17 - No Wedding and Maybe a Funeral

Hung Hom was a terrible place to end up. He was 84 years old and had trouble remembering some things but he knew that his life had been extraordinary. He'd survived... well many things, it was just hard to bring them up. He did rememeber those simpler days when life was not quite so rushed, and things were not quite so noisy. It was harder to remember specifics. He did remember his children and what they had done to him.  He remembered when he did not think about funerals everyday because of his view out the window.

It was a horrible state of affairs, to be abandoned by one's family in a place such as this. It was billed as an old people's home though it hardly felt like home. What was the world coming to when one's children had no concept of their duties to their parents, to the people who had given them life and sacrificed so much. To be left to rot in a home with all those other lost parents whose children had abandoned them.He was not a happy man and life was now devoid of all joy.

The knowledge that being on a ventilator and needing constant care had been too much for his daughter did not lessen the sting. No, back in his days, children cared for their sick elders. It was the sons who would marry and bring home suitable daughter in laws who would cook, clean and generally do all that the elders now could no longer do. His son had not married. His daughter had married all right and had a son of her own, but instead of staying home to care for her child and her father, she continued to work and while she had hired a foreign made to care for her child, the same consideration was not extended to her own father.

He growled under his breath as he stared out the windows. The home was not terribly unpleasent but most of the elderly were treated with a sort of cold efficiency. The caretakers were polite but terribly brisk. He did not like to consider them too much. One could not become friends with those who cleaned out his bedpan.

His children came, bringing bags of biscuits and some chocolates. His grandson was not with them. "he had to do his homework" was the excuse. He was not happy and he threw the chocolates at his children for their inconsiderate disrespect. They left after only a little while and he was left looking out the dreary windows again. Hung Hom was a terrible place to end up. From his window, he could see the little flower shop. It was not just any flower shop. They only sold flower arrangements for funerals. Behind this stall was the tall imposingly beige building of the funeral parlour. He had gone there before, he knew he had. It was hard to remember how many times. One thing he did know, the next time would be the last.

***

He wasn't sure how long he'd been here now. He could recognise most other elderly living here and knew that he was no longer the newest one. There was one new face and it was not elderly. She was a new nurse. It seemed she'd been hired fairly recently and she was put in charge of taking care of him.

It was understandable really, he did have quite a few little problems. His ventilator's tubes often could get clogged, he couldn't quite hold his bladder through the night, his diet needed managing now. He had more pills then were worth counting.

His previous nurses had done their duties but nothing more then that. This new nurse smiled at him as well. His old heart would flutter.

She was a lovely girl, much younger then him obviously though he couldn't tell exactly how old. She had no wrinkles but the slightly tired eyes of someone who wasn't exactly that young. She was rather short and plump, with hair shorter then he thought fashionable but she also had dimples.

She was diligent about making sure that he was getting enough oxygen and checking his vitals. He pretended to make a fuss when she tried to make him take his pills just so he could hear her calmly wheedle. He created a bigger fuss when she tried to make him wear adult diapers but he didn't put it against her because she didn't push the issue too hard. He smiled silently when she cut his overgrown toenails and made comments about his horrible feet and the best part of his day was when he would ask her to change the channel on the TV after he'd hidden the remote. She would bend over and her little uniform would stretch quite snugly over her bottom. Luckily for him, someone else was tasked with giving him a bath.

***
His birthday was almost forgotten, but his special nurse had remembered. "Would you like to take a stroll outside?" she asked. He hadn't been outside except for hospital visits. "Just until your family come of course. I'll have you back in time!"

He nodded enthusiastically of course and though it took time to sort out the logistics of taking a portable oxygen tank and making sure he was warm and covered, soon enough he was wheeled into the industrial sized life, carefully lowered down the steps and out the front door. Another one of the orderlies tried to walk with them, but he angrily waved him away. He wanted to be alone with her.

For the first block or so they were silent but after awhile she began to ask him about his family. He didn't want to talk about them but he did because he was having trouble thinking of anything else. She was an attentive listening but it wasn't long before he couldn't quite remember things. It might have been uncomfortable but she began to talk about her life. This was much more fun.

She told him about her family at first then things she liked to do. She talked about her favourite foods, abalone being a particular one. He was enthralled. Instantly, he decided that he liked badminton as well and he must have always liked abalone. It went on and on until they reached the small playground area that stood as a park. Not much of a park, some wilty plants and ugly benches near a small slide and something else made for kids.

She was now talking about someone. Some she was almost complaining about him but with a smile on her face. "he's very messy and sometimes he can be very grumpy." He wondered who she was talking about. "He's a little older then me but I dont think that is a big issue." She went on about this person's faults but did so with a smile. Clearly this was someone she care about. He began to imagine and wonder and suppose. His ears weren't listening too clearly when he started to imagine that maybe she might care a little bit about him like he did her. It was no great leap from caring to love so he blurted out, "Please marry me!" just as she said, "my boyfriend..."

There was an awkward pause. It went on forever. His nurse wasn't smiling anymore. Then the moment passed. "Don't be silly," she said. She tucked his blanket around him but wouldn't look at him. He wanted to say something, pretend it was a joke. He couldn't think. She mumbled about the cold and said "lets go back."

She continued to talk as she wheeled him along, this time going back another way but he was not listening. Instead he was scowling at the flower stalls making funeral wreaths, at the little stores selling paper goods to be burned for the ancestors. He scowled at the hearths that passed them on the road and scowled at the clicky noises that signalled they could cross the street from the funeral parlour to the his building.

When they got back to the Old people's home, his nurse made sure everything was taken care of, put him at his window and said, "They will be here soon." she meant his family, but he was looking out the window at the men unloading another casket. "Yes, they will," he mumbled scowling.

16 - Art and Muse

Life had become so dull and dreary and devoid of all delights. Worst of all, inspiration had dried up leaving an empty void of non-activity and stagnation. For an artist, this was the worst circle of hell and Fred was close to another breakdown. He did not want to be admitted, not again so instead he went back to the outpatient clinic.

His old psychiatrist was there in the neutral colored office wearing earth tones in front the neat desk. Fred sat with the coffee table between them, staring at the unoffending box of tissue and the coasters laying perpendicular on the surface. A wastebasket half filled with used tissues testified to the teary client that had come before him and Fred felt a twinge guilt that he was taking up his doctor's time when there might have been others who were more emotionally distraught, then he thought of his empty sketchbook and suddenly all guilt disapeared.

His doctor listened in compassionate silence, nodding appropriately and making soft noises at just the right points. It made him feel better until he was asked about his meds. He hated taking his meds. He had stopped. It may have been the cause of his lack of inspiration. He did not tell his therapist.

"Try doing one thing different everyday," said the deep voice across from him.

"Like what?"

His doctor considered, looking up at the ceiling as he made a soft noise in his throat, "like walk home on a different path one day or... go to a different cafe or maybe just even order a different drink. Just one thing. It might help with the inspiration." The therapist smiled encouragingly.

It sounded so silly. Fred was disapointed slightly but it didn't stop him from trying it. The next day he woke up, and followed his old routine until he went out for his coffee. Instead of his usual place, he went across the road. He didn't order something different though.

The coffee tasted about the same but this cafe was definitely different. The tables were lower, the couches and chairs more worn yet the whole place had a homey atmosphere. Fred rather liked it but he still felt anxiety. Until he saw her.

She was sitting at the window, the sunlight illuminating half her face. She had light brown hair, glinting gold slightly, pale skin with a hint of freckles and brown eyes. She was wearing a modest sweater and baggy jeans. Her shoes were almost too sensible. Everything about her was so clean and neat. Her hair was in a neat ponytail. Her table was perfectly clean, everything on it perpendicular to each other.She was sitting ramrod straight, eating what looked like breakfast with a cup of tea. Her movements were precise and careful, each seemingly planned out and done with perfect execution.

Fred was enchanted. It wasn't that she was particularly pretty but she glowed with the mystery of everything unknown that Fred needed to know. Fred pulled out his sketchbook and began to sketch. The way the light was falling on her at this moment was perfect. She had to be drawn. The girl didn't seem to notice. She only looked out the window, her face just slightly melancholy. He was so engrossed in shading and perfecting his drawing that after awhile when he looked up, she was gone.

 ***

Amelia was not having a good day. Her anxieties were worsening with with them her moods. Her meds had been adjusted already but they didn't seem to have helped. If anything she felt so much worse. She could hardly concentrate with her eyes alighting on everything that was messy and dirty. The need to adjust and clean and the fear when she couldn't was becoming overwhelming.

She went to her outpatient clinic to see her Psychiatrist. He suggested she wait, the meds sometimes took longer to take effect.

Amelia left feeling worse but she had to soldier on. The trip itself had been hard, she had to follow a routine. The next day, to make up for it, she was extra vigilant to stick to her comfortable ways. Wake up and brush teeth the exact number of times. Turn the light switches exact number of times. Wash her hands afterwards, the exact number of wringing. Go to her favourite cafe and order the same meal. Scrambled eggs, bacon and toast with no butter and a cup of tea with no lemon or sugar. She liked lemon, but it was impossible to find two slices there were the same size and it had been easier to give it up.

She sat at her table, made sure everything was neat, clean and perfectly perpendicular and tried to just enjoy her meal.

***

Fred didn't forget the girl. He went to the cafe the next day and the day after. She was always there. He tried to be subtle but he had to draw her. He worked fast and was able to do several sketches. He started to sit at different tables to get different angles. He worked manicly with silent enthusiasm, loving the way his hands could not stop, the way he could not stop. As if creativity had taken over and his body was just a vessel.

When he got home, he still couldn't stop. He would paint. His work until now had been pretty plain, he used to just do stills of life, like pictures but the mystery of the girl who's name he didn't know was haunting and he painted what he tried to imagine she might be like. What might be her thoughts, her feelings. He created worlds in minutae in the backgrounds, used colours to create her voice. His sketches were his basis, but on canvas, he brought her to life.

Fred painted and painted, stopping only to sleep and eat and occasionally go out to buy more materials. He used the last of his savings to buy bigger canvases and continued to paint and create. He had no idea how much time had passed but when his creativity finally waned, his energy almost spent he had created an entire series of paintings all around this one girl.

The next step was to call some galleries, try and get them shown. It wasn't easy. He had been almost forgotten but his work had to be shown and through sheer obstinacy and possibly the obsessive enthusiasm in his voice won them over. A gallery would show his work.

***
Amelia was feeling as if everything was conspiring against her. It was not just her OCD, she was at a point in her life where she was really truly beginning to consider her future and finding it so terribly bleak. It stretched out before her as an endless parade of hours in the toilet washing her hands. Hours organzing items, hours spent catagorizing, and adjusting and checking. Hours spent on things she herself knew was just a waste of time. Hours that could have been spent living life was instead spent trying to scratch that itch in her mind. That urge that promised that if she failed, only the most horrible of horrors would occur.

Amelia kept going to the cafe only this time she noticed that there was a new regular. A thin wiry sort of man with tussled blond hair. His hands were usually clean, but he often had specks of paint on his arms and on his shirt which was always worn and old. He was not her type. She had to have neat in her life, and this man did not seem neat, but her eyes would frequently wander over and while part of her brain catagorized all the things that she wanted to fix, the other part sighed at his pretty hair, his long artful fingers and most of all, the earnest almost yearning look in his eyes.

He was always working on some notepad of his. Perhaps he was a student or something. She didn't know and didn't have the courage to find out, but she did know that he frequently looked up at her. Each time, she was careful to avert her eyes as if she didn't notice. She was so afraid he might come to talk to her. She wished so much that he might one day.

That thought kept her awake. She imagined what it would be like. The smiles, the easy conversations. She imagined them on a date, talking together, walking in the park. She imagined holding hands with him. Then she imagined the shudder she would betray looking at his scuffy shoes. Worse she imagined him watching her washing her hands obsessively, his face not showing eagerness anymore but disgust.

It always ended awfully, but she couldn't stop thinking about him. It started a dream then became a nightmare. Oh how she wished she was different. That she was normal.

***
Fred's gallery opening was imminent. It was making him nervous and he rushed back to the outpatient clinic to see his Psychiatrist. They talked about his artwork and his inspiration. Fred talked about his muse.

"Perhaps you should talk to her," suggested his psychiatrist. "Perhaps even invite her to the gallery."

The idea was so fantastic and so awful at the same time, it stuck. It didn't help that as Fred left his psychiatrists office and walked out the door, a figure passed him. Hunched over, staring at the ground, careful to avoid the cracks on the sidewalk. Fred almost missed who it was. It was the girl. He was so excited he almost stopped her there to talk to her, but the moment passed and he watched as she turned into the outpatient Mental health clinic.

Fred wanted to wait for her, perhaps even follow her, but people did not like to be bothered when about to meet their psychiatrists. He understood that.

Fred thought about talking to her, telling her about his art, inviting her to his gallery. What if she hated it? Some people might have felt it invasive to be the subject of an entire series of artwork without having been asked previously. Fred was worried but he hadn't thought about it. He had just followed his creative impulse.

At least talk to her. At least... introduce himself.

The next day at the cafe, he watched her come in, sit at the same table and order the same food. He stood to walk over and just at that moment, she looked up and glanced at him. The look on her face was not curiousity or eagerness. It was fear. Fred turned his tracks and walked out instead.

Fear? Because of him? Or something else? He couldn't know really. Only that it had spread to him. He went home and chastised himself instead.

The gallery was that evening and was a raging success. Everybody loved his work. He suddenly found himself being pursued for interviews. His work was photographed, to be published in a well - known art magazine. It gave him courage. He could not be enjoying such success without giving appropriate due to his muse. At the very least she had to know.

He went back to the cafe.

She did not come that day or the next or the next. This was strange. He went to his psychiatrist and tried to ask about her.

The psychiatrist listened carefully and looked sad. For a long time he was silent. Then, "Normally i have something called confidentiality. You understand that right? I could never talk about one of my patients to you."

"But I know she's a patient.. right?"

"There are two other doctors working here," sigh, "I think maybe you might want to know. Her name was Amelia."

"Amelia," Fred sang the name in his head then stopped. "Wait, was?"

"She had OCD and depression. She's been struggling with her anxieties and moods for years. It became too much for her. She had no close family, no close friends. She committed suicide just a few days ago." His Psychiatrist was tense and unhappy. So very different from what Fred was used to seeing. Fred hardly registered the words.

"She had noticed you... said she had seen you here and at the cafe. Said that you had given her a dream that was so lovely that reality became too terrible to bear because she knew that the dream could never come true."

Fred sat in utter stillness and did not move for a very long time. 

15. Cats be crazy

Goddesses deserved the most reverent and constant of attentions and her lowly human had neglected her. One could not expect the divine to take care of themselves, that was what worshippers were for. Humans, however, were woefully poor at it despite their aposable thumbs. Princess Miaowser Fluffyngton's claws had grown uncomfortably long. She might have yowled and clawed a little whenever her human trimmed them, but that was just Godly divinity asserting her dominance. Her human could hardly have assumed that she need not do it.

Princess Miaowser Fluffyngton, or Fifi as she was commonly called did not like having exceptionally long nails. They were uncomfortable and broke easily. She needed to have them filed and shorted. Her human, willfully ignorant as she was, did not keep a scratchpost nearby. So Fifi had to resort to scratching things nearby.

First, she tried the smooth leather of the bright blue coach bag her human had left beside the bed. Then she tried the bedposts. Finally she tried to curtains. All of them helped, the curtains especially.

Fifi liked her newly shorn nails but even she had to admit that her artwork on the curtains were not exactly in line with latest modern art. Fifi of course kept up with the trends. The work on the bag was better so she touched it up a bit.

Still, she thought her human should be compensated for the tacky work on the curtains, so Fifi went in search of a gift. Humans loved gifts. So did cats of course but that was neither here nor there.

Fifi prowled around the apartment. She checked under the tables and bed. She prowled above the bookshelf. She knocked over a vase and jumped a little when it crashed, causing her to run into a neat stack of CDs which also fell down. Fifi didn feel a little sorry about that but not about the vase. It had been ugly.

She found no suitable gift until she went into the kitchen. There, just in front of the sink was prey. It was small, dark brown with long feelers and rather spiky little legs, but it was the best she could find, and as far as cockroaches went, it was quite big.

She stalked and prowled, coming carefully closer. As a descendent of a long line of Divine hunters, Fifi was confident of her hunting skills. This was her superpower. It was easy enough to catch her prey. Her newly sharpened claws made it so much easier and her fangs, oh how proud she was of her fangs. They sank right through the tough outer shell to the mushyness within.

She was carrying back to the bedroom, fully intent on laying it on her human's pillow as a lovely little gift when she tasted it. A foul, noxious, vile taste. The taste of something poisonous and distinctly chemical. Oh, lowly ignorant humans, laying about poisons to kill small critters. This poor cockroach had obviously either stepped in it, or ingested it. It had probably been close to death anyways. Now Fifi might had inadvertently swallowed some.

She only just made it to the corner when she couldn't hold it back. Up, up, up it came. All the contents of her stomach. It was so humiliating, so shameful. Oh Fifi did not feel like the suave, sleek beautifully Godly creature that she was but she had no choice.

Afterwards, she sat, curled up, her tail tickling her nose slightly feel utterly small. This would not do. She had an image to upkeep. She was unique. She was special. She was Godly. She was a cat!

This thought was uplifting. She first went through a thorough grooming. Image was important after all. Then she decided that her original thought was a good one. She would bring a gift for her human. This human after all, was good with the cuddles and most especially with the food.

There were no more cockroaches, so Fifi resorted to her secret exit. The upper window in the toilet was always kept slightly open. Outside among the jungle and maze of alleys, pipes and boxes, Fifi found a rat. It was a small rat really, but suitably plump. Rats are harder prey then cockroaches sometimes, but Fifi was a fantastic hunter.

Coming back in with her fat little rat was a little harder, but Fifi managed it so well, even she was pleased. She lay the rat on her human's pillow, even taking care to artfully arrange it in the best way possible then curled up on the windowsill.

The sight of her messy puddle, complete with the dead cockroach still in the middle upset her. She was so upset, she had to groom herself again. That cause her to feel that unsettled feeling again except this time she only brought up a furball. That actually made her feel more confidence. Fullballs and vomit sometimes went hand in hand. Her human would never know.

When her human came home, Fifi made sure she was out of sight. IT had to be a surprise. She stayed under the bed, in the darkest corner and listened to the yowls and shrieks. She especially liked the high pitched squeal she heard when the rat was discovered. It filled her heart with joy.

She stayed under as her human did her routine of yowling over the curtains and other surprises. Her supper that evening was only tinned food, none of the anchovies that Fifi liked so much, but her human must have been tired out by all the excitement to forget. She only had to miaow quietly, turning round eyes up at her and her human melted.

Two anchovies appeared in her dish. Fifi smiled. Yes, the human had accepted that it had been her own fault. IT always was of course. Fifi was exonerated and her status as Goddess of the home restored.

14. Leper Gnome

There was a leper gnome inside his head. Nobody believed him, but Shawn knew it was true. This leper gnome was a gnarled and twisted created. It lived inside his cranium, wandering around wreaking havoc with his thoughts. In a week, it might dance the macarenha deep inside his amygdala making his body pulse with anxiety or play the maracas  near his prefrontal lobe making his thoughts oddly distorted or perhaps take a nap, leaving his mind free to be optimistic. Shawn was absolutley sure his default state would have been preppy optimism had he not had his extra headmate. Worse were the days this gnome merrily chiselled his skull. The thuds reverberating into painful throbbing headaches.

Shawn at first kept silent about his strange condition, being picked on at school already for his low grades didn't help. In adulthood, he tried to ease the symptoms and after meeting a curiously interested and seemingly understanding doctor, he told the truth. Suddenly he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder or some suggested schizophrenia. "But i dont hear voices!" he insisted which was true enough. the Gnome didn't talk to him, but it did happily send him lots of images and thoughts, usually of the self-loathing and irritatingly repetitive variety.

Months of therapy and haze inducing medications later, Shawn was able to convince his doctors to treat him as an outpatient. He wasn't  dangerous and as far as delusions went, he was able to convince them that they had receded. They weren't delusions of course but he could lie if he needed.

Life back outside seemed to go on as usual except he had Xanax to dull the worst moments when his leper gnome decided to have a solo party inside his head.

Meanwhile, Shawn had no idea that he was indeed being watched. Not by government agents or spies or stalkers or ex-girlfriends (he didn't have any) but by aliens. For years, an alien species had been observing earth, curious about the planet but more importantly gathering intel for a possible invasion and subsequent enslavement. Humans might have been squishy but they seemed to be a fairly hard working species, attaining civilisation in a relative short span of time.

These aliens had for years been carefully abducting and experimenting on various specimen of the human species and now they had their sights on this short flaxen haired male called Shawn.

The abduction was meticulously planned. They waited for the cover of dark and used a drone to follow him silently. When he stepped out for his evening walk, they grabbed him, administering a quick sedative to control him.

It wasn't long before he was stripped and laid out on their table with their spirally and spinning surgical tools laid out beside him.

Unfortunately Shawn woke up just before they were to begin the vivisection. first he screamed wordlessly, then muttered and shrieked then laughed and cried. The aliens had never really seen one so vocal and awake and out of sheer morbid curiousity did not put him back under. Instead they turned on the universal translator.

"... What the fuck you guys? You aren't supposed to be in new york or LA or some major american city blowing shit up. If you want to abduct people, why aren't you in the mid-west like always? What the fuck man?! Why me? I'm fucked up! you don't want to probe me, i had a really bad burrito for dinner. seriously. you wanna rethink this, and hey .. hey... you can't go in my head, my Leper gnome's gonna get you bad!" Shawn droned on and the aliens began to tire. Truth was, they had heart similar from others abductees though non had talked of this "leper gnome".

The procedure went as planned except for a minor hiccupt when they probed him from behind, the resulting explosion was so dramatic and revolting, they wondered if this was some previously undocumented self defence mechanism. Fearing another posterior attack, the aliens switched to investigating his brain.

Carefully they sliced and drilled and finally opened his skull... and were attacked by a tiny little vicious creature. They had never seen anything quite so brutal yet tiny. It had claws and teeth and other sharp implements. It took three aliens to finally subdue this filthy monster and place it inside a specimen tube. They watched the creature writhe in bloody viciosness behind the glass. Clearly this creature had been a parasite living inside the head of this human specimen. They were well familiar with brain parasites. They were particularly susceptible to it. The fact that this human had survived so long and still was able to function seemed a good indication that they had underestimate this species. This was worrying news.

The aliens were apprehensive. They patched Shawn back up, microscopically stitching him up, putting him back in his clothes and plopping him back down on his porch before flying away. They took the gnome with them. They would have to report back to the mothership. Leave this planet alone. Brain altering parasites found.

Shawn woke up the next morning, groggy and slightly sore on his back end. He also had a very unpleasent dream concerning aliens. It was not until lunch that he noticed something astounding. He was not having to fight off intrusive thoughts. he had no headache. Of course it was many days before he began to think the gnome was gone but it would be weeks before he came up with a theory. Nobody believed him of course. Alien abductions and they took his gnome out, but this time he didn't care. All he cared about was that the gnome was done.

13. Sacrifice

The world was collapsing. Great rifts appeared in the sky. Astronomers reported the worrying fact that these rifts seemed to stretch on out inter interstellar space. Some tried to posit that this was just a trick of weather, or a new galactic phenomena that should not be feared neccessarily but the tears in the fabric of the universe were visible even at night, the frayed edges glimmering slightly but more worryingly, the gaping maw between even blacker then the blackness of space. Humanity had found a new template for fear.

Of course, the blame game started. Some blamed aliens. Some blamed technology. Some blamed religious people for not praying enough or eating pork or giving women the vote. The debates raged on underneath as above the fragmentation of the sky worsened. As more fractures appeared, most religious people united to blame the gays. It had always been the gays.

The gays responded with "We couldn't tear any kind of fabric," then added that with enough rainbows, the sky might not fragment. Indeed, it seemed that the more gays were allowed to fornicate openly and have fabulous parties in the open air, the slower the fragmenting seemed. However it didn't stop it entirely.

A secret enclave gathered in a secret location. So secret that even heads of state were not aware. The only ones invited where the most respected theologians and philosophers. Religious leaders from all backgrounds were flown in. Only a handful of scientists were invited, some physicist and a mathematician.

Instantly there was a chaotic scene right in the richly carpeted room where the meeting was supposed to be held. Religious leaders started attacking each other, accusing each other of improper faith, or apostasy or blasphemy or heresy. The shouting became unbearable and the scientists withdrew outside till it was over while the buddhists shook their heads.

When voices grew thin and reedy the shouting thinned and a small men with grey hair finally stood and called for attention. "We've gathered here... NOT to air out differences, but find similarities. It is upon our venerable shoulders, gentlemen, that we find a solution to our great problem." The hum in the room receded to a stony silence. "The end of the world is nigh, we must find out why our God is so displeased with us."

Instantly the evangelicals and a handful of cult leaders stood and chanted that this was heresy. If God wanted the world to end then so be it. They would be saved. Each argued against the other, insisting that only THEY were the chosen ones and continued to do so as they walked out.

In the silence after they left, a calmer more rational debate followed. The scientists were asked for their opinions, politely listened to then breezily ignored afterwards. The buddhists were preaching for calm acceptence of the inevitable. Mormons felt that everyone should marry multiple wives to stop the cracking of the sky. Rabbis debated with each other on the possibility that this was either a plague of sorts or a great tribulation to be endured.

They great texts were read, re-read and poured over. Hours passed where they tried to find answers in the ancient texts. In the meantime, the scientists played scrabble and solitaire, bored at the proceedings and wondering if their colleagues had discovered some new element to their galactic troubles.

Finally a grey old bishop and an Rabbi and an Mullah seemed to come to an agreement. They had found a common ground. They had discovered a repeating vein in many of their texts. A theme of sacrifice for attonement. They discussed it at length and came to the conclusion that perhaps God needed a sacrifice.

The Buddhists left first in a silent procession of grim silence. Violence was not their creed. The scientists left next in loud noisy outrage. The mathematician stayed out of sheer morbid curiosity however and listened as the theologians and philosophers debated. Several philosophers would leave as well as a handful of theologians. Two bishops tried to leave then ran back in, deathly pale reporting that a giant rift had appeared right above them. This only spurred the discussions towards the inevitable. They would find a suitable sacrifice and offer it up to God. If it worked, then they would save the world! If not, then well at least they tried.

Who the sacrifice would be was discussed. It was unanimous that the their sacrifice should be a girl and a virgin but they were divided on exactly which religious background she should be from. Some argued that she should be pretty, others that she should not be too young. Some suggested sacrificing one from each "Just in case, God wanted a selection." Luckily this idea was ignored. Everyone agreed that she should not be atheist. They only went to hell. It would be a sacrifice to the Devil, not to God.

Suddenly great noises were heard outside. A glance behind the door revealed that the rift above them was widening. New tears were forming and worse, seemed to be spreading down to the ground which heaved and shuddered.

There was a new urgency. They were running out of time. It was agreed that a sacrifice was needed. Now. There was just one problem, they were miles away from any town. There was no time to go find a virginal woman and bring her back.

"Lets sacrifice any woman!" someone cried.

Everyone looked around. There was no woman among them. Not even among their retinue. Not a single one had been invited. Fear gripped them until they spotted him. A lone boy standing beside a bishop in a choirboy robe.

He was a beautiful boy with wide innocent eyes, pale hair and the milky smooth skin of youth. He had stood quietly, close to the bloated mass of flesh that even now was slowly stroking that smooth head of tussled hair.

There was an uneasy murmer thrumming through the room, then someone said, "what about him?"

The boy seemed not to understand but the bishop behind him was nervous. "he's my pageboy, my uh... assistant," he insisted.

"Is he a virgin?" someone asked.

The bishop looked nervous, eyes darting here and there.

"Is he?" someone else insisted, this time with an edge in their voice.

"Uh.. yes.. of course.... he is... uh... only nine." The bishop was visibly sweating, his hands firmly behind him.

The murmer then grew more insistent. Some were not comfortable with the idea of sacrificing a boy, but what other choice did they have? They faced the boy, who now seemed to realise the danger he was in. When they began to close in, the boy fled.

Around the room he darted, sliding under legs and knocking fat ungainly priests and Rabbis out of the way. Unfortunately someone had had the forsight to lock the door and it wasn't long before the boy was caught, wriggling and writhing and biting.

A table was brought out and the boy laid out and firmly held in place. Then another problem. "how will we do it?"

"We should cut his throat. God clearly needs to see blood."

"No, strangle him, that will be enough."

"No we must do the proper rituals then behead him." The debates continued. They settled on throat slicing till they realised that they had brought no knife or sword.

"Fine, throttle him with a cord." Then another debate on what cord or rope to use exactly.

Finally, they were ready. Prayers were offered while others chanted. If anyone felt a smidgen of guilt, he suppressed it. If anyone was secretly thrilled, they hid that too. The little boy, wriggled and kicked, not entirely understanding what was too happen, he was just a small italian orphan with little schooling, but he did know that being held down was not a good sign. He'd been with his bishop long enough to know, men in robes were not to be trusted.

The rope was raised, the chanting grew louder and just as it grew to a crescendo, the doors burst open and a strong and very hot gust of wind blew in. Hair and clothese were scorched slightly but there was no one at the door except a voice.

"What on Heaven and Earth do you think you are doing?!" cried the great booming voice. It sounded neither male nore female but something in between. It was definitely not human. It had to be God.

"We... are... trying to apease you lord." whimpered a Bishop.

"Through Murder? Dear me, when I created you, I really must have been stingy with intelligence. Thousands of years of development and evolution and this is all you can imagine in a time of crisis?" The booming voice was decidedly peeved.

"But... But, we read your texts.. we ... thought this was what you wanted," said a Rabbi prostrate on the floor.

"They were supposed to be allegorical. Metaphorical even. Not literal. You'd think you'd get that from the language used." The voice sighed, "I knew I should have let the lot of you drown before this."

"But then... what is it you want oh Lord of all? Why are you destroying our world?"

"Who said I'm destroying. Look at you whimpering like a bunch of feckless idiots. I'm trying to remind you of something you all seem to have forgotten!"

"Please tell us!" cried a Mullah loudly, looking firmly at the ground.

"God, what would the point in that be. I dont give out answers that easy." The voice became irritated, "What am i saying, my most backwardly evolved creation, apperently i do have to spoonfeed you everything."

"We evolved?! cried a Creationist priest who had been hiding in the back.

"Course you evolved, you pillock," snapped the voice. "You think i put dinosaur bones in the ground to fuck with your heads? What do you take me for? Some arsehole?!"

"What was thine lesson for us, please... tell us!" asked a Mullah reverently.

"To live each day as if it is your last. Why do you think I went with the tearing and ripping. I could have just willed you all out of existence."

"But.. how?!" cried the Mullah.

"With love, compassion and curiosity, oh for fucks sake. Screw the lot of you. I should have known you guys weren't worth my time when you started hacking bits off of your children in my name. You know what? I'm going to concentrate on my other planets. You guys are on your own." The voice was waspish.

"We are not your only creations?!" Cried the former Creationist.

"You guys really are arrogant tossers aren't you? Think you are the centre of the world. Well good luck with that. And let that boy go!" The boy was released instantly and he sat up and hopped off the table. "And seriously, you might wanna spend more time thinking about the wolves in your midst. Like that bishop over there. Stop fiddlng with children. Do i HAVE to spell out EVERYTHING?! you guys are like the universal equivalent of special needs kids. This wouldn't have happened if i left women in charge. Stupid me for thinking they had so much to deal with already I shouldn't give them more work... " With that the voice faded. Gust of air blew the other way and it became evident that God was no longer with them.

The emptiness that he left behind was just too much. Many were openly weeping, tearing at their hair, grieving for the smug confidence that they had no lost. Some ambled away through the door to begin their search for a new way of life. Some stood catatonic.

The little boy went to his bishop and kicked him squarely in the shin, smiling when the bishop began to cry. He then walked out the doors and looked up. The rifts were gone. No hint remained of what had been so evident just a few minutes before. All seemed to remain was an exasperated sigh lingering in the air.  

12. Babies

If there was one thing Teresa wanted more then anything in the world, it was her own child. A baby. All sweet smelling, cooing with their adorable disproportionate bodies and pudgy faces. She loved babies. She loved the way they looked, the way they giggled and the way they just made your heart melt. She loved children as well. Who couldn't, such sweet innocence and love. Oh how Teresa loved babies, it was just frustrating that she had to wait till she was married. She was not yet 17 so marriage was not the first thing on her boyfriend's mind.

She told her mom of course, just sharing her sudden desire. Mom said something about raging hormones then got a look on her face. The same look she got when she watched a horror film. Teresa wasn't quite sure why. She was however, sure that her mother didn't quite support her ambition.

Which was why she was very surprised when her mother suggested a two day sleepover at aunty Mable's house where she was to personally take care of Mable's two children. Joe who was still less then a year old, and Shareen who was five. Teresa was thrilled. She packed her bags and filled it with some toys and some games but mostly her enthusiasm and happily chatted all the way about how much fun she'd have.

"Mable and her husband are going to be there in the evening to help you, but you'll be alone most of the day," warned her mother. "you'll have to make sure Joe is clean and fed and happy and that Shareen is occupied."

"Don't worry mom! I love kids!" Teresa replied.

She was less enthusiastic when Mable showed her how to change diaper, but it wasn't really as bad as other had made it out to be. A little pee wouldn't faze her, though trying to make sure Joe was clean was harder. Mable seemed worried and repeated no less then seven times, her number, her husband, Peter's number and the number of the their pediatrician. Then she reminded Teresa about the emergency number as if Teresa was retarded. Finally she left for a day long "holiday" with her husband.

Teresa waved goodbye with a big cheery smile then closed the door, turning around to face the wide eyes of Shareen. "Where's mommy going?" asked the high pitched voice.

"Out for a small holiday with daddy," replied Teresa with a big smile.

"Why?"

"Everyone needs a holiday," Teresa replied walking into the living room where Joe was waiting.

"Why?"

"People like holidays," Teresa picked up Joe who cooed in her ear. He was heavier then she thought he would be, but she liked the way he smelled.

"Why?" Shareen was resolutely following her.

"Everyone likes holidays," said Teresa now with a hint of irritation. She braced herself and before Shareen could ask her question said, "would you like a snack?" Shareen nodded and followed her without asking why.

An hour later, Teresa was not smiling anymore. Shareen had started the questions again. Teresa tried to quell them with a game only to have to stop the game mid way as Joe was announcing his discomfort with loud wails. She tried to feed Joe again, some gloopy orange mix left by Mable but Joe was having none of it.

"Oh god, no wonder. This tastes awful," said Teresa as she tried a small spoonful. Joe continued to wail. "ok, ok, wait baby." She pulled out the baby bottle and filled it with milk, warming it just as Mable had told her. Joe accepted that with alarming swiftness and silently sucked on the bottle, making little tuck tuck sounds as well as the occasional sniffle.

Teresa went back to the game to find that Shareen had taken all the little plastic pieces that signified a win. "hey," she said patiently. "That's not right. You didn't have that many when I left."

"Yes I did, " said shareen confidently.

"No, you didn't," said Teresa patiently. "That's cheating."

"Yes, I did!"

"No,"

"Yes."

This continued on for abit until Teresa realised that shareen could happily say Yes for all eternity. She sighed. "Well how about we start again. This time, if you win, I'll give you a chocolate."

Shareen smiled widely and happily poured all the pieces back into the box while Teresa congratulated herself on her quickness. Halfway through this game however, Joe started to cry again. No amount of food offerings seemed to stop his crying and Teresa picked up him trying to comfort him. Thats when she smelled it. A pungent and incredibly unpleasent stench.

Joe quieted a little when he realised that his diaper was about to be changed. Teresa almost cried when she opened his diaper. Never, in her life had she ever imagined something could smell quite so awful. She suddenly understood why everyone hated changing diapers. She wasn't sure she could do it. It was not only disgusting, it was everywhere. Teresa imagined herself throwing everything away. the diaper, the mess, the baby. No, Mable would not be pleased. She steeled herself and completed the task, wiping away and powdering and wretching silently.

She had just finished and gone back to Shareen when she saw the all the pieces back in Shareen's lap. "hey, you cheated again."

"did not."

"did too."

"did not"

"did too."

This continued for about eight rounds until Teresa sighed and again gathered her patience. "if everyone cheated, the world would stop."

"why?"

"Because it's unfair."

"why?"

Teresa just didn't answer. "where's my chocolate? I want my chocolate," demanded Shareen with a dangerous glint in her eyes. Teresa was about to refuse until she saw the reddening of Shareen's face. She'd had enough of crying infants.

"ok."

"when is mommy coming back?"

"I don't know." Teresa felt a mild sense of panic. What if Mable never came home? oh god, the horror of having to take care of this stinky infant and his monster of a sister!

"why?"

Teresa felt something inside her drain away. "I dont know."

"why?"

"because i'm stupid."

"Why?"

"Because I am." She was, she really was. When had she ever wanted to have one of these things. Shareen didn't stop. IT was why why why why why why. Teresa began to make up answers, just to keep Shareen occupied. She played games and let Shareen cheat. When Joe cried, she gave him whatever he wanted. The entire time, her eyes were glued to the clock. Mable hadn't said exactly when she'd be home, but surely it couldn't be long.

The hands in the clock ticked as Shareen asked stupid irritating questions. It ticked as Teresa numbingly rolled dices and when Shareen became shrill, threw a chocolate piece at her. It ticked as Joe once again soiled his diaper, all that milk, and Teresa had to change it again.

Finally it became nine o clock. Shareen was still at full energy. Teresa was exhausted. She stood rocking Joe, trying to get him to sleep as Mable had directed as Shareen watched cartoons. That's when the door opened and Mable and her husband walked in. They looked so cheerful and calm, only a hint of worry.

Mable checked her children, her eyes only briefly lingered on the mess of game pieces on the floor, mixed with chocolate wrappers. It ignored the splatters of baby food on the kitchen table and floor. It made no comment on Teresa's zombie mien.

"thank you so much! you look like you could use some sleep," said Mable gently.

Teresa was numb. Utterly numb. An empty shell of a human being, devoid of anything except the desire to sleep forever. "I'd like to go home," she mumbled.

Mable nodded slowly. "ok, I'll get Peter to drive you home."

Teresa moved with slow precise movements. She did not see the scenery as it passed in the car. She didn't hear Peter thank her and then say goodbye. She barely saw her mother who welcomed her back and suggested she had a shower before bed. A missive she ignored.

The next morning, her mother asked her how it went. Teresa scowled at her. "Never mention babies to me again," she hissed. Then she broke up with her boyfriend.

11. The Perfect Retreat

It would be the perfect spot. Just as he said it would be. Gwen was perfectly satisfied. She'd had her doubts, specially on the three hour drive up to this incredibly remote spot but all those promises were fulfilled. The house was small really, but it overlooked the lake and it caught a nice view of the setting sun. Beautiful trees surrounded the house, shading it from view. Gwen had been so irritated that she'd driven right past it on the dirt road unaware of it, but she forgave the trees instantly as she listened to the birds having their evening gossip.

Inside the house, she was utterly enchanted. A small fireplace, worn table and chairs and a bear skin rug. How very charming. She'd had no idea that Martin had kept this little secret to himself for so long. Nor had she known that he could be quite so generous as to lend her this little secret spot for a full week. He might have been the office weirdo with his dull eyes, boring haircut and clothes from GAP, but apparently he wasn't entirely a lost cause. Just looking out her window in the bedroom, at the shimmering water brought visions of the relaxation she needed.

The feeling unfortunately didn't last beyond the unpacking. She cooked a simple spaghetti dinner on the ancient stove and tried not to look out the window in the kitchen. The trees which had looked so earthy and wonderful before sunset, now looked eerie and frightening in the dark. That didn't stop her from going outside for a quick fag but the chilly wind crying through the forest had her going back in pretty quickly.

The night did not get any warmer or sweeter as she'd hoped. Music only seemed to echo through the house making it seemed emptier. All the lights on had her imagining predators drawing near. Finally exasperated at herself she drew a bath and smoked a fag inside while languidly trying to build bubble fortresses.

Sleep came to her a little easier.  Dreams of flying over dark forests until she woke to the distinct sound of a thud. A muffled deep sound of a heavy object falling down. In an empty house, one did not usually hear such a sound and Gwen sat up with heart in her throat. All else seemed quiet and Gwen tried to imagine what it might be. Perhaps an animal had gotten in. As scary as that thought was, when she imagined it rifling through her kitchen, she felt another welcome emotion, anger. Stupid creature, she thought.

The door was silent as she pushed it open, the air dry and cool. Faint light from outside made odd shadows along the floor. Gwen looked down the stairs towards the kitchen and jumped back with a gasp when a definite shadow morphed and shifted. It passed right in front of her at the bottom of the stairs seeming much to big.

Gwen stood to calm the thundering in her chest. She had never tried to imagine what a heart attack might feel like but she was doing a good impression of it now. That shadow had seemed huge but that was obviously a trick of the light. Light was quite unreliable in that way, making things seem large and misshapen. Yes, that was it. Though as Gwen considered it, something was odd. Her light was turned off and the only light should have been the stars and moon over the lake, streaming through the window in silvery beams. Except the light had a warmer hue and was coming from around the corner towards the living area.

Gwen had no choice, she carefully stepped with bare feet down each step, feeling the dry worn wood and holding up the ugly pajama dress that she liked to wear. The light, warm as it was, wasn't enough to illuminate and when she stepped off the last step, she stepped into something very wet.

Ew, was her was thought. This creature must have pissed in the house. She lifted her foot and tried to shake it off and continue towards the source of the mystery light. Rounding the corner she saw something so strange she thought it must have been a dream. There, on the ground, under the worn rug she had admired was a hidden doorway with more steps leading down. Below was the light, brighter now that she stared at it.

Carefully, Gwen walked towards the open latch and peered down. A shadow moved again but Gwen forced herself to be quiet and stepped down. What or who was this? No animal could open latches or turn on lights.

She took each step down, eyes firmly on what might be hidden inside. There at the bottom seemed to be a figure on the ground. An odd looking figure. A figure that actually might be somewhat familiar though strange at the same time. A figure that she could only see clearly when she reached the bottom.

It was her. There she lay, eyes unseeing and her ugly pajamas stained red. At that moment, Gwen looked down at her feet. That had not been piss she had stepped in. It was blood. Her blood.

Shadows apeared on the wall and Gwen turned to face... Martin! Except Martin didn't see her. He was standing, holding a knife but he did not look at her. Instead he was looking at.. well her body. He went to her and quickly, roughly ripped and cut away her pajamas mumbling "ugly pajamas."

Gwen was shocked and disgusted and then she felt her emotions fade into something duller. Now that she considered it, she realised that everything felt just a little bit more distant. That was why, she, the woman who would run away at the sight of spiders had had the courage to come downstairs in the dark.

Martin was now considering her body and Gwen focused on him. His face registered disgust. "Fake boobs. Hate fake racks," he mumbled.

"Hey, they cost me a fortune!" she found herself saying before she stopped herself. Martin didn't notice.He instead was inspecting her, as if she was meat. "Arsehole," she muttered.

"Dyed hair?!" He exclaimed looking at the nest of hair she could never bring herself to dye.

"What, you though that I was a natural blond?" She replied sarcastically.

"What other fake work have you done on yourself bitch?" he asked her dead body with disgust.

"Hey, I've had good work down. What, you think chicks like me come natural? Bitch please!" Gwen rolled her eyes. Honestly. "I'm not the hottest chick in the office without a lot of work you know!"

"Fuckin hell, she smokes as well," he cursed, leaning over her face. "What a waste of time."

"Waste of time?! Excuse me, I'll have you know I'm a fucking catch! And what work? What those occasional creepy smiles, that lame attempts to chat me up while 'borrowing me stapler'. Douchebag, Nobody fell for that shit," she scoffed. Well she supposed she had, in accepting his offer to use his lakehouse but she'd been insistent that she be alone. "You've been following haven't you? Freak! Were you here when I came?" No, that couldn't be. She'd left him this afternoon at the office. "God, how did I miss what a creep you are!"

She watched as Martin cleaned the blood off her body and then begin to position her limbs. "yea fuckwad, I had work done on my arms." He touched her stomach, and frown, "Tummy tuck." He moved down her legs, "lipo there too arsehole." Then touched her feet, "Yea surgery there too. You think normal women with normal feet can wear Manolos? I dont think so!" Gwen rolled her eyes.

Martin sat back. He looked very frustrated and angry. "Fucking bitch, is any part of you real?!"

"Nope. Yea I had work done there.. that place you thinking of right now. Yea, there too. Things gotta stay tight and pretty." Gwen smiled with sweet satisfaction. She enjoyed seeing him so frustrated and angry. "Dream on you psycho, really. Real women don't pop up like me. We're made not born!"

Martin seemed to be having a little temper tantrum. He picked up the knife as if considering butcherig her, "Dont even think about it you freak!" she shrieked and then sighed when he dropped the knife while punching the walls. His temper fit continued abit and Gwen had a moment to worry about what he would do. She did not want to watch any necrophiliac action.

Martin began to pound the floor. "Months of work wasted! On a fake whore?! Fuck! I knew I should have picked Ceci the receptionist."

"Nah, she's had work done too. I know,  referred her," drawled Gwen to an unhearing Martin. "What you gonna do now? Huh? Seriously, you do anything kinky with my body, and I swear to god I'll not only curse you, but I'll haunt you right up to the day you go to hell," she spat. "I suggest you just turn yourself into the police.

Martin calmed down and seemed to consider her body. Finally he just picked up the body and began walking up the stairs. "Dude, careful with my head! hey!" she screamed as she followed him. Martin didn't stop or pause, he went right outside to the lake where he lay down her body, disapearing round the back to repear with a length of rope. He tied her ankles together and then tied the other end around the rock.

"Dude, that is like, so cliche," she said sarcastically as he pulled a small rowboat from the reeds. She was a little upset that this was to be her last resting place but she followed him as he took her body and dumped it into the dark oily depths a dozen meters from shore. "Seriously? Someone's gonna find me." she said to him. "Or i'll float back up in like a day or two. That rope won't hold me."

He didn't answer. Just went back, stowed the boat away and went inside to clean up. An hour later, he walked out to his car and drove off. Gwen didn't follow. She couldn't. That's when she felt quite dejected. She looked towards the lake where her body lay beneath the dark impenetrable surface. She stayed there till dawn feeling... very little by morning.

It was hard to feel in her current state. She didn't really care about anything. She found that she didn't particularly miss life. Death was much simpler and if she was aware, she chose to just enjoy the sunrises and sunsets and pretty things. A small part of her thought that perhaps she was here because of unfinished business, but another part insisted that she had come to the late to have a holiday. Well she got one. Indefinitely.

Then about four days later, the police came. Dozens of them. They came with helicopters and boats and teams of forensics. They combed through the surrounding areas until someone found the secret room of horrors where the bloodstains had only been cursorily cleaned. Then the helicopters found her body floating in the lake.

Gwen smiled as she listened to the police talk about Martin. They talked about someone who went fishing and saw her floating. She heard how easy it was to figure out hat the murderer was probably Martin. She heard that she was not the first, something like the fourth. That made her sad. Then she heard about how he was going to be arrested. She smiled so much she didn't notice herself fading away. When she did, she did not care one bit. Her purpose was done it seemed. This was not too bad a holiday because it would never end with another day in the office.

10 - A Holy Search

Frank was, at a glance, an entirely pragmatic an sensible man. He might have gone through a brief rebellious stage where he had smoked cigarettes and had a bright red Mohawk but that lasted all of two days. The smoking lasted a little longer until he realized the drawbacks of having yellow teeth and permanently bad breath.

Now he was a successful business owner, selling office supplies which of course was always in regular demand and he liked to spend his evenings watching reruns of old TV shows and occasionally going out for social drinks and local theatre shows.

At thirty-five however, Frank began to feel restless. He started having the distinct feeling that he had forgotten something that wasn’t as mundane as keys or his Gym membership card. It wasn’t a provincial desire for a wife either. He had just ended his last relationship with a pretty receptionist with an odd predilection for rapping when happy.

Passing by a giant sign proclaiming “Have you found Jesus yet?” he decided that was what he had forgotten. Not Jesus precisely because how could he loose something he never had, but religion. If most people in the world followed one God or another or more then perhaps so should he.

Once he made this decision it was easy enough to stroll down to the nearest cathedral. St Paul’s cathedral was a beautiful building in quiet corner of a busy section of the city. The stained glass windows and worn pews were inspiring. Less inspiring was their holy book. It started innocuously enough but the God described in this book seemed to be jealous, angry and fond of killing people or making others kill people. A little more research on google brought up crusades and witch hunts and really far too many instances of death in the name of a God.

The next logical step was Christianity, it’s sheer popularity if facebook was anything to go by had to mean something, but they used the same book and the youtube videos of Reverend Pat Robertson irritated Frank for the sheer stupidity portrayed.

Judaism seemed difficult, something about bloodlines and the fact that Frank happened to love bacon. He considered Islam but it was hard to get passed the pictures of the Burqa and stories of suicide bombers.

Hinduism was out because Frank was not good at math and there were too many gods to keep track of.

Luckily for him, a Jehovah’s witness knocked on his door with leaflets and a wide smile but he soon found out that Christmas was anathema to them. Life without Christmas sounded boring.

Mormonism sounded quite fascinating. Frank could easily give up alcohol and even coffee for the right god, but Joseph Smith had clearly just pulled that story of golden plates out of his arse.

Scientology seemed popular with celebrities so perhaps there was something to it, but again, its founder was a science fiction writer and alien spirits was just too silly to believe while e-meters sounded creepy.

Frank considered some form of paganism, perhaps Shinto or Wicca but how could he become a pagan and worship nature while smack dab in the middle of the most concrete city in the world?

He couldn’t be a Rastafarian because of his need for practical hairstyles despite the marijuana and for the same reason he was not keen on becoming a Sikh despite the snazzy turbans and of course he couldn’t give up bacon.

Finally Frank found his religious calling while perusing Reddit. It seemed obvious. The perfect religious expression. One that did not ignore the science Frank had grown up with, nor interfered with the way he lived his life. His Holy Noodleyness had shown him the way. Terrifyingly squiggly, squishy with a hint of garlic, the Flying Spaghetti Monster had touched him with his noodly appendages. The church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster demanded no tithes, nor demanded attendance. It gave him no reason to ignore or change his moral compass or feel any guilt or anxiety for natural urges. It was his perfect religion and he had found his god.

9. Zombie Apocalypse HK

The end had come. In fact it came three weeks ago. It hard started with innocuous news reports of customers in Elements mall going insane, ripping up their Gucci handbags and attacking people around them. One report became two, then three then suddenly they were talking about a possible epidemic.

SARs had mutated, or maybe it was H5N1 or maybe it was swine flu. Diane didn't care. That was what scientists were for, to figure this shit out. What she cared about was the fact that first, they closed Elements, then all the other malls. They they started closing down the luxury stores. LV stores, Gucci, Prada, Coach. That was when Diane had a hissyfit worthy of a reality show. For her Armageddon had arrived.

Then the epidemic spread like wildfire. It didn't matter if anyone went shopping or not, people started to go silly, crazy then oddly carnivorous with a predilection for tearing at the necks and ripping open the skulls of nearby people. Diane took it seriously then, She couldn't shop without her head. She barricaded herself inside her fifth floor walk up. She closed the blinds and she kept her internet on. She could live without shopping for a few weeks. It would be like a retreat. She could diet while she waited.

Three weeks passed during which the news reported that German scientists had isolated the cause. A mixture of industrial chemicals in milk products, mystery meat sold as "pork" and strange fumes in air pollution had created a unique organism that latched on to brain stems and highjacked higher brain function. Whatever that meant, Diane didn't understand. She did understand the words "no known cure".

Diane first cried about missing what would have been great sales on shoes had zombies not decided to ruin it for everyone. Then she cried when she looked out her window and saw zombies ripping at their designer clothes and getting blood on their shoes. Finally she cried because she ran out of water.

There was nothing else for it. She liked how skinny she was getting but the lack of hydration was wreaking havoc on her skin. She couldn't stay here anymore. There was a news report telling survivors to make for the ferry. A boat was specifically waiting to take non-zombies like her out of Hong Kong.

It took her three hours to find the perfect outfit. She got her stretchiest skinny jeans and her favourite Abercrombie and Fitch T-shirt. She chose sensible Timberland hiking boots, worn only once when a date had insisted they go for a hike.Lucky for her, she could never throw out perfectly good footwear.

But she couldn't leave behind her collection. How could she. These shoes were her pride and joy. She packed them all, as many as she could into various handbags. She slung them over her shoulder and stealing herself, walked down her stairs and out the rickety front door.

Hell awaited her. Zombies lurched and groaned about in terribly twisted ways. Drooling and dragging perfectly good Choo sandals across the ground. If she had thought that body odor had been bad in the summer days, the stench was nigh overwhelming now.

Diane tried to mimic them. Some newscasters had suggested it. It didn't work. The zombies seemed to know that she was alive and delicious! They converged on her. Diane squealed and ran. It was all downhill so it seemed OK at first. Just a little dodging here, quick turns there.

Until Queen's road. There was a huge wall of zombies lurching about, unfashionably dirty. Diane tried to run around them, but they followed her! She dodge and evaded but her heavy bags were weighing her down. Tears slid down her face as she realized what she would have to do. Sacrifice some for the survival of others. She started rummaging and pulled out an old pair of Burberry boots. The heels were scuffed anyways. She chucked them at the zombies.

Maybe they smelled like her or they still had a taste for good shoes. They all went to the boots. Diane kept running. More kept appearing though! Diane reached in, she had no time to consider and when she pulled out her Christian Louboutin's she wept openly as she threw them at the zombies. They had killer heels she had always thought, and she was right. One went right through the eye of a green zombie and down he went. Others paused to pick up what had been thrown, ripping right out of the eye socket with the eyeballs still attached.

Well, if she was to give her up most treasure possessions, then she might as well have made them count. She started to pull out other heels and aimed for the heads. When she pulled out flats, she spun them, like boomerangs. They didn't come back, but they took out two at once. When she got boots she aimed at larger groups, trying to trip them making them all stop at once and block others.

Finally she could see the ferry ahead. Armed guards stood at a makeshift iron fence. They were gesturing at her to come. Some were shooting at the zombies behind her. She could feel the horde behind her gradually thin.

She was so close! So close, when she tripped. A gnarled, smelly, twisted hand hung on to her ankle. "Let me go!" she screamed. She kicked at the zombie. He was a green with wilting black hair and eyes that pointed in odd directions. He was wearing an Armani suit. She reached into her bag. Only one pair of shoes left. Manolo Blahnik sandals. Her favourite pink pair with pretty straps. Oh were it not so. The choice stood before her, shoes or ankle. Shoes... or ankle!?

The people behind the fence called out to her. "come! quick! The boat will be leaving soon!" Diane looked at them. They were so badly dressed. Like Hipsters! Could she be with them? She looked at the zombies, at their filthy branded clothes. They were so smelly.

She threw the Sandals as hard as she could. One bonked the zombie right on his head. The other impaled in his forearm. He released her his other hand reaching for the bloody sandal in his arm.

Diane got up and ran. As she ran she dumped her purses. What good was a Coach bag if her shoes didn't match it? What good was a clutch when she would never party without her Manolos. She was weeping as she rushed through the gate.

People congratulated her. She was hugged and patted on the back. They said, "Don't worry. We will take care of you. I'm sorry you lost so much already."

Diane nodded, "My shoes!" she wailed. Her life as she knew it was over. Was there life after Manolos?

8. Kidnapping

It was a crisp spring day. Beautiful by any standards with blue skies and soft squidgy clouds floating high above the concrete skyline. I had no clue that today was the day. The first day of a series of days that would spell out tribulations for me and a general mystery.

How could I have known as I walked down the streets, sidestepping the sad remains of cockroaches not quick enough to dodge the angry feet of the previous night. I walked with a spring in my step, almost whistling a tune were it not for the sour faces of the cleaning ladies. I was happy, carefree. Until i reached the office.

There was my desk. Seemingly nothing out of place. I sat and turned on my computer and while waiting sorted out my pile of paper clips. It was only when I turned to look in my drawer that I noticed it. The empty space in the corner. My pride and joy was gone. missing. Wrenched from my desk by a thief in the night! My pen! My Montblanc Typhoon LE pen. A gift from a grateful client but much more then that. My right hand in an almost literal sense.

Oh the anguish and anger as I gazed upon that empty space. It was unthinkable. Unimaginable. Where could it be?! When Frantic searches of the all my drawers came up empty, I had to face the inevitable truth. My pen had been kidnapped!

I cannot describe those feelings that washed over me at that moment. I notified HR immediately of the theft. A representative was sent quickly and I was interviewed with alacrity if perhaps a certain lack of professionalism. 

Yes, I locked my drawer every night.

Yes, I was sure I locked it last night.

No, I had not just lost my pen.

Yes! Of course I wanted to pursue this with the full extent of the law.

Their inaction and uninterested mien did not inspire me but I gave them my statement. I urged them to investigate. They promised to follow up.

Lunchtime passed and I heard nothing. Oh how I wept with thoughts of where my pen was and what horrible thief had taken it. I called HR on the hour, asking, begging for news but none was given.

"We are investigating, we will keep you informed," was all they said.

At the end of the day, I knew I had to take matters into my own hands. It was then that I checked my inbox. There it was! A ransom note.

"We have your pen," it read. "We have not harmed it yet, but we will. Put fifty dollars into an envelope and put it in the cookie tin on the fridge. Do not try to find us. If you do, the pen will get it." with the note was a polaroid of my beloved pen. It seemed unharmed, lying on a sheet of paper.

I complied quickly. The day was almost over and we would all be obliged to leave the office. I sat with my eagle eyes on the small kitchen but only Teresa out receptionist went in, and she came out with only a cup of coffee.

When it was time to go, grudgingly I left. I could only hope that my pen would be returned.

I was wrong. The next day was an envelope on my desk. Another ransom note, "we changed our minds. We want 100. Put another fifty in the tin," it read. rage boiled up inside me. How dare they toy with my like this? Instead of the 50, I put a note demanding my pen back in the envelope. All day i watched the kitchen. I could do no real work but i saw no one touching the tin.

The next day was my darkest day. There was another note. Nothing was written but there was a photo. My pen's clip had been broken off. In a rage i tore up the photo then in despair I ran to the toilet and wept. The monsters had harmed my pen! At that moment i decided to exact my revenge. But first i had to find the perpetrators.

I began with the photos and the notes. The Notes had been typed and printed so it was little help, but I noticed that the font was Comic Sans. Few in this office would use comic sans, this had to be a clue. The photos yielded more clues. The plan paper was lying on a fawn colored desk. 

I spent the day wandering the office. I spied on my colleagues, looking at their desks and first ruling out those with grey desks. Then i began to spy on them typing. Who had a predeliction for Comic Sans?

Unfortunately it seemed like no one. I felt like despairing again until i noticed Teresa's desk. It was fawn desk. In fact Hers was the only Fawn desk I could see. However this was not clue enough. I nonchalantly went to my desk and made a show of walking to the kitchen with an envelope making sure to exit without an envelope. Just as I expected, Teresa soon after went in for some coffee. There was my suspect. But how to be sure?

At quitting time, I pretended to be going home but in actual fact, hid in the toilets. My plan was to wait till Teresa had left as well. Being unsure when she might leave, i waited an hour. I peeked in the office. She was still there! I waited another hour. When i peeked again, she was gone.

I went to her desk feeling a small shred of excitement. I checked her rubbish bin. There it was! All the evidence i needed! The envelope in which I had pretended to put fifty dollars! My writing on the corner! Teresa was the thief!

I tried to search for my pen. Surely she wouldn't have taken in home. That would be too much. She had to have kept it in her desk! I began to open drawers. The first held loose papers and a stick of gum. The one under was a sea of staplers. Why did she have so many? She must have stolen them! But this was not my affair. The third held a small bottle of cheap wine. Teresa it seemed was quite the criminal.

Alas I did not find my pen. There was only one drawer left. It was locked. No matter. It would not stop me. I tried to pick it, but locking picking was not a skill i had learned, unlike teresa it seemed. I was sure my pen was inside, so i started to try to pry it open. I used letter openers, staplers and a metal ruler. I got forks and spoons and knives from the kitchen. Each was bent out of shape and the desk was slowly eroded and chipped away.

Finally, I pried open the desk out of sheer willpower and stubborn strength. Oh the joy i felt when i saw inside my beloved. There is lay in a sea of pens. Had they been kidnapped also? I could not leave them behind. I grabbed them all. Every single one. I put them in pockets. I took them home.

I had achieved success!

Well it wasn't so easy of course. HR might not have cared about the theft of one pen, but it seemed they did care about the destruction of property and the theft of 39 pens. I was fired of course and told that I shouldn't expect a good reference, but I didn't care. I solved the mystery. Got my pen back and Teresa was exposed as a kidnapper of pens!