Day 26 – April 26 – Part 1 – Sleeping Beauty

Day 26 – April 26 – Part 1 – Sleeping Beauty

No one was completely sure where Josephine Grim had gone. She had lived in the same house on the same street for 87 years. She was out pottering in the garden nearly every day before the paper was even delivered. Then, one day, she didn’t collect the paper where it fell by her gate. No one noticed the first few days. All the neighbours swore that she kept to herself most of the time and were usually on her way back in the house by the time anyone ventured outside for their papers or to go to work. After about a week someone noticed the pile of newspapers at her gate. Like a good neighbour, they left a note at the gate asking her to please remove the papers as it is an eyesore to the rest of the neighbourhood. After almost two weeks, when the growing pile of newspapers caught someone’s eye again, the neighbours started to argue who should be the one to climb over the gate and either knock on the door and have a word with her or look through the windows and call an ambulance if the worst had happened.

At last Abe drew the short straw and he huffed and puffed over the gate. Luckily he had a proper pile of soggy newspapers to break his fall. He straightened his tie and walked up to the door. A bell hung there along with a bronze knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. He rang the bell, waited a while and then tried the knocker. There was still no answer after the third knock, so he went over to the windows to check if he could see Josephine. He didn’t want to ad “or what was left of her”.

He made his way around the house, knocking on windows and looking through the slits between the curtains. Still nothing. By this time a few of the other neighbours had picked the lock on the gate and also made their way to the house, unsure whether they wanted to find her or not. Soon everyone was whispering about the myriad of deaths they had seen on television shows and which one would be applicable to this situation.

Then Gregory, a teenager strangely adept at picking locks, picked the lock on the back door and stepped inside, a hand over his nose and mouth. The other adults left him to go in alone as they “didn’t want too many people spoiling the crime scene”.

He took a shallow breath. The house smelled… musty but homely. The kind of smell you get when fresh baked cookies are carried through a dusty library filled with old books. But there was another smell underneath it all. The smell of wet earth and new leaves. He took his hand from his face and took a deep breath. Behind him one of the neighbours quickly closed the door before any unwanted smells could drift outside.

Gregory picked his way through the house. The kitchen was empty, so was the living room, corridor, bathrooms (for that he was especially thankful), as well as the first three bedrooms he looked into. At last he came to the end of the corridor and what he surmised was Josephine’s bedroom. The door was closed and he knocked, calling out her name.

“Ma’am?” he tried again after a few seconds. “Ma’am? I am going to open the door.” He took a few steps back and rammed the door with his shoulder as he had seen so many times on the TV. The door didn’t budge and he bounced away with a throbbing shoulder. He used his less heroic – but far less painful – way of entering and picked this lock as well. He hoped no one would ask why he could so easily pick locks, but if he saved Mrs Grim’s life he was sure no one would care. He wondered if he cared enough to give an old lady mouth-to-mouth. He pushed the picture from his mind and opened the bedroom door.

He stepped into the room and felt something give away beneath his foot. With a shudder he looked down. The floor was covered in dirt. Not dust or dirty clothes, papers and plates (like his room), but ground. He pushed the door open farther and realised where the wet-ground-and-leaves smell came from. The room was alive. Or rather, the stuff inside the room.

The dressed was made from living trees, the four poster bed was four living trees, the wardrobes were criss-crossing branches and had actual green, growing leaves on them. Gregory ventured deeper into the room and saw a figure lying in the shadows on the bed.

He switched the bed lamp on and saw that it was a woman – sleeping, by the looks of it. He bent over her.

“Excuse me?” he tried and touched her shoulder. She didn’t stir, so he felt her neck for a pulse. It was there, though it was faint. He watched her for a while and saw that she was breathing very slowly. He looked at her face. She must be about his age, he surmised. And surely, one little kiss wouldn’t hurt…

He bent over and kissed her. And she opened her eyes.

“Gregory!” she said a little sleepy. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to come and wake me.” She sat up and stretched. “Just took a little beauty rest. How long was I asleep? Did anyone worry? How did you get in?”

“I – uh – two weeks – uh,” he stuttered. “Who are you?”

“I’m Josephine Grim, Dear,” she said and picked up a hand mirror. “Oh dear,” she frowned and touched her face. “I think I forgot to set the alarm. How silly of me. That’s the problem with fairy genes, you never quite know how it’s going to turn out. Well, lucky for me I don’t look too old for my Prince Charming, hey?”

Day 25 Part 1 – April 25 – NaShoStoMo Challenge - The Voices in My Head

Day 25 – April 25 – The Voices in My Head

The tinnitus was especially bad today. Usually it was only a vague ringing in the background, one I could easily block out by getting busy with work or putting on the radio. On a worse day I would try to drown out the ringing by listening to music via earphones. I always start with some pop before moving on to Classical. If that stopped working and the ringing worked its way through the blasting of the orchestras, I would try some alternative bands. When that didn’t work anymore I would use metal to try and drown the ringing while trying to keep my mind on whatever work I was busy with. At the moment it was working the deep fryer in a local fast food joint.

It’s not that I’m not motivated, you see, but I do have some… issues relating to the ringing that makes me somewhat unwanted in an office. I haven’t worked in an office for over two years, and I admit throwing a brand new computer out of a fifth story window and then breaking the other computers on that floor is not a good way to act. And it sure doesn’t give out positive energy. I do not care. I heard the voices. And I am not crazy. When I turned on the new computer they were there. Babbling between the static-like ringing in my ears. Not saying anything much – not anything I could understand anyway – but they were there when the computer was on. They were gone when the computer was turned off. Yes, I understand now that I could just have turned the computer off and taken a sick day. But throwing a computer out of a building or smashing the cursed circuits and cards and whatever else constitutes the machine did make me feel good. And at least I took the anger out on non-living things. I could have taken it out on my colleagues. Had they ever thought about that?

But here, in the kitchen, I could be in charge. The noise blocked out the ringing on most days. The earphones I wore almost constantly on the bad days blocked out the rest. And I could take out my anger on a new batch of fries every few minutes. I could channel the ringing out of my ears through my arms, and out of my finger tips into the boiling oil and let it burn away. I haven’t felt like attacking something in the three months I’ve worked here.

But today I can’t get the bloody ringing to stop. I can’t get it drowned out. I have taken the meds. I have tried pop, Classical, alternative and metal. I have even tried singing along to the metal and humming along to the metal as if the right pitch will counteract the ringing and make it stop. I have even fried more fries that usual, channelling all the while. But it’s only getting worse and I’m getting agitated. Really, really agitated.

I take the ear phones from my ears and tell Robby – who’s in charge back here – that I’m taking a tea break. I fill a paper cup with the sludge this place call tea and ad some milk and sugar to make it somewhat palatable. Then I step outside into the alley behind the restaurant and take in a deep breath of musty air. The smell of hot oil clings to my pores and gives me a daily headache, but today not even that takes my mind off of the ringing.

I stick a finger in my ear and wiggle it around as if that will suddenly clear everything up. But, of course, it doesn’t. I take a sip of scalding tea. But the ringing gets louder. Like static when you’re trying to get to your favourite station on a cheap radio. Then it starts again. The voices. Or, this time, the voice.

I look around to make sure that there’s no one else who is talking to me. The ringing comes back and is replaced after a few seconds with a voice speaking with a strange English accent. I try the finger-in-ear-wiggle again and then, suddenly, I can hear what the voice is saying. As if someone found the right knob and turned the volume up.

“Hello?” the strange voice says, then clears it’s throat. “Hello, Sentient Being Residing on Planet Earth. We come in peace. I repeat. We come in peace.”

Well, at least the ringing has stopped. 

Day 20 – April 20 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – The Golden Fleece

I think this may be another short piece showing a world which may have a few spin-off or two in the future. Lame pun not intended. 

Day 20 – April 20 – The Golden Fleece

Only a quarter of The Golden Fleece served as a wool shop. The shop windows showed various knitted and crochet jerseys, socks, blankets and a very bright orange bobble hat. It stocked your normal types of natural and synthetic yarn and thread for the most of the customers and kept the special threads, among other things, in the back. Maisie had grown up in the shop and knew all the customers by heart. She knew exactly which ones came to buy the ‘normal’ wools and which came for the ‘special stock’. She was also the one who arranged the special stock to be made and delivered (usually at night) and knew almost every specialty spinner in the country. Although the most costly of the yarn was the Straw-to-Gold™ made by the dwarfs of the Eastern Mountains which was mostly used by the tailors of the noble families, she was also the only (human) shop stocking thread for Faerie garments. Imported spider webs from across the world, took their place in the back of the shop in specially made boxes.

The only yarn The Golden Fleece refused to stock was the Invisi-yarn which had been developed by a alchemist some two centuries ago. Unfortunately you could only see the material if the light caught it just right. It was even more unfortunate that the king in those years decided to have a whole outfit made from it – and then go walking through the streets. She sniggered as she remembered the many tales which were told from generation to generation about the incident. She still had the faded certificate against the back wall proclaiming The Golden Fleece the only accredited retailer of the Real, Authentic Invisi-yarn.

Maisie sighed as she looked back at her knitting and continued with the pattern of knit and purl stitches. Her hands already knew the whole pattern for the mushroom cosies themselves and she could let her mind wander around. Every winter she helped the gnomes and fairies knit cosies for the flowers and other plants for when it became too cold outside for the half-fairy plants to live. Last winter she had even knitted a blanket for the unicorn in the woods. But this winter she felt very restless. She needed to get out of the city and away from the shop she had run single-handedly for thirty years. And she knew just what siren song it was that drew her away.

There was only one yarn which the shop had never stocked – Golden Fleece. Real Golden Fleece. It took a Quest to get the fleece and bring it back and now there were not enough heroes to go around; not after the wars with the dragons. The Lake Maidens had not been able to weave enough fabric for Anti-Dragon Armour and many knights and heroes perished in their inadequate metal armour.

Maisie finished the cosy and placed it on top of the pile next to her. A thought struck her. She had quite a bit of stock of the shimmering white yarn the Lake Maidens used in their creations. Easily enough for a dress. And she could trade some of the Straw-to-Gold™ for passage and board. And she could wield her steel knitting needles better than a knight his talking sword. A smile spread across her face. Why stay here this winter if she could head north to the summer and to adventure?

She got up from her rocking chair, locked the shop’s door and put a message stating “Closed for Winter.” Then she went to the back of the shop to get the yarn and start knitting.

Day 19 – April 19 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – Suicide Bridge

Day 19 – April 19 – Suicide Bridge

Alexander’s parents had given him the name of the historical figure hoping that their son, too, would be great. It turned out that the name was not completely applicable to the bouncing baby boy and at the moment he found himself standing on a bridge, his toes level with the edge and his hands clamped around the railing behind him. And he was scared out of his mind.

It was not a particularly high bridge, but it was the dry season and the river below had numerous sharp – and potentially lethal – rocks begging for him to take the plunge. Many others, so the newspapers contested, had ended it all on this bridge. So much so that it became known as “Suicide Bridge” to the local people. Motorists usually kept out an eye for potential jumpers and there was an SOS phone close by. But early in the morning, when the darkness has only started to lift, there were not many motorists on this road. Alexander clamped and unclamped his hands around the metal railing and stared into the river’s distance.

He turned his head sharply when he heard a car approaching from his right. Was this really the time for someone to show up? He was still thinking! He had half a mind to climb back over the railing and give the untimely driver a piece of his mind. But then the car slowed and stopped by the side of the road, just before the bridge.

A scrawny man climbed out and smoothed his hair and jacket before walking towards Alexander. Scrawny stopped abruptly when he saw Alexander and fumbled in his top pocket for his glasses. “You here to jump?” he said at last and Alexander was sure the man was blushing.

“Thinking about it.”

The scrawny man looked back at his car and shrugged. “Mind if I join you? I’d prefer not to go back and have to do this again.” A flicker of a smile pulled at his mouth.

Alexander shuffled over a bit on the bridge as you would on a bench to make space for one more person. He watched the scrawny man try to climb over the railing and not succeeding. At last the man just sank onto the tar, his legs stretched out in front of him, his feet sticking into the road past the faded red line.

“How long have you been here?”

Alexander glanced at his watch. “About an hour.” He stared down at the man and wondered what had happened in his life to make him come to Suicide Bridge. He ventured the question.

“It’s a big step,” the scrawny man said.

“Yip. Not too sure if this is the best option. Jimmy from the bank took a dive off the bank’s roof and look where he ended up.”

“Yeah. Bummer of a way to find out you cannot survive falls. Or fly.”

“I’d rather not talk about it.” He shook his head vehemently.

“Rachel from the grocer’s can stop time, apparently.”

“We haven’t found anyone yet that can fly.” Alexander cleared his throat. “Perhaps it’s one of us?”

The scrawny man shrugged. “Maybe I have a brilliant mind to keep myself out of trouble or to save the whole world through my genius creations. Maybe I don’t have to jump.”

“I would rather be bullet proof or be able to run very quickly. Or climb walls. Or see through chick’s clothing. Or see through walls. Maybe you’re supposed to be my nemesis.” Alexander grinned.

The scrawny man felt a flickering inside. Yes! Yes! He was The Nemesis!

“Maybe I’m supposed to meet you in a fight to the-“ Alexander’s voice turned into a scream as the scrawny man pushed him from the bridge. Alexander did not fly. In fact, the splattered quite a bit when he hit the rocks below.

“I am The Nemesis!” the scrawny man shouted, throwing a fist in the air. “And I will rule the world!”

Agatha, dressed in practical clothes and practical shoes (unlike the spandex so many in town favoured suddenly), stood on the ledge of the bank building’s roof. At ten floors high it was the highest building in town. It had been three weeks since the meteor hit just outside of the town and she was still too scared to test and see if she had received any superpowers. Three weeks and already The Nemesis was building a Giant Ray Gun to Explode the Moon. At the edge of the town The Nemesis’ Lab sent smoke into the sky. She grinned, but didn’t jump. Who needed to fly to fight The Nemesis? She would fight brains with brains. A grin spread over her face.  

Day 18 – April 18 – Part 2 – The Bridge Keeper

Ok, this is one I wrote a while back (read about three years) and decided to dust it off and review it a bit.

Day 18 – April 18 – The Bridge Keeper

The master waited for his pupil to bow. The boy was young, just over a century old. The master was well over 1000 and his face split and cracked like slate. His hair had vanished somewhere after he turned 400 and his bare head was covered by a rough woolen hood. The apprentice in front of him looked as scared as he himself was after being given his first task. The boy still had his hair, though, and his face barely showed the cracks of time. Unfortunately he also wore glasses.

“Take this, apprentice Shar-ghathal,” the master said and handed the boy a staff of gold wood. Inscribed upon it, in runes, were not the names of the doomed as some thought, but a couple of back-up riddles if he should need them. As they were too powerful to be taught to anyone and the speaking of them could make even the barrow dwellers sit up and take heed, they were only written and given upon an oath not to use them except to defend themselves.

Shar-ghathal took up the staff.

“I swear that I will use this only in defense of myself and my kin, Master Néghla-ghurtathal,” he said, bowing his head.

The master nodded.

“I give this bridge to you to keep. You will defend it with your life. You will not let anyone pass into the realm of the Trolls. You will ask three riddles to all who step upon the bridge. If they do not answer correctly, they may not pass. If they answer right they are considered a Troll-friend and may pass the bridge. But under no circumstances may they pass into the realm. This is your order. Do you accept?”

“I do, Master Néghla-ghurtathal,” he answered, banging the end of the staff upon the bridge.

“What will you do if someone tries to pass without being let by?” he asked.

Shar-ghathal thought of the sword slung across his back.

“If they try to pass, they will be slain and given to the river to ferry to the sea.”

“Good,” the master nodded. He stepped off the bridge, seeming to blur for a moment before vanishing, having passed through a doorway into the realm of the trolls.

Shar-ghathal sat down on the bank next to the river, keeping his eyes on the road that led from the southern cities, reciting the three riddles of the bridge over and over in his head.

Some time had passed since the apprentice took his seat on the bank of the river. The road where he was stationed was not used much – therefore the perfect place for an apprentice Bridge Keeper to start. On either side of the bridge was a half overgrown road that led to some of the smaller northern cities and the Wilds beyond. The sun had gotten a lot warmer and he crept underneath the bridge to get some shade without leaving his post. As the bridge was made of wood, he reckoned that he would easily hear anyone trying to cross it.

He lay there, content with listening to the river and the birds in the tall grass, when he heard taps on the bridge. He hastened up the bank and onto the bridge to see who it was.

There, on the other side of the bridge, with the wide river below them, he saw three goats. One was an emaciated, pathetic looking animal. One was a bit fatter, though he had quite a dumb look about him. The other one was fatter and larger than his companions and had a magnificent pair of horns on his head.

An eerie feeling came over Shar-ghathal and he clenched his hand tightly around the staff in his hand. Pushing his glasses back on his nose, he spoke to them, as most people will speak to animals.

“Shoo,” he said, “Go away. Bridges are no place for goats. You have enough grass on that side.”

The fat goat cocked his head to the side.

“I beg you pardon, Troll, but the grass seem to be greener on the other side of the river. Look at my friends here, they need food and they need it quickly before they starve,” the goat said gruffly.

Quite surprised at the learned accent of the goat, he let them come closer.

“If you wish to pass, you must answer my riddles three,” he said, remembering again his task as Bridge Keeper.

“Very well,” said the fat goat. “I will answer your three riddles.”

The troll scratched his nose absentmindedly and started with the first riddle while the emaciated goat chewed on the hem of his robe.

“I was weaponed warrior. Now proud, young,

a warrior covers me with silver and gold,

with curved wire-bows. Sometimes men kiss me;

sometimes I summon companions

to war with my voice. Sometimes steed bears me

over the marchland; sometimes a mere-steed

bears over oceans me brightly adorned.

Sometimes a maiden fills ring-adorned bosom;

sometimes on tables, on hard boards,

headless I lie, despoiled by the warriors.

Sometimes I hang with jewels adorned

where men drink, fair on the wall,

noble war-trapping: sometimes folk-warriors

on steed carry me--then must I wind

swallow, wealth-marked with name.

Sometimes with calls I warriors invite,

proud ones to wine; sometimes from cruel ones

with voice I restore booty, from raiders,

make fiend-scathers flee. Guess me!”

He watched the fat goat closely as he tapped-tapped a hoof on the bridge while he was thinking.

“A sword and a goblet,” he said, not thinking quite straight.

“That is not correct. You may not pass.”The apprentice took his staff in both hands.

“I will pass,” the goat said.

“Then I must slay you as any other man that passes the bridge.”

“I’m a goat, not a human.”

“Then how could you not guess the answer to the riddle? Your own forebears taught the trolls that riddle.”

“Our forebears hate trolls,” the second goat said without thinking. The emaciated one looked up, the hem of the robe still in his mouth.

The troll apprentice made a swipe with the staff, sending the emaciated goat plunging into the cold water of the river and causing a few travelling salesmen who had just came to the bridge to gasp at the sight of cruelty to an animal – by a troll nonetheless.

The goat plunged into the cold water, and went under for a moment, but then bobbed to the surface, changing its shape to that of a magician. The others, too, changed their shapes. But Shar-ghathal was ready with his silver sword and fought the magicians, using the trolls’ own magic to guard him from their spells. They too, he sent to the river.

He returned his sword to the scabbard on his back, and adjusted his robe, mending the hem with a few words. He stood in the middle of the bridge, his staff in one hand, and pushed the glasses back on the bridge of his nose.

“If you wish to pass the bridge, travellers, you must answer my riddles three,” he said, his voice carrying loudly to the travelling salesmen.

“How far to the next bridge?” One of them asked.

“Twenty miles.”

The man lifted his wide brimmed hat. “Well, good day to you, I believe we’ll not be taking the short cut after all, thank you all the same, sir.”

Troll Bridge by Woodwose

Day 18 – April 18 – Dragon Food

I just had to do one story with names containing a lot of apostrophes...

Day 18 – April 18 – Dragon Food

“I never should have stayed a virgin,” Ke’el’se’ah said to the empty field around her. Sure it sounded like a good idea – until the town decide you’re the perfect girl to sacrifice to a dragon. Well, the Dragon, when you think about it. It’s not like they’re a usual part of the country’s fauna. The previous one had “visited” some five hundred years ago and the whole race was considered a legend – until this one showed up about a week ago. She sighed and tried again to get her hands free of the rope. And she wished she had hidden her knife better. Then, at least, she could have cut through the ropes and freed herself. Of course, they needed a virgin. A virgin who was also an orphan was even better. The elders in the town figured the people wouldn’t mourn as much if it was an orphan. It was good to know she was loved.

Not quite sure what to do with the dragon’s sacrifice, they had drugged her a bit with bitter tea, carried her to a fallow field and tied her to a stake. Then, for good measure, they packed some kindling about her feet – maybe the dragon likes cooked meat, one said – and then they even strew some herbs over the wood. She could tell from the smell of the bruised leaves it was parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. Go figure. Then one of the women placed a crown of daisies in her hair. As if she needed to look pretty for the beast that was coming to devour her at any moment.

Ke’el’se’ah struggled against the ropes again, but the knots only tightened. Why did she have to live in a town where everyone knew how to tie proper knots? Couldn’t they have tried bows and at least given her a chance to free herself and run away? If she knew this was coming she could have married someone. Preferably someone from another town where the townsfolk didn’t have the need to sacrifice innocent people to dragons.

The sound of membranous wings beating the air came just before a screech and a roar of purple flame. When Ke’el’se’ah saw the great silver dragon, she could only stare in terror. The great beast landed on the field and dug deep furrows with its claws. It turned its head from side to side, screeching and scorching half the field.

“Run, puny humans!” it shouted in a deep, but feminine, voice.

Ke’el’se’ah opened one eye – perhaps she could reason with another woman, even if the woman is a dragon. The dragon seemed to enjoy herself as she trampled the ground and sent purple and red flames into the sky.

“Run and flee to your simple abodes of grass and mud where I can easily herd you and set the town ablaze! Fear me!” she shouted and punctuated every few words with a blast of flame. She huffed and puffed around the field a minute or two longer before walking up to Ke’el’se’ah.

“Maiden,” the dragon asked in a learned accent. “Why do you remain in the field?” She looked the girl up and down and spotted the kindling and stake. “Are you my sacrifice?”

Ke’el’se’ah nodded, still too stunned to say anything.

The dragon sniffed at the herbs. “Where is the mint? Everyone knows dragons only eat mint with their meals – opens up the lungs and sinuses, you know.”

“I – well, I am an orphan and a virgin and no one in the village will miss me much if I am eaten.” Why bother to lie at a time like this?

“And your crimes?” the dragon frowned.

“Crimes?”

“Yes, you know, murdering someone, murdering quite a few people, cheating, stealing, kicking a dog, making political promises... what crimes did you commit that made them choose you  as the one to be eaten? How old are you anyway?”

“I am eighteen. Uhm… I’ve never murdered anyone… or kicked a dog… I’m not really into politics…”

“So your village elders didn’t pick a criminal for my lunch?”

“What? No! The old books all say that a virgin should be sacrificed. Well, usually she should be a princess as well, but we don’t have anyone like that at home.”

The dragon sighed, spewing clouds of dark smoke that made Ke’el’se’ah cough. Then she retrieved a book from somewhere on her person, turned to a page and pointed with a claw to a paragraph.

“And I quote,” she said and started reading. “’Twas in the year 1392 that the evil princess Sha’g’hael’le not only let her army into the neighbouring country where they slaughtered 30 000 innocent civilians, but she also treated her dog badly. She did all this before she was married. It was decided that she was better taken care of by the local dragon and since that day the dragons have patrolled the land for the worst criminals.”

“What do you do with them?” Ke’el’se’ah asked.

“We eat them, silly. Less grisly than hanging and cheaper than waiting for them to rot in jail. You’d be surprised how long some wizards can survive on oxygen alone.”

The dragon used a claw to cut through the rope binding Ke’el’se’ah.

“But, if you’re not going to eat me… who then?”

“I believe there is a certain Kraig’gho’re in your town… he was not very nice to his cat, Dumpling, last week. Dragons like cats even better than dogs, you know.”

“Kraig’gho’re was the one insisting I be the one sacrificed!” Ke’el’se’ah said.

“And you know where this rascal lives?”

“Yes.”

“I think I will have a word with this Kraig’gho’re,” the dragon grinned. 

THE END

Day 15 – April 15 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – How To Hide a Corpse

Day 15 – April 15 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – How To Hide a Corpse

I wished it was a dark and stormy night. It would be a lot easier to hide a body on a dark and stormy night. Rather it was the middle of the day and the sun was shining all bright and merrily. At least on a stormy night the ground would be soaked and I would have been able to dig the grave quicker. Now the sweat was plastering my hair to my head, sticking my shirt to my back and burning my eyes. I plunged the shovel into the ground again and had to climb on top, kind of jumping up and down to get the blade to sink into the ground. Then climb back down, bend my aching back and heave-ho until I broke off another piece of the reddish clay earth. I have watched enough crime shows to know that you don’t just dig a shallow grave. And you didn’t wrap the body in plastic bags or a sheet or anything that could be traced back to you. Not that I searched for a gravesite too long – I don’t think I have the time to meticulously search out the best place. Lucky for me I live next to a graveyard – the sound of digging is not strange. And we have the Jo’burg patented 10 foot tall suburban wall, equipped with razor wire, an electrical fence and CCTV cameras. Of course, I had turned those off. I will delete everything when I’m done here. And, if someone happens to see me digging a large hole, I can just tell them we’re getting a Koi pond. And I’m digging the hole because I need the exercise. Sure.

I climb onto the spade again and jump up and down as best I can. Almost there now. For a moment I glance over at the bundled body next to the wall. It’s still in a sitting position in the corner, but I had closed his eyes and threw a tarp over him so I wouldn’t look at him the whole time. I never thought I’d be so calm if I had a body on my hands I needed to dispose of. I look at my watch. I still had about an hour and a half before my parents would return from work. Thank goodness for peak time traffic jams. There, that should do it. And then I can just put the grass over again and pat it down. This may just work.

I drag the body over to the grave and struggle to get him inside. He’s still wearing the bloodied clothes, but he’s far too thin to fit into anything we have, so that will have to do. I lay him on his back and fold his hands on his chest. It looks most proper. As I cross his hands, I think how wonderfully he would have been able to play piano with those hands if he had lived. Then, in a moment of soppy weakness, I go to the rose bush and pick a couple of blooms to throw into the grave. I also say a few words. You know, earth to earth, dust to dust. Then I sing “Nearer My God to Thee” and start shoveling the dirt back into the grave. Sooner than I expected, I’m finished. I look at my handiwork and smile. No one would ever guess someone is buried here, just in the back of our garden. I dust my hands on my grimy cargo pants and go to put the shovel away. I need to get cleaned up fast.

I had thought that a lot of men in suits would show up as soon as the poor guy in the grave hit the ground bleeding. What had happened to him, I don’t know. All I could figure was that he was hurt on his way somewhere, was attacked and then decided my garden was the best place to hide in. Well, what was I going to do? Go to the police? Then I’ll end up in some loony bin – or to jail because they would think that I killed him.

I look towards the cemetery, to the slight distortion in the air above the graves. You had to look really carefully to see it, so perhaps they would never find it. I hope it works with solar power. I will never be able to explain away an alien spaceship. The Men in Black would be on me in seconds.