Tonight, Ralph had a date with Augustine Miller.

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Though he’d arrived at her home a little later than he’d meant to — on account of his encountering a wayfarer along the way — the journey was rather less fraught than he feared it would be.

On this particular summer night, Ralph had donned his late father’s travelling cloak, hood, and scarf in the hope that the precaution would disguise his appearance from any onlookers with straying eyes. Fortunately, he needn’t have bothered: apart from the one person he had met during his journey, no one had seen him.

And now, at long last, he was here.

As he stood on the threshold of Augustine’s home, Ralph took a moment to himself, loosing a slow breath and savouring what was to come. He breathed in the night air, relishing the chirping crickets, the full, shining moon, and the gentle caress of the warm evening wind.

Ralph had, of course, been anticipating this moment for what seemed like an eternity. He imagined that there was nothing that could throw him off — yet when he rapped on Augustine’s door and she cried in reply, “Who is it?” Ralph was shocked at just how frail her voice had become.

“It’s me,” he called back, making his voice higher so Augustine would mistake it for another’s.

“Oh!” He heard someone fumbling at the latch. “Oh, I wasn’t expecting company!”

It seemed to take forever for her to get the door open, and when she finally swung it wide, Ralph saw that time had been almost as cruel to Augustine as it had been to him: the proud, forceful woman who’d once commanded the respect of the village had been reduced to a shrunken old lady, her face hidden behind huge, heavy spectacles.

Augustine frowned when she saw him. “Forgive me, I’ve broken my good glasses, so I’m using my spares,” she said. “Do I know you?”

Ralph goggled at her. It seemed nearly inconceivable that the old bat was this blind. Even with his face covered in his scarf and hood… how could she not see him for who he was?

“My name is Ralph Hart,” he at last said. “I’m Alfred’s son.”

“Ralphy!” Her eyes widened with recognition, though Ralph thought the expression was a touch forced. “Oh, Ralphy! Well, of course it’s you. My word, how you’ve grown!”

“It’s good to see you again, August. May I come in?”

“Please!”

The little woman waddled off in the direction of her kitchen, where she proceeded to put the kettle on. Ralph followed her, ducking his head beneath the ceiling to avoid a collision. Augustine had been right about one thing — he was considerably bigger than the last time they had seen each other.

For that matter, he was bigger than he’d been only yesterday.

“Do you remember the last time we spoke?” Ralph said casually.

“Oh, it’s been so long!” Augustine hooted. “Why, no one from the village has seen you since your father passed! What was that, four years ago? Five?”

“Seven,” Ralph said quietly.

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Augustine choked out a laugh. “But we all remember you, don’t we? How could we forget? You little trickster, you.”

Ralph felt a sudden rush of contempt, but he didn’t let it enter his voice.

“Trickster, August? May I ask what you mean by that, exactly?”

Augustine waved a hand in the air. “Oh, you know. All that mischief you liked to pull. Always pretending your father’s livelihood was being threatened. Ah, well. You were young. It’s all water under the bridge now, eh?”

Augustine hummed contentedly as the kettle boiled. It wasn’t until it began to whistle that Ralph spoke again.

“You know, I wasn’t lying.”

“Hm?” Augustine glanced up at him as she poured herself a cup. “What’s that?”

“About my flock being in danger. I was never lying…”

“Oh, come off it,” she chortled. “Whenever you made us come up to your land—”

“You never saw anything, I know,” Ralph said coldly. “But that first time, I really did see a wolf preying on one of our yearlings. I ran down to the village to get your help, but by the time we made it back, the wolf and the lamb were both gone.” Ralph took a moment to wet his lips. “Then, later that night, I saw something I couldn’t explain: the silhouette of a naked man, limping toward the trees on the outskirts of my father’s land, leaving a bloody trail behind him.”

Augustine was pouring boiling water into Ralph’s cup by then, smiling slightly as though anticipating a punchline.

“Oh? A man’s sihlouette? Pray tell, who did it belong to?”

“I don’t know. But the wolf returned a month later. Only this time, he’d come for one of my ewes.”

“Oh, had he, now?”

“He had,” Ralph confirmed, his voice hard. “And maybe the wolf knew I was onto him — that I suspected there was something off about him — because the creature stood up on its hind legs and looked me dead in the eye as he slaughtered my ewe. Once again, I ran to the village as fast as I could. Of course, I didn’t mention the wolf’s queer behaviour to you all, because I knew how mad that would sound. But I did say I needed your help driving him away.”

“And we came to help,” Augustine said, a little quieter now.

“And you came to help,” Ralph said, acknowledging this with a nod. “Of course, by the time we got there, he’d vanished again. And you all left, doubting me. Again.”

“Because you’d done it before,” Augustine snapped. “You had a reputation.”

“According to you,” Ralph said. “Do you remember what you started calling me after that?”

“Ralphy, the Boy Who Cried Wolf,” Augustine said unabashedly. “Could you blame us? How could we believe a single word out of your mouth?”

“That’s what you said to me the next time the wolf appeared,” Ralph said bitterly. “The thing is — the third time, when I came to you all for help, some of the townsfolk actually believed me. But you, August, convinced the village that it was another lie. Another trick.”

“Because it was,” Augustine said firmly. She shoved Ralph’s mug over to him, hard enough that the tea inside sloshed over the rim.

“And would you believe that when I returned — thanks to you — I was all alone?” Ralph continued doggedly. “I think that’s why the wolf finally revealed himself to me. I think that’s why he finally spoke. ‘They’ll never believe you again,’ he taunted me, baring rows of his horrible yellow teeth. ‘But that’s okay, Ralphy. I’ll be good company. In fact, I’m all the company you’ll ever need.’”

Augustine shuddered, but Ralph wasn’t done.

“And then, August, my ‘imaginary’ wolf savaged me,” he spat at her. “And here’s the best part: when he was finished ripping into me, he transformed back into his natural form. His spine drew upright, his limbs shortened, and he went from walking on four legs to two. He became a man again.”

Here, Ralph bent down, his tongue flicking out of his mouth as he lapped up the tea in the mug. Then he straightened to his full height, once again towering over the old woman.

Augustine said nothing, but began to peer at him more closely. Then she paled.

“You know what’s funny, Augustine?” Ralph continued, now shedding his scarf and his cloak, allowing them both to fall to the floor. “It’s obvious now that I stop to think about it, but every night that wolf appeared on my father’s land… well, it was a full moon.”

The old woman started backing away. “Ralph, listen,” she began. “You don’t want to hurt me. I’m… I’m expecting company…”

“Yes, I know,” Ralph said, running his tongue across his teeth and snout as he closed the distance. “I ran into her on the way here.”

“And I’m quite certain she’ll be delicious.”

An hour later, there came another knock.

“Come in,” Ralph cried in his best falsetto, the same one he’d used when he was on the other side of the door.

The girl entered. Even compared to her late grandmother, she was a little thing. Her scarlet hood was drawn over her head, but she pulled it back now, bringing her ingenuous eyes to bear upon Ralph.

For a moment, neither he nor the girl said anything. Then she smiled.

“Oh, Grandmother… what big eyes you have!”

It was all he could do not to laugh.

You’re as blind as a bat, Ralph nearly sneered. But don’t worry, you’re not alone — in fact, you’ll soon be in August’s company.

“All the better to see you with, my child,” he said instead, belching.

My bed’s too empty. My mattress is too cold. And now, with her gone, there’s no one to stop me screaming after my night terrors — no one to placate my ghosts.

She used to do that. I could always count on her to remind me that the war’s over, that all the people I’ve cut and slashed at are long gone, and that they’ve got far better things to do than haunt me.

But now she’s left me, too. She’s gone to join them, on the other side of the veil.

And to make matters worse, now all my animals have started singing.

In fact, they won’t shut up.

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My livestock always begin their song at night. And if I hear them, it’s only because they want me to. I don’t know whether they’re trying to serenade me, horrify me, or drive me out of my right mind… but I’m tempted to believe it’s the latter.

The song begins the same way each night: at three in the morning, my cattle start lowing. From there, the song pours freely from their cud-chewing lips.

The worst part?

I’ve never once managed to catch them in the act.

I can’t count how many times I’ve stolen out of my house, swaddled in nothing but my bed robe, sprinting for my barn. Of course, by the time I burst through the doors, my cows have stopped their song. In fact, they barely seem to register me. They’ll simply turn their vacuous, wall-eyed gaze upon me — mildly curious at my intrusion.

One thing is clear: if my cattle are indeed afflicted by demons… they know better than to reveal themselves to me. Though not for lack of trying.

Oh, I’ve made numerous attempts to cajole the evil out of them. I’ve exorcised them, bawled and screeched at them, even pleaded with them!

I’ve been so noisy, in fact, that the resulting clamour has alerted the townspeople to my efforts. Now they all think I’ve gone and lost my marbles.

At least, this is what my son says when he comes by for a visit.

“Everyone’s at their wits’ end with you, Dad,” he tells me. “They can all hear the racket you’re making — screaming in the dead of night.”

“It’s not just me screaming, Freddy,” I insist. “It’s the whole farm. My animals, they—”

“Stop it! Just stop it, Dad!” he hisses. “I don’t know how many more times I can stand to hear this story!”

“Only one more time, Freddy. I promise.” And it was then that I led him out to the cowshed, so that he could see, with his own eyes, the source of my torments. “At three a.m., to the minute, all my cows will begin their song.”

Fred frowns. “Three in the morning? What, like, the witching hour?”

“Yes, Freddy. But here’s the rub: if I wait by the barn until then, their song never begins. It’s only when I go back to the house that it starts in earnest. It’s as if they’re waiting for me… or trying to provoke me. And when I do run to the barn,” I add significantly, “I never end up catching my cows singing. By then, the song’s already moved on.”

“Moved on?”

I nod.

“It passes on to the ducks. And that’s a major problem — because they’re out on the pond. So by the time I make it there, the song’s moved on again. To the pigs. And by the time I get there, they’re no longer squealing, because it’s already moved on to—”

“Let me guess,” my son says tiredly. “To the chickens?”

“Yes! And then to Max!”

“Max,” Fred repeats incredulously. “Max the dog? Your dog, Max?”

“Yes!” I croon. “Then it passes from him to my sheep! Imagine that! All of them bleating in unison!”

For some reason, Fred is teary-eyed. “You’ve been alone too long,” he says. “After Mum died, I should have checked in on you more.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, a little more sharply than I intend. “Look at me! I’m in perfect health! I’m as spry as ever!”

“Dad, I’m worried about you. D’you know the children in the town have made up their own song about you?”

“A song?” I repeat, suddenly breathless. “How does it go?”

He sings it. By the time he’s done, my throat is hoarse from laughter.

“Why, that’s the very song my animals sing!” I chortle. “What are the odds?”

“Those children only started singing it once they heard you screaming in the middle of the night! Your animals aren’t singing that song! If anything, you got it from the kids!”

“Nonsense!” I scoff. “What do you take me for? Some nutcase?”

Fred reaches for me. “Okay, Dad. That’s enough of—”

But I shake him loose, already having had my fill of his endless aspersions and doubts. “Just you wait, Freddy,” I tell him. “Come tonight, you’ll see that everything I’ve been saying is the truth.”

Fred looks more alarmed than I’ve ever seen him. “Tonight? What’s happening tonight?”

“The song will happen tonight, just like it always does,” I say. “But this time I’ll be prepared.”

“Prepared? What does that even mean?”

“Just make your way here at the witching hour — as you call it — and you’ll see the sight of a lifetime. I promise.”

Over the course of the next hour or so, I manage to wear my son down on this point. Just as soon as he leaves, I begin preparing my barn for his grand return, nearly giddy with excitement. I honestly can’t wait for Freddy to hear my livestock singing — or to see the look on his face when he realizes that I’m as sane as anyone.

With that said, I really wish he hadn’t mentioned Bessie. My wife has absolutely nothing to do with this… no matter how much I might miss her… or how badly I want all of us to be together again…

But what a wonderful thought that is. Freddy. My animals. Me. All of us together with Bessie.

Forever.

When Fred opened the barn doors, he was not prepared for the carnage inside.

First, he saw the bloodied carcasses of all his father’s cattle on the barn floor. Atop that generous mound of corpses was the border collie named Max, his eyes vacant and his tongue lolling from his mouth. Then he saw his father’s bright little ducklings arranged around the mound, along with a now-headless array of chickens.

If there was a silver lining, it was that at least some of the sheep were still alive… though his father was attending to them with a savage briskness.

Archibald MacDonald stood buck naked, his chest heaving, and his skin gleaming with sweat and black blood as he worked his way down the procession of panicking sheep — singing as he slashed at the poor, guileless, innocent beasts with his fairbairn-sykes fighting knife.

And the song he sung, Fred MacDonald noted in his daze, was the exact same one the children of the town would sing every morning, following one of Archibald’s night terrors.

“With a baa-baa here, and a baa-baa there,” his father now trilled, even as he methodically brought his blade across the last black lamb’s throat. “Here a baa, there a baa, everywhere a baa-baa…”

And only then did Old Man MacDonald take notice of his son, Fred. He stepped closer to him, his knife glinting in the moonlight, though not half as bright as his wide, leering smile.

“And on that farm he had a son,” Archibald sang.

“E-I-E-I-O.”

I have no place in the world. I am homeless, adrift, unbound. Worse still, I must endure the torments of these two ugly, horrid young women — creatures who kick at me relentlessly, deaf to my screams of agony.

Only one happy thought tethers me to sanity. Though countless women despise me, there is one who loves me.

And I miss her dearly.

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Though it hasn’t been long since she and I were separated, it feels like an eternity since our parting.

But, then, I have suffered a great deal since we were last together: as I said, I am constantly encountering the contempt of the so-called ‘gentler’ sex. For some reason, young ladies across the country have nothing but contempt for me. All they want is to find me, seize me, and inflict pain upon me.

I wish I knew how I offended them. Yet when I ask, they do not respond. Or, rather, their faces give me all the answers I need: I see their slavering mouths and their flushed cheeks, I feel their fingers flexing and scrabbling at me, desperate to hold me tight so to kick at me. Indeed, I have suffered far more at their feet than their hands.

And no matter how much I plead with them, they will not relent.

“Mercy!” I will scream at them. “Reprieve! I have done you no harm. There’s no need for this!”

But they do not hear me. “Come here,” is all they ever snarl in reply. “Let me have you. You belong to me.”

This is a lie, of course. I belong to one woman only. But this makes no difference to them: when I mention this, it’s as if I’d never spoken.

Of course, there is one man they do listen to — a horrid fellow I have taken to calling my chaperone. I have named him thus, for he is chiefly responsible for my repeated tortures.

You see, it is he who brings me to my accosters each day. He drags me across the country and, ever the sadist, watches hungrily as these women claw and kick at me. And only when I have been pushed to my limit does my chaperone show me mercy.

“That’s enough,” he will say, his voice ringing. “I’ve seen all I needed to see.”

And, with that, my chaperone will roughly escort me out of these monsters’ homes and take me to my next attacker.

Which brings us to today.

So far, it’s been my worst session yet.

The two women I’ve encountered here are far more determined to cause me misery than any before them. They kick at me relentlessly with a fervour unmatched by any of their predecessors. Worse still, unlike my previous accosters, these women pay no heed to my chaperone.

“Enough,” my chaperone keeps saying. “I have seen enough, my ladies.”

But they have not had enough. I am passed repeatedly between a pudgy-faced attacker and a thin, drawn figure I take to be her sister. And each time one hands me over to the other, they kick at me with renewed and redoubled intensity.

And I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

With that said, there is something about this home that affords me a dim comfort… even if I cannot say exactly why this is.

I know that this is a wealthy, capacious home belonging to a gentleman. But there are no men here, only three vicious women: the two I mentioned earlier, who kick at me in turn, as well as a stern-faced hag who glares at me as they do so.

I’ve also noted that this home is a very clean, tidy, and kempt place. My chaperone, of course, has brought me to many households in my life — but none has ever been so spotless as this one. (Oddly enough, I’ve yet to spot any household servants here, and so I must assume that whoever keeps this house in order has gone above and beyond in the performance of their duties.)

But the strangest thing of all about this house? It’s strangely familiar…

“My good ladies, please,” my chaperone says again. “Nothing more will be gained from these attempts.”

“Just wait,” says the pudgy-faced girl, even as she kicks at me harder than ever before. “Just hold on! I’m not through yet!”

Not for the first time, I screech in pain. But, of course, no one hears me.

And it’s at the height of my despair that a miracle happens: the woman I belong to enters the room.

“I have yet to try, good sir,” she declares. “Give it to me.”

The older woman — the hag — here turns her glare upon the newcomer.

“What are you doing here?” she demands. “You’re supposed to be outside, scouring the stables of muck.”

“The stables are clean. And now that I’m here, I should think it’s only fair that I have my turn.”

“Yes,” my chaperone interjects, now strangely breathless. “Yes, that is only fair. You should be free to make your own attempt.”

Without another word, my chaperone walks over to the pudgy girl and yanks me out of her grip. Then he brings me over to the newcomer, kneels, and proffers me up to her.

“Thank you, my prince,” my woman says.

I brace myself for the pain sure to come — but for some reason, when she kicks at me, it hurts less.

“No!” the pudgy girl bawls. “It’s not fair!”

The bony, cadaverous woman next to her says: “Let me try again! I know I can make it fit!”

“No,” my chaperone says. “I have seen enough.”

“So have I,” I add. “She’s perfect. She’s just as I remembered. She is who I belong to.”

My chaperone, as always, does not hear me. Nor does the pudgy creature, the skinny horror, or the frowning hag.

No, it’s only my woman who glances down at me with awe and appreciation. I watch her take in my delicate contours, my crystalline shine, my smooth and opalescent surface, my perfect fit.

“Oh, Godmother,” she murmurs, “I never expected to be reunited with my slipper! Oh, thank you for returning my belonging to me!”

“I’m here,” I say to her. “I came back! I’m here and I’m yours…”

My owner’s eyes shine. But her attention does not remain on me for long — for my chaperone has now taken her hand inside both of his.

“Marry me, Cinderella,” he says, his voice low and thick with emotion. “Be mine.”

My owner smiles.

And, just like that, we both have a place in the world again.

And our battle will be sung in the histories for eternity.

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People say he cannot be defeated, that he will never be conquered. In the same breath, I hear it said that I am a mad fool to fight him — for I am myself not much removed from a boy.

Of course, compared to Goliath, I suppose all men are boys.

As he steps out onto the sand, his black, pitiless eyes trained on mine, I have to grudgingly admit that my foe does live up to his reputation. Surely, he represents a preponderance of size; as far as I can tell, he is nearly eight feet of hard, corded strength bound up in sinews and unyielding muscle. I, however, am little more than skin and bones, barely clearing five feet in height.

But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how big he is.

I’m going to kill him no matter what.

“Come on, then,” I snarl at him. “I don’t fear you!”

Goliath snorts. The people gathered around us cheer and jeer in equal measure, but I ignore them all. They’ll all be eating their words soon enough.

No one believes I have the mettle required to vanquish the monster before me, except perhaps my father. He’s not here now, of course. He died years ago, in battle. Even still, I have his weapon with me, so he’s here too. I clutch it tightly in my sweaty palm, anchoring myself to his legacy, and I am comforted when it winks at me, reflecting the fading sunlight.

Naturally, the watchers roar with laughter when they see my weapon, dismissing it as paltry just as they’ve dismissed me.

Of course, they have no idea just how much damage a small tool like this can do.

“Come on!” I scream at my foe. “You think I can’t take you? You think I’m afraid?”

Across from me, Goliath narrows his eyes. I can’t deny that there’s something intimidating about his silence, and I find myself wondering whether he’s ever been provoked like that before. Given his size, I think not.

More daunting yet is just how still Goliath has suddenly become. The spectators all around us seem to pick up on this too; the laughter at my weapon abruptly cuts short, and for a long, stretching moment, no one in our vicinity dares to draw a breath. And through it all, my foe doesn’t move a muscle.

Clearly, verbal taunts are not enough provocation for him. I must rely on an older, more traditional method.

And just like that, our battle kicks off.

I thought I was prepared for Goliath, but my mistake was assuming he’d be a lumbering, dull-minded behemoth, rather than the dark, methodical blur he has revealed himself to be. The ferocity of his rush toward me is almost beyond anything I can anticipate, and it’s all I can do to maintain distance between us while I prepare my single attack.

Fortunately, it isn’t long before the shining moment arrives at my feet: I am able to predict the direction of Goliath’s latest charge, and respond by stepping into my enemy’s path and thrusting my own weapon toward him.

Goliath’s bloodshot eyes widen, but it’s already too late.

As fast as he is, I’m faster.

The crowd goes wild as his momentum carries him fully into the point of my estoque. No one expected this. My foe gives another thunderous bellow, but this time it’s a sound of pain more than a sound of fury.

I match his cry with my own — a declaration for all to hear:

“My name is Tomás Jiménez!” I screech, hurling the words at all who gather outside our ring. “I am the son of Joaquín Jiménez, the greatest matador ever to live! You knew him as El Ratón, for he was small yet quick and deadly, just like his sword!” Here, I hold it up for all to see. “This belonged to him! Now, it is mine, just as my father’s apodo becomes mine, for I have at last proven myself worthy of his name!”

My audience roars in approval — stamping their feet and hollering to the high heavens. The only one who does not share in the enthusiasm is my mortal foe, Goliath, who, like his namesake, has been felled by a little man he didn’t see as a threat.

The fool.

Right now, Goliath is in a bad way. His breathing is laborious and slow, his knees have already given way, and he lies in a pool of blood.

As a final taunt, I brandish my billowing red muleta at him, which I initially used to provoke him into a charge. Goliath simply makes a piteous, whining sound.

I laugh. As I do, the puntilla approaches him, dagger drawn.

“You shouldn’t have underestimated me, necio,” I sneer at him, showing him my father’s bloodied sword, hoping the colour will incense him yet again. “I shall now be remembered for all time.”

The puntilla then makes his thrust, the bull gives a valedictory grunt of pain, and my victory is sealed forever.

I place my foot on the giant’s back and bellow at the crowd, hardly registering their cheers and applause and congratulations.

All I see is red.

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She could tell at once that this alien trespasser was different from those who’d come before. Unlike the other pioneers, this creature was making far better time than her forebears, pressing ever onward against the monstrous tidal forces that wracked the firmament of Nadir's world.

Yet it wasn’t just the earthling’s speed that set her apart from those who came before.

Nadir could instinctively sense that this wayfarer possessed something the others did not: an iron resolve that startled her just as much as it impressed her.

“Who are you, Ari?” Nadir found herself muttering. “And just what is it you’re trying to prove?”

Ari was not the earthling’s name, of course. Nadir didn’t have the faintest clue what the alien’s name might be. Ari was simply a nickname Nadir had given the alien — a nickname that’d once belonged to Nadir’s dearly departed sister, in fact.

Nadir did not understand why the name suited the alien so perfectly, but it did. In truth, Nadir never had the chance to meet the original Ari, as she had died long before Nadir was born.

And Nadir’s own father would divulge little about Ari.

“She was irresponsible,” he would grunt on rare occasions. “Reckless. Impetuous. Yet brave. My word, she was brave.”

That was the most Nadir ever got out of him. And even then, there was hell to pay with Nadir’s living siblings.

Once, after she’d pressed their father hard on the subject of Ari, two of her sisters took her aside, their brows furrowed and their words stern.

“Stop asking Father about Ari, Nadir,” Adella said firmly. “He’s too old to keep reliving her loss.”

“I just want to know about her!” Nadir protested. “She died before I was born — but she haunts my life. Every time Father looks at me, it’s as if he’s seeing her.”

“Your remind him of her, that’s why,” Alana interjected with a sigh. “Before you, Ari was the youngest. She was Father’s littlest treasure.”

“So, how did Ari die?” Nadir asked breathlessly.

Alana held Nadir’s gaze for a long moment. Then something seemed to soften inside her.

“By daring too much,” Alana admitted. “Ari was bold. Too bold. She ventured into a place where she did not belong — into the earthlings’ own territory.”

“She lived with the earthlings?” Nadir asked in awe. “Might she be there still?”

Adella shook her head.

“Before the end, Ari realized she had made a mistake,” Adella said sadly. “We sisters did what little we could to help her, but it was no good. Ari died hurling herself back into our world.”

And that was all either of them would say about Ari. Apart from Nadir’s other sister Aquata, her elder siblings would say no more about Ari, and even less about the very earthlings Ari had lived among.

Perhaps that was why, when Nadir stared up at the alien trespasser hurtling across the upper reaches of the abyss, it was impossible for her not to think of Ari — Ari, who had evidently perished in that strange, dry world that belonged to the earthlings.

And, like her own sister, the alien travelling above Nadir was bold, stubborn, and fearless.

More than that, she was brave.

Nadir thought, then, of her sister’s fate, for Aquata had mentioned that Ari had turned to sea foam the moment she struck the water.

That wouldn’t happen to the alien, Nadir was certain. Though, in truth, Nadir wasn’t entirely sure what happened to earthlings when they died… and she dearly hoped today wouldn’t be the day she found out.

“Go on, Ari,” Nadir whispered up at the earthling, silently willing her onwards. “Keep going, sister.”

“Ariel, show them who you are.”

When the shivering earthling at last made it to the other side of the crossing, safely returned to the alien, landbound world she called home, she was immediately swaddled in blankets by her peers.

“Ms. Erdele!” one attending woman cried out. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” the earthling gasped. Her tongue was swollen from having swallowed so much salt water, and her teeth chattered with such intensity that it was almost impossible to force her next words out:

“What was my time?”

“You managed it in fourteen hours and thirty-one minutes! It’s a new record!” the same attendant exclaimed. “Ms. Erdele, you’re not just the first woman to swim the length of the Channel — you’ve done it faster than anyone before you! You beat Sebastien’s time by a whole two hours!”

The earthling smiled weakly and turned her eyes back towards the surface of the water.

“Do you understand what this means, Ms. Erdele?” the attendant continued, even as she rubbed warmth back into the earthling’s limbs. “You just made history. What you’ve just done is a massive leap for women everywhere.”

She then took the earthling’s hand in her own and gave it a gentle squeeze. The earthling nodded and pulled her towel closer around herself.

“I’m glad,” she said. “I felt them all with me as I swam.”

And it was true: the earthling had indeed felt her fellow sisterhood watching her, their eyes fixed upon her from every direction.

Even under the sea.

Photo of Trudy Erdele, the first woman to swim the English Channel

Read Part I, II, III, and IV here.

“You used to call me the Lunch Lady. Do you remember that?”

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From where they sit at her bedside, Tyson and Rachel exchange a quiet look, both of them bemused and perhaps a little chagrined.

“Yeah, Miss Marrow. I remember,” Tyson finally admits. “But that was just a name that stuck. We were dumb kids. We never meant it as a — as an insult or anything. It’s just that we only ever saw you at lunchtime.”

Wincing, the Lunch Lady shifts in place, disturbing her sterile hospital bedsheets.

“It’s okay, Tyson,” she tells him. “As it happens, I sometimes refer to myself as Lunch Lady… but only ever in my head…”

With that, the Lunch Lady trails off; her chapped, cracked lips working in silence.

“Miss Marrow?” Rachel says, a little sharply. “Miss Marrow, you were about to tell us what happened last night.”

The Lunch Lady's gaze regains some of its earlier focus as she takes us in, all three of us gathered around her bed.

“Oh yes,” she says distantly. “I remember now. I was telling you what happened.”

“The doctors said...” Tyson’s voice wobbles. He clears his throat. “The doctors were saying that you’d... that you ate...”

Rachel takes his trembling hand. “Poison,” she finishes bluntly. “They told us you ingested rat poison. We just want to know… how that happened.”

It was me, I think. I poisoned the Lunch Lady. And Lord knows, she had it coming.

“I had it coming,” the Lunch Lady says softly.

Tyson and Rachel exchange alarmed looks.

“Does this have anything to do with that woman last month? Back at the grocery store?” Tyson asks her. “We know she was supposed to be here, with you. You mentioned her in your sleep, and the doctors said she was your emergency contact. Your next of kin.”

“She shouldn’t be,” the Lunch Lady says firmly. “And I’m glad she’s not here. I don’t deserve to have Kelly Harrison with me, not even on my deathbed.”

I feel a sudden surge of hatred and indignation toward the Lunch Lady, solely on the basis of her saying that name aloud. And if I’m able to contain these emotions, it’s only by reminding myself that the Lunch Lady is already on her way out.

Thank God, this awful woman only has minutes of life left in her.

“Who is Kelly to you, Miss Marrow?” Tyson says quietly.

“Please don’t call me that. Call me Maggie,” the Lunch Lady replies. “Allergies. Do you have any allergies, Tyson?”

“Allergies? Me? No,” Tyson says, clearly thrown by this sudden change of topic. Then he frowns. “I remember you asking me that once. Last year. Right before you...”

“Before I lost my mind?” The Lunch Lady smiles a little. “I know I scared you, Tyson. I’m sorry for that. Please understand, when you first took a sip of my lemonade punch... I saw something.”

“What?” Tyson asks. “What did you see?”

“Murder,” the Lunch Lady breathes. “I saw a boy I killed. Not just that, I saw me killing him.

“I saw Kelly’s son.”

Rachel gasps. Tyson simply looks bewildered.

“I once knew a boy with allergies. Severe ones,” the Lunch Lady forges on. “He was allergic to eggs. Can you believe that? Eggs. Oh, nuts I could understand. Shellfish, too. Those are allergies everyone’s heard of. But being allergic to eggs?”

“You were warned,” I say softly, walking over to the other side of the bed. “Mom was always telling you to be careful.”

“Kelly Harrison was always telling me to be careful around him,” the Lunch Lady says, her eyes following me even as I close in on her. “Lord knows, she knew I could be stubborn. Set in my ways. But I... I...”

Here, the Lunch Lady’s voice trembles so badly, it’s a miracle she’s able to regain control of it.

“I made a mistake,” she says at last. “I never used eggs in his banana bread. I promise you, I didn’t. I used substitutes. Yogurt. Applesauce. But the spatula I ended up using... I don’t think I washed it off properly... I never took it seriously enough...”

When the Lunch Lady’s body is wracked with huge, heaving shudders, Rachel reaches over to take her withered, varicose-laden hand — a gesture that the Lunch Lady does not deserve. Tyson, however, does not move, but simply wears a look of dawning comprehension on his face.

“Art,” he whispers. “In your kitchen, you shouted that name when I drank the punch. And back then, you also mentioned that you liked to read fantasy books with your daughter. So, then, your daughter was...”

“The boy’s mother,” the Lunch Lady says, a touch sharply. “Kelly Harrison was only ever Art’s mother. She is not my daughter. She’ll never be my daughter again.”

And it’s odd: a long-held tension in the Lunch Lady releases in this moment; a welcome, palliative abatement of her constant suffering.

Stranger still is that the hate I’ve harboured for her also begins to melt away, only now that she’s said the unsayable thing. And in place of that contempt, I feel more tired than ever.

This is how I know the time is near.

It’s as I reach out to the Lunch Lady, my fingers finding their way to her throat, that she broaches her most shameful secret of all.

“The thing is, Tyson... Art is always with me,” the Lunch Lady whispers. “Sometimes I like to think he’s a ghost haunting me, only he isn’t. He isn’t that at all.”

“What is he, then?” Rachel asks softly.

The Lunch Lady’s eyes bore into mine.

“He’s me.”

“I don’t understand,” Tyson says.

“It hurts to be me,” the Lunch Lady whimpers. “Sometimes, I need a way out. When it all gets to be too much for me to bear. So, I pretend to be someone else. I pretend to be him. Art Harrison.”

“Your grandson,” Rachel says softly.

The Lunch Lady pulls her hand out of Rachel’s grip. As she does so, she shakes her head emphatically. “No. He’s Kelly’s son. And it hurts to be him, but it’s easier to be him than to be me.”

The Lunch Lady then takes a breath. “Sometimes, I’d envision him playing with children his own age, like in a school playground or a park. He was twelve when he died… so I usually find him in those sorts of places. I’d clutch the fence as I stared at those children — at you children — and I’d pretend I was Art playing amongst you.

“Then, when I’d visit you in your classroom as your lunch time supervisor, a part of me would become Art. I would be Art, sitting with you all, laughing and joking and sometimes even reading. Like his mother — and like me — Art loved fantasy books. He especially loved stories about his namesake, King Arthur…”

“Miss Marrow… Maggie…” Tyson says slowly. “I don’t know… I don’t know what you want me to—”

“There’s so much I want to say to him,” the Lunch Lady murmurs, her breathing growing ever more shallow as my hand rests on her throat. “Art hates me. He’s always wanted to kill me. It was him who put that rat poison in my lunch yesterday, just as I put my poison into his lunch all those years ago.

“And after Art died, I never used to allow him inside my kitchen. I mean, I never imagined myself as him inside that awful room, because I knew he would kill me. And letting him kill me seemed too easy — like I was escaping my rightful punishment. It wasn’t until I saw Kelly Harrison again those weeks ago that I realized...”

“…it was time to go,” Rachel finishes, her tears falling thick and fast.

The Lunch Lady nods. And for some reason, she begins flexing her right hand, repeatedly opening and closing it.

“After I encountered Kelly Harrison in the grocery store, Art wanted to get it over with immediately. But not before your birthday, Tyson,” the Lunch Lady adds. “Not before your sixteenth birthday. So, Art waited until last night. And now he’s back. He’s right here at my bedside, opposite the two of you. He’s ready to kill me. I feel his hand around my windpipe.”

When the Lunch Lady points at me, Tyson and Rachel both glance upward, staring right through me, neither of them seeing anything but the wall opposite. Even as they do, the ECG monitor to the Lunch Lady’s right grows steadily more erratic.

Rachel stands up and runs out of the room, presumably to find a doctor, or perhaps merely to distance herself from the dying wreck of a human being that is the Lunch Lady. Tyson, however, can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the crone — who does not look at him, but instead gazes steadily up at me.

“What do you need?” I hear Tyson murmur, somewhere in the distance. “What can I do?”

“I looked for him in you, Tyson,” the Lunch Lady continues weakly. “I… I used to imagine you as my best friend. When I was him, I mean. I know it doesn’t make any sense. But it really does hurt to be me. It hurts to be me, living in my skin, and it’s so much easier to watch myself through Art’s eyes. I hate me and Art hates me, and since you always used to laugh at me... I liked to imagine that you and Art were friends.

“And every night… I would pray that Art would… that he would somehow find it in himself to… to…”

Tyson figures it out. Just as he does, something inside me relents.

“I forgive you,” we both say.

Tyson takes her hand, even as I close my own around her throat.

And together, we both squeeze.

THE END

Thank you for reading this five-part series!

This will most likely be the last Friday Fix for a little while — and it was a pleasure having you read this story!

Though the younger man leered at the sight and bounced on the balls of his feet, apparently eager to take part in the murder soon to follow, it was the elder who felt an unpleasant squirming in his gut — for Thomas Bakerfield knew the task ahead of them would be nasty, dirty work. Even so, it had to be done.

Their charge was to kill and supplant Anne: the aging, beautiful Italian queen.

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It would break Tom’s heart to do the deed, he knew. As a boy, his mother had often accused him of being overly sentimental and sensitive, but this wasn’t that.

No, this was something entirely different.

The trouble was, no one loved Queen Anne the way he did. She had, after all, been so very good to him, readily bestowing her favour upon Tom, providing for him, and rewarding his loyal service with plentiful bounties.

But Tom could not turn back. At this point, it was a simple matter of money.

Anne had to die.

“So, how will you do it?” Hal asked suddenly. “What’s your plan?”

Tom looked at Hal, the young man whom he had graciously taken under his wing, and who remained entirely blind to his distress.

“I’ll have to be careful,” Tom told him, sighing. “This will require both precision and expediency. Anne is surrounded by loyalists.”

Hal blinked. “Loyalists?”

“Guards,” Tom explained patiently, pointing them out. “They’ll rush to defend her.”

“Of course they will,” Hal said, rolling his eyes. “So, then, how are you planning on killing her?”

“I’ll do it while she bathes,” Tom said simply.

“Bathes?” Hal repeated.

“Oh, yes,” Tom said, his voice now croaky and thick with emotion. “That won’t be long now. I’m sure Anne’s retinue will attend to her soon.”

Hal frowned and looked up at his mentor. Though Tom’s face was mostly hidden, it came as a shock to Hal to see tears trickling down his cheeks. The older man was weeping.

When Tom noticed Hal staring, he tried to brush away the tears, only to remember that his face was concealed — and for good reason.

“It’s silly, I know,” Tom said, a little sheepishly. “You’d think I’d be used to this part of the job by now. But there’s nothing to be done about it, is there?”

“No,” Hal said uneasily. “I guess not…”

In the end, Tom got it over with quickly. Humanely, even. But even after the deed was done, Hal remained as excitable as ever.

“What’s next?” he hissed, frantically shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Mr. Baker, what happens next?”

It’s indecent to delight in the death of a queen, Tom thought bitterly. Indecent and unbecoming.

But instead, he only said, “Next comes the hard part.”

“We’re just now at the hard part?” Hal repeated incredulously.

“Yes. But we’ll have to wait a little while before we get there.”

“How long is a little while?” Hal demanded.

Tom shrugged, electing instead to stare at his gloved finger and thumb, and the gore that now stained the material.

Fortunately for Hal, ‘a little while’ turned out to be a mere handful of hours, as that was how long it took for the late Queen Anne’s subjects to grow restless in her absence. Hal’s eyes widened as they grew increasingly agitated, steadily whipping one another into a frenzy.

The noise, too, grew exponentially — until eventually Hal nervously asked, “Is this normal?”

“It’ll die down soon,” Tom answered listlessly. “We just have to introduce them to their new queen.”

And with that, Tom brought out Anne’s successor.

This queen was slightly larger than Anne. Her legs were longer, and her body was less hairy, making it seem as though she glistened and shone. She was not a fuzzy, amber-coloured Italian queen, as Anne had been — but was instead a Buckfast queen with a rich mahogany hue.

Tom gently lowered the queen cage that contained ehr, allowing the workers to feel the wood and wire mesh with their antennae.

“Remind me, Mr. Bakerfield,” Hal said slowly. “Why do they have to be in a cage?”

“A colony won’t accept a new queen immediately,” Tom said patiently. “We need to give them a chance to acclimate to Jane’s pheromones.”

Hal raised an eyebrow.

“Jane? You gave this one a name, too? Do they all have names?”

“No.” Tom said, shaking his head. “Not all of them. I only name the queens. Before Anne, I had Catherine. Catherine lived for two years. Anne, on the other hand, lived for a full seven. I’ve never seen a queen live so long. And the honey I yielded under her reign — I swear, it was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. Her reign will be a tough act for Jane to follow,” he finished dully.

“No offence, Mr. Bakerfield,” Hal said, regarding him with a wary eye, “but I think you need to get out more.”

Instead of answering, Tom stared down at the buzzing, flitting inhabitants of the hive. He was a little surprised to find that the droning roar that’d begun when he dispatched Anne had only multiplied in intensity since he’d lowered Jane inside.

A funeral dirge, Tom thought dryly. A lament for the dead.

Tom stared at the crushed remains between his fingertips and, with new tears running down his cheeks, tried to give voice to the endless droning of Anne’s subjects.

“The queen is dead,” he murmured. “Long live the queen.”

And, funnily enough, these words stung.

Read Part I, II, and III here.

We are in Willem’s ValueWay Grocers, plodding down the dairy aisle. Though our conversation remains light and airy, much goes unsaid.

As an unspoken rule, we do not mention last year’s incident.

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Yes, I sometimes sense that Tyson wants to bring it up — but even eleven months on, he hasn’t managed to pluck up the courage to broach the subject. And I’m okay with that. Not everything needs to be talked about.

With that said, the Lunch Lady hasn’t shaken it off as easily as Tyson has.

She no longer allows us inside her kitchen. I suppose it’s not hard to understand why. My ‘allergic reaction’ gave her quite a shock, and she hasn’t been the same since I collapsed.

I know she isn’t sleeping well. She’s barely eating, too. Even Tyson’s picked up on that — hence his spur-of-the-moment idea for this very shopping trip.

The Lunch Lady spiralling, and he knows it.

Considering the way she adamantly refuses to go to the doctor for a check-up, it doesn’t seem too much to hope for that she’ll soon keel over and drop dead of a heart attack.

At the very least, it’d save me the trouble of poisoning her.

Oh, sure, I know now that the Lunch Lady didn’t intentionally try to kill me. But she poisoned me accidentally, and that’s bad enough. No, the Lunch Lady has to die. And now she knows it, too.

The only question that remains is this: exactly what am I waiting for?

Beside me, Tyson picks up a jug of milk. “You need some, right?” he asks.

“I’ve got enough,” the Lunch Lady says curtly.

She pushes her shopping cart along, but Tyson is unmoved.

“I saw your fridge. You don’t have enough. It goes fast.”

“Because you’re drinking me dry whenever you come around. Which seems to be every other day, lately,” she adds pointedly.

Tyson laughs. “What can I say? I’m a growing boy.”

That he is. At fifteen, soon to be sixteen, Tyson towers over the Lunch Lady. He dwarfs me, too — if only because I haven’t grown a hair since sixth grade.

“Hang on… let’s see what else is on the list…” Tyson says, pulling up short. He removes the Lunch Lady’s phone from his pocket, enters her passcode, and begins scrolling through the contents of her Notes app. “I know we’re forgetting something… is it orange juice? No, we’ve got that. Butter? D’you need any butter, Miss—”

“—Marrow? Is that really you?”

Our heads snap round at the same instant, all of us recognizing the voice immediately.

Standing at the other end of the aisle is Rachel Gerwig herself, her eyes swelling like balloons as though she’s pushing them to their limit just to take in what she’s seeing. Clearly, Rachel wasn’t expecting to stumble across our old lunchtime babysitter — and she definitely wasn’t expecting to find the Lunch Lady standing next to Tyson, the brattiest loudmouth ever to grace Holbrook Elementary.

For a long moment, Tyson and Rachel hold one another’s gaze. As with us, there seems to be a whole lot left unsaid between them. I vaguely remember Tyson telling me that Rachel had serious words with him after he made the Lunch Lady tearfully flee our classroom.

I assume they're both thinking about that very conversation right now, and neither of them seems willing to disturb the awkwardness hanging over us all.

Luckily for them, it’s the Lunch Lady who breaks the silence.

“Rachel?” she exclaims. “My God, dear! Is that really you?”

Rachel’s eyes snap back to the Lunch Lady.

“Er, yes!” she says hurriedly. “It’s been such a long time! So long! You know, we really missed having you in our class.”

The Lunch Lady smiles. “It’s funny you should say that. I remember Tyson telling me the exact same thing.”

Rachel’s eyes dart to Tyson and back. “Really?”

“Yes indeed,” the Lunch Lady says. “Fortunately for me, I’ve had Tyson to keep me company these last years. I’m sure he can tell you all about it. Oh!” she adds suddenly. “I’ve just remembered! Tyson, you were right! I do need another stick of butter!”

Without sparing another word, the Lunch Lady shoves her cart briskly down the aisle. I take my unspoken cue and follow close at her heels. It’s not like I have anything to say to Rachel, anyway.

And Lord knows, she has nothing to say to me.

I then watch the Lunch Lady meticulously inspect the arranged brands of butter, even though it’s apparent she’s only putting on an act so she can listen to what Tyson and Rachel are saying.

I know this because I’m doing the same thing.

“...I really had no idea,” Rachel murmurs. “I never expected that you, of all people, would be helping Miss Marrow out.”

“Me, of all people,” Tyson repeats, smirking.

“Come on. You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Tyson sighs. “I really was the absolute worst back then, wasn’t I?”

“I’m so sorry — but you totally were,” Rachel says, giggling a little. “But it’s cool that... you know... that she’s not alone…”

“At first, it was just helping Miss Marrow with chores. Odd jobs around the house and stuff. Lawn maintenance.” Tyson takes a breath. “Then, last year, something happened.”

“What happened?”

Tyson hesitates.

As the Lunch Lady checks and rechecks the labels on her sixth stick of butter, I wait on bated breath to hear his next words.

What is Tyson going to say? Is he going to tell her the full story?

God, that would be mortifying...

“Let’s just say — I couldn’t leave her now even if I wanted to,” Tyson finally says. “And I don’t want to.”

Warmth floods the Lunch Lady’s face.

At long last, she decides upon her preferred type of butter and chucks the stick into her shopping cart. Even as she does, someone new rounds the corner of the aisle, only to stop dead in her tracks when she sees the Lunch Lady.

And this is where the nightmare begins.

This person is a tall and willowy woman. Quite beautiful, I’d say. But there are noticeable signs of stress littered across her visage; her whole face is drawn, bordering on gaunt, and she has a weathered, shadowed cast to her eyes.

A noise escapes the Lunch Lady, one that’s a cross between a gasp and a tremulous whimper.

I am immediately reminded of just how truly pathetic the Lunch Lady is.

The tall woman knows it too, judging by the way she sucks her teeth and glances down at the food in the Lunch Lady’s shopping cart. Then she turns her stare towards the food on the left side of the aisle. Her gaze homes in on one item in particular: a carton of eggs.

“Buying some, are you?” the woman says, her nostrils flaring. “Feeling peckish? Couldn’t get enough? Haven’t eaten your fill?”

“It’s not,” the Lunch Lady begins. “I didn’t—”

“You didn’t what? Tell me: what is it you didn’t do?” the woman demands.

“I wasn’t going to buy them,” the Lunch Lady says, and I am somehow even more aghast at how small her voice sounds. “I was only… I’m getting butter. That’s all.”

“Well, you learned your lesson, then. Only a decade too late, you stupid old cow.”

“Kelly… please don’t… not here…”

But invoking the woman’s name — no, I will not think it or say it — only serves to whip her into a frenzy.

“Oh, so you do know who I am! Whenever I see you around town, it’s as if you don’t recognise me. Like you’re not really there.”

“I was only respecting your wishes,” the Lunch Lady says quietly.

“My wishes? My wishes?” the woman snorts. “Can you guess what I’m wishing for right now? Other than the obvious, I mean.”

“Kelly…”

“I wish you would do what all old women do,” she says loudly. “I wish you would just lie down and die.”

“Agreed,” I hiss. And I damn near applaud when the tall woman does the unthinkable: she leans forward and spits into the Lunch Lady’s face.

Of course, by then both Tyson and Rachel have returned to the Lunch Lady — along with several curious onlookers investigating the source of the commotion — but the Lunch Lady’s accoster simply looks at them and sneers. Then, without another word, she pushes past them and disappears around the corner of the aisle.

“What the—?” Tyson begins, but Rachel has already snapped into action. Even as she uses her left sleeve to dry the Lunch Lady’s face, she takes out her phone to dial 911.

Or, she would have, had the Lunch Lady not stayed her hand.

“Don’t,” the Lunch Lady says weakly. “Please don’t, Rachel.”

“Miss Marrow,” Tyson says, his voice shaking. “Are you okay? Do you know that woman?”

But the Lunch Lady only shakes her head. Then she looks at me, her eyes wide and sorrowful.

I’m ready, she seems to be saying. I want this over with.

I’ve hated the Lunch Lady for as long as I can remember. I’ve always known I would kill her in the end… but, in this moment, I don’t feel victorious or triumphant.

I just feel tired.

In the end, all I can do is turn and gaze down the aisle, staring at the spot where the tall woman has once again vanished from my life.

Thank you for reading the fourth entry of this five-part series!

To be concluded…

I should have known then that he was more than just a man.

I should have known that he was touched by the divine.

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We were set to meet in a shabby waterfront tavern, one polluted with drunkards, sots, and all manner of rowdy men. Hardly a place fit for a lady such as myself. Already, I was regretting being there.

Worse still, our engagement was to be a blind date. All I knew about my mystery man beforehand was that he was a mariner by trade; I had never actually laid eyes on him until he thunked unceremoniously into the seat opposite me, reeking of sweat, tobacco, and stale spirits.

In truth, I found him rather an eyesore.

He was a bald man of slight stature. Though his arms bulged and his frame was corded with lean, ropey muscle, the combination of his heavy brow, weathered skin, and pronounced underbite was more than enough to put me off him.

And the stench that clung to him certainly didn’t help.

“So, then,” I began, resigning myself to making polite conversation until this ordeal was over, “what is it you do for work, sir?”

“I’m a traveller,” my date grunted. “Been travellin’ all me life. Walkin’. Ridin’. Sailin’.”

“Is that so?” I asked, even as my gaze wandered around the bar. Of the many prospects I took stock of, one stood out: a large, bearded man flexing his biceps at me. “And where have you travelled, sir?”

“Oh, I been everywhere. There’s not a damn place on earth I haven’t been to, cross my heart and swear to die.” My date struck a match, lighting the pipe that was now nestled in the crook of his mouth. “Iffin’ I told you the whole of where I been, you’d never believe me.”

“Truly? And why’s that?”

But even as I asked this, my eyes were fixed on the flexing showboater at the back of the tavern. My date didn’t seem to mind, however. Even as I stared at the flexing man, he raked my form with his glittering eyes.

“Yer pretty,” he observed, punctuating this pronouncement with a few hale puffs of smoke. “You got a nice name, too. But yer skinny. Most likely frail and flimsy, from the look of you.”

A sudden surge of irritation and indignation brought my eyes back to the man sitting across from me.

“Frail? Flimsy? Why in God’s name would you think such a thing about me?”

“Well, I don’t know that I do think it. I’m just tryin’ to be cautious, see.” He waved his match in the air, extinguishing the flame. “I only mean to say, my life story ain’t for the faint of heart. Think you can handle it?”

With great difficulty, I stopped myself from rolling my eyes.

I was convinced, then, that this was all just another play for my attention; my date was merely another showboater using his base wiles to draw me in.

Even so, I was intrigued.

“Go on, then,” I said dryly. “Tell me your grand tale. I can’t wait to hear how impressive it must surely be.”

“Suit yerself.” As my date grinned, more smoke escaped his mouth. “To begin with, you’d best know that my pappy was a great leader. The highest o’ the high. My mother, on the other hand, weren’t quite at his level. But she loved me dearly, an’ that was more than enough. Only problem was, I was the product of an affair — and my pappy’s lawful wife found out.”

“She gave your father hell, did she?” I drawled.

“Not exactly. Like I said, Pappy was a powerful man. But me? Me, she could hurt.”

“That’s monstrous,” I said, frowning. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He cackled. I was a little alarmed when that laughter almost seemed to choke him, causing him to cough violently.

“Funny, that’s what I thought,” he grunted once he’d recovered. “Always seemed indecent to punish a child for the sins o’ his father. But somethin’ as simple as common decency wasn’t about to stop my stepmother from tryin’ to kill me in my cradle.”

“She didn’t,” I gasped.

“She did,” my date said grimly. “I survived, o’ course. But I soon wished I hadn’t. Nowadays, I sometimes think it’d be better if her serpents had done me the mercy of killing me as an infant.”

This made me frown. “What was that? Did you say serpents?”

“An’ later, once I’d grown up, my stepmother cast a spell on me,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “She addled my mind, drove me insane. She made it so that… so that I hurt people I cared about. An’ that didn’t just break my heart — it broke me. Oh, I was in a sorry place: beyond repentin’, with no chance of redemption. An’ the only way I could try to absolve myself o’ my sins was by achieving great deeds. Twelve great deeds, bein’ specific.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, holding up both my hands. “Just hold on a second.”

My date grinned.

“You gettin’ the picture now? Ringin’ any bells? An’ what if I were to mention the Nemean Lion? Or the Erymanthean Boar? How about the Apples of Hesperides? Or Cerberus, the three-headed hound?”

I made a noise of disgust. “That was a droll tale, sir. If your goal was to show off your mythological acumen, consider me impressed. But you don’t need to pretend to be someone you’re not, much less treat me like a fool, to get my attention.”

The bald man laughed again. This brought on yet another coughing fit — one far more severe than the last — which wracked his body from head to toe and sent his spittle spraying across our table.

“M’alright,” he gasped when the fit at last subsided. “I’m not so robust as I was. Fact is, I’m a weakling these days.”

I gave him a long, shrewd look, my eyes resting on his disproportionately muscled arms. “I think you may be selling yourself short,” I told him.

“No. Back in the day, capturin’ a rampaging bull with nought but my bare hands was a piece o’ cake. But ever since Deianira poisoned me with that accursed tunic o’ hers, I’ve been needin’ help to restore my old strength.”

And only then did my date take out his gods-given remedy, setting it down on the table for me to see.

“This is ambrosia,” he informed me. “It’s all the rage in Olympus. I’m no stronger than a kitten… up until the moment I ingest it. Once I choke this stuff down, I become Heracles again.”

“Heracles?” I repeated scathingly. “You really expect me to believe that you’re a three-thousand-year-old mythic hero?”

“Why not?”

I shook my head. “For starters, if you were really Heracles, why would you be sitting here with me?”

“That’d be on account o’ yer sharp, pretty eyes,” the bald man replied evenly. “And, like I said, you’ve a pretty name. It’s a name I like. I am Greek, after all.”

I laughed, then. I couldn’t help it.

And I do believe it was that very giggle that drew in the bearded fellow at the back of the room: the same man who, only minutes prior, had been flexing his biceps at me. This man abruptly rose from his own table and marched toward us, easily clearing a path through the crowded tavern by virtue of his immense bulk and broad shoulders.

“Is something funny, sweetheart?” he demanded when arriving at our table. “Let me in on the joke, won’t you?”

“Mind yer business, chum,” my date grunted. “What the lady laughs about is her concern. Hers, and no one else’s.”

“Oh, now, there I disagree, chum,” the bearded man said acidly. “I happen to be very concerned about the lady — and the company she keeps.”

With that, he reached down, seized my date by the shirt, and yanked him roughly to his feet.

And it must be said: the man who claimed to be Heracles did a poor job of defending himself. When he pummeled his accoster with his fists, the bearded, flexing fellow only gave a derisive snort.

“And here I thought sailors were supposed to be strong!” he roared, to general laughter and scattered whoops from the crowd.

“Give ‘im what for!” one drinker cried.

“Pummel the little guy!” yelled another.

“Cream ‘im!”

“Teach him a lesson, Bluto!”

Grinning at the attention, the bearded man made a grand show of drawing back his fist.

And it was this delay that proved to be Bluto’s undoing.

Evidently, he did not see my date fumbling blindly for the ambrosia he’d set on our table, nor did he take action when my date snatched the can up at last and upturned it into his open mouth.

“Spinach?” Bluto sneered. “How is that going to help you now, little m—?”

This is all Bluto managed to say, because in the next instant, a single blow from my date sent the bearded man clear across the tavern. And I watched, frozen in awe, as Bluto smashed into the back bar, sending bottles crashing to the floor. Bluto himself slid down the wall, blinking the stars from his eyes.

No one in the bar cheered. There was no applause. Only stunned silence.

Of course, no one was more taken aback than me — for my date had at last shown off his inhuman, godly strength.

Somehow, I managed to regain my voice.

“It’s true,” I gasped. “What you were just telling me… it’s all true! You’re really… really…”

“Ah, Olive Oyl. What can I say?” my sailor man said, a little sheepishly. “I am what I am.”

Read Part I and II here.

Something has changed in the Lunch Lady.

Over the course of the summer, she’s become lighter, livelier, more prone to laughter.

I hate it.

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It sets my teeth on edge whenever I see her smiling at Tyson — and make no mistake: it is Tyson who’s brought this change about in her. He’s been steadily wearing down her walls by the simple virtue of his youth, gormless charm, and unexpected work ethic.

And the closer the Lunch Lady gets to him, the more she shunts me to the side.

Oh, there’s no doubt in my mind that the Lunch Lady knows about me, and about the contempt I have for her. She’s tired of having me around. I know it. I’m sure she’d love nothing more than to never see me again and be left alone with Tyson.

I didn’t expect that to hurt as much as it does.

It’s not that I’m jealous of the Lunch Lady’s affections for Tyson. I’m not. How could I be? I already know I’m going to kill her; I’ve been planning on poisoning her for weeks now.

No, my distress stems solely from the fact that I can’t stand the sight of the Lunch Lady. My hatred for the woman bubbles up and multiplies inside me every time I lay eyes on her repulsive face.

Tyson, on the other hand, has grown strangely fond of the woman. Call it what you will — personally, my money’s on Stockholm syndrome — but Tyson has been steadily warming to the Lunch Lady over the course of these summer ‘visits’.

And ‘warm’ is the operative word on a punishing day like today.

As the sun beats down on us, Tyson and I rip out weeds and dig out old shrubs. Yesterday, we were mowing her grass. The day before that, we were spreading mulch and raking leaves.

The Lunch Lady is, after all, very particular about her lawn.

She’s watching us now — standing in front of her sitting-room window, a perspiring glass brimming with pink liquid clutched in her talons. The old prune gazes intently at us, the same way she used to stare at the kids in our school playground. Or later on, in the park.

I’m more shocked than anyone, then, when the Lunch Lady abruptly decides to leave her place at the window and step out of her front door to interrupt our work. Until now, she has only ever interrupted to correct Tyson whenever he makes a mistake with her gardening.

Tyson straightens when he hears the door open, wincing as his back makes him pay for this morning’s labour.

“Miss Marrow?” he says tentatively.

“God, it’s a hot one today, isn’t it?” the Lunch Lady says. “I just thought you could do with a break. And maybe a cold drink.”

Tyson grins at her. “Fine by me.”

“Me too,” I add, if only to remind her that I’m still here. Not that I need the attention.

The Lunch Lady jerks her head, indicating us to follow her inside.

Tyson moves first. If I hesitate, it’s only because this is completely unprecedented. The Lunch Lady never lets people into her home these days (and to be fair, it isn’t as if the whole town is battering down her door to enjoy her company.)

But this is perfect for me. I’ve been planning on spiking the Lunch Lady’s meals for what feels like forever now — and this development brings me one massive step closer to ending the woman’s pitiful existence.

In all honesty, I never actually expected her to let me inside her kitchen.

So, imagine my delight when the Lunch Lady leads us through her foyer into the hallowed room itself. And imagine my surprise, then, when I discover that her kitchen isn’t all that much to look at; it’s only a small, cramped space, considerably darker than the rest of the house, on account of the blinds being drawn.

From what I can see, the room is relatively dusty and unkempt, seemingly more from disuse than outright slovenliness. But there’s also a perspiring pitcher of lemonade punch awaiting us on the kitchen table, which pretty much makes up for the rest.

“Oh, dope!” Tyson exclaims when he sees it. “Thank you, Miss Marrow!”

“Not at all,” the Lunch Lady says, favouring us with yet another infuriating smile. “You’ve been working so hard this summer!”

“Thanks,” I make myself say, and I can’t help but add, “You have a really nice kitchen.”

And I know the Lunch Lady marks this for the lie it is when her smile quavers.

As I look around the room, my eyes eventually fall on the opened, downturned book lying on the counter. From just the colourful artwork of mounted men charging across the front and back cover, I immediately peg it for a fantasy novel.

Naturally, the Lunch Lady notices me noticing it.

“That’s one of my favourite books, actually,” she says, pointing. “I used to read it all the time. Not so much now, though.”

Tyson blinks. Then a grin materializes on his face.

“Miss Marrow! You’re a book lover?”

“I’m a bookworm,” I say loudly. “I love fantasy fiction.”

“My daughter’s a bookworm, too,” the Lunch Lady says, nodding. “She and I used to love reading together. I suppose it runs in the family.”

“Get out!” Tyson retorts. “I didn’t know you had a daughter!”

He starts looking around, as if the girl in question might be crouching behind some piece of furniture. As he does, the Lunch Lady gives an unseemly cackle.

“You thought I was an old spinster? Well, I suppose I can’t blame you.”

Tyson frowns. “A… a what?”

“An unmarried old bat,” she explains patiently. “Typically one without a family.”

Tyson laughs. Then he says: “Families are overrated.”

Now it’s the Lunch Lady’s turn to furrow her brow. “How’s that?”

By way of answer, Tyson looks down at his feet.

I guess I’m not too surprised by this reaction. I’ve always had a feeling that ‘family’ was a touchy subject for him, based more on what he doesn’t say more than what he does.

The Lunch Lady takes pity on him. “It’s okay, Tyson. We can talk about something else if you—”

“I have a sister,” he says suddenly. “But I don’t ever see her these days. She left, like, three years ago. Right after our mom… you know… the head-on collision…”

“Yes,” the Lunch Lady says softly. “I think I remember hearing something about that…”

“Anyway, now it’s me and my dad. Which is cool,” Tyson adds hastily. “I mean, yeah, he thinks I’m a total screw-up. But I failed, like, most of my classes last year, so he’s not wrong.”

“I see. And how does he feel about you helping an old woman with her yard work?”

Tyson snorts. “Well, he doesn’t know. I guess he assumes I’m off causing trouble with my friends.”

The Lunch Lady spares me a quick glance. “And why aren’t you?”

“Why aren’t I, what?”

She smiles at us both. “Why aren’t you off doing — well, young people things?”

Tyson gives her a blank stare. “You asked for help, Miss Marrow.”

“And I thought you wanted us to come here,” I chip in, trying my best not to let this sound accusatory.

“Well, yes, but I didn’t expect you to keep coming here so often,” the Lunch Lady says, with some forced cheer. “Nor did I anticipate you working quite so hard.”

“Honestly, I didn’t expect that either,” Tyson says.

And when he makes a show of rubbing his newly formed calluses, they both laugh. Soon enough, even I join in.

Look at us, three peas in a pod. It’s almost enough to make me forget why I’m here in the first place.

Almost.

It’s only when Tyson at last takes a sip of his drink, and I mirror him, that this picturesque little scene takes a hard left turn.

In the space of what feels like a heartbeat, my lips and tongue swell up like a balloon. Heat rushes to my face, and a leaden pit of dread settles in my stomach even as my skin begins to prickle and tingle.

“What’s… what’s in this drink?” I eventually choke out. “I think… I think something’s wrong…”

The Lunch Lady’s eyes go wide with fright.

“Oh,” she moans. “Oh no. Oh, Art!”

It’s only then that I realize what the Lunch Lady has done. It’s only then that I realize she’s poisoned me.

She’s beaten me to the — god help me — punch.

“You…” I hiss. “You did this to me. You’re… you’re evil.”

Strangely enough, I see no triumph in her eyes. Only horror, horror etched into every disgusting fold and line in her face.

I relish the sight even as I begin to sweat profusely. Before I know it, something paradoxically bitter and sweet ejects itself from my mouth. And if I’m not bothered by this, it’s only because I can feel my consciousness slipping.

The Lunch Lady jumps to her feet, and Tyson does the same, crying out in alarm. And, of course, it’s his distress that allows my enemy to break free of her horrified stupor.

“Allergies!” the Lunch Lady cries. “Do you have any allergies?”

Yes, I want to say. I’m allergic to you.

And with that, I fall to the floor and begin convulsing.

Thank you for reading the third entry of this five-part series!

To be continued next Friday…

Take this church, for example. It’s not the original, only a recreation. The first Westminster burned down at the onset of the Purple Revolt, sixty years before I came into the world. As with Buckingham, we set it alight and reduced it to cinders. It was only when the new royal line came to the throne that this Abbey, and the royal palace, were rebuilt exactly as they had been before the revolution, down to the last stone.

At the time, we told ourselves we were only bringing the monarchy back in jest. But deep down, we all knew why we were truly resurrecting our kings and queens.

It seems royalty is the one institution we will always be tied to.

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Please allow me to introduce myself: my name is Vicarious James Fitzroy the Third, now better known as His Grace, the Duke of Dorset. I was named for my father and grandfather upon my birth in the Year of Our Lord two thousand two hundred and ninety-one. And now, in the year 2347, it is my humble charge as newly appointed Earl Marshal to prepare the prince for his coronation.

Thus far, it has not been easy.

It is not just his extreme youth that has made today a nightmare — though the prince has yet to enter adolescence — so much as the insouciance and chronic restlessness characteristic of all members of his royal line.

And the prince isn’t the only source of my troubles, either. Historically, our monarchs have caused no shortage of problems for us browbeaten coronation officials, but I must also concern myself with difficulties that arise outside of the royals themselves.

At the moment, the latest obstacle I must overcome is one of occupancy. Put simply: there is not enough room for today’s coronation to take place.

Bear in mind that this problem has nothing to do with physical space. Though the church we’re in is capable of seating up to two thousand people, no one other than necessary ceremonial officials will actually be inside the Abbey. Our audience will instead view the proceedings on their home displays, whether they be on Earth, Luna, Mars, Titan, Ganymede, or any other populated celestial body.

No, the occupancy problem, as I understand it, has to do with online traffic overwhelming the broadcast.

“It’s the registry, that’s the trouble,” says Perry Mayhap, our resident authority on Interplanetary Transmission. “Tens of billions of viewers are expected to authenticate within the same few seconds. That’s just on Earth alone. It’s just not feasible.”

“Solutions, Mr. Mayhap,” I say impatiently. “Bring me solutions, not problems — and certainly not impossibilities.”

Mayhap diminishes a little under my glare.

“I suppose we could always just buy more capacity,” he says weakly. “But it will be costly. And the only place with the necessary infrastructure to support an overhaul like that is the Belt, so Ceres won’t be happy.”

“Do you have the faintest idea how much revenue the Royal Coronation generates?” I say. “We’ll pay the Belt Congregation off, whatever the sum. See it done.”

Mayhap nods. “As you say, Lord Fitzroy.”

It is then that a rare thing happens: as the specialist plugs away at the glowing display before him, I am afforded a brief moment of rest between disasters.

I sigh and stretch my back.

As Earl Marshal, I am responsible for overseeing just about every aspect of the coronation. It is my lot to ensure the ceremony goes smoothly. As a result, I rarely get a moment’s peace, my freedom hogtied by the countless responsibilities of my station and status.

With that in mind, it would not be inaccurate to describe me as the solar system’s most overtaxed party planner. Or, as I spend most of my days putting out fires before they start, an underpaid Health and Safety Officer.

Sadly, I don’t have much time to myself before the next problem of the day is brought to me. This time, the bearer of bad news is none other than Lord Tirane Ripon himself, my own right hand.

Ripon sprints into the sanctuary to retrieve me, nearly tripping over his robes as he comes to a sudden stop just short of Mayhap, his cheeks flushed and glistening with perspiration.

“Lord Fitzroy, there’s trouble with the Archbishop!” he cries, clutching his heaving chest. “He’s refusing to crown the prince!”

With difficulty, I restrain myself from rolling my eyes. Of all the times to pull something like this, he has to make his stand at the last minute?

“Where is the Archbishop now?” I ask Ripon steadily.

“He’s in the Deanery,” he says. “I’ve never seen him so angry. When I left, Ackerly was still trying to talk him down.”

“Dean Ackerly,” I correct him. “Well, Lord Ripon — lead the way.”

I know the situation is as dire as Ripon described it because I can hear the Archbishop’s shouts long before I enter the Deanery.

“...a monstrous desecration of our values!” the Archbishop bellows. “I tell you, I won’t stand for it any longer! This farce has overstayed its welcome! I won’t abide by it, you hear me? I will not!”

“This ‘farce’ has gone on for well over a century, Archbishop,” I say dryly. “I daresay it can continue one more day.”

The Archbishop wheels around at the sound of my voice. He is short and squat, with a squashed, beet-red face that looks all the more colourful when contrasted with the snow-white, flowing vestments he wears.

“Lord Marshal!” he begins, his eyes widening in shock. “I did not — I was only saying—”

I raise an eyebrow. “You were saying? No. Hollering would be more accurate, I think. Dear Archbishop, you could be heard throughout the Abbey. Perhaps even on Europa, and we have yet to begin the broadcast!”

The Archbishop grimaces, shrinking slightly into his rochet.

“If I have made a scene, it is only because it is my belief — no, my conviction — that our beloved Abbey is being disrespected.”

It is here that the bespectacled Simon Ackerly, whom the Archbishop had only just been shouting at, sits up in his chair.

“As Dean of Westminster, Archbishop, I can assure you that the Abbey is most certainly not being disrespected,” Ackerly says. “We are only doing what we have always done: crowning our head of state.”

“Fine! Then I will instead say that this proceeding is a flagrant act of disrespect to me, to my position, and to the Church of England!” the Archbishop snaps. “More than that, it is abject sacrilege and blasphemy! Yes, the Archbishop of Canterbury anoints each monarch before crowning them, but I tell you now that I will not permit holy oil to touch the brow of that — of that —”

The rest of this obviously rehearsed speech withers upon the Archbishop’s spittle-flecked lips as I advance on him. I am a large, stern-looking fellow, and I am not afraid to use these traits to my benefit when the need calls for it.

Such as now.

“You are refusing to do your duty for your king?” I say softly, staring down my nose at the quivering Archbishop. “You are openly committing a wilful act of treason?”

“I — well, ah — that is not exactly what I —”

“Is it not?” I shake my head. “Your Grace, in approximately two hours, members of our nation from across the solar system will be tuning in to watch this very coronation. They are doing this for one reason only: because they expect Hammond to become king. Whether or not you approve of Hammond himself is irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant?” the Archbishop splutters. “My approval is irrelevant? How do you — how can you say such a thing?”

“Because it is true,” I say simply. “The royals you deem worthy of crowning were all lost in the Purple Revolt, and with them went the real power of your office. Your single charge now is to anoint, bless, and crown Hammond. And if His Grace is not willing to do that, it will prove no great challenge to find some other Archbishop who is fit to the task.”

“No! No, I will do it,” the Archbishop says hastily. “Forgive me, my lord. I was only voicing my concerns.”

“Consider them heard,” I say shortly. “Now, if you will excuse me — I have a litany of pressing matters to attend to before the ceremony begins.”

With that, I turn on my heel and make for the door, my robes cracking behind me while the Archbishop wordlessly opens and closes his mouth like a trout.

And as we approach the event itself, I can’t help but think that we’re all tied to something. For the Archbishop, it’s his pride. For me, my duties. For our citizenry, it’s the continuity of the royal line.

And for Prince Hammond himself, it’s a full stomach.

For the most part, the ceremony proceeds as planned. Except for the most critical aspect, of course: Prince Hammond himself.

Wholly indifferent to concepts such as dignity or propriety, Hammond decides against walking down the lavender aisle toward his throne and instead runs at a breakneck pace.

“Please, Your Highness!” Lord Ripon bawls as he chases him. “Slow down! Here, boy! Here!”

But rather than heed Ripon, young Hammond gets it into his pea-sized brain to turn sideways instead and dash through the rows of pews, making all manner of jolly, obnoxious sounds as he ruins my meticulously planned ceremony.

I let out a long breath and look up at the gigantic screen hanging from the rafters of the Abbey. There, I can see the live comments made by our Earthbound viewers as they watch these proceedings unfold:

“Ha! Classic!”

“The king is dead! Long live the king!”

“Look at Hammond go! He’s definitely his father’s son!”

In the end, it is Dean Ackerly who draws Hammond out of his aimless rampage by holding a bright and juicy apple out to him. And then, when the prince draws near, Ackerly expertly sets the apple down on the Coronation Chair, luring Hammond into his seat.

Once the prince is settled, the Archbishop doesn’t waste any time. He plops the miniature crown down on Hammond’s head, fastens the string beneath his snout, and cries aloud:

“God save the king!”

The display above us goes ballistic. I see comments from our viewers enthusiastically repeating those four words, over and over again.

I am not surprised by how overwhelmed the people of our nation are at the prospect of a new king. It was much the same fifteen years ago when we crowned Hammond’s father, King Hamphrey, and when we crowned his grandmother, Old Queen Hamlette.

Purple Revolt be damned — we do love our institutions, our precious routines.

Which reminds me: it’s time for me to make one final contribution to the ceremony.

“I, Vicarious, Duke of Dorset, am honoured to introduce you all to our new king,” I call out as I step centre stage. “Do not let his looks deceive you, good people — for Hammond is rather less of a swine than the blue-bloods who once ruled us! We shall now take our leave and transport the king to his royal palace!”

I pause for effect before adding:

“That is to say, we’re putting the ham back in Buckingham!”

It used to be that people laughed whenever I would close with this. Now, all I hear are muffled sniffles from the Dean of Westminster and all the lords assembled herein, punctuated by the wet and contented snorts coming from our new king as he munches on his apple.

Read Part 1 here.

It would be a perfect day, if it weren’t for the Lunch Lady.

The sun is shining, there isn’t a cloud in the sky, and the errant breeze that ripples the grass is cool and welcome.

The Lunch Lady, on the other hand, is more wrinkled than ever. She sits on her damp park bench, aimlessly tossing fat chunks of bread to the ground. She isn’t paying much attention to what she’s doing, but the birds don’t care. They gladly gobble up her leavings, not minding that they’ve been touched by the Lunch Lady’s withered, disgusting, varicose-laden hands.

Here is my truth: I’m going to kill the Lunch Lady. I can admit that to myself now.

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Killing her was a foregone conclusion, sure, but I only arrived at it over the past year. And now that I know she’s going to die at my hands? I feel like I could jump over the moon. Seriously. I haven’t felt this good, this free, in years.

I even know how I’m going to do it.

Poison.

My only wish in the world is to see the Lunch Lady clawing at her own throat, her face turning blue even as her eyes bulge from their sockets. It’s what she deserves.

The thing is, her life is so miserable, she’ll actually be grateful to me for killing her.

When I look at her now, on this modest, sedate Saturday afternoon, I immediately know that it’s her custom to come here in her free time. Granted, she’s armed with her meagre loaf of bread, but feeding the birds is just the pretext she uses to visit this park.

Because the Lunch Lady isn’t here for the birds.

She’s here for the kids.

As she did at Holbrook Elementary, she comes here specfically to watch children. Her eyes are fixed on the boys and girls at play, and she smiles a little whenever they burst into fits of raucous giggles.

Or, that’s what she usually does.

On this particular Saturday, however, the Lunch Lady isn’t staring at the younger kids. Instead, she’s distracted by one middle-schooler who’s doing a poor job of hiding behind a bush as he tries to light up a miniature bush of his own.

The boy’s name is Tyson Williams.

I’m in my proper place right next to Tyson, of course, and I notice the Lunch Lady staring before he does. Then, when Tyson eventually glances up from his joint and meets her gaze, the first thing he does is belch up smoke, his mouth silently framing the words:

“Miss Marrow?”

The Lunch Lady hurriedly looks away, checks her tiny wristwatch, and resumes scattering her bread chunks, busying herself in an attempt not to acknowledge the juvenile delinquent across from her.

It’s pathetic. She is pathetic.

For some reason, Tyson starts making his way toward her. He shuffles forward, ambling and plodding in her direction. I note his furrowed brow and the way he grimaces, as though each step sends pain lancing through him.

For my part, I trail behind Tyson, remaining just close enough to hear what these mismatched individuals could possibly have to say to one another...

“Hi, Miss Marrow,” he says, pulling short right in front of her. “Do you remember me? I’m Tyson Williams. You used to supervise our sixth-grade class at lunchtimes.”

The Lunch Lady pretends she hasn’t noticed him coming until just now and puts on a show of squinting at Tyson.

“Tyson? Is that really you?”

“Yeah,” Tyson says.

“My word! You’ve really shot up, haven’t you? I barely recognize you!”

This is true, actually. At thirteen, or perhaps fourteen, Tyson is taller than I ever will be: he’s become a gawky, pimply youth who stands a full head above me.

Tyson shifts on the spot, clearly uncomfortable.

“Look, Ms. Marrow…”

“Yes?”

Tyson stares around the park, then sighs.

“We really missed you in class,” he says at last. Then, as if his meaning isn’t obvious, he adds, “You know… when you didn’t come back at lunchtimes…”

“Oh!” the Lunch Lady exclaims. “Oh, yes. I suppose I never did return, did I? Well, I meant to, Tyson. I really did. But life got in the way. It does that. You’ll soon see.”

She ends this with a laugh that seems just a little too light, inadvertently sounding a touch maniacal.

“Right,” Tyson says, looking down at his feet. “But the thing is… I don’t feel all that great about what I… the things I might’ve said before you… oh, I don’t know…”

I gape at Tyson, utterly gobsmacked. And there I was, thinking he and I were on the same page about the Lunch Lady, the horrid hag who also happens to be the worst woman who ever lived. Where did this come from? Could it be that Tyson is actually feeling pity for the Lunch Lady? Does he really regret what he said to her?

“Did Rachel have words with you?” the Lunch Lady asks him shrewdly.

Tyson titters. “Oh, everyone did. I didn’t have a lot of friends after that day. Not that I had a whole bunch before. It’s okay, though. We’re in different schools now, so it’s not like I ever see any of those guys. But that’s not why I’m saying this now,” Tyson adds quickly. “I just feel bad about… how I acted and stuff…”

The Lunch Lady frowns. “I’m afraid I’m an old woman, Tyson. You’ll have to remind me. You feel bad about what, exactly?”

Tyson winces. “Ah, calling you a… you know… an old pervert…”

“Which is why you’ve come here to…”

It’s only when the Lunch Lady makes a sort of twirling motion with her hand, the corners of her mouth twitching, that I realize she’s enjoying herself. I’m even more surprised to see Tyson grinning in return, for he at last understands that the Lunch Lady has simply been leading him to say what he came here to say.

“Apologize!” he exclaims, the word bursting violently free. “I’ve come here to apologize! I mean, I wanted to say that I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Miss Marrow.”

“That means a lot, Tyson. Thank you.” The Lunch Lady is smiling in earnest now. “You don’t have any food allergies, do you?”

My heart races at this sudden change in the conversation. What on earth would compel her to say that?

“Allergies?” Tyson repeats, clearly thrown as well. “Er. No, ma’am.”

“What about other kinds of allergies? Pollen doesn’t bother you? Do you ever get hay fever?”

“Nope,” a perplexed Tyson answers.

“Good. I could use a strong hand with my yard work, you see. Especially on Saturday mornings. I think a young person such as yourself would be very helpful. That is, if you really were contrite.”

“Contrite?” Tyson says blankly.

“It means regretful over past behaviour,” the Lunch Lady explains.

“Oh. Right. Well, I am.”

“Is that a yes, then?”

If Tyson regrets anything at the moment, I’m guessing it’s coming over here in the first place. “Sure, Ms. Marrow,” he says, a little flatly. “Yeah. I’d be happy to help.”

For a brief moment, the Lunch Lady glances at me, lingering a little way behind Tyson. “You’ll be there, too,” her expectant look says.

I nod at her. What else can I do? She hadn’t meant it as a question.

And anyway, being invited over to the Lunch Lady’s home can only be a good thing.

It’ll be much easier to poison her once the hag invites me into her kitchen.

Thank you for reading the second entry of this five-part series!

To be continued next Friday…

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There are children staring up at me, their ingenuous eyes swelling to the size of saucers. I take in the blank shock apparent in their tiny faces. I’m quite sure neither one expected me to kick open their front door just now, nor do they know what to do now that I’ve crossed the threshold in…

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Read Part II here.

I can’t say it any simpler than this: it hurts to be me. Sometimes, all I want is a way out.

I usually feel this way whenever I’m around him.

My name is Art Harrison. Right now, I’m sitting at the very back of our class, right next to my best friend, who also happens to be the biggest nuisance ever to grace Holbrook Elementary.

My friend’s name is Tyson Williams.

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Tyson and I don’t have much in common, outside of our age and our mutual hatred for the Lunch Lady. Still, I can’t help but see myself in him. It’s a feeling I just can’t shake.

Sure, Tyson’s a loudmouth, but he and I don’t actually talk all that often. I like that about him. We don’t need to talk to be friends. It’s deeper than that for us.

Of course, when I say we don’t speak, I really mean that I don’t speak. I’m a pretty quiet kid, all in all. Too quiet. My mom and grandma were always telling me so. My dad, not so much. He never told me much of anything, on account of him dying when I was little.

It’s okay, though. I don’t need to say much; Tyson talks enough for the both of us.

Like now, for example.

“Miss Marrow?” he says loudly. “Miss Marrow… can I ask you a question?”

The entire class, which until this point had been full of chatter and liveliness, suddenly goes quiet. Rachel was engrossed in an animated conversation with the Lunch Lady, but she now turns and glares at Tyson. She must know that whatever he’s about to ask… it’s not in good faith.

I think the Lunch Lady knows it, too. When she responds, I hear the slightest quaver in her voice.

“Yes, Tyson? What is it?”

“Well, miss,” Tyson begins, “I guess I was just wondering why you used to watch us all the time.”

I swear, in that moment, every neck in our classroom stiffens.

“W-what?” the Lunch Lady says, her eyes widening. “Tyson, I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh,” Tyson says innocently. “I was only curious about the times you would come and look at us in the playground. You know what I’m talking about, right? How you were always there, staring? Like, when we would play soccer or tag or hide-and-seek?”

“Tyson, shut up,” Rachel says sharply.

“What? I was only asking,” Tyson says defensively. “Is it illegal to ask questions now? Rachel, are you seriously telling me you don’t remember how she used to come and watch all of us boys?”

Rachel responds by glaring daggers at Tyson, her face flushing beet-red.

I’m sure no one in this class has forgotten about the Lunch Lady’s peculiar habits. We all remember the sight of her fingers clutching the school fence, as well as the longing, wistful expressions playing across her wrinkled face…

And the jokes. We all remember the jokes.

Of course, it wasn’t just Tyson who was making fun of her back then. For a time, it seemed all of Holbrook Elementary was having a laugh at the creepy lady who liked to surveil us boys. There was even a stupid little rhyme Tyson came up with about the Lunch Lady — one that I distinctly remember Rachel laughing at.

I know for a fact that the Lunch Lady was well aware of these jokes. The thing is, she’s so pathetic and weak that when the teachers offered her this position (probably out of pity) she couldn’t stop herself from coming here anyway. And only when she officially became our lunchtime supervisor did the jokes at her expense taper off.

Now it’s only Tyson keeping the gag alive. He hates the Lunch Lady almost as much as I do.

Almost.

“So?” Tyson prompts her. “Could you tell us why you liked to watch us, miss?”

“That’s not-” the Lunch Lady stammers, before changing tack and simply saying: “I suppose I don’t know what you mean, Tyson.”

“You don’t? Man, I could have sworn that was you staring at us.” Tyson sighs. “I guess I was wrong. It must have just been some other creepy, pervy old lady.”

“Tyson!” Rachel shrieks, and she’s not alone. Half the class explodes with her, all of them shouting at Tyson.

I don’t join in on the dogpiling. Actually, I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from Tyson, the hellion himself, as he begins cackling to the high heavens, utterly triumphant.

“It’s true, though!” he hollers, even as his neighbours begin pelting him with pencils, pens, and crumpled-up paper. “Like, she’s so weird! Come on! We all know it!”

The whole class is now in an uproar, but the Lunch Lady doesn’t stick around to watch. She leaves the room without a word; a pitiful, repulsive little mouse fleeing the terrible sixth graders.

(For the record, I’m pretty sure her abandoning her position is a big no-no, given that her one job is supervising us while our teacher enjoys her own lunch in the staff room. But who cares? I’m pretty sure we’re old enough to eat unsupervised.)

“Oh man,” I hear Manny Ortega say. “I’m pretty sure she was crying when she left.”

“Tyson, you freak,” snarls Janet Henderson. “Look what you did!”

“I was only asking a question,” Tyson says again. “Come on! How was I supposed to know she’d totally lose it like that?”

And this is the last thing I hear, because I have already left the classroom behind. The door swings shut behind me, cutting off the outrage and indignation. I storm down the long school hallway, racing after the Lunch Lady, whose shaking shoulders are now hunched against the world.

With that said, I’m not alone. Rosy-cheeked Rachel Gerwig, too, has dashed out of the classroom.

And, like me, she is chasing the Lunch Lady.

“Miss Marrow,” she says when she catches up to her. “I am so, so sorry for Tyson back there. He’s such a — I don’t even have the words —”

“What in the world are you talking about?” the Lunch Lady says tremulously. “Tyson didn’t say anything wrong! It was simply time for me to go, that’s all. I have an arrangement that totally slipped my mind.”

“Oh,” Rachel says. “Alright, then. I hope we see you again tomorrow!”

The Lunch Lady returns Rachel’s beatific smile, though hers is quavering a tad.

“Of course, my dear! You know how much I love spending time with you all!”

“Good!” Rachel says brightly. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

The girl then spins on her heel and speeds back to her classroom. To give Tyson a piece of her mind, I’m sure.

Naturally, Rachel doesn’t spare me so much as a second glance. And I’m sure she’s picked up on the fact that the Lunch Lady was clearly lying through her teeth: the old woman has no plans to return to this classroom.

But maybe that’s for the best.

The next time I see the Lunch Lady, I think I just might kill her.

Thank you for reading the first entry of this five-part series!

To be continued…

These words echoed through Felix’s head as he climbed the mountainside. They were a sacred promise, one he had made to Julia before leaving home in search of a gift worthy of her.

Felix knew the climb would be hard, but he also knew that if he did not win Julia’s hand soon, he would surely lose her to Cass, his …

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In all honesty, I think I’m due a pretty generous tip.

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My name’s Henry. I’m something of an industry veteran, so you can trust me when I say I’ve made many trips and seen all kinds of passengers in my time. But until today, I’ve never come quite so close to a complete nervous breakdown.

Look, it wasn’t just that this passenger was loud. Loud, I can handle.

Back when I first interviewed for this job, Mara made sure to warn me that obnoxious noises were an occupational hazard in our line of work.

“If you’re getting into this business, you’d better not be sensitive to sounds,” she’d said bluntly. “If you are, it’s really in your best interest not to take this position. Otherwise, you’ll lose your mind with these commuters...”

I could see what she meant. We were in the waiting area at the time, stuck with an innumerable quantity of restless passengers — which meant that Mara literally had to yell to be heard over the boisterous din they were creating.

“Do they ever shut up?” I shouted back at her. “Is it really like this all the time?”

“All the time,” she confirmed. “They have no respect for anyone but themselves. They certainly don’t respect us. It’s all part of the gig.

“So, are you taking the job, or what?”

I did, of course. She didn’t sell it all that well — but saying ‘no’ didn’t seem like a real option just then.

Look, what I’m trying to say here is that irksome noises don’t impede my navigation skills. Sure, this passenger was loud, but I could tune him out pretty easily.

If I have a destination in mind, there’s nothing that will distract me from getting there safely and on time.

With that said, I do have a harder time with regurgitations.

This passenger, if you can believe it, kicked off our journey by spewing projectile vomit everywhere. I don’t know what he drank, how much he drank, or even if he drank at all. All I know is that he was sick as a dog the whole trip.

But, to be fair, Mara did prepare me for that too.

“Vomiting has been known to happen,” she admitted to me back in the waiting area, just after I had already accepted the job. “Gentle stomachs, you understand. The passage can sometimes be rough on them.”

“Anything else I should know?” I asked, a touch exasperated.

“The mess is awful and impossible to wash out,” Mara said with a sigh. “And the stench is somehow worse than that. So, you know, take proper precautions.”

Funnily enough, she never got around to telling me what those precautions were. So, if you’re curious as to why I currently stink of puke… well, you know now.

Again, a tip would be much appreciated.

The thing is, I could deal with the noises and the vomit and all the terrible smells. It sucks, but it’s part of the job. I could handle it.

But the abuse and the aggression I suffered at the hands of my passenger?

Even my patience has limits.

Keep in mind that violence in general isn’t something I’m altogether unfamiliar with. When I first appeared in the waiting area — I had just experienced a very traumatic confrontation. As a result, I was screeching my head off.

You would be too, if you’d just been shot out of the sky.

“Calm down, calm down,” Mara said placatingly. “You’re safe now.”

“Safe?” I repeated incredulously. “Who are you?”

“My name is Marabou. I go by Mara, though. Once you’ve adjusted to… well, to all this… you should think of a name for yourself.”

“A name? I was just shot!” I said hysterically.

Mara nodded. “Yes. By a 12-gauge, I believe. My condolences. But it wasn’t a bad way to go, all things considered.”

“Bad way to go?” I repeated. “What does that mean?”

“Well, it was fast. My death wasn’t. I was actually torn apart by a pack of lions, believe it or not.”

“Are you saying that I… I died?”

“Oh yes,” she said lightly. “Only a few seconds ago. And now you’re in purgatory. Which means you now have an important decision to make.”

“Decision? What decision?” I demanded. “And what is that awful sound?”

I added this last because I had finally taken proper stock of my environment. At first, I hadn’t been thrown to see myself thousands of feet in the air — the sky was my usual habitat, naturally — but the cacophony of screams I was now hearing was far more alarming.

“Oh, don’t mind the passengers just yet,” Mara said briskly. “You see, this is where they begin their journey. They start in purgatory. Though we don’t usually call it that around here,” she added. “We mostly refer to this place as ‘the waiting area.’ And you should know that most living beings that die rarely get to come here… they just go on to their afterlife.

“But our species?” she continued. “We’re special. We always come here when we die. See, there’s a specific role we get to perform on Earth. A job, if you will.”

“What job?”

It was then that Mara ruffled her wings, her eyes glittering.

“We ferry passengers.”

Then, pointing with her beak, Mara indicated all the fat, screeching creatures that lay on the clouds behind her. There were countless infants littered across the Waiting Area, all of them biding their time until they could gain passage.

And one of those infants? He turned out to be the very passenger who brought me so much grief today.

As I said, he was violent. He pummelled me with his fists all the way through the firmament. And as I flew toward your hemisphere, he ripped out my feathers with his fat hands, shrieking until his face went blue. Even as I descended upon this beautiful piece of suburbia, he was grabbing at my beak.

Obviously, I didn’t drop him. I was never once tempted. Not when he threw up all over my plumage, or howled as we soared over your lovely neighbourhood, or when he pinched me as I landed on your roof.

This is because I, Henry the Hornbill, am a professional. In all my years, I’ve never once lost a delivery.

And now that I’m finally at your door — I just want to say that it was lovely to meet you both. Despite it all, it was truly my pleasure to be the stork assigned to you for this most special event. I’m sure you’ll make excellent parents.

Which is good, because this infant of yours is going to be a real handful.

Oh, and I’d really appreciate it if, in addition to that tip, you’d be kind enough to give me five stars for my service today.

After all, I flew all the way here from purgatory.

And boy are my wings tired.

Read Parts 1, 2, 3, and 4 here…

Welcome to the final stage of the tour!

I know, I know. At first glance, it appears that we’ve only returned to my lovely sitting room, where we found ourselves before the tour began. But this place was always going to be the last stop on our journey.

Because this isn’t just a sitting room.

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I know that I am ultimately responsible for everything that transpires here, and for all who live under my protection.

But I don’t mind admitting that, of late, it’s been a challenge maintaining order.

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To be frank, I’m at my wit’s end. My town is continually besieged by criminals and trespassers, thieves and vagrants. This modest community is suffering as a result, and my position here is growing ever more tenuous.

Needless to say, morale is now at an all-time low.

So, I’ve decided to lighten the general mood.

I’ve had an idea, you see. It came to me last night, just before bed, when it struck me that a bit of revelry might be just what this town needs.

Or so I tell block-headed Gilbert, anyhow.

“A game?” he repeats incredulously. “You want us all to play a game?”

With great difficulty, I prevent myself from rolling my eyes. Gill’s my best shot and a terror when it comes to killing wanted men… but he’s not worth all that much elsewise.

“Not a game. A friendly competition,” I correct him. “For the whole of the town. Everyone will be invited. And you’ll like it, dear Gilbert. It’s exactly your kind of event.”

Gill blinks stupidly at me.

“I don’t understand. This isn’t like you, sir.”

I sigh. Some men understand things implicitly, without needing to be told. Such a man, Gill is not.

Fortunately, Ralph is quicker on the uptake.

“An interesting idea,” he says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “But shouldn’t there be a prize? I mean to say, if we are to draw in the whole of the town… the bounty will have to be especially enticing.”

I smile at him.

“Don’t fret,” I say cheerily. “I have something in mind.”

All things considered, the whole affair goes off without a hitch.

The competition takes place just outside the town limits on an inordinately lovely day. Though it is the dead of summer, a cool and steady breeze whips through the meadow we’ve all gathered in, bending the willows and tugging at our clothes.

Just as I hoped, the townspeople have come out in full force to take part in the merrymaking, with the wealthier attendees sitting on long benches to one side and the less fortunate amassed across from them.

Nor is it only spectators who are in attendance — there is also a veritable horde of merchants, vendors, grocers, and a variety of hucksters, all of them loudly flogging their wares to any passer-by with coin to spare.

And, of course, there are the competitors.

The game they’re playing is a bit of harmless, bloodless fun: target practice, with each man trying his level best to outshoot his rivals. At this point in the competition, we are down to the final ten.

One of those ten is my own Gilbert, though that comes as no surprise. Two are unassuming, yet well-off, farmers. One is a short and stumpy outsider. Next to him stands a man with a cleft lip clad in blue. Beside him is a one-eyed man dressed in red, as well as an older, though still spry, fellow who I know hails from the neighbouring town of Lincoln. There are two other men whom I recognise — and immediately discount — on sight: a couple of gawky, gormless youths named Hugh and Will.

But it’s the final man, the tenth man, who has my attention.

He’s calling himself Adam, though I know that is not his true name. I know he is employing a pseodonym because this ‘Adam’ perfectly matches the description of the vagrant I’ve been doggedly hunting, right down to his flaxen hair and golden beard.

So, it seems my bandit took the bait after all.

I knew he would. He is, after all, a dangerous outlaw, a criminal addicted to his own prowess at shooting the innocent and unsuspecting. How could he resist coming here and proving his skill for all to see?

And now, because of his hubris, his reign of terror is about to come to a swift end.

“There’s our troublemaker,” I hiss to Ralph, indicating ‘Adam’ with a nod. “Watch him. Don’t let him leave your sight.”

“He’s made it to the final three,” Ralph acknowledges. “He’s talented, that’s for certain.”

I nod. Ralph’s words only strengthen my suspicions as the competitors are whittled down to seven, then five, then three. Naturally, Adam is among them.

He’s talented, yes. But that isn’t why I’m becoming steadily more convinced that he is my bandit. It’s the fact that he so clearly could be doing much better. Instead of showing the full range of his skill, he is allowing himself to be continually outscored not only by Gilbert, but by the one-eyed man as well.

My bandit would be proud enough to place highly in the festivities, yet wise enough not to win the game and draw undue attention.

Just as Adam is doing now.

When it comes time for the final shooting, I watch raptly as the three men take aim. Gilbert shoots well, the one-eyed man shoots better, and Adam gives an affable and hapless shrug before forfeiting.

In other words, the man dressed in red takes the day, while my bandit simply refuses to play.

“Get him,” I mutter to Ralph, even as I move in the direction of the one-eyed man with his prize in hand.

“As you say, sir,” Ralph grunts.

Gilbert, of course, rages as I ply the one-eyed man with my compliments as well as his rightfully earned bounty — a bright golden arrow — but I pay Gill no heed.

No, my attention is on Ralph as he escorts this ‘Adam’ away.

I have already decreed that there will be no prison for the outlaw. In the name of the king, he will instead be met with the swift and remorseless justice of the executioner’s block.

And in the end, my bandit’s severed, rolling head shall be my prize to claim…

It was as the men-at-arms sat together, gorging themselves on their morning meal, that the blunted arrow shaft embedded itself in the surface of their trestle table.

Cries of shock resounded across the hall. All those eating found their feet at once, jostling the table and sending the dishes into disarray. For a long time, no one dared move toward the grey goose-feathered shaft sticking out of the oak.

In the end, it was Gill o’ the Redcap who mustered the courage to pull the arrow out. He wordlessly handed it to his master sitting at the head of the table.

Flummoxed, the Sheriff unfurled the little scroll that had been tied to the shaft — and his face turned to stone as he read the words contained therein.

“Where did this come from?” he bellowed at last, throwing the scroll to the floor.

“Through the window, your worship,” Gilbert replied automatically, a little awestruck. “I’ve never seen such a shot before! Why, not even I could manage such a—”

But the Sheriff did not seem interested in hearing Gill’s appreciation for a fellow archer’s talents just then. Instead, he upended their breakfast table and stormed off, crying out as he went:

“Guards! Guards! That loathsome outlaw has done it again!”

Almost all the men-at-arms scattered, with the exception of Ralph o’ the Scar, who remained to inspect the dropped scrap of writ.

As he unfurled the scroll for himself, a sinking feeling settled in his stomach as he remembered what he had done to poor Adam o’ the Dell only the day prior. Then, as he took in the written words, his thoughts turned bitterly to the one-eyed man in dressed in scarlet, who had once again outwitted them all…

“God bless the Sheriff for his charity this day, say we humble folk of Sherwood,” the note read. “For you’ve just given your bounty away, to merry Robin Hood!”

Read Parts 1, 2, and 3 here…

…finally, there came a gasp and a sigh, followed by a cold, spine-tingling sensation…

Hello. I am an alien. I have abducted you.

Please don’t be alarmed.

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I think it’s long past time I told you a little more about myself.

This is a pretty good place for a heart-to-heart, all things considered. I mean, who doesn’t love the beach? Just look at all that water! It’s beautiful, right? A perfect, pristine, cerulean lagoon…

Of course, like all the other stops on our tour, this place is also significant in the course of human history. But we’ll get to that.

Here, sit down next to me — and we’ll have a nice chat about my kind.

So.

As I’ve said who-knows-how-many times, I am an alien. But as extraterrestrials go, I’m a member of a rather... unique species. Yeah.

Of course, unique doesn’t mean rare. My species is actually quite populous, scattered across the universe. It’s safe to say there are a lot more of us than there are of you.

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Perhaps I should start by saying that I knew the Scribe. Better than anyone.

In fact, I was with him at the end.

What you have to understand is that the Scribe and I matriculated together. Granted, we were never especially close, but of all our peers, I was the one who knew him best. And because we were classmates who shared a familiar, if slightly strained, sense of humour, we soon fell into the habit of studying together whenever required.

For my part, I found him a pleasant enough fellow. At least until he came across a certain third world artifact — an artifact that drove him out of his mind, and which led to his untimely death.

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When I knew him, I too was training to become one of the State’s trusted transcribers. Of course, in the wake of the Great Ratification, it was his fate to become the revered Scribe, whereas it’s my good fortune to merely be remembered as a lucky someone who happened to be on good terms with him during our shared apprenticeship.

Now, when it comes to the Scribe, everyone always wants to know the same thing:

“What was he like, back then?” they will ask. “How did he behave before the tome found its way to him?”

And they are always disappointed by my answer.

The truth is that the Scribe was neither charming nor disagreeable. He was a touch quieter than most, perhaps. A little more isolated. But even though he shied away from the easy fellowship we apprentices enjoyed, he never once displayed anything approaching standoffishness.

Nor was he any sort of revolutionary. He possessed a passion for academia, certainly, but he was also a true child of the State, which by definition made him a patriot and a staunch supporter of our aggressive interventionist policies. Anything less would have been heresy.

Of course, that all changed when he received the tome. It wasn’t until he began to pore through its contents that he developed a taste for blasphemy.

It’s generally understood that the book in question was written by a primitive third world society. Today, many staunch adversaries of the Great Ratification claim that the tome itself was cursed. They believe a foul malediction was woven into its pages, imbued by the very savages responsible for writing the text.

Obviously, I find that hard to believe. That said, I saw firsthand the changes the Scribe underwent after taking possession of the tome… and they were alarming to behold. At a certain point, the Scribe was rarely seen without that book in hand; he carried it about like a talisman, leafing through its pages even at mealtimes.

“Ho,” I once called out to him from across the refectory. “What is it you have there, chum?”

I remember that when he looked up from the book, his eyes were glazed over, as though he were not truly present.

“It’s my assignment,” he answered. “Second Master gave it to me only last week — it’s a trophy from our latest siege. He personally selected me to translate its contents for the State. He even lent me his own Black Character for the task.”

To my immense irritation, this remark was met with appreciative whistles all around. (A Black Character, of course, is a rare eye lens employed by Master Transcribers to decode foreign — and ofttimes extinct — languages.)

“Well, that is a great honour, you lucky thing,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “And where is that Character now, if I may ask?”

“Oh, I don’t need it anymore,” the Scribe said dismissively. “I gave it back to Second Master. I’m now familiar enough with the script that I can read it bare-eyed.”

This time, the noises that resounded across our lunch table were less appreciative and more, shall we say, incredulous.

“Is that so?” I said, forcing a grin. “To gain such a familiarity with a foreign language only a week in? Well, that must be quite the engrossing book!”

I can admit now — to you, and to you alone — that I was jealous of him. To be loaned a Black Character by the (now dead) Second Master was a staggering achievement. Worse still was seeing just how absorbed in the book the Scribe had become.

But I was even more envious of the Scribe when he simply looked me dead in the face and said:

“You have no idea.”

From that point on, the Scribe was different. From dawn to dusk, he railed against the State, becoming a firebrand in the truest sense of the word. At first, I assumed his theatrics were merely a bid for attention, but it wasn’t long before I realised that they were anchored by sincere conviction.

“It’s disgusting, what we do,” he once said, in our Commons. “The way we besiege communities, plunder resources, wipe out native populations. It’s obscene. We commit murder and genocide day by day, hiding behind the simple pretext that they are somehow lesser for not belonging to the State.”

“You speak heresy,” one of our fellows retorted. “Madness.”

“I believe that tome of yours has addled your wits, friend,” said another. “It’s always been the State’s directive that foreign agitators must be defanged.”

A mad, unhinged look flashed across the Scribe’s face, then.

“Defanged?” he repeated indignantly, snatching up his precious tome and pointing to its black cover. “Do you understand that the people who created this masterwork are all extinct? Yes! Your beloved State killed them all, then razed the land beneath their corpses for good measure. And now, all that remains of the natives is this very book!”

“A good trophy, then!” I cried, pleased to receive a ripple of laughter in return.

“No. This book is more than that.” The Scribe looked at each of us while caressing the tome’s spine. “It is a living wonder — a foundation upon which to build values.”

It was at this point that he began to recount the tale contained within the tome. We had no Black Character of our own to assist in translating its words, after all — so the Scribe had to summarise the story for us, as though we were hapless, guileless children.

And I hated him for that.

Beneath my spite and envy, however, I came to understand that the Scribe’s tome was an unconventional narrative, replete with twists and frequent changes in perspective. More than that, I learned that it was the main character who truly drew the Scribe into the book, despite his limited appearance.

“He doesn’t show up until halfway through,” the Scribe had told us. “And when he does appear — he doesn’t linger for long. Even so, you can feel the weight of his presence throughout the story; he haunts the narrative long after he’s bowed out of it.”

Yet everything about this protagonist sounded like insanity to us. A hero whose weapon of choice wasn’t violence, but words? A person whose values opposed the State’s directives at every turn?

I remember that, just before our graduation, I stumbled across the Scribe as he wept over those very directives.

“Orbital bombardments,” he sobbed. “No survivors. How could we ever be forgiven for doing such a thing?”

“We do not need forgiveness,” I told him. “The people we killed were nothing more than savages.”

But the Scribe only shook his head. “You are wrong. We are the savages. And unless we change our ways now, we are fated to an eternity of punishment for the billions we’ve murdered.”

It was then that he placed a protective hand over his tome.

The gesture made me want to scream.

The rest of the story is common knowledge. The Scribe was never able to ratify our State’s policies. Not while he was alive, anyway.

The morning of our graduation, his body was discovered. It turned out that he had somehow fastened himself to two long planks, one set across the other. Exactly like the main character in his precious tome — with one exception.

For some reason, he had crucified himself upside down.

People have wondered about the circumstances of his death for decades now. More significant still is how his apparent suicide made his endless proselytising and preaching nigh-impossible to ignore. It would be fair to say that the Great Ratification was built upon the bedrock of his suspended corpse, as with the original Nazarene.

And as a result, our planet is now populated by ardent pacifists, forever seeking forgiveness from the worlds we’ve slaughtered and enslaved...

But you most likely want me to detail how it was possible that the Scribe managed to crucify himself alone. Or what became of the Scribe’s most precious possession after his passing…

In truth, I do not know whether you can hear me, or whether you truly are — as the Scribe claimed — all-knowing and all-powerful.

If you are, then no doubt you already know why I did what I did.

One way or another, the Scribe had to be silenced.

But that didn’t work, did it? Instead of silencing him, I turned the Scribe into a martyr and, in doing so, helped to usher in the Great Ratification. The State is almost unrecognizable now. This alien religion has turned us into something incomprehensible.

There’s only one silver lining to all this: I am now a scribe with a precious possession of my very own.

Admittedly, I do feel bad about killing the Scribe. But now, having at last read your holy book through the use of a murdered man’s Black Character, I know that you are always willing to forgive a truly penitent heart.

So, I now humbly ask your forgiveness for the murders I have committed. In the same breath, I also beg forgiveness for the billions of faithful worshippers we've killed on that little blue planet of yours — the third world from the sun.

If you are real, please extend to us the same grace you offered the people of Earth.

Amen.