Two For One Writing

“Margaret, oh dear, sweet Margaret.”

“No. I said no.”

Thomas chuckled. “Oh Margaret, you will say yes. I know you. I know you better than anyone.”

Maggie glanced at the man and immediately cursed herself for having acknowledged him at all.

“No, Thom. I know YOU better than anyone. I MADE you. So go away already.”

Thomas chuckled.

“Then you know that you cannot deter me. I WILL have you write it.”

Instead of responding, Maggie wrapped her coat tighter and increased her pace. She walked straight towards the crowds always bustling around the train station. She should be able to get rid of him there.

It had started two weeks ago. She’d been stuck – a typical case of writer’s block. The frustration had consumed her, she barely even ate proper meals anymore. Nevermind the snappy attitude which made her lose her day job. Even so, she never should have spoken those words aloud. Maggie had always known words had power. That’s what had made her write in the first place. Who could have known that words, a simple sentence, could make a miracle happen? Well… It had seemed a miracle at first. For about all of 15 seconds after she had accepted the truth. Then she had buried her head in her hands murmuring: “What have I done?”

Maggie took some random turns and made herself smaller in the crowd, so she wouldn’t stand out. She forced herself to walk at the same pace as the people around her, seemingly part of random groups, so she couldn’t be made out as an individual very easily.

After a few minutes, she ducked around a corner and waited. Thomas didn’t come into sight. Perhaps he had given up for today. She decided to not wait around longer, and hailed a taxi.

The car smelled like him, or at least the way he had smelled when Thomas had first appeared in her study – musky, smoky added with a sprinkle of some exotic perfume, or aftershave as it was the case for the taxi driver. The smell was the last thing she had described in the story, before the writer’s block overwhelmed her.

“Please talk to me”, she had whispered to the pages in tears.

There hadn’t been a dramatic pop, or thundering. Just the smell wafting over her from behind, and a silken voice, the kind of voice in which you could hear the charming smile: “How can I assist?”

Thomas had known, somehow. He’d known immediately who she was. It had taken her a moment to understand, and even longer moment to accept it as reality. Sometimes she still wasn’t sure of it.

When she reached home, stepping out of the taxi, she saw him sitting on the porch steps.

“What you’re doing is called stalking,” she informed him as she walked up to the door next to him without looking at him. “And it’s illegal.”

He laughed quietly.

“Since when have I cared about what’s illegal? Besides, your laws don’t apply to me.”

Maggie slammed the door in his face.

She only managed to get as far as her living room, when she saw him climb in through the kitchen window. It looked much less dignified than his usual mannerisms and Maggie could only barely hold back a grin.

“That would be breaking an entering,” she lectured. Thomas shrugged.

“I’ve done worse.”

Maggie turned her head, pretending not to have heard him and to be very interested in the TV magazine on the living room table. Sometimes she forgot what a horrid creature he was, what vile thoughts and malicious plans he had. He acted so…. Normally with her. Of course, that was likely because he couldn’t exist without her. At least that’s what Maggie hoped. But Thomas had no way of knowing any different.

“Margaret,” he sang, walking towards her.

“Margaret,” he continued, taking her hands.

“Margaret,” he finished, pulling her down onto the couch.

“What do you want?” She asked, staring at her hands, cupped by his.

He leaned forward and whispered, “You know what I want.”

Maggie shook her head vehemently.

“Not happening.”

“You want me to stop…. Shall we call it haunting you? If you give me what I want, I will have no choice but to go back.”

“I am not writing you world domination,” Maggie snapped. ”There’s no way you could win. That’s just insane.”

“But isn’t that just it? The heroes always win. It’s boring. Let something different happen – something they wouldn’t expect. ME. Let ME happen.”

There was a mad glint in his eye as he leaned forward and suddenly Maggie knew what she had to write. Thomas was not going to like it.

“The day has come, it’s today!”

The whispers could be felt from all sides. All my brothers and sisters. No one knew who started the message, but it wasn’t long before we were all whispering. It was today. The tribulation had come upon us.

The fear we each felt was amplified thousandfold by sensing the sticky hot, and yet ice-cold fear the rest experienced. It was contagious, like a disease spreading swiftly amongst entire nations, pulling victims by the bucket. Back in the stores, the tribulation had been nothing more than a myth, a tale to frighten the young ones. We didn’t believe it at first. It seemed so horrible, merciless, impossible. How could one event cause the deaths of so many? Over and over again? It made no sense. Why had no one tried to stop it? The day we were selected and brought to the outside, we celebrated. We had been chosen! We got to see the world! It was exciting, wonderful, amazing.

Shortly after, we were left in our new home. It was dry, not to warm and not too cold. And there were others like us. Older ones, who had seen more. They told us how sometimes, a few of them were chosen once more, and they got to see a miraculous land. What that land was, no one could tell, as they said that none ever came back, because the new lands were so wonderful, but then there was Old Fudge. He was older than anyone I had ever met. He hung at the back, away from the openings, aside the rest of us, as if he were afraid to mingle, terrified of being in the middle of the group. He became less comfortable as more groups were brought and added to the community.

Sometimes , when everyone was quiet, which didn’t happen often, I heard him muttering to himself.

“Stupid, stupid, they all know nothing. They should be afraid, the day is coming, oh it is coming.”

“What day is coming?” I asked him. He glared at me, and seemed to decide whether or not I was worthy of knowing.

“The tribulation,” he said, after a moment. Then, he waddled away again, back to his corner in the back, the darkest part of our home.

“The tribulation?” I whispered, memories from old tales surging back. I hurried after Old Fudge.

“The tribulation isn’t real,” I argued. “It’s just a story, a tale, a lie!”

Old Fudge scuffed.

“Oh really? Then how come you’ve heard of it? You know no one ever goes back. But let me tell you something. I did. I came back.”

“Back from where?”

He looked at the opening, gaze glazing over as he seemed to remember long gone days.

“I was chosen once,” he told me. “I was chosen once with all the rest of my brethren. We celebrated as you will. We thought it was the most wonderful day. But no. We were brought to a new glass place, and we could see everything. The big door opened. And then there were the little giants, but the looked like the creatures on your wrappings, see?”

I glanced and my orange and black clothes and back to my family, everyone slightly different and yet so very similar.

“We didn’t realize until we heard the screams.”

Old Fudge sighed and shivered.

“The screams of those who had seen what came next. The little giants were holding them by the hundreds, thousands in bags, all together. But occasionally, they would grab a few and…. And…” He stopped, wearing a mask of terror.

“And what?” I whispered, entranced and horrified by his tale. It took Old Fudge a few moments to collect himself sufficiently.

“And they would take the wrappings off, one by one, leave them naked, exposed, and then, they would tear them apart. First once, then twice, and thrice, and mush them together. Often several all at once. I can still hear their screams…”

His voice faded.

I ran away. I didn’t want to hear more of this horrific story. It couldn’t be true. It had to be made up. But even so, it was disturbing and I could not rest easy, until I had told Old Fudge’s story to my brethren. They were similarly worried by it, and soon everyone knew. No one admitted to believing and so we went on living carelessly, never speaking of the tribulation again.

But then it came upon us.

I was among the first to be taken. A group of us, perhaps five or six, were lifted, torn away from the rest of our families and dropped into a bag with strangers who had already seen the results of the tribulation with the words: “Happy Halloween!”

Little Sally tended to wake up a lot at night. There was always something disturbing her - a draft wheezing through the cracks between window and wall, the creaking sound of her wooden door shifting and stretching in its frame, the cold and stinging feeling by her legs when she wet the bed.

Tonight it was a sound she had never heard before. It began with the faintest of bells, akin to the sound she imagined snowflakes to make when they spoke to each other, although her mother didn’t like her thinking like that. The chiming became louder as the source of it approached the house, where it finally stopped only to make way for thundering crunching shattering from the roof.

Frozen in fear, Sally clasped her blanket and pressed it over her mouth and nose so only some tussles of hair and eyes peeked out. She thought of all the things she had heard on the radio when grandpa drove her to swimming practise, all the people who had been robbed in the middle of the night. But no, she reasoned, a robber would still come in through the ground floor, right?

It was just then, that the most terrifying sound occurred. It began above, on the roof, a wheezing, scratching that moved slowly through the far wall of Sally's room to below, where it ended abruptly in a thud and grunt.

Perhaps it was an animal? Sally had heard of wasps and mice in the walls, but never of robbers. Curiosity got the better of her fears and she left the safety and warmth of her bed to venture downstairs.

She tip-toed carefully, the same way as when she wanted to jump out and surprise her mother when she came home from her trips. She didn't turn on any lights, but even so, she could see the faint glow of the electronics in the living room. The wifi light blinked and illuminated the room blue in bursts. It was enough for little Sally to make out a grand shape bustling through a very large pouch in the middle of the room, muttering quietly. A long white beard covered a swollen face with small eyes set close together. The cloak, hat and pants flashed purple in the light. Sally regarded the large man critically.

"You don't look like a robber," she complained. "They're meant to wear black and not have beards, and wear socks over their faces."

The man looked up at her, startled and blinked twice in confusion before something like recognition entered his gaze. He smiled and stepped forward, presenting a box to her.

"Little Sally. This is yours. You have been a very good girl this year, always helping your grandparents with the chores and never complaining about your mother's job."

Sally sniffed.

"I'm always a good girl." Then she looked critically at the box wrapped with rainbow unicorns. "But this isn't mine."

"Why, of course it is!"

"No, I don't have anything like that. Mommy always says I shouldn't believe in myths, and unicorns are myths, so I don't have anything like that."

She glanced at the large bag next to the man. It was filled to the brim with similar boxes, none of which she had ever seen before.

Sally frowned at him in annoyance.

"You're doing it all wrong!" She complained.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"You're meant to steal things, not leave things here. What kind of burglar are you? Do they not teach you this stuff at... at..." The girl reflected for a moment. "Burglary school?"

The man laughed, a low, hearty laugh.

"My, my, little Sally, you are quite the jester. I'm no burglar, I am Saint Nicolas!"

He paused as if for dramatic effect. Sally simply looked at him.

"Who?" She asked after a minute of silence.

"Saint Nicolas!"

Another moment of silence.

"Santa Clause?"

More silence from the child.

"The man who brings happiness and joy to everyone's home, year after year, rewarding children for being good? Everyone looks forward to me coming!"

"Well I've never heard of you," Sally decided. "Maybe you're not that well known over here. Are you famous for Japan?"

Famous for Japan was something she had picked up from the older kids living around the corner. Sally wasn't sure who Japan was, but he sounded like someone who lived very far away.

The man sank to his knees, his eyes drooping.

"You've really never even heard...?"

Sally shook her head.

"Never."

A tear rolled down the man's cheek. Then another and another. Before Sally knew it she was comforting him.

"There, there," she muttered. This definitely wasn't how burglary was meant to happen. "Just wait here for a moment."

Little Sally hurried to the kitchen and opened one of the tins she had filled with her grandmother and took out some biscuits. Then she filled two glasses of milk. It was what always made her feel better when she was said or after a nightmare. She brought them back to the man and held one of them out to him.

"Here," she said. "For you."

The man looked at the glass, and then at her, and instantly, his expression returned to the previous glee and happiness.

"Oh," he said. "Oh, you really had me! I really thought...! But you do know who I am, don't you!"

There was just a hint of pleading in his voice and Sally didn't really feel like continuing to comfort a complete stranger in the middle of the night, so she shrugged and said: "Sure, why not."

He didn't seem to hear her, busying himself already with pulling out boxes from his bag and setting them next to the empty fireplace. After stacking up 5 boxes or so he picked up his bag and held out his hand to Sally.

"It was a pleasure," he said as she shook it. "Until next year!"

He stepped into the fireplace and with a similar noise as he had arrived, he disappeared, up through the walls and a faint jingling announced his departure. Little Sally still stood in the living room and looked critically at the fireplace, drinking her milk. Then she sighed, shrugged and said, "Sure, why not."

          "Who are you?"

            "It's William, your son."

            "Well I've never heard of you."

            "I know mother."

            "I don't know who you are calling mother."

            The doctor indicated for him to come out of his mother's room. The door clicked shut behind him.

            "As you can see your mother's Alzheimer's has reached quite an advanced stage."

            "Is there anything you can do?"

            "I'm sorry, there are treatments now that slow the progression of the disease, but we are still years off any kind of cure."

            "So what do we do now."

            "Sit with her. Talk to her. She may not recognise you. She may shout and get upset at things she doesn't understand. Be patient."

            "But what should I talk to her about?"

            "Her childhood. Those are always the last memories to go."

            "Thank you for your help Doctor."

            "I'm sorry we couldn't do more."

            The doctor left and he turned back towards his mother's room. He could see the woman who had raised him pushing buttons on the remote looking for a channel that no longer existed. It must be such a lonely way to die, he thought. But she wouldn't be alone. He opened the door.

            "Hello there," his mother said brightly, "Who are you?"

            He sat down beside her bed and introduced himself again, for the sixth time that day.  

Tiberius sat in his ivory tower pondering how he would stop the wedding. Pacing, he thought. Yes, all the best pondering is done while pacing. He scoffed at himself, who would honestly ponder while sitting, the audacity.

           He slowly walked to one wall of the tower, hand on chin, the other arm tucked behind his back. He stopped, turned on his heel, and walked to the other wall. This action repeated for a great deal of time.

           The crux of the issue was that he, Tiberius the Wordly, was in love with a lovely princess, Princess Urox of Hurbenthia, Lady of the Smell-less Begonias, Enchantress of Middle Aged Boxers called Errol, Saviour of Painted Toenail Clippings, Solver of the Age Old Mystery of the Upturned Bucket, etc. Tiberius could continue with the Princess's full title, but he only had a week to stop the wedding and he would have needed at least a fortnight.

           The Princess, long may she entertain the Wumples, was due to get married on the coming Friday to a Knight. This particular knight was well known to Tiberius. He had known him a great many years, hence he was well known to him. As Tiberius had spent years honing his ability to word things in a wordly way, he had been jeered by this knight. The knight's name was Sir Bongle Utrech Arnold Womblebat Xander of Gorasp on the Wirral. It was such a silly name, Tiberius laughed to himself, who would name a child Xander.

            Tiberius the Wordly resolved to do what he did best. He wrote a strongly worded letter. He sat down at his Entwood desk and took out his quill. After some time he stood up from the desk with a finished letter in hand. He read it aloud to himself, as all letters should be read.

           Dear Princess Urox of Hurbenthia etc... (he would have written out the full name but one only has so much partchment and he didn't have time to go a chop down a forest.)

           Don't marry that smelly-faced fogle-slurper Sir Xander of Gorasp on the Wirral. The best reason I can give you apart from his smelly-face-idness is that he has a very silly name. You don't really want to have to wake up next to someone called Xander do you? I trust you will take my words under advisement as I am the wordlyest. You may also take this letter as a formal marriage proposal and a declaration of undying love. Please send your reply, a used napkin, three eyelashes, and a bogie in your return raven.

           Forever Wordly,

           Tiberius the Wordly,

            Ivory Tower,  

           Berick Upon Yorick,

           East Cornwall.

With that Tiberius attached his letter to a screeching raven in a cage by the window and let it fly into the sun set. That should be enough to stop the wedding, he thought, sitting back down at his desk.

‘Will you forever sit here and dwell in unhappiness?’ Pathenia exclaimed, her  long, pointy ears poking charmingly through her straight golden hair.

‘Yes, I certainly shall,’ grumbled the dwarf she had spoken to. His curly hair long grey and his stature not quite as stout as was almost considered to be customary for his kind. His clothes spoke nothing of the battles his brethren had fought in the last century, nor did they indicate favour towards any manual labour. They weren’t the adorned robes of a noble, but they proved him to be above a farmer, a scholar, perhaps.

‘It suits me.’ He continued his pouting and turned away from the blue-eyed elven girl.

Pathenia sighed.

‘I understand that you’re upset that Mayaliel chose the prince from Carthinisar over you. But for how long do you intend to keep this up?’

Talluk pushed his chin forward in an obstinate manner.

‘Until the wedding is called off,’ he declared, the bushy brow furrowing deeper on his forehead. ‘And so you know,’ he added. ‘This has nothing to do with her picking that inbred Carthinian. I don’t care about that one bit.’

‘Oh, don’t you now,’ Pathenia played along,  resigned to the dwarf’s mood. ‘Pray tell, what is it that harrows your soul?’

Talluk shuffled the papers in front of him and picked up his quill. He regarded the ink stained feather critically for a moment and then tipped it into the dark liquid. In smooth, practised movements the letters took shape on the pergament. Pathenia loved seeing them appear, they proved so elegant, so beautiful, despite the contents.

She watched him write without reading the words for a few minutes - long enough to forget about her question.

‘She said she didn’t like my writing.’

Talluk’s voice was quiet, yet dripping with poisoned spite. It reached Pathenia as if from far away.

‘Mayaliel said that?’ She asked. Talluk nodded.

Pathenia groaned inwardly. Of course her cousin had not been able to keep it together. It was no secret that Talluk’s writing was not the most… appropriate. But he was proud of it and it did no harm. Pathenia herself found it quite amusing to read, although she refused to admit it towards her family.

‘She said she doesn’t like my writing, so I will write her the most beautiful poem in history, which she will hate, and I will have the bards sing it at the wedding, so she will not be able but to call it off, because her future husband will love it and she will not be able to stand it and so she will never find happiness.’

‘So you’re trying to get back at her for saying she didn’t like your writing. That’s what this is all about? I thought you loved her!’

Talluk looked at her.

‘I did. But my love for her was nothing compared to what warmth, comfort, and love words can give to me.’

           "Would you get in here now!" Macky shouted at her two kids. They scurried across the muddy lawn and bounded into the small cottage.

           "Ah here!" she shouted as they continued into the hall, "Would'ya take off those muddy shoes. You're traipsing mud everywhere."

           The two sheepish children struggled out of their mucky shoes. A muddy hand print was left on the hallway wall as they had supported themselves. Macky sighed. It would have to be cleaned up later. She had work to do.

           "Mam," Jolene said from the kitchen, "I'm hungry!"

           "I'm hungry too!" Graham chimed in.  

           Macky sighed. There was barely anything left in the cupboards. "You're going to have to wait till I do the dinner later." If they was any dinner to be made, she thought to herself.

           "Go in and watch cartoons. I've got some work to finish."

           They went inside to the small suite and Macky heard the TV burst into life. She'd left it on the news. She caught a fragment of news about some bombing happening somewhere far away. The channel changed.

           Macky continued to the kitchen. "Keep the volume down," she shouted into the other room as she passed.

           The kitchen had the best light which is why she had set up her drafting table there. She could hear the two of them chattering along with the TV next door. She would have to do something about dinner soon, but not right now. It could wait a little bit. She was nearly finished.

           She sat at the drafting table and looked down at the sketches so far. It was nearly finished. She picked up her pencil and began to shade in the last few lines. She needed this to work. Everything rested on it.

           The phone rang.

           It jarred her. She almost missed the stroke of the pencil when the ringing started. She took a deep breath out and placed the pencil on the table. She had been avoiding the phone for weeks now. It wasn't something that could be avoided much longer.

           "Hello," she answered as calmly as possible.

           "I know, I just need more time."

           "Please don't. I'm nearly finished a project. It's on my desk right now."

           "Just listen for a minute. I'm trying to tell you. I'll get you it. No, don't put me on hold."

           Macky sat back on her chair as the cheap piano music played down the phone. She knew it wasn't a phone call she could have avoided any longer. It had reached a breaking point. The music stopped.

           "Hello, yes I'm here."

           "I understand, but I've got a project that's just about to finish. It'll give me everything I need to pay it off."

           "I understand how serious it is, I just need a little more time."

           "Please don't do this!" her voice was becoming shrill.

           "Have you no compassion?"

           The phone went dead. A moment later the lights went out. The tv in the other room suddenly stopped.

           "I guess not."

Lying on her grey velvet couch, feet pointing in the air, Siorcha regarded her shoes. Red pumps with stiletto heels. They had been quite dear, a unique product, really. Perfect for her, as the leader of the large underground organization the city’s gangs feared.

What she liked most about the shoes was that they were so unlike the footwear she usually wore and even better - they wouldn’t get stained by the blood, at least not noticeably.

Siorcha sighed and sat up, letting her feet touch the ground. The distance between the floor and her heels felt unfamiliar and somewhat disconcerting. Shoes like this, they were treacherous. You could slip so easily, they didn’t provide enough support to move quickly and reliably, you could break your ankle when trying to get away, even when just trying to walk normally.

She spent a moment to reflect on all the negative impacts shoes like this could have. But god damn, they were so effective! For some reason, Siorcha had observed, men were more intimidated by a perfectly styled lady, walking slowly and confidently towards them on heels, than they were of a dishevelled woman with a crazed look in her eye, even if this woman had already injured them. It just didn’t make any sense.

And yet, Siorcha found herself revelling in the idea. She had never resorted to this tactic before, but it seemed like an interesting way to change things up. Shift expectations of her allies and opponents. If they didn’t know her pattern, her way of things, her thinking; if she remained unpredictable in their eyes, they would never be able to form a plan to remove her from her seat of power.

Besides, the shoes were kind of cute. She had always enjoyed seeing her lovers wear similar footwear, it could be nice to be the one receiving the looks she usually gave out.

With some effort, Siorcha stood up, knees still bunched together, pulling her short black dress down towards the distant direction of her knees. How people could walk in this kind of outfits was still a mystery to her. She stalked forward, her arms outstretched. After taking a few rounds around the room, she felt more comfortable. Blisters had appeared, but pain was easy to ignore.

Yes.

She was ready.

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

Carlos’ eyes darted between the two hunky men who had removed the hood on his face once he had been dragged through halls, pushed into a chair and tied to it. The ropes were cutting into his arms and legs, but he barely noticed in his fear. He knew about these people. He knew what was coming. And he had rather been anywhere else.

Who was going to do it? Which one of these goons meant lights out for him?

There was a rapp on the metal door. One of the giant hunks moved to unlock the inside lock. The door swung open slowly, to reveal an attractive strawberry blonde in a short black dress that complimented her figure. Despite his fear, Carlos felt his immediate arousal.

‘Carlos,’ the woman purred, taking small, rolling steps inside. There was something off about her walk, something almost alien. But somehow, that added to her charisma.

She smiled at him as she walked around the table and turned his chair towards her. As she leaned down to him, Carlos could see right between her breasts and he swallowed hard, desperately hoping the woman wouldn’t notice his present state, wishing she would stop looking at him with her watchful green eyes, pleading with his body to stop reacting to her presence.

She took a long time to observe him. Finally she seemed to have decided something and leaned back.

‘Carlos,’ she repeated and sat on the desk, crossing her right leg over her left, leading Carlos’ eye to her perfectly manicured, dainty feet that were bound into red heels that seemed to accentuate her alluring nature.

‘You’ve done a bad thing, you know that, don’t you?’

Her voice was soft, almost comforting, but even Carlos detected the cold and steeled undertone.

‘Are you…. Her?’ He asked, his voice hoarse after hours of shouting for help.

She smiled.

‘You are so clever,’ she purred. ‘Such a smart boy. It’s such a pity….’

She sighed.

Carlos tensed up involuntarily. His stomach was turning and tying one knot after another.

‘Please….,’ he begged, his voice shaking now, higher than usual. Sweat dripping into his eyes, making him lose focus and blink, without seeing. ‘Please, show me mercy, have some compassion. They made me do it, I didn’t have a choice, I couldn’t have acted differently, but I will never do it again, please-’

The woman raised her hand sharply and he shut up, staring at her pleadingly.

‘There is always a choice, Carlos,’ she chided him warmly as she rose from her perch. ‘And besides, if you didn’t have a choice, how can you promise it won’t happen again? What if they don’t give you a choice?’ She echoed his words and tone.

‘But here’s an idea,’ she smiled at him. ‘How about you give me some information in exchange for your life?’

Carlos turned pale.

‘I can’t,’ he stammered. ‘If I do, they will kill me and torture me for sure, and I don’t know anything, please, please just let me go!’

The woman sighed and picked up a pencil from the table. She played with it for a moment, twisting it around her fingers in quick motions. Then, with a crunchy noise and a movement so fast Carlos never even saw it, the pencil stuck in his chair, a quarter of it sunken into the hard wood, right between two of his fingers. He whimpered.

‘Do you like my new shoes?’ The woman asked, almost conversationally. ‘I’m not a fan of walking in them, to be honest, but they do have a certain je-ne-sais-quoi, don’t you think?’

Carlos forced himself to nod.

‘So you see how the heel isn’t much larger than that pen in your chair, right?’

He nodded again.

‘Now imagine, I step on your foot, and transfer all my weight onto that heel. Imagine how easily it will rip your flesh and break your foot. Do you want that to happen?’

Carlos shook his head and closed his eyes in defeat. He let his head hang down.

‘Then let’s chat.’

Kyle woke up with a headache, two pairs of broken glasses, and one shoe. He didn't wear glasses, and the shoe wasn't his, so this presented him with something if a conundrum. What in the world had happened to him last night?

And while he was at the point of questioning things, his surroundings also appeared disconcertingly unfamiliar. Except for that motivational Cat poster on the opposite wall, he had definitely seen that somewhere before.

He gave the ginger kitty a thumbs up, as a way of responding to its request to “Stay positive!” and looked around.

The room was barren, but not in a poor way. It was definitely a choice. It reminded Kyle of those documentaries about post-modern artists he hated. All of that bourgeois, avant-garde nonsense. The walls were partially painted, in white and navy, and partially they showed the original brickwork. It could have been tasteful, had it not been so obviously fake trying to look genuine.

There wasn’t much furniture. Only the bed, disquietingly silent, and an old, crappy IKEA chair, over which hung a brown tweedjacket.

It was certainly not his either, even though Kyle saw his wallet stick out of one of the pockets. His… sadly empty wallet. Only his driver’s license and ID were left. And a full punch card from Starbucks. He hated Starbucks and had boycotted it since the moment they had taken over the building in which had previously been his favourite Chinese Take-Away.

Moving through the room slowly, carefully, Kyle still couldn’t shake his headache. He walked towards the tan curtains in the hopes that some daylight would help his case, but with every step, he began to feel more dizzy. Drawing the curtains open didn’t affect his situation much. Yes, there was ever so slightly more light in the room. No, he still didn’t know where he was. All he could see was yet another brick wall about five feet from his barred window, and bins in the alley below. There was a brighter light with street noise coming from the right. Though nothing he could see gave him any indications as to his location.

One of the broken glasses fell off his face now and shattered on the floor below.

Huh. Apparently it hadn’t been broken yet after all. Immediately Kyle’s dizziness eased up. Carefully he got rid of his second pair of glasses, which was the one that had already been broken.

He sat back on the bed and stared at his shoe and the dirty, wet, red sock he was wearing on the other foot.

Was the sock his? It could be. Did he like red socks? He wasn’t sure. He checked underneath the shoe that was definitely not his, because it was two sizes too large and found a green sock.

Ah yes. The socks were his. He remembered this. They were meant to represent left and right, because that’s how it worked at sea, or something. He was sure someone had told him about that some time ago. Was it last night? Perhaps.

Now that he began to think about it, Kyle was at a loss to remember the previous night. Or day. Or the day before…. What day was it anyways?

He sighed and stood up, making his way to the horribly fancy and decorated oaken door of the room.

There was only one way to find out.

           He woke up with a headache, two pairs of broken glasses, and one shoe. He didn't wear glasses, and the shoe wasn't his, so this presented him with something if a conundrum. Though what was slightly more jarring was that he was floating in a small capsule.

           The shoe bopped him lightly on his pulsing head. He brushed it away groggily. He wasn't sure what exactly happened. He reached back into his memories and found that it only made the pulsing worse, so he stopped. Milo pulled himself over to the port hole. It generally was the safest thing to do when you were surrounded by unfamiliar items and were floating through space.

           "Shit." Milo said to himself.

           He was staring out the porthole. Shit was the only word that he seemed to be able to say at that moment. It was the only one his mind could process to articulate the situation. Milo was in an escape pod. This was not entirely out of the ordinary. He had on occasion woken up in an escape pod after a night of drinking and the occasional rushed liaison. Put this is the first time he'd ever woken up in one that wasn't still attached to the space station.

           Hence, "Shit".

           Milo turned around to look at the confined space. The shoe bopped into him again. He grabbed it and turned it over in his hand. It was a woman's stiletto. Not exactly standard issue for deep space mining stations, unless of course there was a corporate event on.

           Something triggered in his mind. There had been a corporate event. Some fancy gala had been thrown in the main concourse. There had been lots of fancy people on the station clinking glasses and celebrating. They had found a rare mineral of some kind, Milo didn't care much, it wasn't his job to care about mining. He was just part of the catering staff.

           Milo pushed himself forward to the console. His mind started spinning. He quickly pulled out a puke-vac from under the console. After a quick evacuation he felt a little better, not much, but a little. He still had the huge problem that he was drifting through space on his own.

           Milo picked up the two pairs of broken glasses. They both looked vaguely family. One was thin and stylish, the other was more chunky. He got another flash of the party. There had been some fancy lady in high heels. She had worn one of the pairs of glasses, and a revealing blue dress. She was the wife, or mistress, or something like that of a senior company official. Milo didn't much care, he just served them synthesised alcohol all the same.

           He looked down at the panel again. The whole system was jammed up. No navigation, no comms, nothing. Not that an escape pod had much to start with. Milo looked at the second set of broken glasses. Jess. They were his fiancé's glasses. Another steward on the station. Why were they in here?

           Milo had another flash back. He was lying in the bunk of the escape pod. The CO's Mistress was pulling her dress up. Milo was sliding his trousers back on. He sat up and put on his shirt.

           "Did you see my other shoe? And my glasses?" the woman said to him.

           The airlock door opened suddenly. Jess stood in the doorway. By her side she held a blaster.

           "Get out," she said to the woman.

           The woman looked from Jess, to the blaster, to Milo, and then fled past Jess without a second glance.

           "It's not what it looks like." Milo had said. Watching it not was like reliving a nightmare.

           "Isn't it?" Jess said pointing the blaster at his chest. He stood up.

           "Don't move," she said. She had tears rolling down her face. "The wedding is off." She tossed him the wedding ring he had bought her. He caught it and turned it over in his hand. She reached up and took her glasses off to wipe the tears from her face.

           Milo had moved suddenly towards the airlock. She had jumped back dropping the glasses. Jess hit the door seal and it shut tight leaving Milo trapped in the pod.

           "Goodbye Milo," she said with tears now streaming down her face. Jess hit the escape pod release and it suddenly shot away from the space station. The sudden lurch had sent Milo flying backwards into the control panel. The next thing he remembered was waking up in a confused state.

           Milo let out a big sigh.

           "Shit."

The shuttle hurtled through the gas giant.

           "Where the boggle-wonk?" Chief Engineer Cooper shouted.

           "What the hell's a boggle-wonk!" Commander Heller shouted back.

           "It's what I need to fix the ship."

           As if listening to the conversation, the ship groaned ominously.

           "Sir's the pressure's reaching 700 Mega-Pascals." Ensign Simmons said worriedly.

           Cooper wrenched open various containers and cabinets, "Doesn't know what a damn boggle-wonk is," she muttered to herself. "Sure you can fly a ship into a gas giant fair enough, but making sure it has the appropriate equipment to deal with it, no that's a little too difficult."

           "Look, I don't know what it is, so I don't know if we have one."

           "You couldn't command your way out of a space suit." Cooper shouted while throwing a spare finkle-nook across the room.

           "800 Mega-Pascals." Simmons said.

           "Thank you Simmons," Heller replied. "Cooper can you fix the ship or not?"

           "Get me a boggle-wonk and I'll fix it, otherwise we will be crushed into itty bitty little bits."

           "Is that the technical term?" Heller replied.

           Cooper hurled a jid-baghaul wrench at Heller, missing him but only just.

           "900  Mega-Pascels." Simmons said. As she spoke she simultaneously sent her will to relatives via sub-space link.

           "What does a boggle-wink look like?" Heller asked.

           "It's a boggle-wonk. I've found three boggle-winks so far and they are not use to anyone."

           "Ok, well want does a boggle-wonk look like?"

           "It's sort of a flat, spatula sort of thing. It has a yellow light on one end, a knob on the base of the handle, and it goes bing when the engine is fixed."

           "You mean this thing?" Heller got out of his commander's chair and moved it slightly. He then picked up a flat, spatula sort of thing with a yellow light on one end, and a knob on the base of the handle.

           "YES!" Cooper snatched the boggle-wonk out of Heller's hands. She pointed it at the engine and it went bing.

           "800 Mega-Pascels, and falling," Simmons said in a relieved voice.

           "I guess I saved the day again," Heller said smugly.

           "Heller," Cooper said, "Why was the boggle-wonk under your chair?"

           "Oh, because it was a bit wobbly. Actually if you're finished with it, do you mind if I have it back?"

The Boggle-Wonk

 The Boggle Wonk is a singular feature of the Boggler’s culture (p.40, Bogglers). These small, trollish creatures are generally found living in colonies in the marshes of temperate zones, generally referred to as “bogs”, from which their name derives. They live in groups of up to forty Bogglers, made up of three subgroups which can be broadly categorized as the Young (ie. Children), the Mating, and the Mated. The Mated are those that have already found partners and have had Young. They would otherwise considered as the Old, indiscriminate of their age. The Mating are those Bogglers that are no longer part of the Young, ie. They show interest in other Bogglers other than looking for a playmate, but have not yet Mated.

It is this subgroup of Bogglers that is engaged in the Boggle Wonk. Midwives’ tales lead historians to believe that this act was originally meant as a means to scare off other Bogglers from once Chosen Mate (before the Mating occurs). In this sense, the Chosen Mate (comparable to the Female in other species, although there is no physical difference between two Bogglers, except in personality) cowers behind the Boggler making themselves unseen from the attacker, while the Boggler rises up and makes themselves look larger and more imposing. It would then give forth a screech that has been known to make flowers wither, due to the frequency that cannot be detected by human ears.

However, recent studies and interviews with less shy members of a local British colony of Bogglers has shown that the Boggle Wonk is actually the Mating Call the more dominant Bogglers use to impress their Chosen Mate. This Chosen Mate can then decide if they wish to accept the advance or not by responding to the Boggle Wonk with the Boggle Wack (p. 45) or the Boggle Wink (p.46).

The Boggle Wonk is composed of three phases: First, the Boggler covers themselves in mud, leaving only their eyes and ears clear free. The mud used for this needs to be of a very specific consistency and colour – brown with hints of green from mosses and ferns. Second, the Boggler swaggers towards their Chosen Mate, swaying so far from side to side that they are on the verge of falling over. Meanwhile their ears waggle rapidly forth and back to indicate their interest. Third, the Boggler falls flat on their face directly in front of their Chosen one, and then looks up and makes a loud, penetrating “wonking” noise, comparable to the horn of an old car. The louder and more nasal the sound, the better.

It is widely believed that these three steps are meant to show their devotion to their Chosen One, and their willingness to go through trouble for them. The decision of the Chosen One is based on whether or not they believe the efforts of the Boggler, judging by the quality of the mud, the oscillation of the swagger and the force with which they hit the ground to the strength in their voice after taking the fall.

For the steps that follow this proposal, read on p.45 for the Boggle Wack (Agreement), and p.46 for the Boggle Wink (Denial).

They had never thought reality would catch up to them the way it did. There hadn’t be a sign of it for months, years even. Sherry had begun to forget about it, as did Michael and Tony. Kim was the only one still plagued by night terrors. He still woke up in a cold sweat, hearing her voice as clear as that day, seeing those flowers, daffodils, a bunch of them strewn in disarray in the grass. He still felt the spray of cold water on his arms, and face, and he still tasted that salty, metallic flavour.

Granted, the nightmares’ frequency had changed, and a lot of the time he just woke up not remembering the dream itself, but only the lingering sensations that reminded him of that day. He had ignored them, as the others did, in the hopes of joining them in their ignorance of that day. How they could forget, he didn’t know, and perhaps he didn’t want to understand at all.

Kim intended to continue like this for indefinitely, reciting the mantra “fake it till you make it” every morning to himself. It applied to more than this, of course, as the reader might be aware of the “cool factor” applicable in the society of high school students.

Kim, Sherry, Tony and Michael still hung out a lot, as they had as children, because they lived close to each other and none of them had a car. It was mostly outside of school however – the evenings and weekends.

Sherry had gone on to go to the all girl’s school uptown, the place that was run by the nuns and where they were actually made to wear school uniforms. There, she was a member of the art club, expressing herself in her paintings, described by critics as hauntingly beautiful, expressing deep pain and horror.  She had shown the guys the ones she had entered in competitions. They all reminded Kim of that late summer day, years ago. Every single one. Michael and Tony never said anything of the same extent though.

Those two went to the same school as Kim, but they had all entered different clubs and often picked different classes. Plus, Tony was a year above the other two. As a result the only times they all really spent time together was at the weekends. Like that time.

Kim had never thought the past would catch up to them, but as Michael reeled in the fishing line, his face turned from excitement about the expected catch into horror. He coiled back, rocking the boat hard enough to make Sherry squeal.

“Are you stupid?” She accused. “What the hell? Seriously.”

Kim stared at her and pointed at the old, wet, slimy sandal Michael was unhooking.

“Do you not recognise that?” He asked, forcing his voice to stop shaking.

“It’s an old shoe? So what?”

“Yeah, not exactly a rare catch,” Tony chimed in. He edged closer to Sherry and placed his arm behind her, leaning back.

“And you remember no one who used to wear a sandal like that one? Like let’s say… six years ago?”

Sherry rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to her own rod.

“Whatever, bro,” Tony laughed it off and joined Sherry on her side of the boat.

Michael was still looking at the sandal, his mouth opened just a slit and Kim was sure that he could lipread the same name that was on his mind as well.

He was sure it was the same shoe. Algeae had claimed a lot of it and it was mucky and soaked, and time had taken its toll, but some remnant of the pink colour was still shining through the brown muck.  The little flower on the top was also still there, although it had lost one or two of its plastic petals. How it had stayed intact for such a long time, Kim didn’t question. He just knew that he recognised it as should his friends.

“Michael,” Kim said, but was cut short when he saw the boy’s eyes. They were sharp, full of memory and determination. Michael shook his head and nudged his thumb towards the other two. He placed the slipper on the floor of the boat, next to his bucket.

Kim left it at that. He fully intended to bring it up with Michael later, when the other two had gone home. He knew Michael remembered, he knew that his friend knew exactly who that shoe had belonged to, back then, six years ago, at this lake. They needed to talk about it, they had to.

“I’ve got something!” They heard Sherry shout. “Help me bring it in, it’s strong!”

Tony was first on the scene, already holding the rod for her as she pulled in the reel. Michael and Kim weren’t far behind, Michael leaning over board to see the catch and Kim helping Sherry to pull in the line.

After a moment, Kim noticed the colour leaving Michael’s face and saw him stumble backwards as far as he could.

“Mike?” He asked. “Mike, are you okay, what’s wrong?”

Sherry had noticed the reaction as well, and left the rod in Tony and Kim’s hands to see what Michael had seen. She went to the railing in all excitement and expectation, but then her face turned ashen as well.

The fishing line slackened, and Kim heard a thumping of something along the boat. Then, a green hand, overgrown with algeae, and as slimy with muck as the shoe had been, a small hand, the size of a child, reached over the railing and hauled someone, some thing, up.

All four of them breathed the same name, a name they had sworn to never speak again.

“Amanda.”

“Hello,” she said, with her white, green lips, red eyes and brown teeth. “It’s been a while.”

"I still can't believe you bought that," Lalago said as they drove home.

           "It's just a knick knack." Tana said turning the small brush over in his hand.

           "It's creepy."

           "It's not that creepy."

           "It's a toothbrush with skulls and warnings carved into it. It's creepy."

           "It's cool."

           "And why did you by an antique toothbrush."

           "It was discounted, and it's cool."

           "Is there something wrong with it?"

           "Why do you assume that if something's discounted there is something wrong with it."

           "Because there usually is."

           "It's not entirely fair."

           "So there isn't anything wrong with it?"

           "Well..."

           "Well what?"

           "They guy at the stall said it was cursed."

           "Cursed?"

           "Cursed."

           "Don't just repeat it back to me. Fucking elaborate!"

           "I don't know. He said it was cursed. That was it."

           "And you thought not to ask any follow up questions?"

           "Nope."

           "So some bloke tries to sell you a haunted toothbrush and you think 'where's my wallet?"  

           "It's cursed not haunted."

           "Seriously not the point."

           "It'll be fine. How cursed could it be?"

           "You realise that by saying that you've doomed us all."

           "Everyone's gotta die some time."

           "Yes but I don't want by cause of death to be 'Haunted Toothbrush'."

           "Cursed!"

           "Whatever!"

Later that day.

           Tana stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom. He put the antique toothbrush in the cup with his normal one. He started washing his face and going through his normal evening routine before bed. He picked up his normal toothbrush and stopped. He looked at the other toothbrush. It looked creepy and weird, but he felt drawn to it. Like it had a certain power.

           "Honey are you nearly finished?"

           "Yes, I'm just brushing my teeth."

           Tana continued with his normal toothbrush and brushed his teeth. It was just a creepy toothbrush. His girlfriend was outside the door.

           "I'm going to brush my teeth," Lalago said.

           Tana climbed into their bed and started reading. He was drawn into the story. He wasn't sure how long he had been reading but he realised that Lalago hadn't come back from the bathroom. He got out of bed and knocked on the door.

           "Honey are you alright?"

           The door creaked as it opened. Lalago was standing looking in the mirror. In her hand was the 'cursed' toothbrush. She had put toothpaste on it.

           "Lalago?"

           She turned to him. She had a disturbing smile on her face. Her eyes were solid black.

           "Have you been brushing your teeth like a good little boy?" She spoke with a voice that wasn't her own.

           "What?"

           "Oh you have such dirty teeth. I'm going to have to give them such a scrubbing."

           "What are you talking about?"

           Lalago moved towards him.

           "Stop messing around," Tana said backing away.

           "You've been very naughty. Those teeth need a good clean."

           Lalago suddenly rushed forward and pushed him back onto the bed. She grabbed him by the throat and began vigorously brushing his teeth. Tana yelled and squirmed as she held him down with inhuman strength. The hard bristles of the brush were tearing at his gums. Blood began to flow out of his mouth. He tried to hit her, but it had no effect.

           When the police got there the next day, what they found shocked them all. Lalago sat in the corner of their bedroom gently rocking back and forward. Tana's body lay lifeless on the bed. His teeth had been removed and were laid out on the floor. They shone brightly against the hard wood. Beneath the teeth was the bloody toothbrush and a sentence written in blood.

           "I told you it was cursed."

           It was about six or seven years ago. I had never been fishing before. It wasn't something I'd ever thought a lot about before or since. A friend invited me and another friend down to his friend's house deep in the countryside. Now we already lived in the countryside, so to go this far in was a different world entirely. It was a world of shotguns, fishing, bonfires, and clichés. This is opposed to the countryside I lived in which was more of the, "Oh we live outside of the town because of the quiet and the cheaper housing prices."

           So we arrive at a house at the top of the hill and the first thing we are shown is the same thing all sixteen year olds want to see, the gun cabinet. There were an array of shotguns and rifles lined up in a safe. The friend's friend rattles off the calibres, chamber sizes, recoil pressures, and all the other things that most people don't know about. Naturally like any novice wine taster, or amateur car enthusiast, we all nodded knowingly. It was as though it was poor form to acknowledge ignorance of the ins and outs of guns.

           This was only a brief side bar on our intended programme of events. Behind the house on the hill, was a sloping plain that lead down to a lake. So we hoped onto the trailer of a tractor with our gear. Mine included an Aldi fishing rod (never used), a two man tent (never used), and a distinct lack of any other supplies that one might need for fishing or camping.

           Still we trundled on to the lake. When we arrived our host jumped out of the tractor and produced a large cooler. It contained a large amount of bottles of American beers, a packet of sausages, and some buns. As he stalked off into the wooded area to collect firewood, we remained to set up the fishing lines and tents. We had the full intention of catching out dinner and staying out over night sharing stories and enjoying the height of summer.

           It didn't take long to set up the tents, as the grandson of two Scouting masters, there must have been an inherited ability to set up a tent without it collapsing. However when it came to sorting out the fishing line, I was much less a woodsman, and much more Woody Allan. On our host's return, hatchet in one hand and pile of wood under his other arm, he sorted out my fishing line. We were now set to fish.

           The sun beat down on us with a vigour I have not seen since. This is always the way, all summers before a certain age are remembered as bright and sunny affairs, regardless of their actually weather forecast.

           So we took a jetty each. It was quiet. It was a little after one when we started and there was little else to do but cast lines into the water and drink beer. It was entertaining for the first twenty minutes. There was a peaceful repetitiveness of casting the line into the water and then drawing it in slowly.

           This continued most of the day. I would elaborate on it, but the boredom that it entailed was both tedious and cruel to share. Needless to say, several hours, and four beers later we were still sitting on the jetties casting lines into the water. In that time only one of us caught something. Our host managed to catch a calm. It was a remarkable feat in itself, however having spent the day casting lines and catching nothing we saw this catch as a great achievement worth a great deal of whooping and hollering.

           We weren't to the fire to eat sausages and toast to a successful hunt. It was then that I felt it. It was a wave of disorientation. I first thought it was the beer. We had been out for some time and I had a few beers with little to eat. I staggered back to the camp. As we got there I felt weak and shivery. The others suggested I lie down for a bit in the tent while they got the sausages ready. I would be alright once I had something to eat.

           I lay down in the tent and then the waves of pain came. I began to shudder and shake. My bones rattled as I shivered. This seemed to go on for some time. It was difficult to tell. It could have only been a few minutes. It could have been half an hour. Time had become rather malleable.

           At some point someone checked on me, likely to tell me the sausages were ready. I was barely aware of the existence of time and space outside of the tent. They could see I was extremely unwell and relayed such concern to the others. The general consensus was that I'd be grand.

           What is unsure in my recollections is who called my father, I likely did, but what I do know is that he came to collect me. The others helped me back to the house. My father made the forty minute journey in a little over twenty-five minutes. I remember little of the rest of the evening, apart from a considerable amount of embarrassment. Needless to say, I was red faced in more ways than one.

           It is untrue to say only one of us caught something that day. Our host caught a clam. I caught a severe case of heat stroke. 

Fred took a drag of his almost expended cigarette. He sat across from Iza, who was waiting for a response.

           "Can't you go through that once more?" Fred said eventually.

           "I don't see what's so complicated."

           "Humour me."

           "I need more time because my villain quit. She had been having difficulties with the creative process since book three and has had enough."

           "But you're the writer."

           "That's not the point."

           "It very much is the point. You write the words, I edit them and get them published. That's how this works."

           "No, you see, the characters work with me to develop the story. It's a collaboration."

           "It's only a collaboration if you've got multiple personality disorder."

           "Look there is nothing I can do about it. The villain didn't like where the story was going."

           "Of course she doesn't, she's the villain about readers don't like when the villain wins. Except maybe when it's a pyrrhic victory, and it's so damaging that they still really lose."

           "Well she isn't happy with the idea for being killed off in the final book."

           "You've been building to this for five books. A toddler could have drawn the plot line."

           "Even so, she's just realised that she's going to be cut and she isn't happy about it."

           "Well I don't care. I'm not giving you an extension. You've got a deadline in six weeks. I expect something on my desk by then."

           "But how can I do that, I've got to spend a few weeks interviewing new villains."

           "Interviewing? You've got to be kidding."

           "Well how else can I find a new antagonist?"

           "By thinking one up?"

           "Look, it's not magic. It's the creative process. I need to spend time interviewing the possible interviewees."

           Fred lit another cigarette. Maybe it was time for a career change. He was sick of dealing with barking writers.

           "How about this," he said suddenly, "Change the ending."

           "I can't have the villain winning."

           "I didn't say she had to win. Just have her imprisoned or arrested or something. Then tell her there will be a sequel."

           "How will that help?"

           "Either it will tell the whole series from her side of things, or it will show her path to redemption, or a murderous killing spree. I don't know, supposedly you're the writer."

           Iza got up with a thoughtful look and wandered rather aimlessly out of Fred's office.

           "I hate writers," Fred said to himself.

“Villain Wanted!

Location: Anywhere.

Hours: Full Time - Hours flexible

Starting Date: Immediately

Pay: Success-based income

Your Role: You will be performing the role of a villain. This may include any of the following:

Trying to take over the world

Trying to destroy the world

Trying to steal something very significant (landmark, the british crown, etc)

Trying to become very rich and infamous for being evil

Previous experience is not necessary but would be helpful in such areas as the following:

Stealing candy from a baby

Kicking puppies

Bursting children’s balloons

Drinking the last of the milk but leaving the carton in the fridge anyway

Will need to bring own lunch and own minions. “

Carella the Mightiest Crystal Blade lowered the newspaper and glared at me.

“Seriously?” She growled. “Kicking puppies? Not even the dark Lord Archibald did that. Or the white Prince Villem. Or Arceolus Mirroreyes. None of them. This is why they keep quitting on you, you know.”

I was pretty sure her icy glare was freezing my fingers to the pen. Any moment now icicles would start growing out of my ears now. Nonchalantly I lifted my gaze to the ceiling and twirled in my black leather office chair. It was old and squeaky and didn’t really turn well anymore. The leather was also starting to reveal the brownish underneath, whatever that actually was.

Hm. Maybe I should do some research on that. Could be an interesting fact to include in my next story, you know, as a side piece of information that makes people go: Huh! I never knew that!

“Hello? Nina? Are you even listening?”

“Huh? Oh yeah, of course I am, sorry!”

“This. Is. Ridiculous.”

She slapped the newspaper with every word. The last time she slapped a little too hard, and it fell to the floor. I suppressed a grin.

“Don’t you dare laugh.”

“I would never!”

I tried to play it off, but I was actually beginning to feel my throat tighten. Her eyes had gone from snowstorm to volcano and I was afraid it might erupt any moment now, and do away with me as Vesuvius had done with Pompeii…

I was looking at my add in the newspaper, but I could still feel her gaze on me. Was that my hair I smelt smoring?

I sniffed experimentally and patted down the crown of my head just to be safe. I hadn’t written Carella with laser eyes, had I?

But no, my hair wasn’t on fire. But something was. Panicked I realised as I stared at Carella who was pursing her lips at me in disapproval.

“I think you might want to get take out,” she suggested. “And a new dress. The one over there,” she nodded over to the smoking ironing board. “Might not be socially acceptable any more.”

No sooner had she stopped speaking that the fire alarm went off.

“Why didn’t you warn me sooner?” I yelled as I raced towards the destroyed dress  to salvage the remains from the iron, which I had forgotten about when Carella had come in to reproach me.

I threw it out on the balcony where I left it smoldering, so I could sort out my charcoal pizza that was creating a dark, grey cloud in the kitchen. The pizza soon joined the dress outside, as I proceeded to open any and all windows, doors and suchlike I could find, and turned on my electric fan so the room could air out and the fire alarm stop.

I almost didn’t notice when it did stop, because my ears kept ringing for the next 5 minutes.

“Thanks for your help,” I groaned, probably a lot louder than I realised, as I let myself fall back into my chair. “Some heroine you are.”

Carella smirked self-satisfied.

“I can’t be a hero when there is no villain,” she corrected me. “And your last one just quit.”

“Why do you keep reminding me?” I whined. “Did I write you to be so obnoxious?”

“Yes,” she said. “And if you wrote better villains, they might not keep leaving to become pig farmers, or be thrown from cliffs by annoyed villagers.”

“Hey, Karthis Necrum became a connoisseur of Acid spitting dragon boars, that’s totally an acceptable villain profession!”

Carella sighed.

“Not when he loves them too dearly to set them on anyone.”

“So why won’t the add work?” I decided to change the subject back to my second least favourite subject of the day.

“Because you’re asking someone who hasn’t been open about their evil side to basically come out and say: ‘ Hi, I’m the most vile person around and I’m planning all these horrible things. ‘ No sensible person would do that.”

She hesitated for a moment.

“Then again, I didn’t think there was anyone dumb enough to burn both a piece of clothing and their dinner at the same time, so maybe there’s someone out there for you after all, kiddo!”

Scratch that. The add was now only my third least favourite subject.

“I was gonna write them into your story…” I grumbled. “They wouldn’t have to deal with anyone but you there…”

Carella snorted.

“No one who would answer to that ad of yours would last even five minutes against me!”

The door bell kept me from responding. A grin widened on my face as realisation dawned on hers.

I asked, challenging.

“Why don’t we find out?”