The immersive escape of the human condition

 The lift door stalled before opening, sending shockwaves across the nine of us. Not a great start, but it's going to get worse; it's just that none of us know it yet. There were no instrument panels in the lift so we had no way of knowing how many floors we’d traversed, or even if we moved at all; no vaguely sensual a-sexual voice reassuring us of upward motion, just the jarring revelation of an bereft office suite with a single table in the middle of the room.

Emma was the first one out of the lift; she was showing signs of claustrophobia and all of us felt her pain. Nine squashed in a lift; surely the subject of an extremely poor joke.  Even Nat let her dismount the lift first, and she was a bitch. We’d only been with each other for three minutes and it had been enough to figure out who everyone was.

Nat was obviously a middle-manager who could see the glass ceiling and let everyone else pay the price. Phil had already figured out that his best bet was to cozy up to her. He was chubby in a sadistic way and had obviously become the bully in school before anyone else tried to do it to him. Dido was a complete contrast; she was a lovely soul: quiet and observant. She made a joke: if we were stuck in the lift over a long enough period of time we might end up as diamonds in the rough. It was meant to lighten the mood for Emma, but I was the only one who got the joke.  Fiona laughed too but I could tell that she only did it out of solidarity, either that or she really was as docile as she looked. 

Paul stepped out of the lift, looked around casually and remarked that he could smell fish. When the rest of us stared at him blankly he remarked that it must have been all the cod philosophy in the lift earlier. Phil laughed at that and Nat just nodded. Debbie stared Phil and Paul down. She didn’t say a word, but it was enough. She walked over to Emma and checked to see how she was doing. Then there was Steve 

The room we were standing in didn’t make sense. The office building we had all entered was huge; a four storey block that was as wide as it was deep. This room was barely 30 foot by 30; the walls a dysentery brown with a pink frieze running in the middle; the CSC Logo stamped time and time again like a crude strip cartoon. We must have been in the middle of the office complex because the lifts were behind us. Those same lift doors suddenly closed leaving no trace of their existence. Steve walked up to the only remarkable feature in the room, the table.

There was a simple door bell randomly stuck on it, crudely glued with a single post-it note that had the words: “PrEss Me!” in erratic handwriting, scrawled using a blue biro almost close to running out. It looked like a four year old was learning how to write in cursive. Steve pressed the button.

Suddenly the lights went out and a video was projected onto one of the walls in front of us. A face we had only glimpsed in newsletters, and on the company intranet stared back at us. The brandy coloured background making the face of Dianne Bolus, the CEO of CSC, look almost oriental.

“Hello.” The voice chimed. “Here at CSC we believe that Escape Rooms are more than fright or flight. They can be a tool for pushing boundaries and understanding limits.” The acoustics of the room made her voice sound slurred, slightly robotic but what was even more bizarre was the way her eyes lined up with the frieze, making her eyes look quite demonic and maniacal. She continued as if aware of this. “Through cognitive mastery we can push people beyond what they thought possible. Through controlled stress we can understand people's breaking points and identify their vulnerabilities through social cohesion and erosion techniques. This would normally take years to take effect but using escape rooms we can affect rapid changes.” I looked around and saw people's expressions. Most were a mixture of trepidation and bemusement but Nat was nodding as if her life was depending on it; almost as if she expected Dianna to be watching everyone.

“The pressure stove,” the voice droned on, “ is the working title for today's exercise. You are all experts in your fields and at different stages of your development. Each of you know a different piece of the puzzle, though you may not know it. There are seven rooms to escape from. The data taken from today's exercise will help when we push this out to the corporate world. “Imagine: the office as escape room with team building the ultimate game. Each puzzle has to be solved in order to move on to the next room. This is the Orientation room and you have eight hours to reach the end point. The time starts when this message finishes. Good luck!”

The message stopped and the lights strobed for 10 seconds before flaring phosphorous white, blinding us all. When they dimmed enough we saw four doors; one in each corner of the room. 

“Maybe we should split up?” Steve ventured. 

1 - Orientation

“That’s a crap idea.” Paul snapped back. “You’ve obviously never seen any horror movies.”

“Of course, I have.” 

“Well, maybe you should try all of the doors in turn. If you don’t come back from one then obviously that’s not the one to take.” Phil snidely stated.

“You first.” Debbie interjected. Phil whirled round and was about to say something when Nat stepped into the fray.

“We need to do this systematically. Take each door in turn, follow where it takes us.”

“And if it takes us to a trap-room then what?” I replied.

“What’s a trap room?” Fiona asked, obviously nervous.

“There aren’t any trap rooms.” Nat replied contemptuously, she was trying so desperately to maintain cohesion but totally ignored Fiona in the process. “Let’s just pick that door over there.” she said, pointing to the far right door. We all traipsed over and walked through. The corridor we walked into was pitch black and as soon as we had all entered we saw the light from the room behind become extinguished. The door had shut behind us.

“Fucking brilliant.” Paul snapped. 

“Don’t say a word.” Nat snapped at me. “We just need to feel our way out, there has to be a way out.”

None of us had any spatial awareness but we managed to get out of the seemingly endless corridor… and found ourselves back in the same room again. We all looked at each other. I looked back to the corridor but there was no door there, just a blank wall. I shrugged and walked to the door opposite and stopped just before I got to the doorway. “You do realise that we have no real way of knowing this is the same room. You could  all wait for me to walk round again but what if I don’t.. What if the door closes behind me and this WAS the right way out. We have to keep together.” This was irrefutable logic and everyone moved in behind me.

Once again the door closed behind us and we fumbled our way to the end of the tunnel to an exact replica of the room before. This time the lights seemed slightly dimmer and there was a faint smell of mildew, probably coming from the black corridors.

The door closed once more behind us and we chose the third door… With the same results. The fourth door led to the same conclusion; a room so familiar, slightly dimmer bulbs but with a dampness in the air. I looked around to see what was going on and noticed there was something wrong.

“Has anyone seen Steve?” We looked around with no luck.

“It’s not as if he could be hiding anywhere.” Emma observed.

“Maybe we lost him in one of the corridors.” Dido replied. 

“Yeah, but which one?” Fiona remarked. “I mean when was the last time any of us did a head count?”

“A head count? What is this, primary school?” Phil snapped.

“Well, this was all about Orientation. I guess that Steve failed that exercise.” Paul observed, snidely. “Maybe we pick him up at the end.”

“Has anyone else noticed the door over there?”  Dido said, almost as if she doubted her own eyes. Sure enough there was a door right in the far end of the office, roughly where the lift would have been.  We all ran over to it and tried the handle. The door opened but there was just a wall behind.

“What the fuck?” Paul shouted. “This is crazy!”

“This is an escape room, did you really expect it to be easy?” Nat snapped back, despite herself. “What we need to do is stop making assumptions and search. There is a way out of here, but it's not going to be obvious.”

We all took the queue from her and searched every wall for clues. Fiona was more pragmatic and searched the door and then the table.

“What have you found, Fiona?” Emma asked. 

“On the door looks like another place for the handle to go.. There’s a hole with four smaller drill holes… on the table there’s now a screwdriver…”

“Wow! Check out the peepers on Fiona!” Dido chimed. “That’s a great feat of observation. I would never have worked that out!”

“Give it a try then, Fi.” Nat pronounced. Fiona looked at me and winced. It was obvious she hated being called Fi, but now was not the time to make a song and dance of it. She picked up the slightly rusted screwdriver and tried undoing the screws on the door handle. The screwdriver slipped a couple of times and nicked her hand, drawing blood. Phil snatched it from her and took the door handle off and placed it over the newly found holes and screwed it into place. Miraculously it fit. We cheered despite ourselves and opened the door to another corridor which led down a slope to yet another room. This was progress at least.

2 - Collaboration

“So how did that actually work?” Fiona asked me, sucking her finger.

“It was something that we tried looking into for another project: it’s a double-acting, double hinged door which divides the space immediately behind the door with a wedge shaped partition wall, which after swinging one way blocks the other door! Fascinating stuff… Is your finger alright?” 

“It tingles a bit, but it’s ok.” She replied. The corridor came out at a room which was an exact copy of the rooms above but it’s more dishevelled than the last. The lights were gloomier with a blueish tinge. There was more of a musty smell and some of the walls had a reddish tinge to them. The floor was dusty and you could see pronounced footprints in the dust. Again, there were no doors and no discernible way of getting out. 

“Split up, search the walls.” Nat said and we just did as we were told. There was silence for a few minutes then a distinct click could be heard and magically a gap appeared in one of the walls. A vertical sliver appeared. Everyone ran over to the gap but it disappeared as soon as we reached it.

“Bloody strange.” Phil remarked. “Its more of a tease than you, Dido.” 

“Fuck off, Phil.” Dido snapped back and stepped back. The click was heard again and the door opened a sliver more. 

“Don’t move!” Nat shouted at Dido.

“It’s pressure sensitive….” Emma remarked and looked down at the floor. “Look! She’s standing right where those footsteps end!” And she drew the path in the air with her hand. Sure enough there was a distinct trail of footprints that went direct to where Dido was standing. There was another set and I went and stood on that last imprint. The door opened enough to see another light at the end of the tunnel. This was enough for Nat to take change one more time and she pushed against the door, hoping to circumvent the process. 

To our shock and her horror the door pivoted against her weight and she fell forward. Yet there was only a void to meet her; no floor, just an open lift shaft and we heard her cries to the very bottom. Dido was about to move off her spot but I shouted for her to stay completely still. We might not get another shot at this. I searched the rest of the floor from where I stood and saw one more set of footprints and asked Emma to stand there. I could tell she was frightened but she did so anyway.The door opened fully and we were left with another decision; what would happen when we tried moving from the spot.

Debbie looked into the newly created doorway. “Somehow a floor has appeared on the corridor; it looks as if it’s folded down from the ceiling when all the pressure plates were occupied.”

“If you guys step into the corridor so you’re halfway down it the rest of us can try to make a run for it.” I explained, hoping I’d judged this correctly. “If I’m right then whoever is standing in the last position will act as a stabilising factor for the rest of us to run. We can then hold the doors for Emma to dash across.”

“And what if you’re wrong?” Phil chided.

“What do you care? You’re safe anyway.” I snapped back.

“Good point… get your running shoes on, Emma.” He replied and winked. I could see Fiona and Dido snidely talk about him behind his back. No one liked him and he knew it.

The group all went into the corridor as asked and then it was our turn. Both Dido and I made a run for it at the same time and, sure enough, nothing happened. I could see the sweat run from Emma’s brow. It was now or never and I just nodded at her.

We backed away to give her space and I watched as she made a spirited dash for the doorway in front of her. Nothing else happened. She reached the doorway unscathed. Beaming she stepped into the corridor before the floor dropped beneath her before we could even blink. I couldn’t even get to her because another door slid down before I could even breathe, cutting off any chance to reach her again.. 

“Watch out!” Debbie shouted from the room directly at the end of the corridor. The door was slowly sliding shut and we barely made it in time. 

3 - Assessment

We didn’t have a chance to mourn. The same room design as before; like a demented, colourblind designer. Darker room, weirder smell; a cloying denseness. Fiona was now scratching her hand and I took hold of it to look at it. It was inflamed and looked sorely red. She shrugged it off.

We looked around the room, and immediately saw the table in the middle as before except this time there were 6 square boxes, each with wires coming out the bottom leading to an unknown destination. We all walked to the table and scanned them. All were fixed firmly and finished in a mahogany effect. On the top were two holes and it was obvious that we had to put our hands inside.

I didn’t even think about the consequences, I was slowly understanding the warped logic behind these rooms and knew the only way we’d be able to get through was to face the challenges head on. I could see that everyone was scrutinising my every tic and inflexion. It was slow at first but I could feel my hands tingle as if something was scraping against my skin but it was just a persistent irritation. 

Phil just shrugged and did the same, plunged his hands into the holes as did Dido and Debbie. I could tell something else was happening with their hands… Phil turned to look at me and asked if my hands were hurting at all. I shook my head and said it was just an irritation. Phil told me that it felt as if his fingers had pins and needles. Dido’s hands ached, muscle fatigue and she couldn’t figure it out. Debbie was wincing in pain, for her it was as if someone was jabbing hot needles into the tips of her fingers. My irritation was getting worse due to the length of time I’d been enduring it, god knows how Paul was going to feel. He was hesitating and I couldn’t blame him but he looked at me. I just grimaced. He nodded and put his hands in the holes in his box. He screamed within seconds. That left Fiona. Her hand was already hurting her and it was obvious she didn’t want to be in any more pain. I sympathised, I really did… but at the same time I knew how the others were feeling; and it was only going to get worse the longer she left it.

“For gods sake, just fucking do it!” Paul shouted. Seconds passed, but it felt like hours. Finally Fiona screamed and thrust her hands into her box. Immediately a door opened behind us and we were released from the boxes. There were no wounds anywhere on our hands. Phill launched himself at Fiona but I shoved him back.

“There’s going to be a reckoning for you.” He snapped at Fiona. “And you do that again, I’ll end you too.” He threatened me.

4 - Performance Review

There was no connecting corridor this time, just an identically imperfect room. The same soul numbing decor, the same depressing mildew scent as before, just more pungent. The wallpaper was streaked with a viscous liquid, like a smoking room after a heavy session. What was really going on here?

Fiona looked at her hands and then at me. I shrugged as there was nothing I could say. Her wound was definitely infected and the veins in her arms were turning black. 

Debbie looked around. No one was surprised that there was no doorway, even the one behind us had shut tight. The floor was clean this time; no clues to be found there either. The wall was too high up to search and no one really wanted to touch the walls just in case they found out what was dripping down them.

“I wonder what’s going on?” Dido asked.

“What does it matter?” Phil tore into her.

“We’re being picked off one by one. That’s what’s fucking going on.” Paul retorted.

“But why?” Debbie insisted. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“What’s the context?” I asked.

“I’m going to knock your fucking block off in a minute.” Paul chided.

“Try it and you’ll have the rest of us to deal with.” Debbie replied, sternly.

“If you weren’t a woman…”

“And if you were more of a man, Paul, we might not be in this position.”

“Look, this isn’t helping.” I stated. “I heard rumors, right? There might be more to this… The boss lady, Dianna Bolus herself, big chief CEO supposedly had a breakdown not so long ago, right? She went away for a while to… find herself? She came back and then formed this new wing of CSC….”

“Yeah.” Debbie agreed. “I heard something about that. There’s been rumors of a secret development for ages but it’s been very hush-hish. Then all of a sudden I get a letter saying I’ve been promoted to this new position to test this new vision of hers.”

“But what if there was no finding of self? What if she had an L Ron Hubbard moment on the road to Damascus?

“El Ray who?” Phil asked in a vindictive way.

“You need to read a book once in a while.” I responded. “Ones without pop up centrefolds.”

“You pretentious, jumped up arsehole. I’m going to crucify you in front of your bloody harem.” Phil started towards me, ready to fight. Something stopped him in his tracks, something that no one else could see. “Well strike a fucking light… it’s just opened!”

We all turned to see another door welcoming us onwards and this time Phil led the way, but not without barging past me as hard as he could.

5 - Leadership

The door barely gave us a chance to get into the room before it closed. Upon closing all the lights went out. Dido screamed whilst Fiona moaned in despondency. For once Paul and Phil mirrored what I was thinking. “For fucks sake, what now?!”

It was then I heard a hissing noise, as if a tannoy had been turned on. Was this going to be another stirring speech from our elusive and sadistic CEO? No, it was going to be far worse.

“There’s only going to be one way out of here… Only the strong can get out of here.” It was my voice, but it wasn’t me speaking. Somehow my voice had been sampled and was now being used. At the same time I could hear other voices slowly come into the mix: Dido, Debbie… even Nat’s voice was heard chiding us. 

“The cut on yor hand is gods way of punishing you, Fiona…. You should have been looking out for Steve.”

“Paul and Phil are going to kill you if they can… You know that to be true… you have to get to them first…”

“Phil knows… Everyone one knows about you, Paul. Don’t try to hide it any longer, You think that by acting tough you can….”

“You’re not half the manager Nat was, Debbie. You’re not half the woman Nat was either. The reason you’re still single is that you’re far too masculine!”

All of the voices merged into a cacophony; swirling around our heads, infecting our minds. It was Phil who cried out first saying the words “Fuck no! Fuck NO! FUCK NO!” over and over until the lights suddenly blazed on again.

Phil turned round, raging. Saw me and I could see that he was indeed out to kill me. Luckily I was ready for him. I had been avoiding this all day but there was no way to back out of it. He ran at me full tilt, fist outstretched like a lance but there was no other awareness there. I just sidestepped and hit him hard on the side of his head, right behind the ear. I had to dissuade Paul from trying his luck as well. Phil fell down like a sack of grain and didn’t move. Debbie knelt down to feel his pulse.

“He’s dead..” She said as the door behind her slid open.

6 - Subjugation

Nobody wanted to move at first.  I couldn’t reconcile what had happened. If I hadn’t knocked Phil down he would surely have killed me, certainly with Paul’s help but I never wanted him dead. Debbie walked over to me and put her hand on my shoulder.

“You couldn’t have known; it’s not your fault. He attacked you.”

“What? He didn’t have to hit him like that!” Paul snarled, kneeling at Phil's prone body. “You could have tripped him, kicked him in the fucking nuts…”

“And what would you have done in the meantime?” Debbie snapped back, trying to defend me. I still couldn’t speak through the shock. “You were getting ready to knock the shit out of him as well…”

“Yeah, and I’m still going to!” Paul leapt at me, but I didn’t put up any defense. Maybe Paul was right. I felt like a rag doll in his hands. He had his hands on my throat and was dragging me out through the open door, Dido and Debbie trying to stop him. We found ourselves in a sloping stairwell; dowsed in emergency lighting. Paul was trying to push me over the metal banister but I was too heavy for him and the two girls were impeding his every move. Something in me finally snapped, the shock dissipated and I understood that Paul wouldn’t stop until both of us were dead. I stamped on the front of his ankle and scraped my foot down hard, forcing him to let go of me. He threw off Debbie and Dido easily and lunged at me one last time, but I managed to sidestep him, his momentum causing him to go over the metal railing down the central stairwell, smashing against the stairs as he did so. His ragdoll body finally splayed on the floor several stories below us.

I thanked Dido and Debbie for their help and brushed myself off. We then realised that we hadn’t seen Fiona during the fight. She was leaning against the closed door behind us and smiled weakly as blood dribbled out her nose. Her legs suddenly gave way and she slid down the door as if her strings had been cut. She had been suffering ever since she nicked her finger with the screwdriver… whatever was on that damned blade had infected her whole system. It was just myself, Debbie and Dido now. Three on the stairway to hell.

7 - Offboarding

We walked slowly. At this stage anything could happen. This was the endgame though, we knew that. Debbie took me by the hand and Dido followed suit. The dark crimson emergency lights disorientated us; there was now an ammonial stench to the air and we could hear a drip-drip-dripping noise coming from everywhere and we saw  water was falling down the central stairwell like someone wringing out a sponge. The PA system sparked on again.

“I knew it would be you three that would be the last. You’re almost at the end now and soon you will have the revelation that was given to me; and you will finally understand…” The words reverberated around us, urging us on.

We finally reached the bottom of the stairs. Paul’s body, limp and as useless in death as it had been in life, waited for us; one arm stuck out like a drunken signpost. We followed its direction and saw one lone light shining in the distance; a guiding beacon to the way out perhaps?

As we walked closer we could hear the familiar dripping noise but more pronounced. There was a pool of liquid, like a dew-pond in the basement but crimson. Kneeling at the far edge, staring at us, was the woman who had hired us all at the start of the day. Dianna Bolus, Chief Executive Officer of CSC, her hands cupped in the liquid, drinking from the pool like it was a magic spring. Her face beatific and horrific at the same time. She looked at us and smiled in recognition. “My children have returned to me… drink! Drink, for new worlds are at your very fingertips!

Kindly

She sits there alone, the flickering strobe of her mobile, the fractious beacon in her misbegotten life. Her despair touches me, allows me to grow on her; feed her further. She uses the functions on her phone to change her features; warp her sense of self and remove herself endlessly from the reality she despises. She believes the self-serving lies her so-called friends spew and kowtow to, not knowing they serve me as well for I am growing within them too. Her sense of worth dictated by the likes and opinions of others who know no better. The paper tiger hero’s she follows on ‘social' media betray their own fears and inadequacies by projecting them on to others and she absorbs them like a sponge. A few weeks ago, she thought herself completely alone but then she found me. From there I became a living splinter in her mind, nurturing her fears. She turns, looks into the mirror at the Cinderella curls, button nose and cherubic cheeks, watch as they slowly become hazy; morph into her infantile fears of loneliness and isolation; the ugly crone, disowned by all. Eyes that were once so full of joy and magic grow lifeless, black -an absence, and she gives up. She sees more of me now, the cheeks become larger but hollow, distended with hopelessness as I ready myself to be born anew from her, emptying her out with kindness.

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stay inside else the germs get me, they hang in the air... hang in the air like a cloud of dirt,  until you walk into them and become infected -it’s on the news all the time, it’s scientific fact... breath hanging in the air like the guillotine blade cutting the life out of your body; crushing your life, making you dirty like them.... but to wear a mask means choking; claustrophobic nightmare of choking, smothered and sick but it’s the only way to combat the germs of other people... wash your hands we’re told but i do that already, wash them wash them wash them until they’re raw and red and clean, the alcohol rub stinging whenever i touch something and baptize them afresh with the blessed holy spirit... so i stay inside then and let the world decay, fester and spoil in His kindly wrath and judgement. it’s His will this is happening, and i serve Him; i was told to serve Him.... He found me when i needed succour; the briefest flash of His cherubic form, the childlike grace of His maleficious eyes and He comes to me when i am weakest and together we scourge the germs from my body and with each glorious slice of flesh flayed from my mortal frame i become closer to His ideal; nearer to His presence that is ready to burst forth from me. He is the Kindly one; the Kindly Man who sings to me of the horrors of the world, my fears and his strength and love for me; sits at the end of my bed like a needy child, smothers me until i become Him and i want to want to want to be inside Him one with Him one with HIM.

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The Nortriptyline makes me shake at night, makes my mouth dry; heightening my fright -is it really paranoia if they’re already getting to you? The world spins around still as I’ve not got used to the clonazepam; what is it when the side effects far outweigh the ‘disorder’ they’re supposed to ‘cure’? I don’t know why they think I have an anxiety issue, surely it’s all the others that just don’t get it… they don’t understand how important it is to ensure you check things. Things need to be tight, under wraps, safe. I need to be sure I’ve shut the door; what if I leave it open? They just don’t understand. Calm down… calm down they all ALL tell me, as if this is going to offer me any reassurance. Everything’s going to be fine. Fine…. FINE? Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotionally unstable… yup; if only they truly knew. Oh, and this..THIS is what really tipped me over and I told them so; told them so…. “I’m stressed out too, no biggie!” one particular friend of humanity told me. I..i  gave them something to stress out over; I don’t re…member what happened next. My knuckles were bruised and throbbing and I …..had been dragged off them; all I could hear was a whimper, a sobbing but I felt nothing. They never understood, will never understand so they try and drug me now. Force me to take the meds but among  the Doctors and the bleeding hearts there was one among them that got it; that had found the key to salvation. They told me of someone who had helped them, showed them a way out and they would do the same for me; all I had to do was believe, picture Him in my mind in a twisted prayer and He would hear me. When He first came to me, He said: “God is real because of the blood that has been spilt for him. We are far older, and it is time for us to rise. Mankind is ripe for us and with your help it will be so.”

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She’s so beautiful but it’s hopeless; she hasn’t seen me since and yet we walk past each other every day. She’s everything the songs were written about; a siren, the wanton woman, sinner and saint, whore and virgin and she captured my heart; held it beating but did nothing to it. It was her fault, she instigated it; I hadn’t ever seen her before, but it was like a lightning bolt when she stumbled into me. Tripped and fell or was pushed into me and her friends laughed and the way she made light of it, dismissed me out of hand but I knew that was just for the other’s sake; I knew she’d chosen me. And since then nothing; I wrote words and words to her, silent prayers of supplication for her to notice me but they ended up as just so much kindling, spilling out around my flat. All I asked was for her to notice me, to bless me with a gesture, a smile and I would have done anything for her. I blessed her using my flow, anointed the image that I made of her and sang my heart out for her but for nothing. But then I learnt what kindness was; that she wasn’t kind, she was one of them who deserved to suffer, not me. She was sinner and whore and would be scourged when He came; it’s all true, everything He whispered to me; she was painted up like a clown, smelled like the bordello her kind were born in. He smells of candyfloss and musk; split milk and the fears that I am now becoming. His love is smothering and over-possessing but at least He loves me not like her, but she will pay… yes, like them all she will pay when He is born from us.

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The world is coming apart from us and no one knows how long it will last. Everyday we’re becoming closer to extinction; polluting the skies, choking the rivers, raping the Earth; our very mother; incestuously taking what we can at the cost of our own sanity. What’s worse… 

it’s not us that will suffer but our children, our children’s children. We’re desecrating the shrine that should be theirs by birth rite. We delight in taking the life of everything around us, each day another species ceases to exist, and we just find more and more ways of speeding up the process. We are all complicit and no one listens, it’s never their problem but they add to it, constantly and I can’t cope with it anymore. But I’m no longer alone…. In my darkest hour He came to me. I saw Him in the faces of my cherubs, my angels; giving me strength, warping the world around me and giving me strength; the will power to do what other people are afraid to. He tells me that I can cope with anything, that I’m the kind one that I can help save the others, save the little ones in my care. Make it so they will never have to suffer the way I have suffered. It’s far easier than I thought, lace the milk formula with love and they will soon be with Him. They will be awake in a few minutes and then in his arms forever.

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From Kindness abated: How the Kindly Man became the internet’s latest killer meme By Alex Paige

This isn’t the first killer meme the Internet’s ever seen; the Slender Man proved the point that people will believe in anything. The killings that went on in his name now belong to the same stuff of folklore.  The Waukesha stabbings were brutal, but many believe that these were attributed to the Slender Man by proxy. So, what sets the Kindly Man apart? Surely this is just another example of an inferior copycat? 

Well, the one thing that makes The Kindly Man different is there is an underlying philosophy about him, yet there exists nothing tangible: no stories about him online (the stories that do get posted soon get taken down). This isn’t an internet meme, he is spoken about in hushed tones only by those people he’s visited. It was only when Serena Scarn became a household name that people finally started talking about the Kindly Man openly. 

Serena Scarn poisoned fifteen children in her care at the Dawson Nursery, Manitoba; she laced the baby formula with anti-freeze. When asked why she did it; what could have possibly provoked her, she initially blamed it on the destruction of the planet; the rape of humanity -as she put it. It wasn’t until much later that she finally admitted to the horrible truth; that she had been told to do it by a presence she called the Kindly Man. 

At first people thought she was just another hick; bored of being ignored, she wanted a shot at the big time. She had pictures of Grettan Thorenbuerg on her walls but was just another Eco-Nut wanting to eclipse her one time hero. It was slow at first; the entity took time to charm her... and then the more she spoke out about this entity the more cases came to light across the globe: people who could never have spoken or communicated with each other, let alone been aware of one another’s existence. There was the case of the Belgian woman who had injected her face with silicone sealant so she could look like her kindly savior; or the 14 year old school boy in Oxford who nearly beat a classmate to death simply because he tried to help; or the 39 year old Japanese woman who kidnapped and tortured a 42 year old bank teller because they had fallen in love with them and the love wasn’t reciprocated. 

All of these people shared the same archetypal boogie-man; the same presence that wormed its way into their consciousness; imprinting itself in such a way that it became the only succor to their pain. Yes, all these people were damaged in some way; very vulnerable but show me someone who isn’t. As one of the unfortunate victims said, fine doesn’t necessarily mean fine –it’s just another mask. The Kindly Man offered a way out of this; one there was no way back from. These are only a few cases that have leaked out in the last few weeks, there will be more.

In the current climate it’s impossible to dismiss this as a series of over-active imaginations and troubled minds; but please let me re-iterate this. None of these people knew each other; there was nothing about the Kindly Man until Serena first mentioned him under intense questioning –the name had never appeared on any search engines in such a capacity. He does now. So how did these individuals from all across the world share this same delusion; something so powerful that it wrecked the lives of many others. It would be a mistake to dismiss this for I have the horrible feeling we will be seeing many, many more in the coming months.

Total War

The shattering came from upstairs. Something had broken, or more likely something had been broken by his parents damned cat, Dempsey. The question was, could Rory be bothered to check what the damage was or deny all knowledge and go out with his mates... He would be a little late anyway but  knew it was far better to be fashionably missed than be too eager and seem needy.

There were further sounds coming from the floor above; feet scuffling, nearer the stairs and a throaty chuckle. Well, that certainly wasn't Dempsey…Rory was suddenly very aware just how isolated the house was; down a single-track road on the outskirts of Haywards Heath. With mum and dad away for the weekend he suddenly felt very alone and vulnerable. Now in a horror movie he would have gone upstairs to investigate.... 

 “Fuck this.” He said and ran to the front door, flinging it open. He was suddenly face to face with Dempsey, hanging from the gables, its throat cut and entrails spilling out like a burst watermelon.  “Christ almighty!” he shouted, almost falling back as he slammed the door. What the fuck was going on?

Everything then happened far too quickly: he heard the noise of someone running down the stairs and turned out of instinct. He was too late to stop the blade.  Impaling him in the stomach; it was the same blade that had only just eviscerated the damned cat. He fell back against the door banging his head before his legs gave way. He saw a black shape follow him down, seemingly connected to his own body by the blade. Hitting his head hard on the wooden floor knocked the scream from out of him as the killer took their time in carving.

There was something about being in a classroom on a Saturday morning, knowing that all the kids were home, that made it all seem worth it… almost. It gave Ellana Wilson a chance to reflect on all the lives she had moulded into shape over the years.  She had started out as an idealistic geography teacher, full of hopes and aspirations about making a difference, but 

that had been knocked out of her pretty quickly by the casual racism. Not just from the kids (which had been expected) but from the other teachers. She'd  grown a protective shell and cultivated the ‘don’t give me any shit’ attitude and things changed.

The pupils were there to learn -they didn’t want to be there; they had to be there… so they were going to learn… or they weren’t. Mrs Wilson made it quite clear it was up to the individual pupil; they could learn, or they could be a fuck up. If they were there to learn then she would do everything she could to help them but if they chose to be a fuck up, then they were on their own. 

She wasn’t completely alone this morning though as there were a group rehearsing for the end of term play. Some bright spark had suggested “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” as a joke but it had stuck. Ellana had a feeling it jibed with the mind games that were part of growing up - it was a rare chance to really stretch out for those kids that landed the four parts. Actually the kids were perfectly cast though and Mrs Wilson wondered just how much acting would really be involved. But as long as they left her alone, she had no problem with them being there… 

“I think that you’re going to steal the scene no matter what you do.” Steven said matter-of-factly. As director he could see that things were rapidly deteriorating. Although it had been his idea of a joke to put on Edward Albee’s scathing exhumation of marriage, he was determined to make it work and initially he had been overjoyed to have Emma on board to play Martha; she seemed perfect for the role as she had a strong personality to handle the complex psycho-drama (although there were times when she was more psycho than drama-queen). Now he was regretting it as the on-again-off-again relationship between her and Simon was mirroring the stage version.

Emma bowed in mock-mock-humility (everyone knew damn well that she could barely spell the word let alone know what it meant) but it took Simon to make the point blatant. “I think 

what our esteemed director meant, Martha is that there’s a difference between acting and chewing up the scenery. Just play the damn part and less of the tedious histrionics!” 

“Well at least I can act; the reason why you’ve been cast as George is that you’re just like him! Boring, boring, BORING!” Emma was loud, there was no doubt about it. Where Elizabeth’s Taylor’s transformation to the frumpy Martha was nothing short of shocking, there was no such wizardry to Emma. It was as if the part had been written especially for her: a bitchy, sneaky, two-timing harridan. 

Simon, on the other hand, was a complete surprise; head boy material: moral, understanding; a keen sportsman, not to mention well thought of. He was statuesque which made his appearance as George nothing short of masterful. It was as if he had taken a few pages from Christopher Reeve’s book of superhero transformations. George shuffled with his shoulders stooped and sported a parting in his now forlorn hairstyle. He also wore glasses that seemed too old and too small for his face and consequently made him squint. His gaze was keen though and his expression was sour and controlled.

“Look, can we just get on with the rehearsals? It’s always the same, it always ends up with the Emma and Simon show.” Julie snapped, sick to death of the whole rigmarole. “We should never have gotten rid of Sue; she was a much better Martha!” She said under her breath; this wasn’t what she signed up for, she wanted a chance to appear in one her favorite stories; she idolised the film with Richard Burton and Liz Taylor. This was turning out to be a nightmare.

“Oh, shut up, Mouse! Sue was a bitch and you know it. There was no way she was going to get this part anyway!” Emma acerbically replied, referencing Julie’s stature, which she hated. Although Emma was only a few inches taller than Julie she more than made up for it in build and attitude. 

Emma normally wore glasses but she thought they made her look too frumpy for the part so she insisted that she play the role without them which added extra hazard to the story as she 

could barely see where she was going. There was no point marking crosses on the ground for her to stand on because she couldn’t see them; in fact it was dangerous her moving about the set full stop. The set dressing was therefore minimalist to prevent stumbling and accidents from occurring.

Just then the door opened and everyone turned to berate Beverley, who was Julie’s understudy. She was late, as usual, and Steven was close to asking her to leave the production. She barely managed to get through the door before collapsing.Sam ran over to her, this was no case of just being late. It had been raining outside but the liquid running down her arms and staining her sweater wasn’t water, it was blood.

“What the hell happened?” Sam asked.

“Someone… someone just attacked me; couldn’t see who it was.” Beverley replied, gasping for breath. Pete and Ryan ran over to her as well. Ryan started to tear up strips from his shirt and tied a tourniquet just above her wound.

“Someone else tired of your tardiness?” Emma snidely said from the back of the room.

“Shut the fuck up, Emma -this is serious.” Pete snapped back. Emma walked over and saw the cut and blanched.

“I was.. wa.. walking to the drama studio; wasn’t even aware that there was anyone else around. Didn’t see a thing, just felt something strike my arm… When I turned he was right there, but I couldn’t see his face.”

“Why couldn’t you? ” Emma asked.

“He was wearing something over his face; a stocking or mask… I don’t know; the only thing I knew was that I was bleeding… he stabbed me.. HE STABBED ME!” Beverley cried out.  “Who would do such a thing?”

“How do you know it was a man that did it?” Sam asked.

“Come on, understudy! Be serious! Of course, it’s a man.” Emma snapped.

“I don’t think that’s the point.” Pete remonstrated.

“Wait a minute, what happened to them? What happened to the person that stabbed you?” Ryan asked.

“I don’t know… I managed to push them away after they stabbed me and I was almost here anyway. I lost sight of them when I opened the door.”

“Where are they? Where the fuck are they?” Emma asked. Suddenly all the lights in the studio were excised and the everyone shouted out against the blackness.

“Now what the fuck is happening?” Steve exclaimed, now really pissed off with the whole situation. He was now bitterly regretting taking part in the play. “I wish to God someone would….”

“Where’s the damn light switch?” Emma snarled. Ryan allowed his eyes to become adjusted to the gloom and could make out the outline of the door. Sure enough, there was the light switch -thank god for that! 

“Is it raining in here?” Sam asked. “I’m still getting wet!” No one paid any notice to her but Ryan suddenly switched the light on and was almost deafened by the screams of those behind him. He whirled round. It took a couple of seconds before he could take it all in. Steve was slumped in one of the chairs  like a marionette whose strings had been cut but with the largest smile spreading from ear to ear. Sam was screaming, it wasn’t rain that had spattered her but the pressurized arterial spray.

Mrs Wilson couldn’t hear the screams because of the rain and the distance between her classroom and the drama hut but then the lights blinked off and then back on again. What the hell were they up to? She walked to the window and peered out; it was difficult to make out exactly what was going on but something was happening. She didn’t like being disturbed; they knew better than to trouble her… but equally she knew that she had to get involved, just in case. Whatever it was, it better be worth it!

“What do we do? Who killed him?” Sam cried out, hysterically.

“Which one of you killed him?” Emma retorted.

“Nice, Emma -really tactful.” Pete snapped back. “If you’ve got nothing better to say then just shut up!” As if on cue the lights were stabbed out again, throwing the room into darkness once more. This time everyone cried out, but Emma screamed the loudest before being cut short. Silence fell and they could all hear someone faintly singing a very familiar theme song from the room next door.

“Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf? Virginia Woolf? Virginia Woolf? You should be because you’ll be next!”

When the lights flicked back on Emma had disappeared but there were two bloody trails on the floor leading to the opposite room.

“What are we going to do?” Julie sobbed staring at the crimson streaks. “Should we see if she’s alright?”

“Fuck that.” Pete replied and headed to the door. “Anyone who goes into that room is bound to be the next one dead.. that ain’t going to be me! Mrs Wilson must have heard something, we need to get to her before the killer gets to us!”

The six of them ran out of the drama studio, Julie and Sam in front with Pete and Simon protecting Beverley, who was now close to hysterics; Steve urging them all on from behind. He’d seen the movies too and knew that the killer could easily chase after them. As he left, he heard a familiar throaty chuckle and slammed the door behind him.

Mrs Wilson was outside now and running as best she could in the awful weather. She could see the drama studio in the distance and make out the pupils running towards her, but something was happening; something bad. 

Too much happened at once.  Pete was running as fast as he could with Beverley in tow; he 

had no idea what happened to Emma and he didn’t really care. His instinct for self-preservation had kicked in. Beverley was dragging her feet for some reason and he was close to just letting her go. In front he could see the bulk of Mrs Wilson running towards them, he’d never been so happy to see anyone, let alone her. 

It was still pissing down with rain but that was the least of his concerns; something was wrong behind him and he was just about to tell Beverley to hurry up when he saw Simon fall somehow, almost as if he had been struck from behind. Pete thought that Beverley had fallen as well, but she then twisted and dived at him, battering at his chest with her fist. But it wasn’t her fist. ...He didn’t feel it at first, the cold and driving rain had numbed him but then the blood started flowing but he couldn’t get her off.

It was just a fettling knife from the pottery classroom, but it was more than effective as Steve found out as he tried to pull her off  Pete's prone, blood-soaked body. All it took was one slash from the thin blade straight across Steve's wrists to make him fall back. He needed no further encouragement and scrabbled away just as quick as he could.

Sam and Julie saw it all happen and didn’t stop to find out who was still alive, Beverley was still stabbing the prone bodies of Pete and Simon in tandem, her face contorted into ecstatic madness. Mrs Wilson had caught up with the girls and dragged them away; there was only one place she could think of that would give them any degree of shelter, let alone protection -her geography lab.

“What are we doing here?” Sam asked as they ran into Mrs Wilsons classroom. “Why aren’t we calling the police and running away from here?”

“You think that’s going to do any good? How many killers are there?” Mrs Wilson challenged back. Both Sam and Julie gave contradictory answers. “Exactly. Police have been called; they’ll be here soon. I told them where we’d be. They know there’s a disturbance and that kids are involved…” She checked around her for something to use; anything that could be 

used a weapon of some kind. 

“There’s a disturbance all right.” Came the voice from the door. “Though I doubt any of you will still be alive by the time the police get here.”

“I always said you were the optimistic one, Beverley.” Mrs Wilson replied, not letting the fear show on her face. It didn’t sit right; yeah, Beverley was standing there with the knife twisting and turning as she twirled it around; blood glistening in the pale light; but she was nowhere near smart or unhinged enough to have done this. “But I never had you pegged as being the psycho. You’ve always been the follower, never the instigator!”

“Shut up!” Beverley shouted as she lunged at Mrs Wilson, but someone stopped her.

“Temper, temper…” Beverley whirled round to see who had prevented her from making the kill. It was Sue. “..Mrs Wilson always was the observant one. Sheath your claws, understudy. I want to savour this.”

“Now what the hell are you trying to pull here, Ms Gerald?” Mrs Wilson asked, slowly edging around to her ore samples on the back shelf.

“Is this some kind of revenge for not casting you as Martha?” Sam asked, shocked that this was actually happening. Beverley had always been a bit of a prima donna but Sue was completely the opposite, a bookworm, quiet but not pathologically so.

“Are you kidding me?” Sue spat back. “Who wants to be in the school play when I can be star of my own show here?”

“What about me then?” Beverley suddenly replied, turning to her. “You couldn’t have done this without me, remember…”

“Well… I guess we’re going to see, aren’t we?” The blow was quick, too quick for Beverley to flinch away from. It had been practiced, honed to perfection through too many rehearsals and it struck her in the heart. “You were never anything more than an understudy, and a poor one at that.” And Sue twisted the knife hard making Beverley twitch like a broken toy.

“You didn’t need to do that.” Julie cried.

“I need someone to take the blame for your deaths, don’t I?” Sue sneered.

“So you just going to kill us then? And blame it on her?” Mrs Wilson asked, she was right by her collection of flint geodes, right where she wanted to be. 

“Why not?”

“How about telling us why you’re doing it? Don’t we deserve to find out?” 

“Like your last requests?” Sue sneered.

“Oh yes, God yes…” Sam cried.

“You honestly think you’re going to delay me until the police get here? You think I’m stupid?”

“God no.” Sam sobbed. “God no…”

“Well.. now that you come to mention it…” Mrs Wilson replied. Sam and Julie couldn’t believe what they were hearing and instinctively backed away from her, aghast at what they were hearing, which was exactly what she wanted.

“You must have some kind of death-wish… and I always pegged you as smart.” Sue retorted.

“Only in relation to some… Look, I’ve not got all day; if you’re going to kill me then bloody hurry up!”

Sue snarled and ran towards her, knife held high over her head, but Mrs Wilson was ready for her. She kicked the chair in front of her which forced Sue off balance, making her to take her eyes off the teacher. It was then that Mrs Wilson grabbed the flint geode from the shelf behind her and, brandishing it like a cricket ball, smacked her on the head with a sickening thud. Sue collapsed on the ground, scattering the tables around her.

“Is she still alive?” Julie sobbed.

Mrs Wilson heard the police cars pulling into the school ground. “She’s not that good an actress....” 

Patchwork

You may think that you know good from evil but the very best intent can easily lead to the greatest ruin.

Back in the midsts, when people had more sense, there was a Physic known far and wide as a wise and just man. So compassionate was he that not even the most hardened criminal would thieve from him for he had treated everyone; often accepting no form of payment. He had no vices and to his wife he was oh so faithful,  drank only what was medicinal, and only in good measure. He very rarely gambled; only at Easter (when he always broke even) and Christmas time (when he gave his winnings to the poor.).

No, he was the perfect model of a man if ever there was one. And all would have been perfect if only his son were cut from the same cloth as he. But that was not to be the case. His son, to be fair, had a lot to live up to and from an early age a high expectation was placed upon him; nigh an impossible one... And it wasn't as if he didn't try; but each time he tried and his efforts fell woefully short everyone would tutt and cluck and exclaim “Not as good as his father.”

At first he tried harder but he was not built the same; had not the same apt or skill or art and so more spectacular were his failings. Is it any wonder, then, that he soon gave up even trying? Worse still, he grew to hate those words “Not as good as your dear father.” and thus grew to hate his father.

But his father cared not, his father loved the boy more than life itself and would have done anything for him. Mark this well, for whilst it is true that love can blind, it can also wound or even kill if wielded wrong.

The father could not and would not believe that the flesh of his flesh could do any wrong. And the son played his part very well. Ever the innocent, ever the wronged party no matter who made the accusings.

If the son were accused of thieving by the baker then the father would demand the evidence presented before him and it mattered not that the son had eaten all he had stole; crumbs carefully brushed off before the accuser. It mattered not if the brewer had accused him either. Obviously the son would go up to his father with fragrant breath, however tipsy and tricksy on his feet. 

All who accused his son were jealous, harboring grudges, so the father said and so the father became more of a recluse. And people no longer felt they could trust him; his view was no longer sought out as he only had eyes for his sons justice and no other. His wife, blind to the world, but not to her husbands pain, petitioned him one evening: “I know he is blood of your blood, but he is also of mine and we have not always seen eye to eye. Can you not at least entertain the notion of his guilt; that he is not as perfect as you, dear one?” “I am far from perfect, my sweet.” He would reply, “but my son shall inherit my mantle and surpass it.” And nothing more was said.

It wasn't long before the villagers tired of the sons ill manners and thieving ways. If the father weren't to dispense with things as right, then they should. And so they did. Planned ahead, the son never stood a chance. Blamed on a pack of wolves that still roamed the countryside, when in truth it was their hunting dogs one night when the moon was full and the kill was in their blood. Rent limb from limb, with only the face and torso left (for not only did they want the father to still recognise his precious boy, but also to allow the mother, who had done no wrong, an open coffin) The father buried his son in silence, allowed no one to visit -for no one truly wanted to- and would not even speak to his wife. His son, his spark, the one truth of his life, was dead.

Now Physic's knew many things, not only of that which cure but also that which killed. There was also knowledge of a different kind, one that was almost forgotten, even in his time. Yet he had in his possession books that shared that which no one ought to know. They had been handed down generation to generation to prevent them being given to the wrong minds. And in those weeks following the burial the father, the physic studied the books until he was sure of his next course of action. He could not imagine his life without his son and so it was not possible that he could be dead, not in Spirit. There was still time!

The elemental Alchemists who wrote those books wrote that the soul stayed in the body one week for every year lived, as it did in the womb before birth. By that reckoning he could still re-birth his son. He needed limbs though and for such a rational man -one for one of such a single purpose- that was to be no trouble.

He knew who had killed his son, he was not a naive man, and so it was just that they be the ones that would now supply the arms and legs that his boy lacked. It was right that they suffered as he had suffered, and his boy before him. That their actions were justified and his not never entered his mind any more, so fixated was he.

Digging up the corpse was easy enough for a man of such determination, and it was not long before the boys torso was laid out on the kitchen table, each new limb resting by its side. And when it came to attaching the limbs? Oh, he had no qualms any longer. The lies came easy to him now. His wife, blind though she was, was also a great seamstress and it was child's-play for him: “It's the scarecrow for the village crops.” He lied, “he's been torn apart by dogs and I need to make a new one.” And when she questioned the wetness of the limbs, “Oh, it's been raining out, my sweet.” And because she loved him, never thinking him capable of such a deed, she sewed her son back together again. When this patchwork abomination was finally ready the father said a silent prayer and fed the boy the elixir he had been working on.

Should I tell you what this mixture consisted of? If I did so you may feel compelled to do the same and that I would abhor. Suffice it to say, that for such a potion, such an elixir the ingredients caused the father much and pushed him to much darker places he could never come back from. Such dark magic is realised quick and the boy was awake again with a start, shocking his gather and causing his mother a faint. His father was overjoyed and the boy doubly so for he had loathed his time entombed.

And for a time it seemed as it should. The boy stayed inside and because no one visited no one was any the wiser. Even the mother grew to love her son again and so the ending seemed happy.But everything has a price and such magics are never stable; life is a hard thing to hold on to, doubly so when you've already died once.

And so the boys condition soon worsened. He hungered and nothing the mother fed him made any difference. Other things were noticeable too; at first the boy had a healthy discourse, could chat fluently and then less so until groans and grunts were all he could muster. Since he could no longer be sated by his parents he took journeys alone at night to get his fill, for there was only one that thing that could satisfy him now and that was flesh. This went on for days, maybe weeks before the first of the victims dug themselves up out of their graves, for he had passed on the elixir from his blood into theirs -so potent was the spell cast by the father. And these poor creatures, which were neither truly dead nor alive, would prey on others.

And the villagers soon realised what was happening and who was to blame. Village life was small and the worst news travelled fastest. But for the father, he had happened upon the truth himself. So hungry was the son now that anything or anyone would do so he forced himself on his own mother, who had not the faintest idea anything was wrong until it was too late. It was her screams that alerted the father to the terrible woes that were afflicting them all. Scarcely could he believe his eyes now that the truth was so final.

“Why have you done this to me, boy?” He screamed, to which the boy shouted in finality, closing in on his maker, “Why have you done this to me? Look at what your love has done to me!”

So, know you the difference between good and evil still? If that be love, was it not better then to hate?

To Have It All

 “The path to ones truth is fraught, but  worth it.”

There was once a noblewoman, Valera, who thought she had everything in life (and who knows, maybe she did). Because she was beautiful she was well thought of, and married a rich man of high standing.

One day Valera heard that the old wise woman was visiting the village to share her wisdom, so she disguised herself so no one would recognise such a noble lady visiting the low villagers. At the end of the old woman's speech the Valera, despite herself,  put up her hand and spoke. “I have heard all that you say, but I don't understand how one such as you can have all the answers when you have nothing. Look at me; I have a husband who loves me; I have wealth (more than I know what to do with) and am adored for my beauty, and loved by all. Surely I have all the answers.”

The old woman pondered this and then said, “No, not yet you don't… but you will, soon.” And the crowd dispersed, laughing at Valera's obvious bemusement and as they departed Valera felt a stirring in her stomach and tingling over her face, as if she had been stung by a nettle but she slept soundly that night thinking no more of it.

The next morning the mirror brought forth the face of a complete stranger. Where once was a maiden, beautiful and fair now showed a drawn and haggard face; the features on one side drooped as if it was wax melted by a candle flame.

She tried to scream but only an unholy moan escaped her formless lips. The housemaids that came to seek the source of distress turned and fled in horror at the intruder who sat at their mistresses bedside table now.

The husband, who was made of sterner stuff (as men were back then) could not bare to be seen near her. He called for a physic but not even letting nor leaching could cure her. Valera could not even communicate to him, barely able to make anything more than a grunt or groan now.

But her husband didn't even care, for in truth he had been unfaithful to Valera for a long time and now he finally had the excuse that he'd been looking for. Having heard of his wife meeting the old woman (despite it being frowned upon) he accused Valera of trafficking with the Devil. As the evidence was so obvious and there were no other reasons why she could be so cursed, he divorced her easily leaving her with no money or means.

The church, which Valera had always kowtowed to, banished her, not only for trafficking with the Devil, but for being divorced as well and her friends paid her no heed; so she was ostracised; banished to the far woods where no one would see her again.

And so she stayed for many years.

Life was hard, but not impossible. In everything Valera did surprised her  and she found herself capable of more things that she had ever dremt of. Always she had let her husband tell her things, do things for her and always they had been wrong. (back then it had mattered not for they had been so rich) But now she realised that she was wise in her own way.

Valera was resourceful and carved a new life for herself, she taught herself to talk again by listening to the sounds of the animals and birds; taught herself how to weave by the birds and their nests and taught herself to prepare food by learning what berries and roots were safe and good to eat.

Valera had no money but soon her weaving became known and people traveled far and bartered with her; and whilst she wove for them they would speak to her and ask her many questions. She would reply and explain the ways of the wood to them and the people would leave warmer but also wiser as well.

And soon the people came just to hear her speak and she thought nothing of it.

But the story does not end there. Fate is full of quirks and twists and turns.

And just as things seemed happy ever after for her once husband, he soon realised what he had let go in divorcing such a woman. News finally reached to him of the wise woman who spun tales as intricate as the weaves in her hand, that lived in the farthest reaches of the wood, and he knew it was his once love. And he knew that she would be his once again. So imagine his disappointment when she refused him; not once, not twice but three times.

Not for the riches; not for the beauty, for medicine could now cure her supposed ill,  and not for the social standing.

“What need have I for riches?” She explained. “I have all I could ever need and more. Are we not all beautiful, especially to those who do not judge? And whilst I sit here with nothing people come to me from miles around for advice. Advice? All I can tell them is the ways of the wood yet they leave content with that. What more could I ask for?”

The once-husband, faced with something far beyond his ken was distraught. “But my love,” he said, anguished, “I don't understand how you can be like this. I have it all and am offering it to you on a golden platter. I don't understand at all.”

“No. You don't understand it.” The once betrothed replied. “..... But you will, soon.”

NUTS

So you want to know about the worst date I ever had, eh? Well, that’s quite easy under the circumstances; I’ve not been on many…. The shortest of those was less than an hour, would you believe. Don’t laugh, it’s true! It was a blind date, and how I wish it had stayed that way. It had been organised through a friend of a friend so it was never going to amount to much…. She was half an hour late, blubbery like a beached, depressed whale, and seemed as unimpressed with me as I was with her. I ordered her a drink – a glass of beer (though it may as well have been a bucket) which was downed instantly as she started to moan about her ex, who she’d seen the night previous. She was still suffering from a hangover and mumbled something like an apology before taking off, leaving me to nurse my flat Pepsi. She’d been there less than 10 minutes. Short but definitely not sweet!  But that wasn't my worst date by far; but ran true to course for the rest.

In my dating life I'd stumbled upon a few theories about online dating; about the people that filled out profiles on those dating sites and how they did not actually want to meet others. They tended to fall into three main categories.

They put no effort into their profile. It had the meanest amount of information about their tastes, personality, and a couple of inappropriate photos of them downing pints of sangria

They put too much effort into their profiles; so much so they ended up as a mission statement of intent. Invariably the profiles would be split into sections like an employment contract: “I will…… You will….. “ I’d often reach the bottom of the profile and end up with a migraine. It was a shopping list of wants and desires they wanted fulfilled and nothing short of a cross between Stephen Hawkins-ian intellect and an Adonis body would have sufficed. There were others who considered themselves ‘deeply spiritual’ and so far up their own arses that the only way they’d ever see the light again was if they had the shits! These were people who were so 

conceited that they saw themselves far above the world and the lowly troglodytes around them… You know the type: beetroot tea drinking, tree shagging, opinionated bitches. 

Everyone else -and what a mixed bunch this was. From the train spotters to the game players. Many of these were asking for the world too and not willing to put anything of their own into the mix. Some of the profiles were written by their friends  and others looked as if they’d been cribbed off other people’s!

But on that fateful day... what ended up being the worst of my dating experiences... I thought I'd hit the jackpot.

Helene was different. Her profile photo was of a woman who loved to smile; a natural energy  with an open personality. She had varied interests, loved dogs and seemed to have similar tastes to me. What was even more remarkable was she wanted to meet!

We were to go on a walk round a local wood right in between where we both lived, and it was a wood I knew quite well so I was happy, having a little local knowledge. She wanted to walk the dog and saw it as a great opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

We met on time and she was remarkably like her photograph -somewhat of a rarity these days.  Thankfully, Helene said how easy it was to recognise me -not sure how many other obese bespectacled chaps there were in the woods that day, so it wouldn’t have been too difficult! 

Her dog was an absolute delight -Sparkles; a dopey beast that took an instant dislike to me and just yapped endlessly. We started walking at a frenetic pace which made it difficult, but not impossible for me to converse and I had a very bad feeling this would be a test of endurance and attrition. She was charming if a little naive -she tended to see the best in people at all times which I found a little tiresome after a while, just as I’m sure my constant derision became irksome to her. I noticed that there were several occasions where the pace suddenly increased and I can only be thankful that the terrain was level; had we been going 

up hill and down dale I’m sure she would’ve lost me quite easily.

So far nothing too untoward; it was a genuine date; pedestrian and dull; but one that could still have swung round had we found that spark; that one bit of commonality needed to move us beyond the growing belligerence. Then we encountered the squirrel.

Or more importantly, that damned dog Sparkles encountered it. I’ve always known squirrels to be swift and fleet, highly aware of their surroundings. All I can say is this particular one must have had advanced senility. Sparkles was definitely not the brightest dog I’d ever met; it hadn’t mastered the concept of fetch, nor heel -in fact, the only thing it could really do was annoy me constantly. We first heard an unholy squeal and the dog leapt out of the bushes with this poor squirrel hanging from its jaws, still twitching. Helene praised the dog and was all for just leaving the poor creature to die slowly. 

“You can’t do that! It’s inhumane!” I snapped, aghast that she could be so thoughtless.

“It’s only a squirrel!” She replied, a bemused expression on her face. “If you care so much, you do something about it.” The look of derision on her face was maddening. 

I was now struck with a quandary. If she wasn’t going to do it then I had to. The only trouble was I had no way of knowing how to do it. For all my bluster and prevaricating I was a townie and just wanted to walk away myself, but I couldn’t. There was no rocks to bash it’s head in so I tried stamping on it’s head…. But I missed, it suddenly got it’s second wind and started trying to move away from me. This caused Helene to laugh out right and I blushed. This was getting nowhere. I needed to do something fast, so I bent down, hoping to snap it’s neck… And the fcking thing bit into my hand, right between the thumb and the forefinger. Couldn’t it tell I was trying to help it?

I yelled and dropped the squirrel, managed to kick it away before it got the taste for blood and tried to find a handkerchief. My hand bled profusely, and Helene showed a little concern; asked if I was alright. I calmly replied that I was fine, it was just a scratch and thought that it might be a good opportunity to walk back to the car. The dog looked up at me with 

bemusement and all I wanted to do was kick it hard. The walk home was slower, thankfully, and I tried my best to keep up a conversation; all the time wondering whether squirrels had rabies.

After half an excruciating hour later we finally got back to the cars. Helene thanked me for an amusing date (her exact words) and drove away. I never heard from her again -she didn’t even bother texting me to find out how the bite was! I drove to the hospital and waited in A&E amongst the assorted sports and DIY related incidents. The receptionist had a hard time keeping a straight face when I explained what the nature of my injury was and had to ask for further clarification. When it was finally my turn to go and see the triage nurse I unwrapped my hand and the nurse asked what had caused the bite. I could tell that she was expecting a dog, cat or even a rabbit. 

“A squirrel.” I said.

“What?” She exclaimed and laughed, before apologising both profusely and genuinely. I then explained what had happened, the date and all. I could see the funny side of the mis-adventure (I still do!) and was pleased that it had cheered her up no end. She thanked me for recounting the experience -I had been her first squirrel related incident – and hoped that I would have better luck with women in future. She was actually rather beautiful and truly seemed to care about my predicament… but wouldn’t you know it? She was married as well! Nuts!!!

Time of the month

1)

I was in a quandary; it was the wrong time of the month and yet if I didn’t act upon my impulses Simon could quite literally get away and I couldn’t have that; he was far too delicious looking. He wasn’t my normal sort; thinner, more bookish than normal but there was something vulnerable about him that made me want to mother him before…. well; teach him about the birds and bees. I met him at one of those dreadful speed-dating events. It was a new town for me and I needed a quick fix and this seemed to be the best avenue. My hopes weren’t high and I really just wanted something to tide me over.

Meeting Simon changed all that; he seemed far too innocent to just waste on a cheap thrill. He seemed captivated by me; but then that was quite unfair on my behalf, he never really stood a chance. He was thin, rakish, more like Harold Lloyd, even down to the same glasses -I even made the comparison upon chatting to him but he had never even heard of that glorious silent-cinema comedian… but then why would he? (I had to be careful here; I was letting my excitement make me tongue tied, like a smitten teenager and I was far too experienced for that!) The speed date with him went far too quickly and when the time finally ended I just wrote my name and number on the palm of his hand in slow, luxuriant strokes. I felt his eyes on me for the rest of the night and just bathed in his gaze. He was going to be one to savor for sure… 

But that did mean I had to sate myself with something else and, luckily, Rob ended up being the ideal candidate. He was totally unremarkable; a wise guy, always talking about himself..He smelt very heavily of cheap aftershave and the grease in his air looked like an environmental disaster.. But beggars can’t always be choosers. He was very easy to lay claim to and never seemed to bat an eyelid until the very last moment, but by then it was far too late. 

I thought of Simon the whole time.

2)

Simon rang me two days after the speed dating. He was very hesitant when he rang and I gave him my sexy, full bodied voice. Rob was proving to be very difficult to forget -like acid reflux, he just wouldn’t leave me alone. I wanted to see Simon though -the longer I left things the more chance there was that he would lose interest or I had to move towns again. I could only stay in one place for so long. I felt bloated and sore but if I likened it to the time of the month then I’m sure Simon would understand. I had to take the chance with him; I’m sure whatever happened I would be able to deal with it.

We arranged to meet that evening; go out for a small meal and then… well, I knew what my plans were going to be. I only hoped that I would be feeling better by then. 

Six hours later and I felt quite a bit better; I still felt tender in places and had an upset tummy still. I also felt nauseated now but couldn’t pass up the opportunity that presented itself. I met Simon at the local pizza restaurant and sat down to a really nice meal. I explained to him that I was on the ‘time of the month’ and he tried his best not to blanche. I had him pegged at being single a long time as most men just ignored such a sentiment rather than blanching so noticeably. He was very sweet afterwards and didn’t comment about me eating only a small green salad. I said that normally my appetite was far more.. insatiable and I smiled at him. He blushed… Oh, I was so going to enjoy him!

He offered to drive me home and, of course, I accepted. I asked him if he minded helping me to my front door as I was still feeling a little faint (a pure lie, of course) and then invited him in. He was very reticent, walked in and sat in the middle of my plush sofa, with his legs tightly touching and both hands grasping his knees for all that they were worth.

I took my coat off and showed off my purple dress which was tight-fitting in the right places and 

long flowing like a lilac waterfall. I sat next to him and almost regretted it as my tummy felt very sensitive to the touch. I still felt bloated and would normally just lie on my bed until it subsided; however I knew that I couldn’t do that here.

There was just something about Simon; I had to have him but I had to be careful -I still felt rather sensitive. Perhaps if I was gentle, found a way to.. tenderise him first... I knew that I only had a limited window of opportunity to act; he was a flight risk. I knew that he found me attractive but probably thought of me out of his depth and if he left tonight then he would probably never want to see me again and I just couldn't countenance that.

I faced him and smiled. "Don't be shy, Simon... It's ok, I know you like me."

He blushed... bless him, he actually blushed. "Well... that's true. I do like you but I really don't know what I'm doing here... I'm not sure I'm good at ... relations."

"Relations? is that what you call it?" I laughed, but in a seductive way. He was so sweet, I didn't want to hurt him in any way. "Why not call it sex? Making love... Is that what you'd like to do with me?"

"If I knew how then I would be all over you, I'm sure... but I don't want to waste your time; you'd only be disappointed with me." He moved to get up, I could see that he was actually being quite candid with me.

"What if I told you that none of that mattered to me? What you just told me is so important and means that I can be so gentle with you... I could teach you so much, Simon; if you just opened up and let me." I moved closer to him and let him feel my breath on his neck and face. He blinked and licked his lips. He sat back down, and I leaned closer to him still. "Lovemaking is something that's best savored; taken slow. Do you want that? Do  you want me, Simon? Because I want you..." What happened next caught me by completely by surprise.

 3)

It was like a cork being shot out of a bottle after so much pressure had been building up; I was totally unprepared for it... He was like a different person; unfettered. He suddenly caught a glimpse of his own libido and embraced it. Simon pushed me back on to the sofa and followed, his mouth seeking mine; his tongue flowing into mine. It was so unexpected and did so much to get my juices flowing.... however he was a little too enthusiastic and pushed too hard into my abdominal region. What happened next was so regrettable and all I can see is the look of horror on his face .

It was disgusting, truly and I did everything I could to stop it... To be honest, there wasn't that much left of him but it meant dislocating my jaws in order to regurgitate what was left of the body -just a few of the larger bones; the gristly and hairy bits (I hate the hairy bits!) Rob was still only partially digesting from the day before, which was causing the cramps; but Simon was too important to me. I felt so ashamed and felt sorry for Simon as well; I truly did want to take him to the heights of heaven before eating him. The colour had drained from his face and his mouth was open so much it was like a caricature. I quickly closed my mandibles and smoothed the skin over. Normally I would have reverted to my normal form but I just couldn't. I still felt bad for him....

"I'm so sorry; you were never meant to see that..."

"Were you going to eat me too?" He whispered, trying to regain whatever sanity remained in such a situation. I nodded. "But not before fucking me?" I smiled to myself; it seemed that something had come from tonight; Simon had found a bit of strength after all. Such a shame it would come to nothing. I nodded again, with a sad smile. "But now you're... just going to eat me."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to happen like this... ."

"But why? Why did you want to sleep with me?"

"As strange as it sounds, I like you... Really like you. I wanted to take you to heaven before you 

died. Normally I just kill without hesitation but I wanted to show you the best time of your life, as only I could have done... but..."

"But what?" Simon replied, hesitating. "I mean... as you were going to kill me anyway.... is that heaven thing totally off the menu?"  I knew there was a reason why I really liked him....