5 Seconds marvels and a water pump

Fig.1, The Truth (Interpretation)
(credit)

What can fit into 9m2 room? A small wardrobe, a mattress, an out-of-place table with no chair to sit at…
They don't fill that much space, though.
They can't.
Something else stands in the middle. Something pushing everything against the walls: The whirr of the building's water pump.

Wrrrrr…Clack…Wrrrr…Clack.

The buried metronome never stops, a continuous confirmation of renewed moisture for everyone in the boarding house.


When I first moved in, it turned into a constant pain, oscillating between my eardrums and my brain. A pink electric elephant smugly sitting on my nerves every time I tried not to think of it.

Wrrrrr…Clack…Wrrrr…Clack.
G sharp.

I don't even remember when I noticed it. Or when I started improvising melodies over it. I've whistled the Pumps Variations, The Art of Pumping, and Canon in Pump Major, inverting and tangling melodies until my lips gave up.

When my inspiration dried out, I realized that exercise had significantly increased my tolerance to the noise. I took on finding new ways to have fun out of it. I gave it a name. Wet Walter, the Water Wisdom Whisperer.

"Blessed are the hydrated" on Sundays, "Water is great" on Fridays, "Be water" on any day.
But who was Walter, really? Cringing every 5 seconds, dispensing its goodness to us, unwashed creatures? How could he be so repetitive yet so meaningful, putting himself to a task only fit for an hydrophilic Sisyphus?
Maybe the answer was in the rhythm: 5 seconds between each pulse. I thought it silly, not seeing how anything meaningful could happen in a such a short lapse of time. I got curious. I looked it up.

Wrrrrr…Clack… 20 babies see their first light.
Wrrrrr…Clack… 9 people see their last one.
Wrrrrr…Clack… 200 lightning strikes have found their way to the ground
Wrrrrr…Clack… 20.000 new stars are now shining
Wrrrrr…Clack… 150 new supernovas are bursting gamma rays all over the place.

Fact after fact, numbers kept adding up, in neat piles from my floor to my ceiling, occupying the space once monopolized by the whirr. The pink elephant was gone, replaced by a steady reminder of five seconds marvels.

I think too much, I was told.
I don't really mind. I have all the time to.
On tempo, to the beat of a nearby water pump, the shout out of Walter, town crier before the gods, who helped me find the heartbeat of the universe in a dumb electrical engine and its monotonous song in G sharp.

5 Seconds marvels and a water pump by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page

The Fat Trial

(credits)

The trial was going toward its end. After years of administrative battle and weeks of in court, the defendant attorney was about to deliver his closing argument.

In the courtroom, one of the largest in the Northwest Democratic Republic, families, journalists an curious were massed in a dense, sour smelling crowd, shoving and stretching to get a glimpse of the action. Peace keeping squads had to be deployed outside in order to avoid clashes between supporters and detractors of the accused. Both groups, facing each other, seemed to be holding a slogan chanting contest.
"Free speech, free Billy Kay" was met with "Hate haters", while "Open your eyes, open your mouth" loudly clashed again "Feelings first".

Billy Kay, a short, rather skinny, young looking black man, was sitting almost motionless on his bench, enjoying the change of athmosphere from his stay in protective custody.

He had been placed under home arrest for a while, but after a small group of 'outraged citizens' had showered his house in molotov cocktails, he found himself moved to a more secure location. When the press asked him about his feelings concerning the loss of his roof, he sent another wave of resentment throughout the country. "Next time, why don't they bring a nice, tall wooden cross for a little burn-along? I'll provide the popcorn".

Big Mouth Billy, as the media had monickered him, had first stepped into trouble when selected for a live, prime-time trivia game show. Student in cognitive sciences with an impeccable record, knowledgeable of a wide range of topic and, as student go, perpetually penniless, he'd though of if as an occasion for quick monetary relief.

When, under the attentive eyes of millions of viewers, the presenter had asked him a ritual question, "What motivated you to enter this show, Billy?", not seeing any benefit dihonesty he simply answered "Well, I could say a lot of things, but I'm just hoping for a big fat heap of cash".
While his mouth was still split into a grin, the show's audience fell silent.
"You mean a huge amount of cash, right Billy?" the presenter looked on the verge of panic.
"Not at all, I do mean a massive, fa…"

Only then, he noticed the look in the eyes of the three other contestant. Two morbidly obese ladies and one morbidly obese man. Apparently, his choice of words hadn't been to the taste of everyone. One of the girls almost immediately broke into hysterical sobs, the crowd started booing, the show was interrupted.

Of course, the recording had made it around the Internet before Billy got home. The lawsuit came a week later. The contestants, backed by the TV network, accused him of infringing the hate speech and banned terms laws. To his knowledge, the word 'fat' wasn't appearing in the banned terms blacklist. Apparently, it had only taken a couple of days to send it there, among the colony of c-words, n-words and other letter-dash-words.
But then why not?
The video of his misstep had gone viral, the public opinion was shaken, hordes of overweight people went marching… the government had to do something.

At first, Billy had taken the news rather stoically. He didn't care about much, he wouldn't care much for that either.
When the molotovs when through his windows, he found himself caring at once and completely.

Usually described as a lively lad, prone to humor (although sometime defining himself as a bit of an ass), his only response was then to sit, immobile, mulling things over and not uttering a word.

As he was now, waiting for the defense attorney to start babbling about temporary insanity, stage fright and maybe a stay at the Federal Recalibration Institute instead of the expected 15 years of jail time. His lawyer, reluctant from the start, was doing no more than the necessary minimum. His refusal to talk hadn't helped his case either.

It wouldn't matter, he'd end up with an RFID implant like other 'hater' in any case. The prosecutor would burn him to crisp without effort; just pointing at the street, showing a couple of recordings from the 'big march' would impress the jury way beyond what was needed.

The hell with it all.

"Excuse me"

Billy had talked. Interrupting the defense's speech in the middle of a sentence having something to do with his skin color.
Hundreds of mouths went shut.

"Yeah, I wish to dismiss my attorney. Yes, you. I don't want you to talk on my behalf, I'm screwed coming and going and you're not helping. So shut up.
Now I'm gonna tell you how I see it. Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you in the corner with that huge camera, all of you.
First. Yeah. I said it, it's on video. I wasn't drunk, I wasn't crazy, I wasn't stressed or anything. I just said what was in my mind."
The judge's gavel had to rasp several times before anybody could calm down.
"Now hear me. I'm not polite, I swear a lot, I'm a bit of an ass, I'm far from perfect. I'm black, too.
Ah, and I don't give a fuck."
The following commotion was even louder than the first one.
"Would you all stop screaming every time you hear a word you don't like? What are you? 8 year old girls?
Yes your honor. I know your honor, I'm going to far. But hey, I'll get an implant soon. I'm just asking for five minutes.
You all want to see me convicted because, to your standards, I said the wrong thing a the wrong moment. I said something that made some people sad. Fat people."
The courtroom was on its way to another antic when he stood up and shouted "SHUT UP! Hear me! You've been marching, you've been screaming and I haven't said a word yet. My turn!" Somehow, his voice was commanding enough to turn the room silent again.
"See, that's your problem. You don't want so see what's here. You're so afraid of certain things that you don't even want to accept their existence. I'm black, I'm short, I've got a voice so low it could lay down on a railroad and be alright if a train passed… Call me shortie! For the love of all that's good, call me blacky! I don't give a damn! And you know why? Because I have absolutely no reason to be ashamed of what I am. Even if I wanted to. You think I don't want to be taller? You think I could? Of course I can't!
So I just get on with it. When I see what you call the 'big march', I can't help myself thinking… are all these people so sad to be themselves? Change what you can and live with what you can't change. Full stop!
I never hurt anybody, I don't get into people's ways, I study hard, I support our Unique Party and our Wise Leader, like all of you here. Now, you've been calling me a crazy person, an egoistic hater, a sociopath. You've been marching to put me in jail just because I said something that happened to somehow relate to someone who didn't like the sound of it.
Do you have any idea of what these words mean to me, of how I feel about what you guys said? Your words ruined my life, robbed my of my future. And I just sit down and shut up. How twisted is that?"

Some in the audience tried to start booing, but the heart wasn't there anymore. The truth was: Billy had had the guts to say aloud what was thought by many. His speech was the second recording of him going viral in less than an hour.

A week later, on his way to the Federal Recalibration Institute, in a police wagon, he listened to the muffled sound of the radio. The Minister of Morals was on air. "… yes, Big Mouth Billy has been proven guilty as charged, the decision is supported by overwhelming proofs and technically valid. We can not reasonably afford to overlook the law for the needs of an individual. But even then, we can not deny the strength of his message which, even if lacking in subtlety, has indeed underlined a serious problem in our way of apprehending our verbal communication. This is why, starting from today and in honor of the courage it took to stand up and speak, the words 'egoist', 'sociopath' and 'short' are now banned from any sort of speech whatsoever. Thank you, Billy Kay"

The wagon's driver jumped on his seat, startled. He'd seen all sorts of behaviors from his passengers, but a convict laughing his head off like that, that was a first.

Fin.


The Fat Trial by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page

Request: Count on me

So, we meet again after a medium sized hourglass?
- "Sounds about right, then you'll explain me the job requirements  and we'll start ASAP".

Ignatius shook his future employer's hand and headed toward the parking lot. Once inside his car, he started the engine, clutched on gear A and drove down through the lower middle, upper-bases and base-base floor to finally exit in the city center. At the red light, he reached for his back pack on the passenger seat, pulling out his hourglass and upturning it against the back rest. He would meet his soon to be boss again, before the sand had filled the bottom half, which would leave him free until the next morning.

He hated the thing, an older model with a heavy aluminium base and thick plexiglass casing.The standard A-A caliber sand, most common in the nothern hemisphere, did nothing to diminish the weight. Luckier southerners would live on standard C-A African grain, much more compact and better flowing, allowing for smaller containers. Only, that very hourglass had been in the family since his great-grandfather, who had been alive during the Disappearance, when people could still use numbers.

Stories about numbers had always fascinated him. How they were used to define precise quantities, coordinate event, or even as memories and means to understand concepts defied his imagination. But just as magic, numbers were from another realm.

When his great-grandfather had still been a boy, people had slowly started to forget how to employ them. Complex operations were the first to go. Specialists in the field suddenly became inept. Several industries had threatened to collapse, although the use of number processors called computers, later relegated to museums, had avoided a massive catastrophe. Despite everyone's best efforts, numbers continued to vanish from humankind's collective intellect, untill even counting (whatever that was -apparently something very basic) had turned into a mistery.

Speculations were made about the phenomenon, successively blaming a new kind of virus, radiations, long term effect of specific food enhancers… without ever finding out a cure.

Realizing the hopelessness of the situation, scholars from all around the planet saw the importance of preventing existing technologies from fading out of existance. The Counsil For Knowledge was founded for that purpose, and issued scores of references and manuals to guide, step by step, the production of the most vital transportation, communication and medical tools.
Following the passing of the last Counting Elder, the Council refocused its aim toward organizing an increasingly chaotic society, renaming itself the Counsil of Measurements.
The post Disappearance era had begun.

Time standardization had been the first problem to be tackled.
If people could still refer to the day-night alternance, they would not be able to keep track of more than a single cycle. Hourglasses were introduced, comming in tiny, small, medium, large and huge sizes, keeping people synchronized as long as the sand would flow.

Distances were measured via hourglasses as well: A walk to the city was a small hourglass away on foot, and a tiny one by car. Quantities would range from single to 'many lots', speed from 'almost stopped' to 'as fast as can', and many more approximation were found to feel the gaps left by the total absence of anything mathematical.

The result was a slowed-down world, where things would only happen after many failed attempt and endless adjustments.

Ignatius arrived home.
He went for the kitchen, unwrapped a standard size pack of frozen french fries, then another, poured a large size pack of oil into his pan and proceeded to cook.

Food packaging was said to be one practical side of life without numbers. Everything would fit into boxes, standardized, off course, from very tiny to very large, and one would rarely resort to cutting and 'measuring' as shown in the archive from the old times.

Waiting for the fries to be ready, he sat near the stove and started handling a Rubik's cube.
His hobby was shared by many others. When counting had left human brains, logic had -quite fortunately- kept on standing its ground. If none of them could figure out how many facets composed the surface of a cube,  they were all aware of the steps needed to achieve the right block position. Twist left, again, again, up, back. Cube solved. Dinner ready.

After moving to the living room, he turned on his television. A filler program was on.
The insipid shows, meant to keep the audience waiting until the production had re-synchronized the hourglasses, always left him with a bitter taste in his mouth.

As he often did, he started talking to himself. "We had industries going on and growing, we had innovations, you can see it in the archives. Now nothing ever gets new, we don't travel anymore, we just keep our activities to a minimum compared to our great-grand's epoch.
We just read the manuals… even our barters are settled in those damned manuals. I want to create things and I want people to use them, but how can you trade things you don't know the value of? I'm tired of watching fillers because TV station are incapable of good synchro…"

His reflexion stretched until bedtime.

His next morning was spent sitting in wait for his future employer. The sun was well into its upper-low quadrant when the suit wearing, almost over-groomed man showed up. Government officials were always touchy about their appearance.

"I'm sorry, I must have kept you waiting. My cat knocked my hourglass sideways during the night."
"Standard excuse", he though. That man didn't look like a pet owner. He'd probably spent too long perfecting his tie knot and was too proud to admit it.

"Anyway, Ignatius, glad we could still sync. Hopefully you didn't wait for too long"
-"Well, I can't be exact about it, but it would be around two and a half small standards HG, sir."
His interlocutor paused, a smirk slowly forming on his face.
"Yes… yes, as I said yesterday, you're the perfect man for the job. Come, I'll brief you on the way. We have a lot of work to do… reforming the Counsel will take some time."
- "At least five years".
This time, they both smirked.

Fin

This story is based upon a request from Ignatius (Keywords: Numbers, Hourglass, French Fries)
Request a story here!
More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page


Count On Me by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

A vampire's confession

Yesterday evening, as I put order to my archives, I discovered a fragment of a long lost correspondence between a long lost friend and his improbable lover. I might be able to get in touch with him again, so that you can ask him about his kind in the comment section.
Here it is, for you to enjoy.

Here, I am to fulfill your request and tell you about our kind...

Lady, I will beg you to forget what you already know, what you think you know about all of us, the cursed, the jinxed, the kindred, the ancient ones.
In all my years, and lady forgive me if I daresay they are numerous and heavy on my restless self, I have witnessed the birth and persistence of the young ones' lies.
From the most grotesque aspersions to the most ridiculous idolatry, our race have been bathed in wrongness since the very birth of yours, birth I have seen unravel before my eyes.

Folk tales, literature an movies have given us many names. Vampires, Lycans, Werewolves, Undeads... The truth is, little child: we are gods, and we are mistakes.
We are the unloved offspring of an inept creator, we are the feral rejects of Him Who Has A Greater Plan.
You have read about us, without even knowing it. Every mythology tells our story.
We are the Titans, Annunaki, Giants, Ases. We are the Angels. Shaped without a soul and untouched by death, frozen in our state of indefinite existence.
We do not die, we do not grow old, and we do not have a soul.
This is why you, humans, fear and hate us.

Yes, our appetites are great. Imagine for an instant, infant, what it feels to know that, after you are finally destroyed, you will simply cease to exist. Can you feel our longing for life? A desire so strong, a craving so ancient, that it is on this very life that we feed.
We have been portrayed as slavers, basking in lust and blood, yet we hide and nourish ourselves from your leftovers. Our hunger knows no limits; I, have exhausted many a female, gorging myself of their life force, through their flesh, their pleasure, their screams.
By now, I know how to subsist on the shadow of a smile, the shy shivering of a sleepy soul.
By now, we all know.
Times, dear newborn, have changed. Blood is not spilled in the same way, lust is not shared in the ways of old.

Nonetheless, even during our most reckless feedings, we never were as written is your books.
Some of us succumb to jealousy toward those who can die. Some of us stay in the shadow, and withdraw, decaying without even passing away, burnt to the core by our famine.
None of us enslaves. None of us can turn one of yours into one more deathless being. We do not fear god, we do not fear light. We fear the world we have been watching since apes stood up.

I have read the word 'whore', typed from your fingers. I must say I find it revolting.
Budding beings, able of merely a hundred years of existence, impersonating us, smearing our manners, language, refinement with the dirt of common words.
Harlot! Wanton! Yes. Promiscuous females of repulsive complexion they are! But mind your language...

Do you only know, my heart, that the word 'whore' is rooted in love? Yes, it does mean 'heart'. 'Carus' is the Latin term, term I have used myself to express my care toward so many lovers lost to time. And yet I see your ephemeral ilk, grossly turning hearts onto objects of mercantile sexuality.
This word alone is enough for me to say: you do not know us, mortals.

Ask me, growing thing, ask me whatever about the kindred. I will tell you, I will tell you how wrong you are.


More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page


A vampire's confession by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

Mermaid (not a musical)

Mermaid breast (artist rendering)
(source)

She woke up feeling her lungs drawing-in yet another mouthful of water. As the liquid went down her windpipe, she started panicking. Coughing did nothing but cause more water to flood-in. Swimming for the surface was out of the question, the reef she was lying upon was probably 30 meters deep.

A couple of startled heartbeats later, she came back to her senses. She screamed. Shouting wouldn't reach far, what with all the water around. She didn't care, that much joy couldn't stay in. "Viix you idiot! Mermaids don't drown!"

After stretching her arms and tail, Viix darted up, leaving behind a flourish of bubble, rolling and looping in the stream.

Finally, she'd made it. She was a Mermaid.

Not that long ago, she would have spent yet another day repeatedly diving in her bathtub, face down, dreaming of corrals and current until she finally grasped for air, frustrated to choke on soapy water.
Not that long ago, she hadn't known what the sea was like.

Her parents, who had tremendous expectation about her career and very poor views upon social life, hobbies and other futilities,  had found her daily immersion useless. After all, she was sixteen years old already. Being able to hold her breath for 15 minutes straight wasn't going to get her any academic achievement. She used to answer that being named after a brand of cough drops didn't really help either. As a response, she would be sent in her room to derivate integrals. So was her daily life.

Then, one morning, she received an email.
"Mermaid wanted. No experience needed, internship available. Hydrophobics and manatees won't be considered"

A couple of parent-daughter fights later, she had passed the initial interview, been given a tail and assigned a place to sleep not too far from the coast.
That morning was her first morning. The tide was rising, bringing coiling cool currents around her body, while she kept on marveling about everything she saw.

"Viix!" A tiny, squeaky voice called.

"Viix! Come back down there! I can't swim like that! I swear I'm done with mermaids! It's always like that, they wake up, they take off, and you end up on all six, caught in the turbulences… come on that's not funny… VIIX!"

She turned around, barely hearing it. She couldn't see too far, the water was still rather dark and would be that way until later at noon. Swimming back down, she realized the vociferations were coming from a rather small crab.

- "Oops, I didn't see you there. You know my name?" She was giggling.
- "Of course I do! I'm your mentor! You think you can just put on a tail and go gambol in the big blue like it's sea world? NO!" The crab's eyes were protruding at the limit of their possibility, the left one occasionally flickering in what could have been a nervous tick.
- "Oh, yes, they did tell me at the interview. I have to go through an adaptation course or something, right?"
- "Right enough, right here, right now. My name is Fern, don't ask about the plants and I won't ask about cough syrup. Deal?"
- "Deal…" She wondered how a crab could know so much about the surface world. She took a pause to consider.
- "I know because I answered an email, okay? Like, you think all sea creatures are born like that?" Apparently, others had been asking.
- "And, we're going to have to do something about your grooming. You look like a sponge!"
- "What do you mean I…"
He didn't let her finish.
- "First, you can't go around showing your nipples to everybody like that. We'll find you some scallop shells. Then, you'll have to grow this hair. It's already bad enough that they're dark, but wearing them short is unacceptable. You're carrying a message here. Then… oh well, swimming around will take care of the extra weight anyway."

She didn't know how to react. She was still too happy to be outraged, but too surprised to keep on smiling.

"I think I get why you chose to be a crab. Although, being so irritating I'm surprised you chose to leave underwater"
- "Oh yeah? So you think I'd be better off somewhere else? Tell me what suits me then, I'm curious" He managed to look smug.
- "A crotch"

Fern stepped back and brought his dominant claw up, wide open.
After holding that position for a moment, he started laughing.

- "Good one. You've got some bite in there. I like that"

The atmosphere suddenly relaxed, Viix circled around Fern a couple of times and went on asking.

"Alright then, what's the program?"

- "We'll start with the scallops, if you don't mind. Then I'll show you around, while giving you a little briefing about the local customs, your assignments, and then...then we’ll see. If you mention crotches again I'll snap your nose off."
- "Alright sir" She managed to scoff out a bubble.

After finding appropriate shells and learning how to make them stick in the right position, she took the crab in her hand, letting him guide her further from the shore.
Wandering around, still bathing in the bliss of her new life, she though she was really going to enjoy her job. Only, every now and then, an unknown sensation seemed to poke at her. Something missing. She hadn’t been smoking, but she imagined that the urge to light a cigarette wasn’t far from what she was experiencing.

She was about to ask Fern when he started his introduction, forcing her to leave her question aside.

- "Look, you won't have to worry about many things here. Don't poke your head at the surface when there's a storm, that's rule number one. Then, try sleeping when rocks or crevices can prevent you from being dragged by the tide. At least for now. You want to wake up at the same place where you fell asleep.
As a mermaid, you're on the apex here. Not even sharks will bother. Just stay away from dolphins."
- "Dolphins? Aren't they supposed to be friendly to people?"
- "To people, yes. You're not people anymore. You're people plus scales. You don't wanna hang around them."
- "What would they do to me anyway?"
- "You know how they have the reputation to mate for fun?"
- "I've heard about it"
- "Yeah. It's true. Only they don't understand that consent thing"
- "Oh…"
- "But don't make a big deal out of it, I'll show you where they hang out… for now you'll be fine"
- “I got it… but wait. Why only Dolphins? Why should all the others give me a berth?”
- “Erh…” Fern looked pensive. “It’s particular to mermaids, you’ll find out later… by yourself.”

As Fern delivered his instructions, hours went by.
Viix particularly liked the part about her role. Surprisingly, fern had be very sensible about it, putting aside issues pertaining to appearance.
He told her about how she should be the emblem of  the seas, carrying the grace of the surf, the mysteries of the deep. She would follow his words in a glee, almost entranced by these concepts, the newness of if all.
Her, the teenage girl solving equations in her house down nowhere lane, dreaming her bathroom as an ocean…
She was where she belonged.
As the lesson went on, he sensed the change in her mood and stopped talking. He left the cradle of her hand to sit on a protruding rock, giving her time on her own, to glide around, enjoy the water and comprehend her environment better.

She was smiling when she came back to him.
- "Thanks for, Fern. I see you're not that bad after all. How long will you mentor me?"
- "You're a natural, it won't be long. But hey, I'll be around. I'm always glad to see a newbie enjoying the job."

Again, she felt the urge tug at the back of her mind,  harder than the first time.

She opened her mouth in another tentative to finally ask Fern, when she was interrupted by a low, deep, almost solid vibration.

Viix twirled around, confused, looking for the source of it.
- "What is this" she asked, getting slightly worried.
- "Owh, that's just a boat." He paused for a couple of seconds, then went on "Actually, that's a good time to get on with the next lesson. Grab me, please, and swim ahead of the boat until you've passed it. A couple hundred meters should do"

She complied, delighting in her ability to reach the required speed.

- "We're far enough now. Now, we're going up. You'll need to maintain yourself above the surface, say, from the waist up"

She ascended and erupted in a spray into the midday light. Water left her lungs to be replaced by the salty sea air. She found it surprising to be able to breathe outside.

She asked "So… what's should I do now"
- "You'll find out soon enough"

As she saw the boat slowly sailing toward them, details became clearer. It was a yacht. A couple was on the deck, enjoying a champagne in the sweltering noon heat. As she worked out their figures, outlined against a cloudless sky, she felt the unknown urge rising from her core.

- "Fern. I feel weird. What's that lesson about.
- "Well… you know that email you received… we write ‘mermaid’ because people relate better. But really, this is more of a Nereid thing, siren, if you will… let's just say it's lunch time."

As Viix  suddenly understood what that new feeling was all about, she thought she was definitely going to enjoy her job.

She started singing.

Fin

Note: This story was written based on a request from my friend Chanel. Hi there!

More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page



Mermaid (Not A Musical) by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

Chapter 4 -End - Corpse Whisperer

Corpse Whisperer: Chapter 3.
All chapters here.

Grass spirit was the kind of alcohol that gave you a hangover just by looking at it. Grass spirit was a drink that had hangovers at you.

"Look, Tronton, I'm sorry my lad, but I need to look for it later tonight. I've lost it again and this time it can very well be permanent."
Norman gave a startled look, then enquired "Have you stared?"
- "For the best of the afternoon, yes"
- "Have you looked in the kitchen? Missing chairs?"
- "None"
- "You, sir, need a drink".

The answer hung in the air before going through his lips. He didn't feel like going home for a second round of searching. He didn't feel like spending a restless night thinking about it, and most of all, he didn't feel like being sober.
"I think you're right."

- "Have a sip then, and don't spill will ya? It kills the lawn if you spill and I have a hell of a time growing it back."
He quaffed the content of both cups, in a row, almost snatching them from Norman's hands. The liquid tasted obviously grassy, somewhat piquant, and in the same time had a sort of dull , warm presence. It tasted like a bee sting at the base of your neck.

At the temporary cost of several dozens IQ points, he immediately felt better. "Boy, isn't this a most needed slap in the face of an exhausting, belaboring day!" was how he thought he expressed his gratitude. To everybody else, it sounded like "Wharbl". Instant drunkenness had struck.

Henri looked at him with an annoyed expression.
"I limp, you lurch. How's that for you?"
- "You're jsut jaeluos beacuse yuo gonna ooze out if you drnik taht"
- "Yes, so there this is low"
- "Adn you're bieng all Fnrech agian!"
- "And you're being dyslexic!"
- "And yuo, yuo are daed!"

Tronton, suddenly feeling several time zones away, decided to leave that place where everybody spoke in tongues and went on opening the gate as a sign that everyone should call it a day.

The pair left, staggering and bickering so eagerly that the distance home was covered in no time.

Arrived at destination, they unlocked the apartment's door and, too absorbed by their discussion, went directly inside without disarming the door's spring trap.
A short pang of noise exploded in the air,  a crossbow bolt surged from the end of the room, pinning their dispute right off their mouths, straight into the opposing wall.
The bolt kept vibrating for a while under their nonplussed gaze.

- "I think we'll leave it at that" Henri opined.
- "Brilliant idea. I'm suddenly a lot more sober"
- "I would say, slightly more sober, you're still lurching"
- "Whatever, let's get inside and look for it, I won't have dinner before I've found it."
- "As you wish." Henri pause for a split second. "Hey, do you remember that time when we made it come back with some loose change? Maybe it could work?"
- "Ha! Yes!" he almost shouted, brightened, while almost instantly reaching for coins in his trousers pockets.
His fingers burrowed down.
He was expecting the greasy, cold feeling of spare change, but instead he came in contact with a very familiar shape.
He couldn't believe what he had found.

- "Henri! That's it! In my pocket, I've found it!"
- "You mean you had it with you all along?" Henri asked, baffled.
- "No, of course not. It must have gone to the Somehow Dimension. You know how object lost there tend to reappear when alcohol is involved? Problem solved."

He raised it to eye level, a content smile on his face. He would be able to sleep tonight, and tomorrow would be an easy day at work. Hell, the whole week would be easier. He'd got it!

Glowing with joy, breathing deeply with relief, he entered his bedroom to store it in his closet. In a tighter box, this time. Where it would be safe, still, and waiting there for further use. No more losing it, no more wandering.

He opened the closet's door, still holding it… then he lost his grip.

He had pulled it out of his pocket in a rather clumsy way, and hadn't been holding it firmly enough. It slipped through his fingers, starting its inevitable course toward the floor.
It wasn't fragile, trying to crush or squeeze it would never damage it.
It was, though, very unstable. In the way of some very capricious chemicals.
The ones that have their very own deflagration scale.

A drop from more than a half a meter would definitely make it burst. And probably the whole building with it.

He had not time to react. It was over in a blink. Everything went noisy, then white, then black…
…then Henri, upside down, his face in a dubious close up.

- "I'm about to spit out a cliché about this being heaven and you being a very ugly angel…"
- "Oh, but not at all, chief. This is earth. You've been, hm, asleep for a little while"
- "How long?"
The disembodied voice of Norman Tronton spoke from somewhere above him. "Around two weeks I'd say, sir. Long-ish, if you ask me. But then you don't look too bad."
- "Tronton where are you? I can't see a thing but Henri's face!"
- "I'm above, sir. I didn't close your box, or your hole. We bet, Henri and I that you'd come back. Seems that he won."
- "Come back from where? What hole, what box?" He was disoriented, his brain only marginally faster than a narcoleptic slug.
- "Sir… half your building's turned to dust, all the windows in the block got shattered by the blast. You didn't think you'd survive that, did you?"
- "So, you're trying to tell me that I've turned into one of my clients? How are Henri and I not some splatters and a plume of smoke then?"
- "Somehow, we didn't get dismembered" Henri replied with a wide, yellow grin, giving a strong inflection to the word "somehow".
- "Owh we're lucky bastards aren't we" His tone was joyless.

The Somehow Dimension had still been open in his pocket, and had sucked them both in, to let them come out at a random place and time. Just like a couple of almost empty lighters at the end of a party.
It was a poor consolation; If the whole transition had prevented them from being quite literally all over the place, the explosion had still killed him.
And now he was back. He fell silent.

"Where did we reappear?" he asked after a moment, in an almost disinterested tone.
- "A couple of streets away, two weeks ago, we popped through a man-hole. I brought you here. A jar of war pickles made it, too. Useless to say they threw a fit."
- "Ah well… let them. They'll calm down eventually…" his words trailed off.

Henri and Norman's voices faded into the background. He was slowly realizing what had happened to him. He was at the bottom of his own grave, for the excellent reason that he was legally dead. After years and years interacting with awakened corpses, he had become one. Poetic injustice were the words he would have chosen.

But at the moment he didn't feel like talking.
After all, he had been diligently working for most of his adult life, and now that he was dead, he had the right to feel like doing nothing at all, and do it well.
Maybe, at some point, he'd become a picketer, a marketer or, who knew, a necrologist again. But that was for later.

He let out a yawn. Now was time for some long, long holidays.

FIN.

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Chapter 3 - Corpse Whisperer

Corpse Whisperer: Chapter 3.
All chapters here.

Her death had occurred since a maximum of two days, leaving her skin several shades of grey but none darker. Her hair was still fixed on her scalp and so far she'd only lost the nails attached to the fingers cut off during her fatal car accident. There was a slight depression on the left side of her torso, but she was still nimble and didn't limp.

"The limps is for posers" she said, as she noticed him looking at her ankles.
- "In a couple of month, when your foot falls off, feel free to call Henri and tell him about it."
- "Who's Henri?"
- "My corpse helper, the one with a limp"
- "He's lost a foot?"
- "No, he's a poser and that would teach him a lesson. Now, I wanna know why you've been giving Norman such a hard time, and I wanna know why you'd skip the 4 p.m. appointment he took for you." Is wasn't a question as much as an order.
- "To piss you off, livestock."
He gave her an even look. "Two days on the field and already picking up bad habits. I'd watch your mouth with soap if I weren't afraid to melt it"
- "Bad habits? I remember my mom dragging me out of my bed by my ankles to get me ready for school. That's a bad habit. Just like you're trying to drag us out the grave to send us work in factories."

He wondered whether she was that fast a learner or if she had actually practiced being dead just in case. Then again, runners were graveyard bullies, naturally bad tempered. He'd have to play the game to the end.

"Nobody said anything about factories. You could very well become a companion corpse. Or even a lawyer, nobody would notice"
- "And we could all find our place and work days-in days-out for the greater good" she said in a sing-song tone.
- "And it would be perfect." he replied, in tune.
- "And we'd never get any rest".
He snickered. "Tell me, if you stay under your tomb until you turn to dust, what are you resting from?"
- "Life!" She sounded as if he'd overlooked the obvious.
- "Tell me, how do you feel when you're not picketing?"
- "Bored, why?" While she seemed to have taken the bait, after a moment considering the questions, she realized she was giving in.
"Look", she continued, aware of her mistake, "if the dead and the living mingle together, terrible things will happen. Have you never heard of the prophecy?"
This time his curiosity got genuinely aroused. That was something new.
"A prophecy?"
- "When life and death entwined in the flow of the day, will bring a new era despite of nature's way, Dur Shargath will descent upon the earthly realm and engulf all that's known and all that is unseen. Really? Never heard of that?"

Henri, who'd been listening in the distance, busy with head-aching protesters, burst out into the most honest -yet slightly maniacal -  laughter he'd ever heard.
"I've seen creative ones, lady, but you beat them all" Henri shouted, half choked.
-"Thanks, really, thanks for ruining it! And I thought I had him!" she retorted, furious.
On his knees, half gagged by his own giggling hiccups, he managed to add "I can't more… ah! A prophecy… what's next? Vampires?"
-"How did you know?!" She was fulminating. Henri was literally rolling on the ground, muffling his voice in his sleeves.

"I guess I'd file this one with the last two doomsdays and my discarded rapture cards then. You almost got me interested though."
He was smiling, knowing that sarcasm was more helpful against a militant live-again than a sharpened shovel.
"Look, I can even see a bright career for you: you could be a marketer."
- "I could?"
- "Well, you use slogans, fear, and an outstanding sense of hyperbole to pass your point across, it's that or politics"
- "You're being nasty for the sake of it."
- "No, I'm just trying to help. You're wasting your time here. Think of all the things you could have done during the last 48 hours."
She paused to gather her thoughts. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I have a talent in death I didn't have while alive." She was visibly brightening.
- "Dying does that. You have less things to care about, so you can focus on what you really like. Beats sitting in a wooden box."
- "I'd never seen it like that. It's true, I can do whatever I want now! Oh I'm so glad I wasn't cremated!"
She ran away, smiling.

Henri was still recovering from his mirth attack when he was helped back on his feet by his smiling comrade.
"Either runners are getting dumber, or I'm getting better at this job. That one was fairly easy".
- "Runners are getting slow, sir. It's the limp."
- "Henri, you're going to receive a phone call one day, and then I'll chop off your foot and chain it to a tree so it doesn't come back"
- "I am afraid I am not entirely following you, sir."
- "It's the limp."
They locked their gaze on each other and Henri started to growl.
- "You growled first, you lose, tonight beer is on you."
- "Strumpet of brothel! Again!"
- "That's my job, Henri. I am paid to make your kind do things"
Realizing his last sentence sounded wronger than a pit-bull in a kindergarten, he sighted and, eyebrow raised, waved a hand to signal the retreat.

Norman caught them at the gate, bringing grass alcohol with him, a cup in each hand and half a bottle in his stomach.
"Sir you can't leave just like that you can't! You've evicted the green lady and she made me ashamed and I couldn't look at meself and now I feel so relieved you oughta drink and celebrate with ol' mister gravekeeper and a jug of greener!”


Realizing ethanol had melted nearly all punctuation out of Norman’s speech, they looked at each other and though at unison that drinking that particular beverage was definitely a bad idea.

FINAL CHAPTER HERE

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Chapter 2 - Corpse Whisperer

Corpse Whisperer: Chapter 2.
All chapters here.

He came out of his daydreaming as they came near the graveyard.
His heart was laced with the acid adrenalin spike caused by the morning events. Nothing could distract him long enough to dislodge that one fact from his thoughts: he'd lost it, again.
And the pickles were mad, to the boot…
Maybe the place, familiar and, in a very literal sense, prone to resting, would offer a more peaceful environment to help his mind focus on something else.
It was immense.
People who where new to the town would always wonder how such a huge necropolis could have formed. The truth was hidden in history: several small villages had held the terrain as a the "common boneyard" for centuries. It had not been a problem until the tenants started complaining of leaks, and men who could handle a growing population of complaining revenants were suddenly needed.

Men like Norman Tronton.

Norman was the local corpsekeeper. A tough job if there was one, which consisted not only in keeping the awakened deads steady, but also in preventing them from forming unions. If Necrologists were engineers, corpsekeepers were their much needed artisan counterpart.

Tronton was at the main gate as they arrived, warmly greeting them.
"Good morning Doctor!"
- "Good morning, Norman! So, how are they today?"
"Pretty quiet if you ask me, sir. I'm a bit surprised actually. 'tis the angry season alright but they're all euthanasic… aenestitic… asthenic, that's the word!"

"Do you think", he asked, "that there's a cause for it, or could it be some abnormal behavior?"
Norman's expression changed to a thoughtful frown.
- "What I think is that you're doing a mighty good job, sir. The more you come, the quieter they get. Honest,  now I'm wondering if they could go dead a second time".
- "Only if you chop their head off. Plus, they are still picketing  at sunset aren't they?"
- "This picket thing, that's their only past-time sir, they won't stop until they find something better to do. I reckon you won't be needing to chop, sir. And it's tougher than it looks, really."
- "I wouldn't doubt you opinion, Norman… Now, tell me, where's my 4 o'clock?"
- "Ah, yes. I wouldn't know sir."
He looked at Norman's complexion, going increasingly redder. Norman was a very tall man. The only feature equaling his height was his weight. Fat Norman, as the residents would creatively call him, was momentarily looking like a tomato about to burst out of shame.
That incident was a first. The misplacement of a tenant meant extraordinary circumstances; Norman liked could sometimes be a tad heavy on the bottle, but he was not the careless type.

- "It's not like you to lose track of a corpse. How comes?". - "Well… say… You know, she hadn't been dead for long when she awoke, say, ehr… maybe a day or two. Still looking pretty green if you allow me the expression."
- "She tried to seduce you?" he asked, slightly disturbed by the thought.
- "Why, no! They'd do that sometimes, but look at me! 'Been doing the job for 27 years and shan't fall for beginner's tricks." With indignation in his voice, he continued. "When I say green, I say spry. She ran, see. Very, very fast. Now she's hidden in some mausoleum, but I'd be damned if I knew which one."

Trying to visualize Fat Norman running after a lively she-corpse was a horse short of an epic. Norman knew his trade, but wasn't of age anymore and his knees would have given-up after a couple of steps.

"That's alright, that's alright. Don't bother yourself too much. She'll be out at dusk along with all the others and I'll have a little chat with her."

A runner. Of all the thing, he'd have to go after a runner. Had he brought it with him instead of losing it, the matter would have been completely different. Getting to convince a runner while empty handed was an agonizing task.
Henri proposed to get on with helping the regulars as a warm-up. Dusk was still a couple of hours away and, in any case, the only other choice was a round of Norman's home-made grass alcohol.
After venturing a "Liquor or succor, dear sir?" Henri recovered from a heavy duty scowl and proceeded to fetch the remaining remains for his employer.

Said employer had a hard time focusing. The usual babble occurring during his consultations,  about the dead proletariat, peace for passed, and other gimmicks was getting under his skin. He found himself relieved when the sun ultimately set.
Nightfall woke the picketing corpses from their theoretically eternal rest  (actually a 6 hours slack break) and, as usual, they gathered toward the graveyard's gate to continue with the protests.
-"How do we rest?"
-"In peace!"
-"When do we want it?"
-"Forever!"
The same slogan went on and on, with infinite patience, hoping to get what they wanted by wearing-out any available listener. The heavy iron barrier they were standing near to had actually started to rust out of boredom, proof of their marginal yet increasing success.

The running dead girl was there, shouting with the others.
He approached the mass of protesters with the intent to deliver his usual speech. It would send a third of them back to their grave, another third back to work and irritate the remaining ones enough to give them a migraine.
Everything happened exactly as planned, save for the runner, who came at him with a dull look in her eyes.

CHAPTER 3 HERE

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Chapter 1 - Corpse whisperer

 CORPSE WHISPERER

The story of a man who, somehow, lost it.

(Featuring a thousand elephants and one big lie)
-DOWNLOAD THE WHOLE STORY AS A FREE EBOOK (PDF)-

CHAPTER 1 

He was staring at the content of his cupboard.
Four full hours had already passed, and he couldn't get himself  to acknowledge the fact that he'd lost it.

How, wasn't the problem. Things in cupboards disappear. Thieving  frog-rats, paper-mouthgaps, and other abducting or devouring pests see to it. The somehow dimension, where lighters, keys, and small change regularly transit, is also a usual suspect in case of spontaneous disappearance. Really, the means didn't matter.

"Why me, why now" was another question altogether. A question with an aftertaste of depletion.

It was his only one, hard earned, well kept, still in prime condition. And it was gone, gone, gone.
Once again, he let his gaze run along the wooden, narrow shelves, packed with a lifetime of collections.
23 pots of war pickles, neatly aligned on the top shelf, were answering his scrutiny with tiny muffled squeaks.
A pair of twin perpetual motion engines were occupying the two following rows. One had stopped working and its counterpart would sometimes intterupt its routine to point and laugh at it.
Then came the collectible underwater cheerleading cards, a fully operational defenestration kit and a medium-sized pile of heaps.

"It will durate again a long time?"
The question pulled him out of his trance.
The second most praised piece of his collection, Henri the French Corpse, was getting impatient and calling from the living room.

"You can drop the French accent now, Henri, I'm not in the mood"
- "Ah, sirah. Shall I then entertain you with a selection of amusing noises?", Henri replied, annoyed.
- "Cut it, dead man. I've lost it again and this time I'm not sure I can get it back. At least not before long"
The French carcass fell abashed. "Have you stared?"
- "I've been doing nothing but staring for hours, the pickles are on the verge of mutiny."
- "Merde… are you sure it hasn't fled to the kitchen like last time?"
- "I checked, no chairs are missing, so it's not there"
- "Indeed".

Silence loudly interrupted the conversation, to finally leave when he slammed the cupboard shut, in a firework of expletives from the pickles.

"Staring won't work. We should take a walk, in any case we're late" - And he was right. His 4 p.m. appointment was already waiting since 4 p.m.

Henri looked mortified. "I know not how you are going to make without it". His French accent was thickening and, this time, authentic.
"I know you're nervous, but with or without it we should carrion"
- "Oh so funny, as always"
- "As always. Now let's go."
And so they left. Unheartedly, they armed the door's spring trap before going downstairs and started pacing slowly toward his next appointment.

He was a necrologist, specialized in post mortem psychology, and was heading, as he did every Thursdays, to the town's cemetery for his routine evictions.
Corpses were particularly resilient when it came to leaving the graveyard's premises, and it always took all of his expertise to convince them that, yes, they could be once again productive members of society.
To many a commoner, their arguments against mingling with the living were sound: they had been working most of their lives and they wouldn't be deprived of a well deserved rest. But he knew better. A deceased should always contribute. They had spent years abusing other's resources and now that they had no need for food nor sleep and were ignoring weather conditions, it was a long overdue pay-back time.

A long preliminary walk was always necessary to empty his mind and stock enough patience to interact with his clients. "I Deal With Undeads" was written on his business card; it was more than a skill: it was a demanding calling.

As he passed the novelty shop, 4 block away from his flat, he remembered that place as the background for his first encounter with Henri.
That day, his routine afternoon walk had come to a stop before the shop's front window. Henri was there, on sale, a disgruntled look on his face and a discounted price tag pinned on his lapel.
"Companion Corpse, French breed, 5 years experience"

Once inside, he insisted to inspect the goods himself. Many companion and recreational bodies advertised as French were in reality cheap Canadian spin-offs or, worse, Swiss.
"Oui, non, la baguette, la tour Eiffel, go get intercoursed. That is enough as proof or you need again?"
A tart, snappy answer with a dash of vinaigrette and a rotten syntax. Genuine! It was a deal.

From that moment on, he and Henri became inseparable, united in a mutual hatred that soon became the driving force of the best Necrology office in town...


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Legwork

No animal has been armed
during the production of this flash fiction
(source)

I've heard that I get carried away, sometimes.
What can I say? I got dragged-in.
Well.
I could say: "I don't particularly like it when my woman gets abducted by third grade thugs to be used as snuff material."
I could say: "If you're dumb enough to forget turning off her phone, I can track her GPS".
I could say a lot of things, really. But in this case I'd rather shut up and listen. That's not really me, I know. But I'm in front of their door right now, and the safety is off. Not a gun. A hand grenade. My brother brought some weird souvenirs back from Syria.

My girl? She's safe in the car. With snacks and water. Not that I'm thoughtful or anything, I keep them in my car anyway. Damn, when I'm done with this she's gonna cost me a fortune in therapy.

See, my girl gets in all sorts of trouble, what with her being really pretty and having a mouth twice as big as mine. But this time these lower life forms, these unwashed ethanol sacks, they've pushed it too far.
They really made it easy for me though. All I had to do was gear up and follow the directions. Didn't even have to look, I love talking gadgets. "In 4 miles, turn right", "In 1 mile, turn the place upside down and set it on fire".

I ended up in the middle of nowhere, in the parking lot of a motel so badly kept it looked about to collapse. I thought they would keep her in their bathroom or something. I realized they went a step further when I saw two rooms lit up, and only one other car in the lot. Later she told me they'd been waiting for someone to pick her up. They'd put her in the adjacent room to "keep the meat fresh", she heard one of them say. They hadn't met the tenderizer yet. 

From the car, I went directly to the front desk.
I'd though it'd take a while to get what I wanted; Sometimes you have to be patient to get things out of people. Not that time. The dude behind the counter was over a massive bong, higher than the space shuttle. "I'm here for the blonde my friends brought in, they have the keys, I need the spare". The pothead fumbled his hand into a drawer and presented them. Just like that. Dear President, please legalize weed.

I found her tied up, soaked in cold sweat, terrified. Someone was going to need prosthetic fingers to pick their broken teeth. I untied her, hugged her, and told her to keep the story for later, go to the car and get ready to start the engine.

Communicating room are fun. When the door is not locked, it opens up a world of possibilities. So here I am. Gauging. Eavesdropping.
They're as drunk as a bad marriage.
They're slamming something on a table. Cards. I'm surprised they are clever enough to remember the rules. And, sweet mother, they are loud.

"Yeah, just like my coffee, cold as death and stiff as a corpse, that's how I like them!"
That voice… at least 10 years of cheap booze and tobacco.
He sounds like he's about to throw up gravel.
"Yeah, spit it out, Teddy, you just like them dead!"
His partner doesn't sound much better. There's something more to it though. Smug.
"I don't like them dead! I like them… Submissive!".
Submissive. Three syllables, bravo, Teddy.
A third voice cracks a laugh that reminds me of an angry chimp.
Then he starts talking. He's pitched so high he could be a choir boy. And after the mass, he'd probably sell weed in the confession booth.

"If you want submissive, you've got to get yourself an amputee. Look, look, I got myself that one legged chick once. And she tells me 'be gentle, be gentle'. So I answer 'Or else what, you're gonna run away?'"
Another round of laughter. I've heard noises like that once. At an animal shelter.
"Yeah that's a good one. But when it comes to counting legs, Teddy's the winner. Right Ted?" That's Smug talking.
- "Shut up Marvin, I told you to forget that story! I was drunk okay?"
- "What'd he do, come on Marv!" The chimp gets all excited
- "He tried to fuck a golden retriever. Four legs at once."
Chimp gets hysterical. Calm down, don't choke now. I have plans for you.
Marvin's not done yet.
- "But now I think of it, his brother wins."
- "You can't beat four legs Marv" Chimp is half choking.
Then I hear a thump. That's Teddy getting up and his chair falling on the floor. They're getting busy, at last.

They don't hear me lowering the door handle. They don't see me pushing the door ajar.

They don't see the grenade slowly roll to the middle of the room. I don't see it either,  I've got five seconds before the rooms turns into splinters.

I never though I could make it to the car that fast. My girl start's the engine as soon as she sees me rushing out. I get in and just as I shut the door, like a bad movie cliche, the frag goes off.
As we leave the parking lot, I catch myself thinking. "Chimp, Marv, Teddy… that's six legs.
I win".

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Two Minds And A Cactus (Part Two)

Click here for part one!

After he woke up and got ready for work, Alfred processed to open the window and move Igor into the sunlight. "I'll be out now, I'll put you on the ledge because Victoria needs her sun, but don't you try being a naughty boy and -OUCH!"

Somehow, a spine had found its way deep into his finger.
"YOU PRICK! YOU LITERAL PRICK!"
He hadn't been that mad in years. He slammed Igor on the ledge and stormed out, raging. He didn't quite know how yet, but he would take care of this alter-ego problem as soon as he came back.

The day went by.

Returning from work and still fulminating, he was about to enter his studio when he heard rapid footsteps coming up the stairs. He was in no mood for small talks and had almost closed his door when an unknown woman hailed him.

"Wait!… Hi, I'm from the 3rd floor. I don't think we've met before. Look, earlier today I found something on the courtyard's floor. Since it was just down your window, I think it fell off…"
She was holding his cactus. Confused, he gently took it from her have closer look.
His face paled.
The poor thing had been badly damaged by the fall. Half of it was sunk-in, needles in disarray, and all the flowers were gone.
Noticing how flushed he looked, she added, "It was completely out of its pot when I found it, but don't worry, see, I put it back with all its soil and all."
He couldn't reply. His thoughts were racing to give the fall a logical explanation. No wind came in the room, the notion of a draft pushing the plant outside was preposterous…
Maybe he'd put it too close to the edge? No, even if he'd slammed it down, he'd never be that clumsy.

"Are you alright?" The stranger's voice brought him back.

"Yes...no. I really like this cactus. Thanks for your help… "
He closed the door even before finishing his sentence. Serious thinking was required.

Talking wouldn't help.
He couldn't even know Igor from Victoria now the plant was shapeless.
Igor.
Victoria.
Two minds, one cactus.
Which one was the dominant one anyway?
Igor, albeit clearly evil, had shown up pretty late in the relationship. Victoria would never hurt a fly, but she could stand her grounds when needed. They surely gave each other a hell of a time.

It dawned on him in an instant: they did give each other a hell of a time. They'd had fight. It had to be! Victoria had probably realized what Igor had done, and attempted to take over.
Igor, as the bellicose bastard he was, had then refused to give in. That's when Victoria leaped off the ledge, choosing to end it for both of them rather than further expose Alfred to her vile alter-ego.

What was now a shell empty of both personalities would dry-up and die soon. It wasn't important.
Victoria had sacrificed herself to protect him, and he was to honor that gesture the best he could - He'd move out of his rickety room, apply for another job and never again entertain his days at the price of a cactus' sanity.

The last day before moving out, he found a piece of paper slid under his door.
A handwritten message.
"Hi, Haven't been able to catch you, you look like you could do with more going-out. Here's my number if you need a friend, Mr. I'm-nice-to-potted-plants. Text Me.
-Vicky, 3rd floor."

Alfred immediately typed a reply.
"Free for dinner, tell me what time. PS: Cute name."

Sometimes, even small details can be life altering…

Fin.

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Two Minds And A Cactus (Part One)

(credits)

It hadn't been such a good month for Alfred.
All in all, the whole year hadn't been such a good experience.

First of, he should have never moved to a city he knew nothing about. New job or not.
Most importantly, he should have never rented a room in such a hurry. Bad lighting, scarce furnishing and four flights of stairs were not his idea of comfort.

It was alright, he thought, things would be better soon. New workplace, new life, his girlfriend supporting him…

By winter, things had gone from good to utter failure. After a couple of weeks behind his desk, the company employing him had filed for bankruptcy. The next job he took was lifeless and underpaid; If he could cover his expenses, his hope in acquiring new furniture vanished.
As the months passed, fatigue took its toll. Apathy slowly replaced his usual good mood and the change in his humor hadn't pleased his girlfriend at all. Fights became more and more frequent. Inevitably, they broke up.

His room was still a mix of Spartan comfort and forsaken Zen retreat when summer came back. One window, one curtain, one mattress, one table, one chair.
A new life indeed.

Something was needed to dissipate the gloom before his bad year turned into a bad decade.

A woman was out of the question. Too early.
A pet, would die of boredom after a couple of hours.
Maybe plants? Affordable, alive, fresh… Everything he wasn't. Perfect for motivation.

On his way back from the florist, he wondered why he was currently bringing a cactus back home.
True, you didn't have to water them too often. Also true, the one he had chosen was particularly cute; no bigger than his fist, round and fuzzy, freckled with a score of pretty purple flowers. Even truer, he couldn't afford anything else.
It was done, anyway; a little green patch now sat in his grey room.

Sometimes, even small details can be life altering.

The little cactus brought just enough life to Alfred's studio to let him start breathing again..
In the morning, he would greet the plant with a smile as soon as his eyes opened. Back from work, he would enquire about its mood. In a matter of days, he gave it a name.
"All those spines and flowers standing on your back look like they're cheering. You look victorious, my dear. Victoria! That will suit you well."


His window, opening above the building's inner courtyard, turned into a place of interest. He would gently put Victoria on the ledge, stroke its sharp fur with the back of his thumbnail and leave her in the sun until dusk. When in a talkative mood, he would share the ledge beside her to rest his elbows and tell her stories about his childhood, sometimes pretending to answer her questions.
Victoria soon came to assume many roles. As a pet, a friend, a confident. Or on some occasions, as a much needed therapist.

One day he was at the window, going on about his pet peeves and favorite topics, Alfred felt an unusual tension building up between them, for no apparent reason. Was he nervous? Or was Victoria upset?

"You look quiet today, Vic. It's almost like you're frowning. What's wrong with you?  Oh come on! Don't look at me like that, I'm not being annoying or anything."
The feeling didn't recede.

He tried a more playful approach. "Hey Vic, watchu want? Wanna fight? You sure you can win this one? Watchu gonna do anyway? Force me to hug you?"

He laughed at his own joke and stared at the sky. It would be dark soon. Time to close the window.
He was starting to pull the curtain when he gasped at a sudden, stinging pain in the palm of his right hand.
Victoria.
A whole handful of her needle sharp spines had gone straight through the curtain, straight into his flesh.
"OUCH VIC! That's not funny! Hiding behind the curtain like that!"
He untangled the cactus, stuck to the fabric like a strip of velcro, and moved her to his table, holding her carefully by the pot. This unruly behavior wouldn't go unpunished. There would be no ledge for her tomorrow. After all if she wanted to voice her concern about something she was free to do it without resorting to violence.
"It's really not like you, you know. Think about what you've done, while I tweeze-out your thorns!"

He took a moment to observe her. Something was definitely off. Maybe it was her color, slightly darker than usual. Maybe the little purple flowers had started to wilt.  Soon enough, he came to a gruesome realization.
"You have a problem don't you?
You… you're not Victoria, are you? She would never do something that armful. I can see it now. You're some sort of alter ego aren't you? Oh dear… So what shall I call you, dark side of my cactus?"
The plant seemed to assume an air of passive aggressive smugness.
"Oh alright then, you want to play it like a villain, I'll give you a villain name! Igor! Happy now?"
It was probably a trick of the decreasing daylight, but the plant's expression seemed to have shifted from smug to satisfied.
Alfred, not really enjoying his friend's new personality, left the conversation to be continued the next morning.

Click For Part Two


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Two Minds And A Cactus (part 1) by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

Interview: In Bed With Knutt the Unscarred.

Knutt The Unscarred
on his way to the Day Spa.
(source)

In this special issue of Without A Lemon, we are delighted to feature one of the most accomplished men of this decade: Knutt The Unscarred, Norse warrior extraordinaire, who has agreed for an interview in spite of his busy agenda.

WaL : Good morning, Mr.Knutt. Thanks for agreeing to this interview!

Knutt: Greeting, puny man. May you find honorable death on the battlefield.

WaL: Hum. Yes. That sounds reasonable… Now, Knutt, so our readers can learn more about what you do, and why we are interviewing you for a creative writing blog, could you introduce yourself?

Knutt: Your readers should know Knutt already.

WaL: Well… they should, shouldn't they. But for the few of them who have just learned to read?

Knutt: I do not like repeating myself. But I am magnanimous. I am a Knutt the Unscarred, holder of the world record for successive brawls and battles without receiving any wound.
I am also author of the bestselling New-York Times book: "A kick in the Knutt: dodging your way through life"

WaL: This is very impressive, Knutt.

Knutt: A lifetime achievement.

WaL : Although this is remarkable, we do know about one other great feature you have achieved, yet you seem reluctant to discuss the topic. Would you care telling us why?

Knutt: I do not know what you are speaking of. Knutt is a renowned warrior with a seamless technique. It is enough for puny men to know.

WaL: Well, not really. Knutt, you have been the ambassador of Gorgeous Him Skin Care Cosmetics and an idol of the metrosexual community, worldwide, for the last five years. Don't you think it is worth talking about?

Knutt: I do not.

WaL: Don't be so hard on yourself. Look at you. That perfect complexion, the fine grain of your epiderm despite hours of shaving with a double bladed battle ax, the perfect smoothness of muscles and sinews carefully kept away from body hairs… It has to mean something!

Knutt: It means I fight and I win, and I never bring a scar home. And then I shave and pose for the puny men's balms. Because a Norse Warrior has to eat 5 times a day and feast 5 times a night, and that is an expensive lifestyle.

WaL: You are talking about it like it's a bad thing!

Knutt: My brother lost a toe last year. My village made the bone into a necklace for his wife to wear. My brother does not pose for balms. My village is very proud.

WaL: This is terrible!

Knutt: Yes. When Knutt goes back to his village, men who are not puny and have fur on their chin and chest, they laugh. They say Knutt should stop fighting and start polishing puny men's shoes since Knutt is so good at caring for skin. Bjørn The Bald came home with an eye patch last week, he got a wife now.

WaL: No, no that's not what I meant! It's terrible that people wear other people's toes as a necklace!

Knutt: Not the truth. Toes and fingers are very good for pendents, ears get all dry and forearms are too heavy. Sister in law is very proud.

WaL: I wouldn't be proud of that! You are a public figure, doesn't it count for something!

Knutt: AH! Counting! In my village we count SCARS! They are proof of valor! And what is my name? Knutt the UNSCARRED. They call me Baby Butt Knutt! You know not of the shame! What I would give for the slashing of a sword across my face! Having my ear bitten off while struggling against a mass of enemies!

WaL: But… aren't you happy that you can come home without ever being hurt?

Knutt: KNUTT IS ALWAYS HURT AT THE VILLAGE! KNUTT HURTS! INSIDE!

WaL: I think we are getting a little carried away Knutt. Please drop the ax.

Knutt: PUNY MAN HAS NO HEART! KNUTT FEELINGS SCARRED BY CRUEL WORDS!

At that point of the interview, Without A Lemon wasn't able to collect Knutt's opinions due to his sitting down and prostrated rambling.

Our readers will be happy to know that our favorite Warrior Of Smoothness has recovered and will be giving away signed copies of his books along with samples of Gorgeous Him skin care cream at our redaction, next Wednesday, proving one more time that Gorgeous Him is the brand for sensitive skins and sensitive souls!




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In Bed WIth Knut The Unscarred by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.