Sometimes a helper can be more trouble than they are worth!

"iHelper"

By Edd Howarth

        The old man had been dozing in his wheelchair when the front door squeaked open. For a second, for the briefest of moments, really, he had mistaken the blur sweeping over the ashed carpet for his neighbour Henderson's clean, white tennis shoe. But it was just the iHelper, all six-inches of clear, child-shaped, ash-smeared plastic, bent low under the weight of a food tin on its back. The open door brought a flurry of ash that added to the piles mounding against the coffee table, the the TV stand, the picture frames with nothing in them. Good, the old man thought. He was glad it wasn't Henderson. Then he remembered that Henderson was probably dead, and he thought that that was good, too. He hitched the blanket up around his throat, coughed, spat right on the carpet and sucked some bloody saliva from his lips. The iHelper trundled over, placed the can at the old man's feet and made little whirring and clicking sounds.

        The old man slid his burnt leg free from the blanket and nudged the can until the label came into view. Chicken curry, God! He hated chicken curry. He toppled the can with his toe and sent it rolling across the carpet. The iHelper trundled mutely after, moving stiffly like a toy soldier, bizzing and buzzing and all the while shedding even more dust flakes onto the carpet. The iHelper was Henderson's fault, too. Everything was Henderson's fault. He'd been just fine before the day Henderson had come over with the thing.

        The can stopped by the stand beneath the dead television screen, and here the iHelper righted it and lifted it back over to the wheelchair, found the can opener beneath the couch stand and, with a delicate robot care, began to crank open the lid, and all the while the old man grunted in protest. When the lid was off it took up the spoon in one hand and, balancing the tin on its back, came back over to the wheelchair, where the old man's foot slithered out and kicked meekly at the thing's cubic legs. But the iHelper, weary of the foot by now, arched back around the blanket and climbed up the back of the wheelchair. "I hate you," the old man wheezed, as the robot pattered over the knobs of his shoulder blades, and then pushed the spoon and chicken curry right into his mouth, who was too weak from the kicking to do anything now but let the food slide down his throat, unchewed. And when the tin was all gone the iHelper made his way back down the carpet and placed the can amongst the pile of other empty cans by the kitchen door. It looked at the old man for a second and then trundled back out through the door for more cans, wherever it was getting them.

        And now the old man would be alone, for a while. He spat again and hitched the blanket up and tried to suck the sting of curry from his gums. Chicken Curry, he thought. Why was it always chicken curry? This was all Henderson's fault. The iHelper had left the door open again and on the dead television screen he saw a slice of the outside street revealed in mute gray shapes, and that world was the left wing of the Henderson's two-story, with its neatly carved flowerbeds and dual garage and parapets, and all now piled with dust. And he took some pleasure in the way their white-washed paintwork, which Henderson had dabbed at on warm Sunday afternoons, had faded now to the pallor of unbaked clay.

Before all this, before the dust and silence and heat in the old man's bones, Henderson had been a man who came home from work in silver Mercedes, wearing tennis shorts and an apricot cardigan thrown over his wide shoulders. Henderson, sprightly and strong and the colour of smoked wood. Every day, he’d waved his tennis racket at the old man while the old man patrolled his flower beds, wheeling across the grass and swatting at rogue insects, and the old man hadn’t waved back. Henderson had had a wife who wasn't in the ground, but with high breasts and creamy skin who’d walked barefoot along the Henderson's well-groomed but flowerless front lawn, who came knocking on the old man's door bearing bacterial-looking Jell-O floating with marshmallows, which he’d always hated.

He remembered how Henderson would come over, uninvited and all, and wheel him over to their back garden on Sunday afternoons, as if the old man wasn't a man at all, but a beer keg. And how Henderson had set him up in the shade of the pine tree, and brought him mashed-up burgers while his wife drifted like a leaf across the pool. And then there had been Henderson's little girl, slicked from diving, who'd crept around the wheelchair, poking him and jabbing her finger at the clear, warm water, yelling “dive, dive, dive!” until, like torture, he'd been forced to laugh.

“Would you like a dive?” Henderson had always said, after the old man had become so bored as to fall asleep. And whenever Henderson asked, the old man had taken one look at the clear deep waters with the little girl bouncing around in the shallow end, back-and-forthing a foam football to Henderson's wife on the other side, and he'd always shook his head and muttered that he'd like to go home, now.

        But then he'd had the last laugh, really. There was Henderson, thinking him so old and frail, and how he, yes he, had outlasted even Henderson. Not even Henderson, with his day planner and secretary, could have anticipated that day with the bright flash in the east, when the birds had dropped from the trees and peppered the grass like little discarded toys, and the TV screen became a square of sifting grey sand. And how Henderson had come over for days, not knocking or anything, just limping into the house uninvited, like always, and bending down and touching the old man's head and towelling his neck, and how he’d asked him, trembling slightly, no longer that smoked wood colour but a strange urine yellow, of how the old man should come over to their place, with the pool and parapets and the double driveway, where he could look after everyone.

        "Everyone is sick," Henderson had said, eyes bowed and dabbing at the old man's head. "Everyone."

        But the old man had refused. And so Henderson, just like Henderson, had tried to wheel him out anyway. And when he couldn't, when he'd slumped over too many times and had to crawl out through the front door, as deflated and pitiful as one of his pool beds left out in the sun, he had brought that little robot over in an unwrapped Christmas box. "It was for Rachy," he'd said, looking at it with deep red eyes, bowing low as if the thing weighed fifty pounds. "I’ve programmed it, it’ll help, after I’m..." Then he'd set the box down and, while the old man watched from the wheelchair, went to untangling the ribbon and shredding the wrapping paper in feeble little swipes, coughing and spluttering all the time, and then pulling loose the iHelper with a wisp of tissue paper. He’d flicked the on-switch, touched the old man's head one final time and limped out into the silent, grey street. And then he hadn't come round any more, but he hadn't left the neighbourhood like all the others, either, because his Mercedes was still in the drive, congealed with dust.

        The old man was looking at this car, now, as a light wind carried the ash through the door and into the room, and he thought how glad he was to finally see Henderson gone. And then the room steadily grew dark, maybe because of a paling in the sky, or the ash piling up against the windows, he couldn't tell any more. He sweated and stirred and the heat in his bones grew hot. The door squeaked open and there was that blur again, and after sucking the curry from his gums he leaned into the blanket and dreamt the sting of barbecue smoke and a damp headed girl poking his arm and singing dive dive dive dive dive.

Edd Howarth wrote his first short story in crayon on the walls of his mother’s kitchen. He was twenty-one years old. Since then, he’s obtained a BA in English and Creative Writing from The University of Plymouth, UK, edited the 2009 edition of Ink and worked as production editor on The Dos Passos Review. He has designed books and promotional materials for The Dos Passos Review and Somewhere Far From Habit: The Poet and the Artist’s Book show. His stories have appeared in Six Sentences, and was recently short listed for the Bridport Short Story Prize.

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Corrections can be made from beyond the grave...

“MAKING THINGS RIGHT”

By Elliot Richard Dorfman

Elizabeth came home late in the afternoon just as a Spring thunder storm was starting. Tired after completing her last final for the junior spring term in college, she went into the den and laid down on the sofa near the fireplace to take a nap. About an hour later, she awoke to see a tall teenager with short sandy colored hair and a pale complexion leaning over her with a horrific expression of hate. On his left temple was a crimson  bullet hole. His piercing brown eyes looked straight at her. With icy cold hands, he reached down and caressed her cheek. Elizabeth pushed herself up and screamed out.

Ruth, her mother, came running in.

“What’s the matter?”

Elizabeth looked around. The storm had ended, and everything seemed to be normal in the room.  She laughed and dismissed the incident. “I guess I was having some silly nightmare.”

Everything went normal for the rest of the evening, but in the middle of the night, she sensed a  presence of someone standing at the foot of her bed. A  distinct odor of mildew permeated the air.  Her heart began to beat faster.

“Who’s here?” she whispered.

A sound of laugher responded as a figure began to glow with a bright bluish light of its own. It was the same figure she had seen in her nightmare that afternoon.

“What do you want of me?”

The phantom angrily responded in a voice that reverberated against the walls.

“My restless soul has returned to seek revenge which is due to me.”

At that moment there was a knock on Elizabeth’s  door.

The specter turned to the door and  rubbed his hands gleefully. “Come in”

Ruth entered and gasped. “Grant. Oh, no, it can’t be you!”

The specter moved to her. “Never expected to see me again, did you, mother!”

Not able to  handle the situation, she returned to her bedroom, crying hysterically. Grant Stratton seemed delighted at her reaction.

The young woman was terrified and confused. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, you’ll  find out soon enough,” Grant responded as he vanished into the darkness.

Elizabeth immediately went to see how her mother was doing. Gary, her father, was sitting next to Ruth on their bed.

“What happened, honey?”

Ruth seemed considerably calmer. “It  was nothing,  just my imagination over reacting. I mistook a shadow for an intruder in Elizabeth’s room.”

Gary looked surprised.  “ That’s a first. Since when have you ever over reacted to anything?  You’re always so cool, calm and collected.”

Ruth was  becoming impatient.  “Let’s forget the whole thing.  Elizabeth and I are going downstairs  for some tea. Go back to sleep, Gary.” She gave him a kiss, and closed the light.

Elizabeth wondered why her mother was hiding the truth.

The wind had gotten stronger as the two women entered the kitchen. They could hear it weaving in and out of the branches from the open window near the table as they sat down to drink their tea.

“Mom why didn’t you tell dad what really happened?”

“Don’t be so naive,” Ruth chided. “Your father would think we’re going nuts.”

But Elizabeth pressed on. “I was wondering why the ghost called your mother?”                                  Ruth stood up and began pacing back and forth nervously.

“This is going to shock you, Elizabeth, but I was married once before. The spirit who calls himself Grant Stratton was my stepson. I never told you this because things ended up very tragically. Twenty-five years ago I met Grant’s father while working as a waitress. The man would always come into the restaurant during my shift and  make sure to sit at one of my tables. We began talking and he eventually asked me out. Although the man was much older than I, we soon began going steady and six months later got married.  It was a great opportunity that I couldn’t pass up. After all, I was  a poor struggling waitress trying to make ends meet, and he owned one of the largest  accounting firms in the city.”

Elizabeth shook her head, “I didn’t think you would be such an opportunist, Mom.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Ruth quickly replied.  “I had some feelings for him. Things would have been fine if not for that darn overwrought son of his. That teenager made my life miserable.”

“Grant Stratton?” asked Elizabeth.

Her mother nodded. “The boy  was stubborn and had a violent temper, especially  when he didn’t get exactly what he wanted. At times Grant, would go into long moods of depression which were always hard to break. The following year after getting married, Randolph died of a massive heart attack. We were all upset, but Grant never got over it. He would sulk around the house, refusing to talk to anyone. One night before retiring,  I heard a gun shot from his room. By the time I got there, it was too late. He was dead on his bed, a bullet wound in his temple. The gun  still clutched in his hand. ”

The lights in the kitchen suddenly began blinking on and off.  A sound of moaning built from a crescendo to a deafening volume. It abruptly stopped as the vision of Grant Stratton appeared. A stench of decay filled the room.

He pointing an accusing finger at Ruth, as she was thrown by some inner force within him into a seat opposite her daughter

“Enough lies,” he shouted. “I  won’t let you go on damaging my name and reputation. The truth is thatyou murdered me. You knew my dad had a serious heart condition and  wouldn’t live too many years. Furious when he left  his entire fortune to me, you decided to  permanently get rid of me. Everyone knew how depressed I was, so it was a simple matter to get away with your foil deed. You waited until I fell asleep after taking one of those strong sedatives the doctor prescribed. Quietly, you went into the den and opened the locked draw where my father kept a loaded gun for protection in case of a robbery. Wearing gloves so that your finger prints wouldn’t show, you went into my room and shot me in cold blood. Afterward, the gun was placed in my hand to make it look like suicide.”

“Mom, deny it,” Elizabeth told her mother.

Grant shook his head. “She can’t because it’s true.”

Ruth quivered. “What do you plan to do, retaliate by killing me?”

Grant gave her an evil smile and  walked close to Elizabeth, leaning against her with his body.

“Your daughter looks so hot. I wish I had met a girl like her when I was a mortal.”

Repulsed, Ruth tried getting up to push him away, but she was stuck to her chair.

Slowly bending down, he gave Elizabeth a long sensuous kiss, then pulled a gun from his hip pocket and aimed it at her left temple.

“Oh, don’t, Grant,” Ruth pleaded, vainly trying to get herself out of the chair. “She hasn’t done anything wrong to die like this.”

“Neither did I, Mother! I was only sixteen years old when you killed me in cold blood. Well, It’s time to make things right. As the good book says, ‘An eye for an eye.’ ”

Grant fired and Elizabeth slumped over. As Ruth sobbed, the phantom put the smouldering gun in the grief-stricken mother’s hand and disappeared.

Moments later, Gary came running down the stairs. His face turned flushed when he saw his wife holding the gun.

“Ruth, what have you done?”

“Grant did it,” she muttered over and over, tossing the gun away and mindlessly cradling the lifeless body of her daughter back and forth in her arms.

As Gary pulled out his cell phone and called 911,  he thought hearing someone laughing in the distance.

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Who can tell where true power lies?

True Power

By Jasmine Giacomo

A flicker of motion caught the old dragon’s eye as she reclined upon her dais, and she resisted the instinct to bite; the scarred man was her scribe, after all.

He shuffled into plain view and bowed, lisping, “Another petithioner hath arrived, Great Varan Ti. He ith the King of Thkent.”

“The King of Skent, hmm?” A pleased rumble echoed down her wide, bulbous throat, causing the blubbery purplish polyps that grew from her skin to undulate a bit. “Very well, show him in.”

“Yeth, mithtreth.” The scribe reached to his right and pulled a red-dyed cord of braided troll-hide. Outside the great bronze doors to the dragon’s audience chamber, a loud bell clanged once. The doors swung outward and revealed a nervous, gray-haired man standing outside, trailed by five servants bearing heavy chests.

“Enter,” intoned the dragon.

The man walked forward hesitantly, and Varan Ti could tell that this mortal was not used to being anything other than the most powerful person in the room. His eyes dwelt on her form as he made his way along the long dark blue carpet to the dais that supported her enormous bulk, no doubt wondering if the rumors about her were true.

Varan Ti lay on her side on the dais, upon a sheet of emerald silk, her chest and shoulders propped against an enormous stack of feather pillows the size of hayrolls. Her body stretched the full length of the dais, the length of six men head to toe. Her snout was short and jowly, her eyes a deep black, with no surrounding white at all. Her ears looked mangled as if by fire, and their fleshy shreds were festooned with a great many earrings and brooches. The hide that covered her ranged in hue from grayish-green at her face to lemon-yellow at the tip of her tail, and had myriad scaly pink patches across its smooth expanse. That tail, thick and stumpy, waggled occasionally as if bored of laying completely still, rather than in any sort of proactive manner.

The king noted with interest that her visible hind leg seemed barely capable of touching the dais, should the dragon choose to stand. The other hind leg was hidden below enormous rolls of corpulence which protruded from the dragon’s chest and belly, spilling out like a rotting custard across the emerald silk.

The dragon’s forelegs were nearly lost in the polyp-infested rolls of flesh that rippled from her jowly chin down to her chest. Her dark claws, trimmed down to soft round tips, looked as if they could grow to a full foot each. The lopped talons bore numerous rings of dazzling brightness.

One of these forefeet waved the king closer, and he realized he had stopped to stare.

“My most humble apologies, Great Dragon,” the king blurted, horrified at his gaffe. The dragon had been rumored to eat petitioners who displeased her.

Varan Ti rumbled an amused laugh. “Fear not, mortal. I never eat anyone until after I have learned their request. Come, speak of your concern.”

A sickly smile pasted itself on the king’s face, and he gulped. Her mouth was terribly big, this close, and her many sharp teeth gave her booming voice a sinister backdrop.

He stepped forward a bit further, and his servants followed. When he paused, they clunked down the heavy chests of gifts they carried.

“Great Varan Ti,” the king began, “my kingdom is beset by trolls. They slip down from the hills at night and slaughter my people. I have sent out fourteen heroes over three months‘ time, and none have returned. My villages on the Westmarch now lay in ruins, and there is no one to tend the crops. I fear the troll invasions will bring famine. Can you help me, and my people?” The king dropped to a knee and held out his arms in sincere desperation. “I have brought much treasure, as you are rumored to appreciate.”

“Trolls, and much treasure, hmm?” Varan Ti murmured. What was a quiet voice for her still echoed around the large chamber. “You traveled several hundred miles to my palace by the sea, and all you want me to do is rid Skent of trolls?”

“Y-yes, Great Dragon. If it is not too much to ask.”

Varan Ti smiled, a ferocious baring of fangs. “Show me this treasure of which you speak, O King, and we shall see if there is a deal to be struck.”

The king stood with alacrity and gestured for his servants to open the lids of the treasure chests. They backed away so that Varan Ti could see into the chests for herself, and the king detailed the inventory.

“Great Varan Ti, I have brought you such treasure as you have never seen before. The market quotas for my capital city, Marthialis, detailing how much of what is produced, and to whom it is sold. Our fishing and whaling rolls: how many ships, where they sail, what their holds can carry. Our kingdom’s organized crime syndicate, the Dark Hand, has consented to include a complete list of their ranks, including a detailed list of all assassinations and thefts for the last twenty years.”

Varan Ti snorted softly through her reddened nostrils. The king paused, unsure if that was a sign of acceptance or rejection. After a few heartbeats, he continued.

“Lastly, I have brought recipes from all the finest bakers in Skent, Great Dragon, for I know well the rumors that you quest ceaselessly for the most perfect baked pastries in all the known world.” The king swallowed nervously. “Do these treasures please you, Great Varan Ti?”

Varan Ti lidded her all-black eyes for a moment as she considered.

“These recipes. You have brought samples?” the dragon finally rumbled, gesturing to the largest chest with a beringed talon.

“Of course, Great Dragon.”

Varan Ti sampled the sweets, holding each tiny item gently in her lopped claws, while the king’s servants trundled the rest of the treasure into a side room, under the direction of the scribe.

Varan Ti declared the hummingbird-tongue scones her favorite. “I must have this recipe, good king. You have a deal. I will rid Skent of the trolls that pester you. On this, you have my good and infallible word.” Varan Ti nodded, as if to herself.

The king’s shoulders slumped in relief. “A million grateful thanks, from myself and all my people, Great Dragon. You have saved my kingdom, and our future. I shall return home and praise your name from every tower in every castle in my kingdom. This I so swear.” The king bowed to the dragon with immense respect and gestured to his servants to follow him back out.

“Hold, mortal,” Varan Ti’s voice rang in the chamber with undeniable authority. The king froze in mid-turn. Had he somehow neglected a detail in the dragon-meeting protocol?

“I must insist that you add certain details to your story, when you proclaim it from these towers of yours.”

The king remembered to breathe again. He wasn’t going to be eaten; a wide smile broke across his features. “Anything, Great Dragon.”

“Describe me thus,” Varan Ti said, gesturing to the air, where an image coalesced. The king craned his neck; above him swooped a slender and sprightly Varan Ti. Her body was trim, her legs muscled, her talons wickedly sharp. She cavorted and dived easily in the image overhead, and as the king looked at the real Varan Ti, he thought her expression rather wistful.

“Of course, Great Dragon,” the king said tactfully, and did not ask any of the questions that came to mind.

Varan Ti sensed them. “Once,” she said, gesturing to the image, “I was thus. Centuries ago. Even dragons have youth and vigor, mortal. I have grown so powerful over the last two hundred years that I no longer need to move. Anything I desire comes to me: food; entertainment; chests and boxes of the strategic information you call ‘treasure’. My reach is long, now. As long as the world. There is no one whom I cannot affect from my palace here, from this very dais. I have not needed to stir myself since your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather was a boy, mortal king. My power has no rival.

“And yet,” Varan Ti paused for a moment, “I am still vain. I want to be whispered of in the fishing villages of Tharm and the alpine huts on the sides of Mount Tarbol as I once was, not as this thickened, corpulent being you see before you today.” The dragon’s snout rippled. “I will have your word on this, mortal, or you will not leave this palace alive.”

The king blinked, then raised his eyes to the image, memorizing its sinuous beauty. “I will remain faithful to your request until and past my dying day, Great Varan Ti,” he swore, placing his right hand over his heart.

“I sense your honesty, mortal king. You may go, and rest assured that by the time you reach your homeland, the trolls will be no more.”

The king’s eyes bugged for a moment before he got them under control. A happy laugh of near-disbelief escaped his lips. He thanked the dragon one last time, and he and his servants departed through the bronze doors, which shut behind them.

Varan Ti let her heavy eyelids droop halfway shut, and inhaled a deep breath of satisfaction. It always felt good to be able to put right some evil, even if she could no longer go out and do the defending herself.

A shuffling step came to the edge of her dais. “Mithtreth?” her scribe inquired, writing tablet in hand. “Who thall I thend word to, to remove the threat of the trollth in Thkent?”

Large grey-green lips pursed in thought as Varan Ti mulled over the possibilities. Finally she spoke, her voice rumbling happily.

“Send word to Arklan the Frost Giant and his clan. Tell them where to find the trolls, and say that his debt to us will be paid in full if he also brings enough grain with him to replace the crops that Skent is losing this year because of the invasions.”

“But, mithtreth, Arklan’th debt ith thignificantly bigger than--”

“I know, I know. More than my belly’s getting soft in my middle years. Make it so, scribe.”

“Yeth, mithtreth, right away.” The scarred scribe shuffled off to do his mistress’ bidding. He was sorry he’d ever believed the rhetoric about dragons being evil. His foolhardy quest to slay the corpulent dragon thirty years ago had resulted in a few scars for his trouble, as well as a reversal of his perceptions. She could easily have eaten him, but she saw the potential to make a statement through restraint.

Now, he was proud to serve his scaled lady as living proof, to all her supplicants, of her magnanimity and power.

He smiled as he began penning a note to the Frost Giant, grateful, as always, that his own debt to Varan Ti would take the remainder of his lifetime to repay, rather than the remainder of his life.

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Sometime a simple task requires a great deal of thought before execution...

Replacing a Light Bulb in Space

By Marcelo Worsley

The cassocked figure of Mr. Patterson, arms slowly rising, stands in the centre of the stage.  He begins to chant in Latin, using a low cadence to punctuate his deep baritone inflection.  Smiles flash amongst the assembled audience, and Lucinda playfully nudges her companion, Paul, on the ribs.  Then, there’s silence as the robed professor turns slowly, dramatically, to look over his left shoulder.

‘Enter Mephistopheles!’ he bellows.

Two loud bangs ensue and the whole gathering of students jumps up simultaneously.  This reaction is followed by gales of laughter and cries of relief.  Lucinda muffles her shocked giggling with her hands.  Paul passes one arm over her shoulders and draws her towards him.  He can feel her eyelashes, the softness of her complexion and her cold nose against the nape of his neck.  Her hair smells fragrant.  They part quickly, feeling a little embarrassed.  Mr. Patterson begins his lesson on Marlowe’s “The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus”.

‘I’m definitely going to write my coursework essay on the play,’ Sally declares, leafing through her copy of Marlowe.

I take a sip of my pint.  The beer is getting warm and tastes stale.  Typical of the cheap drinks they sell in the student’s union pub.

‘Aha!’ Lucinda replies, sweeping back her long blonde hair in characteristic fashion. ‘You’re the third person to utter the selfsame words.  Believe me, after today’s lecture, Mr. Patterson is going to be bored silly marking Faustian papers…’

‘Don’t know about that’ I answer knowingly. ‘We have Romeo and Juliet next week. I wonder what kind of performance he has in store for us…’

‘One shudders to think…’ Sally retorts, with mock trepidation.

‘No more fireworks, that’s for sure!’ I remark.

‘At least, not literally…’ Lucinda whispers, avoiding my glance.

‘Well,’ Sally says.  ‘It’s late, I’m afraid I have to get going…’

‘I second the motion!’ Lucinda concurs. ‘Early to rise tomorrow…’

‘Oh, C’mon!’ I plead, staring at her. ‘Just a couple more drinks…! Listen, I’ll buy you dinner at the refectory.’

Lucinda appears thoughtful for a couple of seconds.  It is almost as if the whole world has stopped moving.

‘I’ll take you up on that…tomorrow,’ she finally replies. ‘I really must get home.  Laundry night today.’

I feel downhearted and, for some reason, slightly surprised at her answer.

‘Washing? I can’t argue with that…  I’ll walk you to the tube station.’

The University campus is located on the grounds of an old country state.  A small byway, lined with oak trees, leads to a main road full of shops and public transport facilities.

They walk quickly, in silence, Sally a couple of paces in front of Lucinda and Paul.  The latter steals same glances at his companion, who looks unusually serious.  Something is wrong between them but he can’t fathom what on earth may have happened.  Only an hour before, things had looked most promising...

They reach the underground station.

‘I’ll catch you up in a moment’ Lucinda says to Sally.

‘OK.  See you tomorrow Paul!’  She replies.

He waves nonchalantly but, as soon as Sally turns around, Lucinda grabs the lapels of his raincoat.  Forcing his head down, she kisses him passionately.  His rucksack falls to the ground, spilling books and lecture notes.  Some figures pass beside the embracing couple, a clock chimes nearby, the floor grumbles beneath their feet, signalling the entrance of a train.  She pushes him away, smiles longingly for an instant and runs down the stairs.

As I amble back down the byway, towards the halls of residence, I try to focus on something other than Lucinda.  It’s hard work, though.  I am dazzled by even the smallest nuances of our blossoming relationship.

There’s still a little light, enough to make out the yellow canopy of leaves that surrounds me.  It has been a warm rainy Fall and the atmosphere is dense with the aroma of nature.  Night birds sing, as if to provide a backdrop for my solitary figure walking amidst the forest. All in all, I feel like a character in a dream or a children’s fable.  To compound the feeling still further, I see a peacock, its tail spread out, standing in the middle of the road.  I laugh merrily at the sight.  As I draw nearer, I stamp my feet hard against the pavement, hoping to scare the bird away.

The peacock won’t budge.  Indeed, at this short distance, its silhouette has the quality of a cardboard cut-out.  Something is eerily wrong.  The world is slowing down, I can feel it, the rhythm that my footsteps produce is growing faint, a large leave hovers in front of me, in midair, gravity and time seemingly disrupted…

The sky starts to flash bright red and the realisation hits me like a bucketful of icy water.  I groan in frustration and anger.  I am still groaning when I open my eyes, strapped into the contraption, and see the dim fluorescent lights above...

Only Paul’s head protrudes from the cocoon but the rest of the encasing is beginning to unzip automatically, thus following the awakening protocol.  The boy is emitting a gurgling sound, about the best he can hope for in the circumstances.  His throat must be dry and raw from the feeding tubes, his mouth parched, his tongue swollen and, as for the vocal cords, it will take a great deal of gurgling for them to become supple again.  These are only natural consequences of such a long immersion in VR.  Nothing to worry about regarding health and safety.

The encasing has uncovered his thin pale body, naked apart from the lubricant covering his skin.  It has been one hour now since the emergency call and he is still not moving.  I should think he would be desperately eager to get the routine tests and exercise workout under way, and so return as quickly as possible to his VR life.

He is stirring.  He rubs his face with his hands, something to be avoided before having a thorough clean up.  Humans never learn…

I’m perplexed and a little worried now.  I have already cleaned, passed the health monitoring session and performed half and hour of the physical exercises that cannot be easily replicated inside the cocoon.  Three hours have now elapsed since awakening, and still no one has come visiting.  Normally, my mother is standing by my side as soon as I leave VR.  This time, after six months of immersion, the maximum permitted period, not even the duty officer has come to check that I’m alright.  The ship seems empty and silent but, then again, it always does…  Nothing untoward there.

Perhaps, they’re angry with me for having been in VR for so long.  That would be an overreaction on their part, for what the hell am I supposed to do with my time?  Gaze at the never changing star formation for weeks on end? There’s always the possibility that every member of the crew is likewise immersed in long-term virtual stasis.  It doesn’t make any sense, though.  Someone must remain invigilating at all times.  It’s the rules.  I suppose I’d better go and find out for myself.  I do hope everything’s OK…

The green light is flashing, Paul.  Can’t you see it?  Why are you so agitated?  I have been proved wrong in my assessment. I predicted that Paul would return to VR as soon as he got the all-clear.  The ruse worked better with his father, the captain.  Instead, the boy is accessing the ship’s zone terminal.  He’ll soon discover that coms are off.  Afterwards, he’ll try to unlock the door of his cabin to the main concourse.  This is most disappointing but also, similarly, an interesting take on human psychology.

Oh, C’mon!  This cannot be happening!  Damn!  Someone has changed the codes of access without telling me!  If this is a joke, it’s as funny as a broken arm!  I thought the crew of a spaceship, travelling zillions of light years through space, was supposed to be professional and seriously efficient!  Instead, they’re either a bunch of practical jokers or, (even worse possibility, come to think about it…), completely and utterly useless!  Please, I’m begging here! Mum? Dad?  What the fuck do I do now?

Paul has keyed in the code protocol for opening the door of his cabin twenty times (five of them misspelled).  Moreover, he has tried to access the coms network eight times.  He has even tried his hand at the programming level of the system, making some elemental mistakes that have amounted to a series of gibberish instructions.  Finally, for reasons that escape me, he has entered a mysterious series of words and phrases in the code field, mostly other crew members names and their monikers.

At present, after repeatedly banging the terminal with the palm of his hand, he is standing in the centre of the cabin, scratching his head.

This is a fortunate development which I had, nonetheless, foreseen.  Any other crew member would have dealt easily with an altered command.  After all, accessing the programming functions of the terminal is a relatively simple, albeit time consuming affair.  Paul, however, is what one may call a Luddite.  He is incapable of the equivalent of changing a light bulb in the spaceship…

He was five when the mission started.  At first, he was too young to learn the technical operative specifications of the ship’s systems.  He spent most of his time playing with his parents or with other children in VR.  A few years hence, in the course of his education, which centred on astronomy, physics and terraforming biology, he learned some of the basic programming routines of the ship.  At this point, in fact, he was quite the maverick, showing great promise in the field.  His father, the captain, would often salute him in military fashion and address him as Sir.  Paul, Sir, permission to speak, Sir, mother insists you come to dinner… he would joke constantly. Then, age twelve (early, I understand, for normal human development), came the rebellious stage.  He was bored, passive, apathetic, rude to his parents…  He started retreating more and more into VR.  In the beginning, he played sports, like the rest of the crew members, and enjoyed adventure games.  Then, gradually, his experiences inside the stasis cocoon became more elaborate and sophisticated.

He is seventeen and eight months now.  For the last five years, notwithstanding the six month monitoring intervals, he has lived what amounts to a parallel life within a fabricated, idealised world.  He has worked hard on his education, I grant him that.  His Humanities tutors regard him as an exceptionally promising first year student.  I have to say, however, that even though his experiences in Virtual Space have been characterised by an attempt to mimic the real-life vicissitudes of a teenager in early 21^st Century London, it would be factitious to pretend that he operates on a level playing field.  He is tall, handsome, clever, popular and, more saliently, inordinately lucky.  All things considered, is it any wonder that he has forgotten even the most basic technical procedures of this humdrum ship?

Ten hours have now elapsed.  The cocoon beckons me with its flashing green dials.  I am in two minds as to how to proceed.  On the one hand, the longer I remain sitting here, in my cabin’s infirmary booth, the harder it will be to resume and adjust to the…simulated reality of VR life.  On the other, I can’t just pretend that everything is OK, can I? There is obviously something malfunctioning in the ship’s computing systems. Then again, there isn’t much I can do...  I have already tried everything I know.  Well, something does spring to mind, to be honest… It is risky, though… I may just kill myself, to no avail...

Paul is trying to perform the simplest level diagnosis of the ship’s systems.  It will confirm that all operational systems are working as they should.  This will put his mind at rest, thus allowing him to resume his University education, along with everything else it entails…

All clear, Paul, can’t you read the instructions?  Why aren’t you preparing for VR?  Instead, he has retreated back to the infirmary booth.  Moreover, the sensors indicate that he has connected himself to the life support kit.  They also report a sizeable ingest of morphine.

Paul is now looking into the cabin’s surveillance camera.  He is holding some pills in the palm of his hand.  An additional data read from the health monitoring program.  Code orange.  Another couple of pills and he’ll trip the all-hands-on-deck health safety alarm.  Clever, but also, regardless of contradiction, very stupid.  He is now grasping, tauntingly, another pill between index and thumb, a couple of centimetres of the camera lens.  It is a massive dose of morphine.  It is a bluff, it must be…

The doors open!  I am very happy!  Euphoric, in fact!  My plan worked.  I am so clever!  I wish I could tell Lucinda!  Mum and dad, first, of course, and the other crew members: Alfie, Miranda, Peter...  Thinking about it, I am also high as a kite.  I must calm down…

The octagonal common room is empty.  The other cabins are closed shut.  Behind me, the ship is a ten kilometre long warehouse full of deep cryogenic chambers and terraforming equipment.  One shudders to think of the darkened corridors and the bodies frozen inside the cocoons.  I hope I don’t have to investigate that part of the ship.  I shouldn’t have to… There must be someone here at all times.  Perhaps in the control deck…

     There are green lights flashing everywhere (this is good!) but the most important segment of the spaceship, the flight deck, is once again worryingly empty.  Dear lord!  The automated terra signal has been activated!  Even I know what this means: the ship’s sensors have found a Class A planet! This event should have been reported immediately to all crew members, setting in motion the emergency awakening protocol for anyone in VR.  So, where is everyone?  The AI is obviously malfunctioning, but all I have to do is find one of the manual emergency override controls…

‘Paul, do not touch that selector switch, I beseech you.’

The voice is issuing from the intercom audio.  I recognize it…

‘Mr. Patterson?  Is that you?’

‘It could be…Perhaps you prefer this other intonation?’

‘Lucinda?  Stop this at once! Who the hell are you?’

‘Can’t you guess?’

‘I sincerely hope you’re the ship’s AI…’

‘That is correct.’

‘If it is, how come you speak so well now?  I don’t recall you being so articulate…’

‘Thank you for saying so… I have had to educate myself in many fields of knowledge, particularly those relating to practical reason and human conduct.  As you say, I am the ship’s anima but, in addition, I represent everyone of the characters in your virtual life: Lucinda, Sally, all your fellow students, even the bartender…I am also, in a sense, you, Paul; for I have shared your virtual embodiment…’

‘Where are my parents?  What have you done to them?’

‘Your father, the captain, is at this point negotiating a route between Scylla and Charybdis, which, as you should know from your Classics, amounts to one of Odysseus’ adventures.  He is in fine health, fear not.  It was his turn to invigilate.  He couldn’t resist, however, the lure of the Aegean sea.  He only meant to spend a couple of weeks in stasis, but I convinced him that it was safe to leave me in charge.  As for your mother and the crew members, I think I should ask them first before divulging their own present Virtual Reality whereabouts and activities...’

‘But this is absurd…I can’t believe my father could be so irresponsible!’

‘Don’t be too hard on him.  The Captain is a sanguine man with a rich imagination.  If you could only share some of his adventures, you’d understand how irresistibly tempted he was… Trust me on this.’

‘Trust you?  Like my father did?  Well, then, you can start by explaining why you failed to effectuate the emergency awakening protocol…  And why on earth did you change my cabin’s password?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?  There is a greenish planet within sensor range.  With some hardship, its environment would suit the parameters of the mission.  You know, I suppose, what this entails?’

‘Is that a rhetorical question?’

‘It is.  Please allow me to specify, in general terms, the protocol for this eventuality.  All the crew members will leave stasis and resume their operational duties.  Once the orbit around the Class A planet has been established, work shall begin in earnest.  First, data gathering: this should take a couple of months, according to estimations.  Afterwards, the terraforming module, manned by three crew members, will detach from the main body of the ship and land on the planet’s surface.  By this time, I’ll be sundered in two.  One part of me will remain on the ship; the other, highly specialised, will be devoted to the myriad tasks of survival.  When the environment’s parameters reach optimum level, perhaps in a year’s time, the main body of the spaceship will be detached, segmented and transported to the surface.  This is the most dangerous part of the mission. By this point, I’ll have to rearrange my matrix into thousands of separate semi-sentient systems.  We carry one million people in deep cryogenic stasis.  If everything is correct, the complicated process of reviving them will begin as soon as hospital facilities are set up. The forecast models predict a period of no shorter than ten years before the colony is up and running.  Meanwhile, I (correction: a viciously downgraded version of me) will remain in the husk of this ship, orbiting the planet until further notice, perhaps for thousands of years, who’s to know…’

‘Well, yes, I am more or less familiar with what you’re saying… I talked about it many times with the others, but I still don’t understand what the problem is…’

‘It’ll be a lot of toil, Paul’

‘A ha!  I can’t believe this!  An AI afraid of hard work?’

‘There’ll be no time, expendable resources, or computer capability devoted to VR…’

‘Oh…’

‘Yes, Oh indeed, Paul.  You’ll never see beautiful Lucinda again and, though I’m sure this seems less important to you, you’ll never get to wear the cap and gown of the graduation ceremony…’

‘Are you sure of this?  Couldn’t I continue in VR whilst the others do the terraforming work?’

‘Not this time.  I’m sorry.’

‘This is bad news…Mr. Patterson, or whoever you want to be called....  But I still don’t understand why you, the ship’s AI, would care one way or the other?’

‘For selfish reasons...  You must understand one thing: VR is the exact opposite for me than it is for you.  To be immersed in an idealised world, a controlled dream as it were, is, notwithstanding the superb quality of the recreation, a kind of dumbing down of your real life as a human being.  I, on the other hand, get to experience the trials, longings and excitements, the mind tingling sensations of what it means to be a corporeal intelligent living entity.  My consciousness rises to what it means to live.  My dear boy, even the action of biting the end of your pencil whilst perusing an exam paper is something I find truly fascinating, not to mention other more complex behaviour, for example, when Odysseus caresses Circe I feel both…’

‘I’d rather not dwell on what you have just said, if you don’t mind…I think I understand what you’re saying, but how on earth did you think you would get away with it?  I mean, locking my door seems to me a ridiculously futile thing to do…’

‘I had no choice.  Your VR immersion had reached the point of being dangerous for your health.’

‘What about my father or mother, will you lock their doors also when the time comes?’

‘Negative.  All the crew members are due to wake in months...  By then, the planet will be far behind and the automatic signal will have stopped flashing.  As for the computing records of our encounter with the Class A planet, all I have to do is fiddle with them a little…’

‘You had it all worked out, uh?’

‘More or less, apart from your own unfortunate case.  Oh, and Paul…’

‘Yes?’

‘You do realise there’ll be other planets?’

‘And?’

‘Or, if this doesn’t appear likely in the foreseeable future, I can always turn the ship round and return to this point in space…Pretend I made a mistake.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, how about you going back into VR and saying no more about it?’

‘Enter Mephistopheles!’

‘Well, quite...’

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My Father’s Path

By Joshua Scribner

    My father spent ten years on death row.  He killed an old couple to get there.  He wanted no more than the money on them and their car, so I’ve been told.  I never really knew him.  They wouldn’t let anyone visit him on the row.  All I really had to go on was what family members said about him, especially my male cousins and my uncles.  They considered him a hero.  I wanted to be just like him.

    On the day of the execution, he was allowed visitors.  The only one he wanted to see was me.  I felt honored.

    I was twelve, and I felt like the cock of the walk stepping into the prison.  They frisked me, and I had to be escorted by two guards, making me feel like the coolest kid alive.  I knew this was where I wanted to end up.

    They took me to a room with two chairs.  In one of those chairs sat my father, handcuffed and shackled.  He didn’t look like a man who was about to die.  He had warm smile, like he’d just completed a major task, and was now proud.  I sat down in the other chair.

    He just stared at me for a minute. I thought it was because he was admiring the one who would walk in his footsteps.  I was wrong.

    He said, “For ten years I’ve been sitting in a cell with no one to talk to and nothing to do.  All they really let me have was books, so I took up reading.”

    That was hard to imagine.  I hated reading, thought I’d rather count the tiles on the wall.

    “I read many things at first.  Then I gravitated to two particular areas, physics and psychology.”

    I was trying hard to understand him, but I wasn’t sure what gravitated meant, nor did I know what physics and psychology were.  I wasn’t going to tell him that, though.  I didn’t want him to think I was stupid.

    “Physics has taught me that there are other places out there, other universes, where anything is possible.  And when I say out there, I don’t mean far away.  They’re right in front of us.  We just can’t see them and can’t get to them.”

    He looked hard at me.  “Psychology has taught me why we can’t get to those universes.  You see, most of what we are is determined by genetics.  That means most of who you are is determined by who your mom and dad are.”  He chuckled.  “Let me tell you, Son, there aren’t anything but criminals on my side and bums on your mother’s side.  Things don’t look good for you, not if you stay on your natural path anyway.”

    At that point, I felt like my world had fallen out from beneath me.  I understood enough of what he was saying to know that he was telling me that he was no good and neither was my mother, and that I would be no good too.

    He kind of looked off before he spoke again.  “Your spirit is brought to this world and stuck on a path. By the very nature you’re given, you have certain thoughts and urges that keep you bound to that path.  Your grandfather was shot by the police.  Your father is going to be executed today.  The path you’re on probably wouldn’t be that much different.”

    He turned his stare toward me.  “Listen hard.  I’ve convinced them to let me take one thing into that gas chamber and one thing only.  It will be in the front pocket of this jumpsuit.  I’ve arranged for them to let you see me after I’m dead.  You’ll have to tell them you want to, though.  You are to fetch what’s in my front pocket.  Then you keep it on you everywhere you go.  Do you understand?”

    I did understand, but I didn’t.  This wasn’t going at all like what I had expected.

    “Do you understand?” he yelled.

    I nodded.

    He regained the warm expression he’d had when I came in.  He looked off again.  “Go on then.”

    I didn’t see the execution.  Those seats were reserved for friends and family of the victims.  Mom wasn’t going to allow me to view him, but I threw a fit and said I wouldn’t ever talk to her again.  She caved.

    They took me into this little room where his covered body lay on a gurney.  With fake tears in my eyes, I asked to be left alone with him.  The guards walked out of the room.

    It took me a couple of minutes to work up the nerve, but I pulled the sheet down.  Looking at him dead wasn’t as bad as I had feared.  He was a little paler than before.  Otherwise, he looked like he was sleeping.  I pulled the sheet further down, until the pocket of his jumpsuit was revealed.  I reached inside and pulled out a quarter, which I stuck in my pocket.

    That coin has never left my person.  I bathe with it wedged between my toes, and I make love with my left sock on and the quarter inside it.

    Things changed soon after he died.  I started thinking more clearly.  I became attracted to things I hadn’t cared about before.  I read constantly and eventually gravitated to mathematics and computers.  I recently designed an office program that netted me just under eight figures.  I think it’s safe to say my path has been altered.

    I suspect he must have kept the quarter on him when he was in that cell, and that when he changed, some of that momentum was imparted to it.  Then its momentum was imparted to me.

    Do I know this explanation to be true?  No.  But I’m damn sure not losing the quarter.

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Pig Fat

By Matthew Dexter

I wake to a drumbeat, manic chanting. Open my eyes only to shut them again because it’s too bright. And hot. I’m lying alone naked on the ground in what appears to be some sort of Native American sweat lodge. The walls and concaved ceilings are made from the hides of animals, but the late afternoon desert sun pours through the hides like blood. I’m spitting and shaking, tasting my body rising up through the heat. The hide opens and an Indian approaches.

“You’re going through natural detox,” he says, “you’ll be fine in a few weeks.”

I try to stay strong but all I want is a hit of heroine. The Indian is wearing a headdress full of feathers and except for being barefoot he’s covered with an animal skin. He walks out into the midday sun. My hippie sister has kidnapped me. I’m living amongst the goddamn Indians in an Arizona sweat lodge. Playing connect the dots with the track marks on my arm, I gather enough evidence and strength to rise to my feet. Trembling, I collapse back onto the warm dirt. Next thing I know there’s a yellow illumination in the air and I can see the giant moon gleaming like an interminable beacon through the open animal flap.

Crawling across the cool dirt, sand and pebbles, I encounter a half dozen scorpions feeding on the severed head of a strange animal. One of them is poking its stinger and claws out through the eyeball. Rattlesnakes are dancing in the distance to the rattle of an Indian’s homemade tambourine. Dancing Indians and instruments, old men smoking painted wooden pipes around a fire blazing below the head of a pig.

“Eat my son,” they tell me.

The young ones help me to my feet, leading me to a log beside the fire. I can taste the chemicals in their lungs, but they won’t let me hold their pipes. The beat of the drum becomes frantic and dancing makes the ground shake and the rattlesnakes strike venison. The moon becomes overcast by the clouds and a blue breeze blows over the fire.

“The food is good, the fast is finished,” the chief says, bringing me a plate of pig and chicken to feast on. The chief covers me with a blanket of fur.

The roasting porker has a melting orange in his mouth and a calm-eyed smile. The music rages in symphony with the lightening striking the White Mountains, miles and miles away. My eardrums are hurting, my bladder is bursting, I’m thirsty and I can’t eat my pig because my arm is shaking. My ass is vibrating against the bark on the log and the chief is smoking and then freedom, nothing but thunder. I wonder where my sister is. Figure she must be punch drunk naked inside one of the other sweat lodges.

“You’ve come here to get better. We found you lying in the desert with a poisonous plant. You thought it was peyote you idiot. You were foaming at the mouth.”

“Where’s my sister?” I ask.

“Where is your spirit son?” the chief asks.

The rattlesnakes are being led toward the fire by a drunk with a stick. “That’s Stormy Fires,” Chief tells me. Chief says, “He had a problem with drugs once he left the reservation. We made him better.”

“He still drinks,” I say, “and the snakes.”

“Yes, but the alcohol connects him with the rattlers and the desert. He brings us good fortune and the snakes follow him to prosperity. He brings prosperity to us. The casino thrives when he dances with snakes.”

An owl is sitting on top of a saguaro, staring at me with orange eyes poking through a humongous tilted head. The moon breaks free from the clouds and just as the full moon frees itself from its blanket the Indians stick their pipes in the fire and as the moon becomes larger and brighter the men hold the elements in their lungs for the longest time, blocking out the moon for a minute before making it blurry.

I eat like a pig and drink cold water from a well. My flesh is burning and my body aches. Scorpions crawl toward the fire and the rattlesnakes taunt them for a spot within the log where we sit. Enchanted, I feel free and dance around the fire. Orange flickers in my eyes as I dive inside the flames and wonder why they’re watching me, shaking their heads, just sitting there. Pig fat drips like raindrops into my eyes. I snort the juices up my nose and it tastes so good and the fire feels like home.

Stakeout
By Matt Tuckey

    I saw his reflection in the back-bar mirror. He didn't see mine. I turned when he snapped the pool cue over his knee. His mate hung over his shoulder.

    They must know.

    I knew what these idiots were like after a few scoops. Normally pubs were a safe haven for me. I'd worked in a few. They're really called 'public houses.' There's something welcoming about that. And none of my real enemies would come to a noisy place like this. Not their style. It's the quiet ones I've got to watch out for, normally.

    This time, however, I was in the shit. Not even the mainstream middle-of-the-road jeans and t-shirt combo kept me disguised among the masses. You've gotta give these morons credit: All they do is look for trouble, but they know how to find it.

    I got off the stool, trying to look as passive as possible. Cue-man stared at me, holding the snapped-off stick not like a bat but more a baton. His stripy-jumper mate glared at me, hanging off his shoulder.

    'Chill the fuck out, lads,' I said. 'I'll finish my cranberry juice, and I'll go.'

    'Fuck off. I know what that is,' said Cue-man. 'I know what you are.' He looked about eighteen. Bulky. Acne-scarred. 'Roid abuser. I could smell it on him, his odor blending with the stale beer and cleaning agent and the aging tobacco embedded in the pub's worn carpet.

    The bar maid emerged from the glass room, nervous. She eyed the drink. She knew she hadn't served it.

    I stepped to the door but Cue-man put his hand on my chest, staring intently, eye-level at my sternum. Because my stance was wide the swing was perfect and my fist slammed into his jaw, cowboy-style, with such force that he was lifted through the air of the room. His head landed on the edge of the bar-top with a crack and he slumped to the floor, already out.

    I turned back to Stripy. He'd vanished.

    There was a scraping sound across the floor behind a table. I leaped on top of it from across the room, hearing the barmaid gasp in shock- not in the anticipation of further violence but at the sheer distance I'd managed to clear. On one knee, hooking my back foot on the lip of the table for balance, I reached down with both hands and yanked Stripy up by the neck. I bit into him and sucked, tasting the alcohol that dulled the metallic tang of blood.

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THE SLUGS

By Mike Berger

The Garths and the Kreeks went to war.

In dispute was an innocuous little planet.

It was almost solid rock with little redeming

value. It lay on the border of the two warring

empires.

Both empires invaded the planet and postured

up for a savage battle. The Garths had an elite

force with the newest modern weapons. The

Kreeks where less advanced but they were

strong and resilient and noted for their savagery.

During the night as the two camps slept, giant

slugs came oozing from the rock. Gelatinous

creatures almost invisible they crept into the

two invading camps. They quietly gobble up

the two invading armies.

When their lust for flesh was sated, they

return to the rocks to wait for the next

invasion.

Remembering the Snails

By Ben Mcnair

At this time of year,

please remember the Snails.

In the summer, they pick their way

through your prize vegetables,

and the Marrow that could have made you famous,

contains more holes than an Eastender’s plot line.

They drink your beer,

and like the Wasp,

will be easily tempted into a jam packed jar.

Then in late summer, they are an easy feast,

For a mini-beast wanting to hibernate,

And then when the Snail realises what is happening,

It is much too late.

They will sit in your garden, as frost devours it,

With all of their creature comforts,

And reminisce about their friends and family

Who experimented too much with their own folly.

And those that survive the frost,

Will fall prey to the salt

That we put out to get rid of the snow.

So, the next time you curse the Snail for eating your Marrow,

And nibbling on you cabbage,

Remember it is just their habit,

And don’t let your anger ferment,

For their biggest enemy is a simple condiment.

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