno. Got to the end of the driveway and it all went blurry and black.”

Jack sighed as he pulled out the cream cheese. “It figures. The one time I let you go out on your own is the one time it’s someone out to extort me.” He chucked the plastic container through the bars, and William caught it one-handed. “Slather yourself up with that and squeeze on through the bars.”

“Gross.”

“If you’d like to stay in there, son, be my guest. Or the guest of whoever it is that’s caught you in the first place.”

Grimacing, William coated himself finely with the spread, then slowly began to squish his way past the bars, which grudgingly made way for him. He took one step, two steps, was out of the cage, and then slammed to a standstill, hand stuck.

“What is it?”

“Wasn’t enough, dad.”

Jack took a look, and sure as daylight there hadn’t been enough cream cheese. William’s left little finger was uncoated, and it was stuck fast between the bars of the cage. “Damn and blast. Should’ve had eaten that bagel.”

“What now?”
“Now we wait for your mother to show up,” said Jack in disgust. William tried his hardest to look innocent. “Oh, don’t play the fool. This was all the doing of the pair of you, wasn’t it?”

“Pretty much,” said a soft voice behind him.

Jack forced himself not to jump and failed rather badly, half-turning and half-falling in midair. Mary Mackenzie smiled at him. She was only four feet tall and she had a short tail, but that only showed itself this side of perspective or when she tried very hard. “Really, Jack, it took you this long? In the old days you would’ve seen right through me at the doorstep, or recognized my accent.” She clicked her tongue and the cage swung open.

“Why bother?” demanded Jack. Mary gave him a look. “Dear,” he amended.

“Because you were getting tired, Jack dearest. “A bit of a break” is all well and good, but a quarter-century one? You were starting to say you were retired for goodness’s sake, and you should’ve been taking William on trips since he was nine and letting him roam free at twelve, not little hand-holding tours starting two years ago. It’s time you manned up and headed back home for a time. Besides, we haven’t seen my parents for half a century.”

Jack winced. “Sorry, dear. It’s just that the mail route-”

Mary poked him in the belly, and he doubled up wheezing. “You despise that mail route, Jack. I’ve heard you grumble and moan about it every morning for twenty years and that’s quite enough for goodness’s sake! Besides, you may be rusty, but you did a fine job today. One I hope will be the first of many more to come. It’s not too late to get yourself back on track and William an education.”

Jack surrendered. He knew when he was beat, and it was now. He’d faced three trials, used three tricks, and his quiver was shot. “Fine then. But we’ll need time to pack.”

“I did that after you went out the door. We’re all moved in.”

He sighed. “Wife dearest, I have one request, one demand to make even as you overturn my life again.”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “Yes, husband?”
“Could you make me a bagel? I can’t seem to get it done without burning it these days.”

Copyright Jamie Proctor, 2009.