The Date (Part 5 of 5)

The first part can be found here.


The rainy season had begun.  Rain drops whipped the class room windows. Lights on during the day, and I had to speak louder over the oppressive thunder. The class had changed. It would be unfair to give myself full credit, though at times I indulged in the fantasy. In reality it was probably due to the wild impetus of adolescence, changing bodies and minds faster than this staid adult was used to.

Or maybe I had just gotten to know them better. The annoying attention seeking ones had developed nuances and insecurities- I no longer reduced them unfairly, now I felt sympathy, and I suppose, I do care. The quiet ones opened up more, or at least I marked their occasional voices with regard- the rarity of their contributions to class lent them all the more value. And though I tried not to admit it, Jean had fast become my favorite. It seems she was well liked by her other teachers too, especially her English teacher, Ellen. Ellen, who was a member of the old guard, having taught here for the last decade or so, spoke enthusiastically about Jean’s creative writing. That gave me an idea- for the fall of the Soviet Union I had each student write as if they were somehow linked to the fall of the Berlin wall. Once I told them they could be old soldiers, veterans of World War Two, most of the guys went for that. Jean wrote a great piece, about a widow on the eastern side, who had not seen her sons in years.

Disturbing how convincingly she wrote as a widow. It was a great piece. Since then I’ve slowly egged her on in the direction of both history and fiction writing. I once entertained another fantasy- a dedication to me years from now in some bestselling historical fiction novel. I chuckled at that, tried to find absolution by confessing the thought to Steph. She confided in me her own stories, as a young teacher, latching onto students, desperate to live vicariously through their possible successes. She also warned me. “Don’t get too attached. They all leave eventually- and you would be failing the next batch if you cared less.” It was good advice. 

I should have followed it.

A typhoon one day, in the middle of school, a bad one, the worst in years apparently. We had students taping windows, us trying to make it all seem like fun. As if they were fooled. No one allowed in the corridors during one horrendous hour, the corridors being outdoors. We settled for watching a video in class- Dr. Strangelove. Even at max volume it was hard to make out the dialogue, a shame. 

The window vibrated like a snare drum. All at once, during the video, a tremendous bang.

A bird, maybe, had shot through the glass. Shattered shards everywhere. Rain pouring through like an invasion. “Everyone, out the door! Come on now!” I yell. The kids flood the doorway. I notice Jean not in the crowd. Right at the back, under the rain, Jean with her hat (she wore this silly hat!) off, red horror all over her arm and face. Blood. No please. I run over, and panic some. She is covered in glass, had been sitting next to the window. I fish for my mobile and hate how long it takes to switch on. Whilst it loads I say, “Hello Jean, can you hear me?” First aid classes from training in my head, something about stopping the bleeding. “JEAN?” Her eyes are closed, maybe she hit her head. There is so much blood. It makes no sense. Like a sniper took her out. What a sick thought- hate myself for such a thought. I finally got the ambulance to come. A voice on the phone says: “Remain clam. Find some towels and stop the bleeding.” Stop the bleeding. I call out to the kids, and one of them, a quiet one comes in, flanked by others. “I need towels, hurry, cloth towels, ask a teacher.” He ran for it. 

Jean’s eyes are open, blinking. I had not realised. I try to level my voice off, must sound calm for Jean. Memories scream inside my head, and tears start to leak down my cheek. I smooth back her hair, just like I did years ago. “Jean, the ambulance is coming. Can you hear me? Please nod or blink or say something if you can hear me.” She blinks, and blinks, and her voice- so child-like now, it says “Yes, i can hear you sir.” Good. Jan couldn’t hear me before. At some point the school nurse is in here, and she’s asking me to move, but I make sure to stand where Jean can still see me. So I smile, I smile my ass off like everything in the world is brilliant. The rain soaks the carpet all around, the noise like we’re at war. I keep saying stupid things like “It’s going to be ok Jean.” things I learnt in movies where people seem to know what to do. Her eyes flutter shut, right before the ambulance comes. I think my heart is going to burst.

When the professionals arrive they seem too calm. I start shouting, telling them to hurry, that Jean is just a child- as if that would somehow make them pull out all the stops. Steph was there, telling me it’s ok, that she’s just cut up a bit. I let her drag me away, just outside the room. Whole class is there, waiting, they can see me, covered in blood, I don’t care. I should be telling them to do things, but I don’t care. This is life- they should see this. It is a good lesson. Steph says many things, mostly questions “Can you hear me?” She says, and she looks so worried. I feel so cold.


“Yes? Look, let’s put you…”

“Steph I need to go with her.”

“Mr. Cobb I think you need to sit…”

“I NEED TO GO WITH HER.” I tear myself away from Steph, get up. Jean is coming out in a stretcher. I follow. I dare someone to stop me. Steph doesn’t. For one moment I wonder if I’m going to have a job tomorrow. I make secret pacts with Gods and devils inside my head- my job for her, anything just let her be ok. 

They let me ride in the ambulance. They have all the tubes, and a mask on Jean’s mouth, but her eyes are open. I sit and smile at her like everything is brilliant. As we meander through the roads, siren blaring, my mind snaps back into shape. I realise it’s not so bad. She’s going to be ok. Not like before- she isn’t a complete mess. I hope I didn’t scare anyone. Jean’s arm is cut up, and her brow too, but the paramedics say she’s going to be ok, not much blood loss. Still, I stay. I feel like I’m in a transport, an APC in ‘Nam or something. I tell Jean, and I think she smiles. When the doors finally open it’s as if we’ve teleported. I recognise the hospital. The same one as before, with Jan. I try not to want to throw up. I keep myself at a distance- last time I got in the way a bit. I make sure Jean see’s me. I tell her that her parents are on the way, don’t worry.

Inside they take her into a room, and I have to wait outside it. Fucking Hell. The worst part is the wait. I sit, bent forward, hands on knees. My world becomes the marble tiles of the hospital floor. I think I can see my reflection in it. A dull, shadowy thing, outline visible, details obscured. My mind wanders backwards, against my will. I look up, and there, a painting, of some ludicrous pastoral scene- a fishing boat next to a simple cottage. The amount of green and open space is alien, a thing preserved only in the city parks. I try to focus on the real three-dimensional people instead, the broken people and their families- as if that would help. I am adding to the scene, I suddenly realise. To someone else I am the perfect vision of the desperately concerned- another piece of evidence to prop up some cliched conversation about why they hate hospitals. An extra in someone elses movies, an anecdote. Jean wrote in the third-person, about the widow, whom she called Anna. Austrian, her sons both fought in the Wehrmacht. She talks about her mixture of pride for her boys, the Wehrmacht having a long history, mixed with her discomfort and shame at the nazi war machine. A remarkable thing for a 15-year-old to write. Was I that insightful back then? I do not remember. History blots away the noble traditions of the Wehrmacht, and my teenage years.

Last time they did not let me ride in the ambulance. That haunted me. I know I would not have been able to help, but I doubt I would have gotten in the way. I would not have just been some bystander- silently I harangue the paramedics: I would have helped! Whatever you wanted, I would not have been paralysed by shock, I would have been a man on a mission, I would have helped! Instead I followed, in a taxi, covered in blood. In hindsight the cab driver, it was good of him not to protest. I probably bloodied his passenger seat. Then again was it good of him? Or was it just plain decent- am I expecting people to be selfish by default. Another useless train of thought. My eyes find the clock on the hospital wall. I do not know when this will end. 

I followed in the cab, and at the hospital I took too long to pay the cabbie. So I did not get to see where they took Jan. I went inside, and stuttered to the people there, till someone directed me, to sit. I sat outside the surgery room, or whatever the hell room it is they fix people in and I waited. I remember the blood was so sticky, and thought if I cleaned up, maybe that would be better. That that would help Jan recover. Ah, that’s it then, I remember now. I gripped my hands together and I clenched my eyes shut, and I prayed. Blood stuck hands I whispered, barely letting the words escape into sounds- I know I don’t believe in God but when this is all over maybe he’ll let me come and visit you. I prayed to Jan. I felt such relief after that. Then I waited, so sure, everything would be ok. Till her father came in, a bull of a man shouting clear across the corridor at me. I did not do anything to your daughter sir, I said. It felt like a lie. A large doctor held him back. I don’t know what he would have done to me.

The relief was dispelled by his honest anger. I was afraid again- I was utterly terrified. Then the nurse came out. I don’t remember what she looked like, just her voice, and when she hugged me her cheek was wet. “I’m so sorry.” she said. “She’s gone.” She said. 

I’m out of the chair, and searching for a doctor. I find one. “I’m the girl’s teacher- Jean, that’s her name, what happened to her?” He asks me to wait here, says he will be right back. Wait with the parents he says. The parents. They are here. I’ve never met them before. 

Jean’s father looks so close to my age it’s frightening. Either he looks too young or I’m too old. Her mother has jean’s look, her face and eyes. They are both terrified- a mirror image of my marble reflection. I go up to them and try to explain. 

“I’m so sorry.” I say. 

“It’s not your fault.” Her father says.

The doctor comes back, introduces a nurse. She explains everything. Jean needs some stitches, on her arms, and on her forehead. The hair will cover it up apparently. Just stitches. It’s no big deal. Nothing broken. No permenant damage. I want to cry. The parents go inside. I want to, but it’s fine- I know I’ll see Jean again. So I sit back down, and I start to cry.

A voice, soft, with a French edge says “Hey, why are you crying? The little girl is going to be ok! Promise!” I feel a fool. I look up, it is the nurse. She clasps her hands to her mouth, says “Its…you. I remember you.” I look up at the nurse, the same one who hugged me two years ago, who apologized on behalf of all of reality for Jan. “You have some really bad luck.” She says. Then she starts to apologise, aghast at what she just said. 

I’m dumbstruck. Then I laugh. For some reason she laughs too. I feel like an idiot. I wipe my hand across my eyes, before I realise about the blood stains. “Oh shit…I mean uh…sorry. Oh god!” I try to cover up my blood streaked face.

She’s laughing so hard people are starting to stare. She keeps trying to tell me it’s fine “I’ve seen WAY worse. Here I’ll show you where the tap is.” And we leave the corridor, surrounded by indignant stares, our macabre sketch not quite appropriate. At the nurses station I start to wash my face, and she hangs around. 

The water- It feels baptismal. Between splashes we chat. She doesn’t mention Jan, or the past. I suppose for her, she’s seen more than enough death and pain. After I’m clean we shake hands. 

I stare at her name tag, emblazoned across a distracting chest. “Sorry to bother you like this…Meet.”

She laughs some more. “MIE-EHT. Not meet! Oh my god, first you get blood all over me, then you get my name wrong.” She folds her arms, shakes her head in mock disappointment. I start laughing, we both start laughing. It’s fucking ridiculous. I don’t even know why we’re laughing.

When we stop I look her in the eyes. They are bright blue, and way too optimistic. I hold her gaze for just enough time, and then the words float up inside me, and gush out of my mouth:

“How about I make it up to you. Maybe we can grab some Ice-cream sometime?”

The Date (Part 4 of 5)

Part 1 can be found here.

Steph told me not to get too invested. “You can’t save them all.” She said, all mock heroics. Even though I laughed at the melodrama, her words pierced me. I wanted all the kids, even the ones that were obsessed with being cool, to learn. “Every teacher goes through a similar thing.” She told me. Well, at least their was Jean. She really had potential. At first she was shy, but now, her talents were finally beginning to show. She was one hell of a writer- essays and creative stuff, especially for a fifteen year old. I joked with her once, about her eventually becoming a historical fiction writer. The way her eyes lit up- yeah, that was my Robin Williams moment. 

Steph still occasionally flirted with me. I wanted to just stay friends, and I tried to tell her it was nothing against her, till she asked what it was indeed. It was after one particularly difficult class that I told her a bit about Jann. I kept it short, left out the details, till Steph put her hand on mine, and said “How about we talk about this over a drink?” She did not let up, ever. I suppose that works. We went out the next night. I kept telling myself it wasn’t a date. I didn’t want a date.

We went to a jazz bar. Inside I was all to aware of all the dark corners. Most of the light came from these blue strips along the walls, and it gave the whole place this surreal bend. Mirrors framed by dim red bulbs mixed with the strips, warped all the people inside. It reeked of secrets. In another life I never become a teacher, and drink too much in places like these. Steph seemed a bit embarrassed about it. We sat down and she confided in me after ordering. “This place has been around forever. I used to come here years ago.” 

“You grew up in the city?”

“Yes, I know I don’t seem like a local. And you? I just realised I don’t even know your background.”

“No. I moved here, started out somewhere…less crowded.” 

“That explains a lot.” she said.

“What does it explain?”

“Well, like how you’re so sensitive.” She put on her do-or-die smile.

I wilted a bit. She said “Hey, It’s a good thing. Chin up- I think it’s part of what makes you a good teacher.” 

Maybe. Our drinks arrived and we sipped them. The silence felt charged. Eventually Steph said “Your turn. I told you about me, now, tell me about her.” 

Of course she remembered. I tried to deflect the topic. Steph would not relent. I began to get upset. In one rash moment I said, my words edged, “why do you have to pry so much?” Guilt followed. I stuttered apologies at my outburst. She waved them away. “Please. I’ve heard much worse. You have a right to be a bit annoyed. Glad to see you have teeth. You seem so soft on the kids.” I glared at her. Why were we fighting?

She leaned forward, her eyes fierce, “Get angry. It’s ok to be angry. If I threw my drink in your face, for no good reason, you should get angry. Otherwise people will just piss all over you.” My heart was racing. 

“You don’t understand.” I said, uselessly, like a fucking cliché. 

“I understand that you’re too timid.” My mouth clamped shut. I should breathe. There is a roaring sound in my head. Steph’s eyes narrowed, took on airs of concern. I covered my head with my hands. The sound grew. “Sorry.” She said, all of a sudden, her voice high. I don’t want to feel like this. I gaze at the window. The roar is a passing engine, some lunatic in a sports car, careening around the city in his own private fantasy.

Eventually the noise fades. 

Steph follows my gaze. “Lunatics.” She said. 

I’m sitting at a table in a bar where people play Jazz music, across from a woman any sane man would consider beautiful. I have a great job that I like, and friends. The table is made of wood. I am no longer here. Steph is saying things, and I am nodding. Her hand touches mine. She is asking if I am ok. I am not ok. 

And all at once her touch breaks through, and the bar shatters, and tears stream down my face, pathetically. I say “Duck. We both had duck for dinner. With orange sauce. I remember now.” Steph is quiet. I continue to narrate.

“You know what we talked about? Jann asked me a question. She asked me if I had a problem with her being religious. I was disappointed, truth be told. Up till then we were perfectly compatible. The moment she asked me about religion, I began to doubt. This was the part I should lie. I should have told her, hey, no big deal, I believe in God too. Except I don’t. I think God is ridiculous. So after a bit I told her the truth. I remember the exact moment- i just wiped some sauce from my lips. I said to Jann, do you have a problem with me being an atheist? And you know what, she didn’t. That was when I knew, that I was uh…”

Steph’s nails dig into my wrist. “Go on.” She says.

“So. Yeah. So. We go outside, right, and I know it’s a cliché but the sunset is beautiful. We’re walking along the waterfront, you know that main road near the beach? I have my arm around her waist, and she leans into me, and she asks if we can go back to mine. I’m fucking happy you know. Yet, I was also, so arrogant. The atheist thing, I didn’t answer her. So anyway, we stop, and I tell her, Jann- I have a problem with religion. I couldn’t help myself, I just had to. And then her eyes, they clouded over a bit, she looked angry. Or maybe it was just my imagination- hard to tell you know. So uh. Yeah, she said, you know what she said, she said fuck I don’t remember what she said. It seemed kind of condescending. Like, If she was open-minded enough to not care that i was an atheist, that I should at least admit to the possibility that I was wrong, or didn’t know or something.”

I pause. I down my beer.

“Go on.” says Steph.

“I got mad. All self-righteous. It was quiet. I didn’t know if she still wanted to go back to my place. Then all of a sudden we’re about to cross the road, and there’s this yellow sports car, and it freaking zooms towards us. The sound right.”

I’m breathing. Heavily. A silken voice inside my head said says Finish It.

“And Jann steps out onto the road, a bit ahead of me, and….I pull her back. The car squeels, and brakes, and the guy inside curses us as he goes past, and I just lost it, you know? Fuck the whole God thing, he almost killed Jann, so I just ran after this guy, and he slowed down, and I’m yelling and cussing, and I’m just seeing red, and…”

Fucking forgive me.

“What?” Says Steph.

“Jann must have followed, to stop me. Maybe. I’ll never know. I heard a loud bang behind me. Like a door slamming. It was another car. Right into Jann.” I can’t see the table. The whole bar becomes the warped reflections inside those mirror.

I confessed, quickly, finally: “It was like an act of God.”

I breathe out. “She was…so…fucking…ruined. I was yelling, just yelling, and the ambulance came, and I went with her, and I held her bloody fucking hand, and at the hospital even then I thought she’s going to be ok, I’ll be with her no matter what, and then you know they don’t let you inside the room where they do things, so I waited.”

“The whole time I waited I kept thinking I should have said things to her, like i should have said I love you, and one more thing. I thought it up after she was inside.”

“What?” asked Steph.

“I wanted to say to her- Jann, I don’t believe in God, but maybe when this is all over, he’ll let me come and visit you.” And that’s so fucked up because I didn’t know she was dead. I mean, maybe I thought it after. I just don’t know. It’s hard to remember. So yeah. She died. She’s dead. The nurse told me. I remember the nurse cried. I don’t know if they do that all the time. But she cried. I like to think she knew, about me and Jann. One fucking date. Her dad, she came later, and he was so angry at me. He kept saying “What did you do? What did you do to her?” and now I guess it’s because you know, he was like me, grieving, but really, fuck- sometimes…never mind. So, yeah. I didn’t go to her funeral. I didn’t want to face everyone else in her life. And maybe, maybe I wanted to preserve what I thought we had. For one fucking day.

My face is dry. I wonder what anyone who watches us is thinking. Then I realise, with sudden clarity, that I don’t give the slightest damn. 

The Date (Part 3 of 5)


Everything I’ve trained for has prepared me for this moment.

I do a quick mental check before pushing open the door. I’m sure I’ve forgotten to do something. What was it? Just nerves. I push the door open, emerge into the chattering class. I tell myself to breathe. All that training has led up to this. Which is precisely the right way to think if I want to feel an immense amount of pressure. I close the door behind me. The noise subsides a little. I can’t let them smell my fear. 

I turn and survey my charges. Twenty pairs of fifteen year old eyes gaze back at me. At least they aren’t looking away, distracted. At least no one is bored, yet. I suppose I should start with my name. Then inside my jacket, which is draped across my chair, my phone starts up- playing the guitar riff at the beginning of Fortunate Son. I knew I forgot something. A chorus of laughter assaults my ears. I maintain the blank expression, despite the warmth- I must not show weakness. I saunter over to my chair, face hot. Reaching inside my jacket I take out the phone. It’s Tom. I hang up.

A boy with terrible acne says “No phones allowed in school.” His clansmen laugh. Perhaps I should dicipline them or something. Or something indeed. With my phone in hand, I ask the class, “Can anyone tell me what song that was?” These kids were three when The Matrix came out. Might not even have seen a phone with a cord before. Right in the back, a girl wearing thick, black-rimmed spectacles puts up her hand. I say to her “Yes- and what’s your name?”


“Yes Jean?”

“The song, it’s Fortunate Son, by Creedence Clearwater Revival.” This one, has excellent parents, or whoever it was that implanted a bit of good taste in her.

“Most people just call them Creedence, but yes. Do you know what the song is about?”

No response. 

On the whiteboard I write “The Gulf of Tonkin Incident.” “It’s about the Vietnam War.” I say to the class. Then I spend the next hour showing the kids youtube videos of Jefferson Airplane, Bob Dylan, and The Rolling Stones. I explain the lyrics of each song, somewhat aware of how reductive I’m being. I’m do it partly to teach them about Vietnam, mostly because they need to listen to some real music. I keep trying to find a way to say something about autotuned pop songs, but it never happens. Next class then. Halfway through my phone buzzes. Message from Tom: <My seniors secreatry is fuken HAWT. Drinks later?> I ignore it. After class I text <ok>.

I’m not of a going out sort of person so I follow Tom’s directions to the right bar. Inside I realise I still haven’t gotten used to Tom’s haircut. If I didn’t know him any better I might have assumed he was a real, honest to goodness contributing citizen. After his first three beers he starts to pepper his speech liberally. “Dude!” he says. “You look good, man.” I eyee him above the lip of the glass bottle. Tom says, “So uh, I wanted you to meet someone.”

“She’s your seniors secretary you lunatic- do you want to lose your job?”

He smiles, looks wistful for a moment, shakes his head. “No, no, this ones for you my friend. She works with me, her name is Rachel. She’s hot man.” Ambushed.

I hold up my hands. An old feeling surfaces in my stomach, starts climbing towards my head. “No thanks Tom. I appreciate it really. Very grateful. But no thanks.” 

“Alright dude. Your loss. But like, you sure? Is it because of uh…Jann…”

“No.” I say, immediately, without even wondering about it. Anger waits right around the corner. He drops it, and the rest of the evening is awakward, hovering in a shadow. 

Later, at home, I search for the old picture frame. Panic when I can’t find it. After half an hour I excavate the thing from the bottom of a pile of takeaway brochures. I run my finger around the edges of the back of the frame. Eventually I turn it over. Her white dress strikes me. I let myself mutter out loud- beautiful. I like the way she’s shorter than me. Inside the picture we look like a unit. The sky in the background aches a deep blue. The frisbee poes out of my hand, in the corner, revealing half a skull. I tchh out loud. I didn’t remember that being in the frame. I should have cropped that out. 

For one moment I consider defacing the picture with a scissor, to edit out the skull. Instead I close my eyes and try to remember what flavor ice cream she had. I had chocolate chip, she had, raspberry? Lemon sorbet. Relief. I remember the rest of the date, in bits and pieces. I remember it very well. That certainty haunts me all the way to bed. In the morning the picture is on the floor, a quick examination revealing the frame isn’t cracked. Carefully I deposit it in another drawer. Close it.

In school I quickly develop a reputation amongst the kids as the rock n’ roll teacher. It felt good. What felt better was overhearing their tastes slowly change. They seemed to listen, as a whole, to less pop. For a glorious few weeks the whole year worshipped Pink Floyd. Everyday I couldn’t help but think back to when I was a kid. That felt like a taboo thing to do, as if getting too much perspective destroyed my role as overseer. I used to hate teachers. Funny how I now realise they were just as clueless and petty as I can be.

One day I thought I was busted, that my unorthodox methods were coming to an end when the head of the history department called me in. I spent a good while in the staff room psyching myself up, going for a Dead Poet’s Society state of mind. Remember not go get angry though- I do like this job.

Turned out to be something else entirely. Our head of department was what Tom would call “Hawt”. Stunning legs, low-cut tops, and this domineering approach to things that I admit I found vaguely compelling. In her office she joked about my classes, and then out of nowhere, asked me out. I was prepared for something else, and the whole angle threw me. I said “No thanks.” like she was offering me a coffee. Her voice and face might have gone a bit a rigid, as if she seemed hurt. 

I left the office feeling strangely guilty. At home I thought about her, Stephanie. I had her number, and decided to give her a call. Explained that I wasn’t quite looking for anything at the moment. I realised what I was getting at and quickly blurted out I’d like to just have a friend at the school- didn’t know any of the teachers that well. She said “call me Steph.” and we tried to be friends for awhile. 

The Date (Part 2 of 5)


The tutoring center took me in, and for awhile, I didn’t dwell on the past. The pay wasn’t stellar but I could at least make rent. Had to sell some of my old stuff to pay back all the people I’d borrowed from, which left my apartment looking emptier than it had eight months ago. Jann crossed my mind less, I think. Though the picture still remained face down. I’d brush the dust off it’s back once a week. Then one day it all broke down.

That day the boss’s daughter, adorable, had waddled in with her Dad. I overheard their conversation, her, lilting, high-pitched, him- condescending, as he was with us. He was supposed to play Frisbee with her. That word, Frisbee, sent me back. I resisted remembering right up until I noticed how the boss ignored his daughter, taking calls instead. I witnessed the moment when the little girl stopped asking her Dad; when he levelled some anger at her. I watched her silently wait, her face slowly crumple from afar. As the little girl leaked silent tears I realised how much I hated this fucking job. Rage mixed with the word Frisbee, and I felt this urge to run. 

Striding into the boss’s office I tugged my ID off my neck and hurled it down in rage. Palms on his desk, teeth in his face I said, “Take your daughter. To the fucking park.” and left. Cleared out my desk whilst the shit head peered at me from around the corner of his office like a frightened cat. I gathered up my things carelessly, my mind filled with old memories. As they played, relentlessly, another part of me kept telling myself this was all just the final push, the last straw, nothing more or less. I tried to summon up as many excuses as I could for my actions. Holding plastic bags filled with the leavings from my desk, I walked all the way back to that park. I hadn’t been there for eight months, since the day I walked the wrong way. 

At the park I found the wide lawn. Threw down my bags on that grassy field. I let the smell take me back to that date with Jann. 

I remember feeling way too terrified about the fact that the mini-golf center had closed down. It was next on the list after ice cream. Of course I’d memorised the list, I’m not that stupid. I unthreaded my hand from hers and blabbered incoherently about mini-golf being silly anyway. In hindsight I must have been deathly afraid she would want to leave. Instead she silenced my fear by taking my hand again. “Never mind the golf, I have an idea.” and she took me to some vendor, and bought a red Frisbee with a skull on it. “Skulls fly faster.” she said, straight-faced. In the present I cover my face as I remember snorting like a pig at that. Then she dashed onto the lawn, spry as anything. 

We threw the Frisbee around. It felt like being a kid again. Perhaps that’s when I realised I liked kids. Between throws I watched children playing. It’s not so much innocence, as their honesty that I liked. I remember, I was so certain of things whilst the Frisbee traversed the space in-between us. A perfect day. Focus on the Frisbee, burst towards it, catch. Then release. Then know, on some level, that this was the whole point of life. Moments like these, like those- the rest is drudgery. Focus, track the Frisbee, catch. Aim, release. Watch how she laughed. Together we are free. I open my eyes. In the foreground of the memories of Jann a line from a play surfaces: “We give birth astride a grave.” 

I edit the memory so the sports car is there, waiting in the background, with that douchebag- no, that’s not fair- with that man, in his fucking sunglasses, with his fucking phone. I consciously imbue my past with a narrative. Then I leave it be, try to focus on the present. My dress shirt wet with grass stains. My bags sprawled around me. A family sits under a sheltering tree, on top of a pastel-checked picnic mat. They eat and smile. Unable to make out their faces I indulge in feeling resentful- as if the picture in front of me was something I was robbed of, even though it had just been one date. No one understood, no one can witness how much it hurts. Why am I doing this? I’ve avoided these thoughts, like a dark door inside my head- always I turned away. There is nothing wrong, despite what they say, with caring too much. 

So i lay back in the grass, and let it soak through to my back. I fall back into that day. Didn’t Jann say it true? She said, between breaths, as we lay next to each other, “It’s the little things.” I had nodded. 

We give birth astride a grave, or as Jann might say, life’s just too short. In the present I open my eyes and turn to the left. I gaze at the plastic bag filled with crap, crinkling softly in the breeze. The little things eh? I push myself up from the ground. Tutoring is bullshit. In my head I ask so softly, afraid that anyone who looked me in the eye could see the sentimental words- Jann, do you think I should become a teacher? 

No response. She was the one who believed in prayer and God. All I have is chaos. So I make one up. I think Jann would say “No regrets. The rest is pointless.” 

So I go home and google: becoming a teacher. 

Novelette/Novelina/Shortish Story: The Date (Part 1 of 5)

So I found a competition that did not prevent me from posting a story I recently finished. I’m entering it into a 10k words max competition, and since I don’t think I’m likely to win I may as well post it here so it gets some hawt readin’
For the next few days I’ll post a part a day. Thanks for reading all.
The Date (Part 1 of 5)


The phone is slick against my clammy palm. I rearrange it against my ear to keep it from slipping. Something Tom just said has jacked up my pulse. Triggered something bad. He asked, “How long did you know Jann for?” He prefaced the question with, “No offence man.” He shouldn’t have done that. If he hadn’t done that I might not have taken offence. His question has pried open a gate. A torrent of anger floods my system.
Tom says something else, I miss it. Then he says “Time heals all wounds, dude.” with the gravitas of a complete stoner.  My tongue forms words, lashes out with,
“The fuck are you, a fucking self-help book? I can’t help the fact that I fucking care. Life isn’t a goddamn Disney film!”

My careless words hit silence on the other side of the line. 

Ricochet back as guilt. I shouldn’t be so angry. Tom exhales, says other words. My anger is what ruined everything. Shame settles inside my stomach. Tom says “Dude, I understand you’re upset man, maybe you should take a walk you know? You like walks right?” Somewhere in the past Jann says,

“Yeah, I’ll see you at the park on Saturday.” Somewhere in the past I felt like a winner.

I even swore I wouldn’t get angry again, and now- lasted less than two months. “Dude?” Tom says. I’m no longer here. I’m just going through the motions. My room is an empty space. The phone is a plastic box, heavy and cold. From a distance I say “Yeah Tom.” Calm and placid like a robot free from emotions. “I’m going to go for a walk Tom.” I hang up before he can respond.

I get up from the chair, try to keep a distance from reality. I’m just director, of an actor, in a movie, about nothing important. Which is why I don’t really look at the turned down photo by my bedroom door. I grab my jacket that lies on top of unopened letters. Step around the mounting graveyard of styrofoam boxes that litter my floor. Touch the cold handle and leave my apartment.

Once out the door I feel a bit better. There’s a foundation of misery somewhere at the bottom of my head, but for the most part I’m a nice kind of empty. So I check my emails. Inside the lift I preen my inbox of all the job rejections. Fuck it- it’s a good thing. I deserve to suffer. Downstairs in the lobby, fists clenched, I tell myself to go right, towards the running track where I like to wander in pointless circles. Instead, once on the pavement my feet choose left. Towards the park. 

The gainfully employed flood against me in lunchtime numbers. It feels like I’m going back in time. I suppose I am. In a dull haze my flip-flops slap against the current. Eventually I cross the same road that led to the beginning fo that perfect date. I enter by the very same path, run my hand across the same steel railing. I trundle under and past ranks of trees till I reach the pond. There over the water I gaze at the space where the ice cream guy had been, two months ago, on a less cloudy day. I stand and stare and dive for memories.

Two months ago Jann stands with me as I gesture towards the ice-cream guy like a corny game show host. What did she say again? Close my eyes, concentrate. A silken says “Woooow, when you said let’s get ice-cream, you literally meant ice-cream!” Then she chortled in that unaffected way of hers. I remember my face getting warm, and then she touched my arm and said “Don’t be embarrassed, I love ice-cream!” And her dark eyes smiled, and I nearly dropped my cone. Why am I doing this to myself?

Gazing at my solitary reflection in the pond, I stop touching my own arm. Why do I care so much? Is it just trauma? Tom is right- we had so little time together, I shouldn’t care so damn much. What is wrong with me? Jann, though, she said something. She was different. I close my eyes, seal away my reflection. Picture the white dress she wore. What flavor did she have? I had mint chocolate chip. She had lemon sorbet. We started talking about my day, I unloaded it all on her, then apologised profusely. She didn’t care, somehow she reassured me, and then she said some things- they reverberate inside my head. Something about how everyone had a right to be bothered by the little things. Then she pointed to the other side of that coin. 

She said “No one has the right to belittle the things that make us sad, just like no can take away the things that we adore- no matter how inexplicable, it’s what makes us human. You can’t weigh the connection between two people, even if they just met. OH!” She had covered her mouth in embarrassment, as if to contain all her spontaneous wisdom. Her turn to redden. I remember laughing, and unfolding her hands. I kissed her in that one, insane moment. We had been dating for less than an hour.

I had almost forgotten she said all that. Now, the pond melds with my tears, which shake to a sudden peal of laughter, from me, throaty and cracked. I feel, I know, she knew how much we cared about each other, despite the brevity. It was real. 

The revelation escorts me home, emboldens me as I send out more job applications.

14th post: a longer story- Electric Angels (part 1)

This is going to be longer than the others. It’s late and i’m not sure if I like the first draft but hey it’s 1k a day so i’ll proof read it tomorrow and maybe edit it back into sensicality.


Electric Angels (Part 1)


I am a forgetful person.

That is why i try very hard to use technology to enhance my memory. I’m not talking about some super advanced science fiction sort of thing, i’m talking about a virtual notepad. A notepad, with a list, is just an externalization of some temporary memory. I keep tonnes of lists. Even right now, i can see on the other side of my monitor a dozen post it notes, painting my wall a checkered yellow. A lot of them are out of date.

I tear another free from the yellow pad i keep by my keyboard, i write “Sort through and remove/organise post-its”.

Something to do later. Alright, so i may not be the most organised person, and sure, i might write down a list of groceries but then forget the list, but i do try. I make an effort. In my own way. I throw up my browser and immediately my homepage starts, it’s yesterdays page, yesterdays theme. I organise my life by themes. Like a movie, or a book, i try to construct my own interests. Right now i’m into something called Futurism. My homepage is a website with a fictional time table, predicting future technology. By 2075 functional immortality should be a possibility. What a downer. I’ll be old by then. I might choose to die.

Is it cruel to be the last generation? The one that knows it’s grandchildren will carry on forever, whilst we stare down at death?

Hey, that sounds like a good thought so i write it down and post it on the high priority section of my wall. Something to think about. I’m just sitting here, staring at my wall. I wonder a little about that. Now I hear noises coming from outside. Loud music, trance, blasting away. Listening carefully i can distinguish between the higher notes that sneak under my door, whilst the bass shakes the walls and floor. Eddy’s awake. No wonder this guy has so much trouble finding a room mate. He’s blissfully unaware of other people’s existences.

Still, i guess it might be better than the silence. A roomate brings noise. Noise is life. I await his coming. He always comes, in the next half an hour since he wakes up. He comes and tries to sneak into my room and scare me. I never lock my door, but i always hear him coming. The guy breathes loudly.

Here is now.

I stare at my door.

The space underneath is covered by the thin slice of a shadow. The door knob begins to move, slowly, so slow downwards. I turn back to my monitor and press some random keys. He’ll hear the noise and think i’m working. A whole minute creeps by slowly whilst Eddy lowers my doorknob. At least it feels like a minute. I wonder what he’ll try this time. I’m tempted to go into my bathroom and turn on the tap. That would embolden him. I can almost taste the rush of adrenaline he might feel at the thought of finally, finally surprising me. Maybe this is what hunting feels like?

The door flies open, suddenly, and Eddy leaps through, like a miniature long jump. He’s wearing a jesters hat (impressive i didn’t hear the bells) and is waving a baguette.

“NYA HA HAAAA!” He yells.

I jump a little, but i’m facing the door, fingers steepled. I feel like the architect from The Matrix. I’m sitting, one legged crossed, wearing a calm mask. “Good morning Eddy. You took a long time to come in.”

His manic eyes look past me at my monitor. In my search bar: “airfjioahfoahfa”.

“You’re good Will. Your really good.” He says, villainously.

“Pleasent weather this morning.” I offer.

“OH IS IT? IS IT?” And he leaves my room, bells jingling, his baguette smacking the door frame on the way out. I follow him with my eyes till he goes around the corner. Then i allow myself a satisfied smile. You know they’re testing cloaking technology at the moment? A way to make a soldier invisible? It’s on the timeline. I guess at close range though we can still hear people. What if they invent auditory enhancers to compensate for the future soldiers invisibility? Like the guy on sonar in a submarine, ‘cept he’s pressing a big earphone to his ear above ground, listening intently.

I spend most of my Sundays like this. Zoning out and pursuing strange ideas through the internet. I’m looking for something, i don’t know what. A secret to the way the world works i guess. Or a good conversation starter for later. It’s hard to say.

Eddy makes salty chicken for dinner (it’s really salty) and we eat over a youtube videos, half choking our way through the meal. Later on that night i spend some time on this chat program where you’re randomly assigned to another curious conversationalist. Maybe i’ll get a senator, a scientist, someone who knows things. After the usual parade of perverts and dullards I start to ask random questions- i become on the idiots, like it’s contagious.

I copy and paste the same thing to every person who signs on: “Tomorrow I could go left or right down the road, and I will approach the first man/woman i see in the first bar/place i walk past, and i will ask one question of your choice.”

If anyone requires an explanation i sign off. If anyone types “GET OUT YO DICK” or something similar i sign off. I’m bored and this is what i do for fun. Anonymity and hyper fast communication becomes my playground. I spend the entire night learning nothing. I fall asleep to the sound of white noise emanating from a webpage called “”.

The next day I head to work at the telecom company, the same one i’ve been at for six years. It’s boring, repetitive, and oddly comforting. I autopilot through the day, until i feel that tightening in my chest, on the way home. Inexplicable misery clawing it’s way in. It happens.

I feel guilty because i have nothing to complain about. I have a job, a house, food, water, all the basic necessities. Hell i even have friends, or at least Eddy. Still, on the bus i get that cold feeling, and I rub up against the window, knees close together, and feel far colder than the air conditioning should allow. When i get off the bus i walk up to the lift with a heavy head, bent over, hunchbacked. What the hell.

I finally make it to my bed, and i collapse into it, back at last.

I close my eyes.

When i open them, hours later, it’s dark. I can see the city lights through the condensation that’s formed on my window. I’m hungry but i want that feeling to linger, so I let it. My monitor winks at me, the screensaver on, the only light inside my room outlining in white all my useless shit like some artificial moon. I sit in my chair, and i can barely make out of my own hands. I find the chat site, and i go to a new section, some experimental sub area that a user set up called the “compassionator”. I guess i’m trawling for a listener. I look at my virtual list of weird questions:

“If you were a tree what tree would it be?”

” “Tomorrow I could go left or right down the road, and I will approach the first man/woman i see in the first bar/place i walk past, and i will ask one question of your choice.”

“You have to commit suicide, but you have one billion dollars: what do you do with the money?”

I close them all.

The chat window blinks into existence:

System: Connected

System: Searching for a chat partner…

System: A new listener has entered your chat from U.K

Venter: Hello, is there anybody out there?

Listener: Hi :).

Venter: Hi.

Listener: Talk away, i’m here to listen.

Venter: Wow.

Venter: Ok, well, i don’t know.

Listener: What’s on your mind :)?

Venter: Are you really from the UK?

Venter: My parents are from the UK, so i just thought it’s a wierd coincidence.

Venter: Though i don’t feel very English personally. I was born in the city.

Venter: I don’t even like beer. Or potatoes. Or roasts. In fact i’d say English food is pretty terrible.

Venter: But that’s just me.

Suddenly my door flies open and i hastily close the window. It’s Eddy and he’s yelling “WA-HOOO!” He’s still wearing that damn jesters hat.

“What is it Eddy?” I say.

“What kinda porn were you watching?” He asks, wandering into my dark room.

I stay quiet.

“Are you ok?” he asks, and i feel very weird. Inside his strange eyes i can even see something that may be concern. I shrug, and say “I’m ok.”

“Would you like some pot?” Eddy offers, his fingers holding an invisible joint.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

Eddy nods and leaves, but he closes my door gently. Afterwards i look back at my monitor, at my empty desktop. I open up the same website, go back to the compassionator channel.

System: Connected

System: Searching for a chat partner…

System: A new listener has entered your chat from India

Venter: Hello, is there anybody out there?

Listener: Just nod if you can hear me?

Venter: *nods*

Listener: What’s on your mind stranger?

And suddenly i’m telling him/her, exactly what’s on my mind. I rant and rave, and barely come up for breath my fingers tapping furiously. The longer i go on for the less filtered my words are, until suddenly i stop, the whole page taken up by my ranting. I pause and wait, and wonder if whoever it is that is on the other side of the world is actually listening in the first place. For all i know they might be tabbing between windows, watching a video, barely reading anything i write, maybe just preparing some affirmative noise like “yes”, “ok”, “do go on.”.

I wait on the edge of my seat.

Listener: Sorry! I’m just reading everything :).

Listener: What do you mean you feel disconnected?

A deluge of typing. I unload some more. I don’t know what it is. The anonymity, the kind one liners, the mixture of no lighting, a long day, and maybe some shit that’s built up in the back of my head- who knows. There is someone on the other side of the world, also staring at a screen, and maybe, just maybe giving a damn about my story. No attachments, no social contract, no relationship based on inertia and an irrelevant past. Just a stranger. There’s a purity to it that makes me want to continue ranting and I do.

Listener: Can i ask you something, how old are you?

I tell him/her.

Listener: lol i’m the same age.


And then we’re comparing each other’s lives and the commonalities are stunning. We’re both alienated in our respective places. Each coincidence stacks, one on top of the other, and now i’m wondering about his or her name. It gets late, and he/she needs to go. I feel oddly sad about this, and i imagine that other person feels relieved.

Listener: Hey. Can i really, really enjoyed talking to you. Maybe, maybe we should do this again? How about tomorrow at the same time.

How will i know it’s you though? These are all anonymous and randomised.

Listener: Lines from another song.


Listener: How about born to run :)?


Then i close the window, close the monitor, and come back to the physical world. I feel strange. Nothing marks what just happened. It’s beyond ephemeral. Still, i think i connected with someone, somewhere, through a screen. I’m not sure though.

That night I slept better than I had in weeks.

(End of Part 1)

4th post: Learn to be Invisible (Part 1)

I don’t think i like the last post much anymore, so fuck it, i’m going to start something different.

This next one is going to be LONG. I already have the first few parts written though.

Learn to be Invisible (Part 1)


It looks like a jet. Seen from a beautiful park constructed on the top of a soaring steel and glass banking tower, it looks like a jet. At least, at first it does. The lengthening trail that it cuts across the sky is not white, but black, like smoke. It is coming from a long way off. At first the thing looks like a small object, moving quite slowly, then it becomes apparent that it is a massive object, falling very quickly. A meteor. The meteor continues to grow, and grow, and although when viewed from the park it seemed to be falling southwards it never quite passes overhead, instead getting closer and closer, larger and larger. For a couple of seconds it becomes so large it fills the sky. Then it collides with the city.

A massive explosion. A fireball that consumes the city and everything around it. More people are killed in the impact than in any other previously recorded event. Millions of people eradicated in a moment. Some die slowly, such as a man on the edge of the inferno who himself bursts into flames. He dies screaming. A titanic cloud of dust erupts from the planet. From space the orange cloud looks vast enough to obscure a continent. I hear Mr Anderson eek out an “Oooh” of appreciation. Good. The graphics of this theoretical simulation are incredible. Especially the clouds, they keep changing shape and everything. This whole presentation room must have cost a fortune. Fuck yes.
I zoom in on Mr. Anderson’s face in time to seem his mouth forma silent WOAH. Maybe because of that unicorn shaped cloud drifting south from the radioactive crater. The viewing room was a private office, the soft hum of the monitor and it’s computers the only thing intruding on the video.

Across from Mr. Anderson sits the primary presentation director for Kallogs. His face is dominated by massive eyebrows and a massive brush of a moustache. Once the video ends he rises from his boardroom chair and stands in front of the 3D projector before launching his first verbal barrage at Mr. Anderson. I make sure to keep one screen on Mr. Anderson’s face.

“DO YOU SEE THE FUTILITY OF YOUR 3RD QUARTER STRATEGY NOW? Our software predicts that the meteor will collide with the earth in less than three years. With 85% certainty we believe the P.O.I- that’s point of impact, will be right in the middle of the amazon rainforest. When that happens only a deskful of tree chicken nests will survive. As you know, tree chickens cannot be domesticated, they cannot be transplanted. What will KFTC do when the world’s supply of tree chickens is wiped out? Venture into the far more competitive cheap-chicken market? I think not. That’s a ruthless industry. Most companies barely last for four days before prostituting the staff or petitioning for their restaurants to become sets of reality tv micro-series, just to delay filing for bankruptcy. Remember what happened to McDoodles?That show “Eat Shit: Experiments In Fecal Cuisine”. That could be KFTC. Your chicken flippers might become hookers. Your stocks will plummet. We estimate that most species of mammals will go extinct when the meteor hits. Additionally your prime demographic will be greatly reduced. With no supply, and little demand, KFTC will be history. You won’t even be able to sell pork fries.”

I watch the Primary Presentation Director bring up another 3D projection, this one a slide presentation filled with anemic revenue projections and catastrophic pie charts. There are copious amounts of red. It’s mirror flashes onto a periphery screen, and I check to see that Miss Lee is looking at that too. She doesn’t seem to be. But should I tell her? Or is that a bit forward of me? Probably. The PPM continued to describe the apocalyptic downfall of KFTC to a patiently observant Mr. Anderson. Mr Anderson’s plain face gave away nothing.
As the wide mouthed Primary Presentation Director spoke, he eyed Mr. Anderson without mercy. We’d chosen the PPM partly on the basis of his university eductation, that is, he had a masters degree in facial intimidation techniques, and he made his eyebrows dance to invoke a primal fear in Mr. Anderson. His eyebrows looked like tiny spiders wriggling across his forehead, a fear of which is hardwired into most humans. Shit. I actually feel kind of scared and i’m not even in the room. Crazy tech.
According to Mr Anderson’s unique profile though, he was supposedly exceptionally resistant to fear. It’s a mental disorder, one that is usually quite debilatative but for some can be a useful trait. It didn’t synergise quite as much as being ethically inflexible but it may have it’s uses. Only one out of a hundred thousand are capable of such apathy. According to the research I did on wikipedia, the rarity is compounded by the fact that very few such people who have such a condition ever survive long enough to recieve their first paycheck. Apparently most try to fly off their balconies, or see how long they can sit in an oven, before making it to adulthood.

The PPM’s palms collided with the table audibly. He leaned forward towards Mr. Anderson on the other side of the table. The PPM’s Hugo Bass tie swayed in the air-conditioning as he continued his assault.

“SUPER SIZE THAT SHIT. As you can see the future isn’t in tree chicken, the future is in RICE. We’ve found that by lacing rice, long grain rice to be exact, since it’s healthier- higher in fiber you know, with cocaine, then consumers generally tend to be uber loyal to the brand. We call it CRICES. As in crisis…do you have a question you want to ask Mr. Anderson?”

Mr. Anderson finally lowered his arm. Then he looked the PPM from Kallogs straight in the eye and asked in a strangely intense, slow speaking fashion:

“If the meteor is supposed to land in the amazon, why did your video show it colliding with a city?”

The PPM paused, then shrugged, then rolled his eyes, and then said “DETAILS Mr. ANDERSON, DETAILS. it’s time to look at the big picture, you gotta stop sweating the small stuff. You got to think about the future. The future of Kentucky Fried Tree Chicken.” The PPM stabbed the table with his finger repeatedly, emphasizing everything.

“And what about the other 15%?” Asked Mr. Anderson.

“Wha….what?” Said the PPM.

“You said you were 85% certain the meteor is going to hit, what about the other 15%.”

The PPM stared at Mr. Anderson, and then reached into his suit jacket, which was draped over a chair in the board room. From the jacket he pulled out a revolver. “Don’t worry it’s loaded with less than lethal rounds. This stuff will at most, paralyze you.”

Mr. Anderson didn’t seem to care.

The PPM slammed the revolver down on the table, and then slid it over to Mr. Anderson.

The PPM gestured dramatically, eyebrows skittering above his manic eyes:

“There are 5 rounds in that, and one blank. Are you telling me you’re willing to pull that trigger, on the off chance that your hammer falls on nothing? If so, do it now you lunatic.” He said.

Mr. Anderson picked up the revolver and started talking. He pointed the gun at the PPM to emphasize certain points. I zoomed the monitor in closer.
“Should we be worried?” I asked Miss Lee.
“SHHH I’m watching.”
“Sorry Miss Lee.”
Now Mr. Anderson was speaking: “First of all, I didn’t get your name. Can i please have your name? Was it Randall? I thought it was Randall. Ok Randall, here’s the thing, first of all, your argument has several holes in it. Number one, even if the Amazon rainforest is reduced to a smoldering ruin it doesn’t mean KFTC closes shop. We don’t harvest tree chickens because of their unique flavor, or their tenderness, though i will admit tree chicken is remarkably tender, we harvest them because they reproduce at a microbial rate. No matter how many we harvest, new chicks are born soon after. Most of the actual flavoring in KFTC comes from our secret sauce formula, which has been handed down since the company was founded in 1905. It’s mostly salt, but the exact formula is known only to the CEOs. We could probably pour that delicious sauce all over duck and still call it a Zinger. On top of that, KFTC’s R and D has been working on a G.E synthetic tree chicken alternative for years. We want something with less fat in it, so it’s healthier. It’s tentatively called Tree Chicken Zero. So even if, again, the rainforest is completely obliterated we’ll be just fine. Hell, with less of our customers dying of heart attacks our retention rate will actually increase. I can name many more alternatives to our current supply Randall. A whole list. We at KFTC are as adaptable as the tree chicken.”

The PPM was sitting down, staring downwards at the table as Mr. Anderson spoke, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. He seemed entirely unaffected by Mr. Anderson’s retort. When Mr. Anderson paused, the PPM fingers immediately unwound, and his mouth dropped open, ready to speak. Mr. Anderson raised the pistol and pointed directly at the PPM’s white-toothed maw.

The PPM gasped like a fish.

“WHA…WHAT!” he said.

“I have a question.” said Mr. Anderson.

The PPM’s mouth closed with an audible click. These fucking microphones are great.

“What do you want?” Asked Mr. Anderson.

The PPM sat up straight, and his eyebrows began to squirm again, albeit with less enthusiasm.

“We have a proposal for KFTC. We would like to offer your company the exclusive usage of Kallog brand Crices rices, including fried Crices chips, Crices and sesame seed buns for your zingers, Crices flavored soda- we call it Grainz, and we shall provide the marketing and PR. After the meteor crashes we will have already developed brand recognition amongst the survivors. It’s win win.”

Mr. Anderson thoughtfully tapped the side of his cheek with the barrel of the revolver. The PPM waited silently for Mr. Anderson. A minute passed. Then another.

“So…” Began the PPM.

Mr. Anderson interrupted, and said “How did you find out about the meteor? Does the government know? How do we know this isn’t completely fictitious.”

The PPM said “I knew you were going to ask that eventually.” He produced a manilla envelope with the Kallog’s logo emblazoned in the middle, before sliding it like a revolver towards Mr. Anderson. “Inside there are the details on the Kobeyashi asteroid. The government, at the least the chief executive of the city, and as far as we know both NASA and the EU space agencies all know about the asteroid. The Kallog’s owned subsidiary, Atmo, has ties to every major space agency in the world, and a rather considerable budget allocated to elections. It has been decided that leaking this information to the public at this moment would simply cause a panic, not to mention an economic crash.”

Mr. Anderson immediately responded, looking up at the ceiling. “This is pretty ridiculous you know.” He hadn’t even opened the envelope. The PPM shrugged.

The PPM said “Mr. Anderson i gather however that you have a counter proposal for Kallog’s?”

Mr. Anderson looked at the revolver. “Yes, originally we had a proposal, similar to yours, but without knowledge of the asteroid, obviously. However, now that that has come to light, i would like to table my original idea. Instead, i would like to ask if you could relay to your superiors that the KFTC group is interested in buying out Kallog’s and all it’s subsidiaries, and that if we could reach a mutual deal it would save a lot of time and trouble. I would like to set the opening price for a majority ownership at let’s say, 15% of the company’s current stock value?”

The PPM’s mouth hung open. His hands gripped the table. His mouth opened and closed, but no noise issued from it. His eyebrows shuddered. This went on for a good minute, until Mr. Anderson interrupted.

“So the Kobeyashi asteroid is going to collide with the earth, or at least you are quite sure it will. I’m sure when that information reaches the general public all hell will break loose. Not only will there be an economic collapse, but i’m sure very few people will give a rats ass about long term securities. We at KFTC would be willing therefore, to play the long game. On the off chance the asteroid misses. I think 15% of your current stock value is pretty fair, and since no one, in their right mind would purchase your piece of shit company to begin with at the current price, and you won’t be able to sell at a discount without letting everyone know prematurely why, i think this is a good deal. I recommend you speak to your superiors about it as soon as possible.”

The PPM stared at Mr. Anderson. He looked utterly bewildered. He was not trained for this.

“Randall, you and I both know that regardless of whatever plans your company may have, an apocalyptic meteor strike will render them all moot. Kallog’s is owned in the majority by the Swirex Group right? And that group is owned by the Swirex family. I’m asking you to speak to them. Unlike your anonymous shareholders, who are pretty much going to get as screwed as the rest of us, the Swirex family will most certainly leap at the opportunity to make an insane amount of money before armageddon. Also, from what i know of John Swirex, he could give a fuck about his employees if it means making a buck. No offense. I mean, hell, the world’s going to end so how about we cut the crap eh?”

The PPM said “You shouldn’t speak about the Swirex that way. They are brand partners of KFTC”

“Wait, did you just break character?” Said Mr. Anderson

“FUCK. I mean, uh, sorry. Yeah i guess i did. I’m kind of new to all this. Anyway. As far as I know, no one has ever proposed your idea before. I’m pretty sure they don’t even look for a solution in this exercise, just the potentials reactions. Um, shit, i don’t know if your supposed to know that. Uh…Also, the chambers of that revolver really aren’t empty.”
Miss Lee used my shoulder as leverage to lift herself from the chair next to me. She left the room without a word. I cranked up the audio in time to here Mr. Anderson respond with “How realistic, has anyone ever fired the gun?”

The PPM replied, “Yep, but they all flunked out. We gave them the option to weed out the sociopaths. Lot of those apply for your position you know.”

Mr. Anderson said “Since you dropped your character, perhaps you can tell me if i’ve gotten the job? And out of curiosity has anyone ever been killed during the interview?”

“Well i’m wearing body armor, and those are less than lethals.”

“But what if they shoot you in the face?”

“The gun doesn’t fire when aimed at the face. Child safety features.”

On the monitor the interview room door opened, and a short girl in very high heels entered. It was Miss Lee. Her hands shot appealed to the PPM, I mean Martin’s face, as he sat. “For fuck sake Martin, could you at least wait till i come in? You know i hate it when you talk to the potentials out of character. Well, congratulations Mr. Anderson on passing the interview stage. Here.” She offered Mr. Anderson a red star. When Mr. Anderson looked at it quizzically, Miss Lee. stepped forward and adorned Mr. Anderson’s breast pocket with it, pinning the star under his name tag. For motivation. Studies show it works.

Mr. Anderson looked at her, seeming quite bored as she pinned the small star. Then he turned and picked up the gun, pulling the trigger six times in rapid succession, all the while aiming at the side of his head.

I leaned forward into the screen. Everyone gasped.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. THE SOUND IS SO GOOD. Better than reality TV.

The PPM and Miss Lee stood stunned. Mr. Anderson took a look inside the chamber. Inside were five bright pink less than lethal rounds, and one empty chamber. “Child safety! Amazing. What a time to be alive eh? So onto the next test I suppose.” said Mr. Anderson as he walked past the short woman and out of the boardroom.
Yeah it’s a pretty good time to be alive.
I minimised the game I was playing on the other screen. I just sold four bays of hay for twenty macaroons. My farm is getting fucking huge. Better catch my break whilst Miss Lee preps Mr. Anderson for the GTD test.