<![CDATA[SCARLET LEAF REVIEW - SHORT-STORIES]]>Thu, 02 Jul 2020 01:36:25 -0400Weebly<![CDATA[RUTH Z. DEMING - THE LAW PROFESSOR]]>Thu, 16 Jan 2020 23:51:34 GMThttps://www.scarletleafreview.com/short-stories38/ruth-z-deming-the-law-professor
Ruth Z. Deming has had her work published in lit mags including Literary Yard, Blood and Thunder, Pure Slush, O-Dark-Thirty, and Your One Phone Call. A psychotherapist, she lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. She's always proud to be published in Scarlet Leaf Review. 


The winter weather was getting more and more fierce. Chalk it up to climate change unless you were a “climate denier,” similar to “Holocaust deniers.” 
He found it increasingly difficult to live without his former wife. She left him, saying, “I’m sick of being married.” Why was he not surprised? His colleagues, both male and female, shared similar ideas.
    The blonde woman, Rhona Halligan, whose eyes rolled when she spoke to him, said, “Ronald, you are quite simply, a pushover. Why don’t you stand your ground?”
    They had dated twice after his divorce. He took her to his favorite Starbucks in downtown Philadelphia, where his sorrow was apparent. He looked at her the way a floppy-eared dog looks for approval to his master. 
    She was certainly attractive, with long red-painted fingernails. She looked a bit like a call girl, but that was the way women in their forties appeared nowadays. 
    He couldn’t stand her, yet wondered if he’d still go out with her to quell his loneliness. 
    Only a week was left in the first semester of his class, “Contracts Law.” He affixed his bicycle to a black bike rack and hurried up the stairs to his classroom. Before he entered, he heard the chatter of the students, which raised his spirits a bit.  Glancing about the room, he saw the eraser board was as white as his dead mother’s hair had been, and that a world globe on the window sill was swiveled toward Nigeria. 
    “I’m not late, am I?” he asked, looking at the 40 or so students sitting in their chairs.
    A murmur recited “not at all.”  
    “Have you enjoyed my class?”
    “It’s not a question of enjoyment, Dr. Berger,” said one Miles Matthews. “The class is forced upon us, but, yes, I’ll give you top marks when we fill out the evals at the end of the term.”
    Ron laughed and gave him the “thumbs up.”
    Rhona flashed before his eyes. But something else did too. For no reason at all. He could barely make it out. 
    At home in his fashionable apartment which had once been an oven factory, he lay in his bed staring at the high ceiling. As a kid growing up in the suburbs, he remembered lying upside down and pretending the upside-down-world was the “real” world. 
    His father, back then, owned Hershel’s Sunoco. Cars and trucks would line up to get service. “There is service and there is Hershel’s Service” read a blinking light that could be seen as far as the Pennysylvania Turnpike.
    Suddenly, Ron had an idea. 
    His car awaited him in the covered garage of his townhouse, an older Nissan Maxima, in prime condition. 
    He drove all the way to Hershel’s Sunoco. Would it still be there?
    As he sped along the freeway, he passed the poor side of town: smoke stacks were belching the black smoke of industry - no wonder the poor had more cancer than the wealthy people like himself - and also saw leaping flames from burning petroleum. 
    As a Jew, Ron always thought of Bergen-Belson and other concentration camps from The Holocaust. Nearly every Jew knew someone who had died by the worst torture and death possible: his Aunt Sadie and her family from Hungary.  
    He punched on his radio where something unknown was playing. The male soloist had a most expressive voice. He was singing in Spanish. Ron would have to memorize the name if he wished to buy it. There it was: A Mass in Memorium to the Lost Children of Generalissimo Franco by one Joaquin Perez. 
    His spirits began to perk up as he remembered the gas station. Those were the happiest days of his life. His mother had been thoroughly embarrassed by his father’s career. When asked, she told her high-society friends, he was in the “petroleum profession,” refusing to elaborate.
    There it was! The same as he remembered. But like a run-down house, it had deteriorated and been abandoned. An orange hazard fence was wrapped around the property. A couple of old jalopies were inside the fence. A ’48 Hudson and a small rusty tricycle tipped onto its side. 
    Bright-colored graffiti stained the walls of the office. Ugly, not like Keith Haring and other talented artists. 
    “You’re still here,” he breathed. From the side pocket of his Nissan, he grabbed a black Bic pen. “La Beek” he knew it was pronounced en francais. First he wrote down Joaquin Perez. He would definitely buy the CD. Next he wrote down the phone number of “Albert Connors and Sons,” who now owned his father’s property. 
    Tears coursed down his cheeks. 
    How dare they take it over, the bastards. A few neighbors sauntered by. 
    “Mister,” said a thirty-ish dark-skinned man in a black cap. “My papa said this was the best gas station around.”
    “And what’s your name, sir?” asked Ron.
    “Victor,” he answered.
    “My father, Hershel, was the ‘Hershel’ who owned the gas station.’”
    “Where did he go?” asked Victor.
    “To heaven, I assume,” said Ron, imagining that his mother had bickered him to death.
    On the way home, he began to sing. Childhood songs he had long forgotten. Deck the halls with boughs of holly, Good King Wenceslas, Joy to the World, and his favorite “The Twelve Pains of Christmas.” He sang “The first pain of Christmas is sending out Christmas cards, trying to rig up Christmas Lights.”
    Most Jewish people don’t put up Christmas lights but his family drove around the suburbs viewing spectacular lights. On Kirk Road, there were the Blue Lights. The house was large and immersed in lights of blue. Blue as the Caribbean Sea.
    Ron pulled into the parking garage of “Country Towers.” He whistled as he walked up the cement back stairs, where he always thought, would be the perfect place for a murder. 
    When he reached his townhouse on the third floor, he flung his notes from his pocket, and sat in the rocker of his late father.
    “Dad? What do you think I should do?”
    The silence let in the sounds of a few cars and buses on the street outside. 
    A bell was ringing, undoubtedly the Santa Claus for the Salvation Army.
    “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ Dad.” 
<![CDATA[LOIS GREENE STONE - BELLS AND SKATES]]>Thu, 16 Jan 2020 23:48:32 GMThttps://www.scarletleafreview.com/short-stories38/lois-greene-stone-bells-and-skatesLois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.  The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.

bells and skates

"It's finished," Leona uttered as she snipped the last thread from the hem.  The circular velvet skating skirt sewn from left-over master bedroom drapery material was her mother's idea.  Leona didn't like the ready-made black velveteen with red satin lining; none had enough flare when skaters twirled.  This would fling upward showing the rose silk lining she carefully hand-sewed in place and her self-created rose silk panties.
    After stuffing leftover cloth into a sewing basket, Leona held it up by its wide waistband.  Glancing in a mirror, she made faces and giggled. The skirt looked wonderful even though she hugged it above her plaid, pleated one now covered with lint.
    The telephone bell startled her.  "Leona. It's for you," her sister Nancy called.  "Don't stay on long," she threatened. Her body tensed and her pale face reddened as she mustered up anger.  She didn't like being sixteen, overweight, the brunt of her sister's taunts, and now having to baby-sit Leona while their parents were in Washington, DC for the weekend.
    Leona walked down the hall, lay flat on the grey carpet, put her feet through the spindles of the staircase's upper bannister, and pulled the heavy phone downward from its shelf as far as the cord would extend.  "Hi."

    "And don't think you're going out.  There's supposed to be a snowstorm."  Nancy shrieked up the stairs to her sister.  To herself she muttered, "I'll show that self-impressed, all-around athlete who the boss is this weekend.  She won't get away with wiggling her skinny hips, batting her eyes, and getting Mom and Dad to do everything she wants.  I'll show her!"
    "You heard?"  Leona whispered into the circles of the phone.  "And don't think you're going out," she sarcastically imitated using a high-pitched voice.  "She's in love with the power Mom and Dad gave her since they went to Washington. Gone one day and she becomes a matron in a prison movie.  Looks like one too. Sure. Great Neck ice rink. No, not the outside one in Flushing's Bowne Park. I want to wear my skirt and skate-dance.  Can't do that outside. Great Neck has the fireplace to warm up my freezing legs and music, too."
    "Get off already," Nancy yelled.
    "Get off already," Leona muttered.  "Julie? You still there? Sure. I'll meet you in the third car.  The third. I'll sit on the right so when it stops at Auburndale I'll wave.  Okay. Leaves Broadway at 1:12."
    The black receiver cradled itself back in its slot.  Leona lifted herself from the floor, lifted the phone from the floor back onto its centralized hallway shelf, and went into her room.  She removed and shook out the wool skirt, then her blouse and full slip. Standing before the mirror, which fastened with tiny glass rosettes to her closet door, she admired her figure and legs.  "You'll freeze, legs, but I'll show you off."
    "Where do you think you're going?"  Nancy barged in as Leona was putting her silk skating panties over her cotton underwear.
    "Great Neck.  Ice skating. I always go on weekends."  Leona was annoyed at having to account to her sister.
    "Not today, kid.  There's a blizzard coming and I'm responsible for you,"  Nancy was hostile.
    "I'm fourteen.  This is New York not the midwest so I doubt there'll be a blizzard.  Anyway, I can take care of myself." Leona disliked her sister under normal circumstances;  as a substitute parent, she felt Nancy was obnoxious.
    "You're not leaving this house."  Nancy's small aqua eyes became slits.
    "Geez, you're jealous.  Just because you don't skate, have no friends, and would look like a yuk in anything, you don't have to always take it out on me."  Leona regretted saying that. Nancy sometimes got violent and slapped, especially when no one was around to see or hear.
    "I hate you."  Nancy grabbed a handful of Leona's long, pale, yellow hair.  Because it was silky from the chamomile final rinse, it slid from her grasp.  Leona giggled. Nancy's fist found Leona's ear.
    The pain was intense at first.  Only a red ear showed... Nancy's favorite spot to hit because, when Leona tattled to Mom, nothing really would be obvious and it was one word against another.
    "Get out of my room."  Tears began to well in Leona's eyes.  She didn't want to give her sister the satisfaction of seeing them.
    The pain became an ache as Leona resumed dressing.  She put a cotton turtleneck shirt on and then her beautiful velvet skirt.  It would be worth freezing. She pulled a wool sweater over her head; it touched and stirred up her ear pain.  She knew she wouldn't wear the sweater skating as her tiny waist wouldn't show. The white leather skates, with bells through the base of its laces, were on the floor of her closet;  sharp blades were covered with rubber guards. She knotted the laces together so the skates could be carried on her shoulders. Cotton socks and penny loafers went on her feet, and wool anklets were dropped into her skates.
    Nancy was in the living room listening to a Frank Sinatra song when Leona tip-toed to the hall closet for a jacket, hat, mittens.  She knew once she got out the door, Nancy couldn't run and actually catch her. The 78rpm whirred for a second indicating the recording needed to be manually re-started.  Now. Leona ran. Nancy jumped up screaming "Get back here. You'll be sorry."
    "I'm taking the 1:12.  I'll be back for supper.  Be at Great Neck. Julie's coming too."  Leona shouted from the concrete sidewalk.  The cold air hurt her ear.
    Running the two city blocks to the Long Island Railroad, Leona got rid of some of her anger.  Her parents never doubted her ability or trust. Why was Nancy so bossy? She settled into a torn seat in the third car.  
    Julie was not at the Auburndale stop.  Maybe she'll get on at Bayside, Leona thought.  "Bayside next stop." Then Douglaston, Little Neck, Great Neck, Leona said to herself.  Well, I don't see any snow.
    The walk from the Great Neck station to the rink was along a quiet road.  Julie never appeared. Maybe her parents will drive her, Leona thought. It was not like Julie to just plain not show up.  She was certain, however, her other school friends would be skating.
    Excitement at the sight of the rink always came.  She loved the wood smell, the hot chocolate, the music, the free feeling of skating, her friends.  "Hi, Lenny." She hugged the boy who often rode her home from school on his bicycle’s crossbar. "Oh, hi, Sylvia, and Marty, and Jane.  What train did you get?"
    "Let me see it," Jane pulled open Leona's jacket.  "It's gorgeous. Swing. God, your panties show. I've never seen such a circle...even at Rockefeller Center."
    "First couples-skate, you are mine,"  whispered Lenny. He hung her jacket and hat on a wooden peg in the ‘coat area’.  "Beautiful sewing."
    Leona blushed.  Lenny liked her more than a friend;  she just liked him. It embarrassed her that he noticed everything and complimented her sewing and designing ability.
    The session went as she'd hoped, especially doing backward turns in the center of the ice, reserved for such feats.  Leona was stared at by other skaters who were dressed for warmth, or girls in the classic black velveteen but with heavy long knee socks.  No one knew it was snowing as the rink had no windows.     It was 5 PM and time to leave.  All her friends were to take the same train, but get off sooner, so they exited together.  Two hours of blizzard had already taken place. They laughed at the trek to the station.
    The train wasn't going anywhere.  Leona put a nickle in the pay phone, and called Nancy to tell her she was going to sit on the train, was safe, was with her buddies, and she'd eventually get home.  
    She and her friends sang summer-camp songs.  The train struggled leaving the depot, but hours had passed and only a mile or so had been covered.  Their singing ceased.  
    "My folks are away.  I'm glad they don't have to see this blizzard.  Guess I should have stayed put," Leona said. "My sister will be in heaven with her holier-than-thou attitude."
    It was already eleven at night.  Hunger had told all that. The train finally made it to Bayside.  "Let's walk," Lenny said. "It'll be faster."
    "But you live in Bayside,"  Leona replied.
    "You're not going alone," the sixteen year old insisted.
    They left the train.  The other friends hiked to their Bayside homes.  Street lights looked eerie. Lenny carried both pairs of skates and held Leona's arm.  Penny loafers and legs bare from the ankles up made the walk in the volume of snow even more difficult.  Lenny would have to make this trip back on foot once he got Leona home. She suggested he sleep over. He smiled and declined.
    "I've learned how capable I really am," Leona said.  "I sure didn't fall apart, you either, when things got off schedule.  My mom always said she had faith in me. She's right." The front lights of her house appeared.  It was nearly one in the morning.
    "My I'm glad to see you."  Mrs. Gray stood at the open door as snow blew in.
    "What're you doing here?"  Leona was startled to see her mother.
    "Nancy called us, long-distance, in Washington and said you were stranded in Great Neck.  How could you go skating in a blizzard? How could you?" She seemed to demand an answer.
    Nancy grinned.
    "I was always safe," Leona defended.  "I thought you knew me. I knew I was okay.  I can manage. Lenny took care of me also."
    "I got in from Washington in a faster time than you made it from Great Neck!"  Mrs. Gray was relieved but upset.
    "Lenny, call me when you've arrived home.  Here. Let me give you a pair of my dad's socks and rubber boots.  I'll keep your skates." Leona turned from her mother and spoke to her friend.  "Imagine Nancy calling them in Washington to say I was stranded even after I phoned her.  No way to let them know I didn't want to ruin their vacation, is there."
    Lenny shrugged from fatigue.  Her question had no answer. Blame was less important than trying to make it two miles home in deep snow.  His wet wool jacket had the characteristic odor only wet wool has; he embraced Leona and left. Each leg disappeared as he lifted and then put down in the thigh-high covering.  He waved.

published June 1997 Rochester Shorts 

<![CDATA[MATEJ PURG - MADE IN TAIWAN]]>Thu, 16 Jan 2020 21:23:10 GMThttps://www.scarletleafreview.com/short-stories38/matej-purg-made-in-taiwan
Born in Slovenia, Matej grew up in Germany, then after several years in New York, ended up embedded in Los Angeles. Some of his stories have appeared in Ariel Chart, FRED, and other publications. He is currently seeking publication of his debut novel, LADY BEZOAR. 


The boy’s feet barely touched the floor as he sat at the dining room table. He was staring at his math book, but he couldn’t focus on the problem in front of him. Illimitable distractions kept him from finding the solution, the clanking and sizzling of pots and pans, his mother cursing dinner into existence. The smell of roasting meat, potatoes, carrots, and fennel collected along the living-room ceiling. He hated fennel. The smell signaled the nightly congregation at the table he currently occupied all by himself, his papers, books, and binders scattered across the surface. He was on guard for his mother’s command to set the table.
    He heard the A6 gear down outside, undeniably his father’s. He straightened his spine, bowed his head towards his math book and picked up his pencil. He began counting. One, two, three. He scribbled some numbers in the blank spots of his homework, underlined the fictitious answers. Twenty-five, twenty-six. He erased a few of the numbers and replaced them with neater looking ones. Forty-four, forty-five. He heard the key unlock the door at fifty. The boy summoned a smile and threw his father a careful glance when he saw him appear in the door and close it behind him. The father put down his briefcase next to the shelf with all the shoes. Earlier that afternoon, the boy made sure that none of his shoes were out of line, that all the mud was cleared from the linoleum floor in the hallway. His father hung up his sport coat, took off his loafers, and slid into house slippers.
    “Hi Dad,” the boy mumbled. He bowed his head back into the book after meeting his father’s arctic eyes. 
    “Boy,” the father nodded in his direction. “Doing homework?” 
    “Yes,” the boy said. Just like every time you walk in the door, he thought to himself. He noticed his father cradling something shiny-blue in his arm like a football. His eyes latched onto it, onto the thing. It was the replica of a racing car, a Porsche, its windows blacked out, its sponsor’s logos plastered across the hood and the doors. His father never came home bearing gifts, except on the boy’s birthdays. This last birthday, his tenth, his father gave him an unwrapped science book, illustrations explaining basic principles. He browsed through the book once or twice, then lost it on his bookshelf. He didn’t care about symbiosis, or photosynthesis, or Pavlov and his dog. He wanted a soccer ball he could take outside and join his friends from school, chase after it until he was out of breath and then chase it some more. He wanted to get his pants green from sliding on the grass, maybe even score a goal. 
    The boy waited for his father to stop, to say: “Oh, by the way, here you go, boy,” and hand him the toy. He placed the words “thank you, Dad” on the tip of his tongue, ready to deploy when the time was right. The car filled him with the desire to play, the urge to race it across the living room floor. He wanted to hold it up, to admire it, to take it in, as he rotated it in front of his face. 
    The father passed him, continued muted to the kitchen, opened the door and closed it behind him. He always closed the door behind him. The boy couldn’t make out the words mumbled between his parents. He thought about getting up and knocking on the kitchen door to ask about the car. He wiped a mustache of sweat from his upper lip. The boy knew the risk of asking when he didn’t know the answer. Questions were dangerous in this house.     
    He returned his attention to the papers in front of him, erasing the numbers he’d jotted down in haste just in case his father checked them. He read the first problem, but the car’s mere presence in the house kept him from focusing. It must’ve just escaped his father’s mind to give him the car, the boy thought. He was just curious about dinner. The boy would have to wait for his father to offer him the toy. He could do that. He could wait.
    He heard his mother shout his name through the closed kitchen door and jumped from the chair, shuffled his papers on top of his book, then shoved the pile into his backpack. He wiped the tiny shards of rubber from the eraser off the table and took a deep breath. His mother shouted his name again, louder this time, angrier. He entered the kitchen and picked up the place-mats, the plates and napkins and silverware his mother put on the counter for him. The boy was still too short to reach the upper shelves. His toes barely touched the floor when he sat on chairs. 
    The father closed the door. The boy spotted the car sitting on the opposite counter as his parents talked about some guy at his father’s office. Tim was his name. Tim this, Tim that. Tim is unqualified, Tim is dumb, Tim shouldn’t be in charge. Tim, Tim, Tim. Same story every day. The boy picked up the table setting, but he couldn’t reach the door handle carrying everything with both hands. He pushed it down with his elbow, terrified of dropping the china and shattering it into a million pieces. Things weren’t supposed to get broken. The father closed the door after the boy and crossed the threshold without a word about the car.
    The boy set the table the way his mother had instructed him. Napkin folded into a triangle and placed to the right of the plate. Fork on the left, knife laid atop the napkin, sharp side facing the plate. He checked his work, adjusted his mother’s fork a few millimeters, picked up his father’s knife and flattened the napkin some more before carefully placing it back where it belonged.
    Dinner was pot roast with carrots and potatoes, fennel on the side. The mother poured herself a glass of red wine while his father had a beer. The boy drank apple juice. There was some grease smeared on the father’s chin. He was a messy eater, gobbling up his food deep in thought. The mother emptied the glass of wine in three greedy sips and refilled it from the bottle. The boy had trouble resisting the car as he swallowed a piece of fennel with the help of some apple juice. His mother knew how much he despised fennel. Or Brussels sprouts. Or asparagus. Still, she continued to feed him these disgusting vegetables day in, day out. She liked them. She was the one cooking, so she was the one who decided what was on the table. 
    The boy imagined himself kneeling in the living room, racing the car, chasing after it. He saw himself with his tongue poking out of his mouth, his knees burning red from sliding across the carpet.
    “Well,” the mother said, snapping the boy back to the table. “How is it?”
    “Good,” the father said. 
    “Yes, good,” the boy added. 
    “Good,” the mother said. “I cooked all afternoon. The least you could do is tell me you like it.” 
    “Yes, it’s good,” the father said again. 
    “Yes, I like it all right,” the boy said, stabbing the fennel with his fork. “A lot,“ he added. “What did you have for lunch today?” he asked his father to crush the mounting uncertainty, to engage him, to summon his giving spirit. 
    “Oh, I don’t know,” his father said. “Fried chicken, I think.” 
    “Was it good?” the boy asked, feigning interest. 
    “It was mushy,” his father frowned. The boy had microwaved left-over pasta for lunch, but he kept it to himself. 
    The boy picked up his plate and carried it into the kitchen. Only coagulating fat remained in the emptied pots and pans. After rinsing the plate and placing it into the dishwasher, he stepped toward the car. It had his father’s company logo plastered across the hood, some other logo emblazoned on the doors. It was football-sized and had rubber wheels. Just as he was about to pick it up, his father walked in carrying his plate, the sauce now dried on his chin. 
    “Close the door,” he told the boy, then rinsed his plate and placed it in the dishwasher. The boy did as he was told. 
    It felt right to ask now. His father was satiated. He’d had his beer.
    “Is this for me?” the boy asked.
    The father opened the fridge, searching for any kind of dessert. “What?” he said. He loved his desserts. “Where’s the pudding from last night?”
    The boy finished the pudding in his room earlier that day. He cringed, remembering the empty bowl he’d left upstairs in his room. 
    “The car,” the boy said. His father slammed the fridge shut. He looked at the boy. 
    “Oh,” he mumbled, “No. It’s from the merger.” The boy didn’t know anything about a merger. He didn’t even know what a merger was. 
    “Did you finish your homework?” the father asked.
    “Yes,” the boy lied. “Can I try it out? Can I play with it?”
    The father stared at the car and sucked in a breath through his teeth. “OK,” he said, “but don’t scratch it. I’m going to put it on the shelf.” He meant the one in his office upstairs. 
    “I won’t, promise,” the boy said, then picked it up with both hands to prove his caution to his father. “Do it in your room,” the father said. “You’ll scratch the furniture down here.”
    The boy picked up his backpack on the way upstairs and closed his bedroom door behind him. He always closed his bedroom door behind him. He tossed his backpack on the floor, set the car on his desk, made the bed and shoved the pudding bowl beneath before flattening the comforter, running his hands across the fabric. He exhaled as he picked up the car, felt the coldness of the metal hood, its heft in his hands. He turned it over. The chassis was made of black plastic. A “Made in Taiwan” sticker was plastered between the front wheels. It had moved a little, exposing some sticky glue. He could see some kind of wind-up mechanism underneath. He rotated the wheel, let it go, watched it spin out.
    The boy dropped to his knees. He pulled the car in reverse across the carpet until the mechanism clicked. He whispered, three, two, one, then let go. The car dashed forward, faster than he could’ve ever imagined, doing a Porsche justice, then crashed into the wall, blue metal on white plaster. It spun through the air, the spoiler smearing another blue line across the paint before it landed on its roof. The wheels continued to whizz until they ran out of energy. The boy held his breath, listening for the thump of footsteps. No footsteps came. He was safe, for now. His heart kept pounding. 
    The boy crawled towards the crash site. He didn’t dare to look at the damage on the car. He zeroed in on the blue discolorations on the wall, tried to wipe one off with his sleeve but only smudged it more. He rubbed some spit on the blue, wiped again and again. It only darkened the white paint. He pushed his head against the wall, temperature rising. He felt the redness glow. He picked up the car and shook it, heard a clatter within its guts, a clanking piece dislodged during the crash. The wall had transferred its white paint onto the bumper. He scraped it off with his fingernails as much as he could. He opened the car’s doors to shake out the loose part, but found that it was stuck in the space between the cabin and the chassis. He placed the car beside him, closed his eyes, and tried not to think. It’s impossible not to think in the face of danger. His cheeks blazed as violence flickered before him. He tried to think happy thoughts, but he didn’t believe them. Instead his mind’s eye filled with the memory of his father’s hairy knuckles blackening his eye, of rust-colored blood dripping from his nose and splashing onto the bathroom rug, of his father’s belt biting his naked ass over and over while his mother watched from a distance, arms crossed, frozen, crack, crack, crack.
    The boy grabbed the car and stood up. He had an idea. He could still save himself.
    The boy slowly pushed the door open, listened for the blabber of the news on the television. His father liked to remain informed and his mother liked to drink another glass of wine before her shows came on. 
    His father’s office was behind the last door down the hall. The boy tip-toed across the carpet. He pushed down the door-handle and nudged the door open, stopped just short of the creaking noise he knew would come. The crack was big enough for his feeble body to slide through. Soon he’d be too big to make it without activating the creak. 
    The toolbox was on the bottom of the floor-to-ceiling shelves next to a stack of old National Geographics. He opened the box and picked out the smallest screwdriver. Within less than a minute, he was back in his room. He was pretty good at being stealthy, at remaining unnoticed. 
    He got on his knees and tried to fit the screwdriver into the tiny screws on the bottom. It didn’t fit. It was too big. He thought of returning the office to look for a smaller screwdriver, but he knew he was out of options. A silent tear collected in his eye. His cheeks began to fire at the imminent reality of his father’s palms connecting, his spasming body about to be left behind in the dark as his mother’s show flickered across the television screen downstairs.
    He wiped the tear away with his sleeve, snorted, and let go of the car. It bounced off the floor and landed in between his thighs. The boy looked at the undamaged roof as another tear wrung from the same eye. He let it run down his cheek, across the chin, and drop on top of the car. He tried to suppress his  sobs in the face of destruction. He picked up the screwdriver, held it against his temple and pushed until it was too painful to bear. Then he slammed the Phillips head into the hood. He knew nothing would save him from the onslaught. It didn’t matter how much or how little damage he caused. Things weren’t supposed to get broken. The impact dented the hood and chipped off some paint. He slashed the screwdriver through the plastic windows, into the roof, into the doors. He turned the car around, ripped the sticker from the plastic, rolled it into a ball and put it in his mouth. He pounded the screwdriver into the plastic chassis, cracking it, splintering it, opening up a hole. He shook the car with both hands as he chewed on the sticker, squeezing the bittersweet taste of glue from the paper, until a fly-sized plastic culprit fell from the hole. He picked it up and flicked it against the wall, ripped the plastic chassis from the metal, tore out the steering wheel, the seats, the rearview and side mirrors. He tried to bend the metal frame but he didn’t have the strength. Instead he pulled the rubber tires off the plastic rims, ripped them apart one after the other. He picked up the screwdriver again, slashing and slashing the metal roof until he tore through. The door opened, but the boy didn’t turn around. 
    “Let me look at your homework,” the father said. The boy swallowed the sticker, gripping the screwdriver tight, his knuckles whitening around the handle.

<![CDATA[ALEX DE CRUZ - WAITING FOR GODOT AT CAMPO DI CARNE]]>Thu, 16 Jan 2020 14:15:46 GMThttps://www.scarletleafreview.com/short-stories38/alex-de-cruz-waiting-for-godot-at-campo-di-carne
Alex de Cruz has had a passion for fiction and writing since reading Hemingway as a teenager. Recently, he's become fascinated with writing flash fiction, short stories, and creative nonfiction. Alex’s work has been published in Adelaide, Bull and Cross, CafeLit, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Potato Soup Journal. He has forthcoming stories in Down in the Dirt and Scarlet Leaf Review. He grew up in Santa Cruz, California and now lives in Santa Barbara with his wife, after spending forty years working in the Midwest.

Waiting for Godot at Campo di Carne

​Instead of meeting my son Neal at the international airport as planned, I was marooned in the boonies somewhere south of Rome. I sat waiting at a railway platform for the next train back to the city, with no idea when it might arrive. In 2004, I didn’t have a cellphone, not even the flip-open kind, so I couldn’t just call or text to get a ride. There wasn’t a taxi in sight, or I might have hijacked it to get back. I was that desperate. 

While on leave from my U.S. university, I worked at a United Nations organization in Rome. My wife Marie and I found a two-bedroom apartment near the Vatican to rent. Our son Neal, on winter break from college, would be the first of many visitors to use the second bedroom. 

When Marie and I first arrived in Italy, we’d taken an expensive taxi ride straight from the airport to the apartment. It seemed more a necessity than a luxury, since we had a lot of luggage for our extended stay and doubted we could find the place on our own. Smartphones with maps right at your fingertips were still several years away. 

Our rental flat didn’t even have a phone, because getting one installed was costly and a long wait. We were concerned that if Neal had difficulty finding the apartment or other problems, he had no way of contacting us, which is why I wanted to meet him.

I checked on my computer at work on public transportation to the airport, the Aeroporto Internazionale Roma-Fiumicino “Leonardo da Vinci”. That morning, when I headed to meet my son, Marie said, “Now, are you sure you know how to get there?” I replied, “No worries, it should be a piece of cake.” 

I started by taking the subway from a station near our flat to the central rail terminal, Roma Termi. Once there, the overhead display in the main hall showed that the Leonardo Express to the airport departed from Track 23. After buying a ticket, I headed there. 

As I approached Track 23, there was a train ready to leave, but it didn’t say Leonardo Express or Aeroporto anywhere. As I looked for someone to ask, I walked up as far as the engine that had “Leonardo da Vinci” emblazoned on the side. That was good enough for me, and I hopped aboard as the doors closed. I took a seat and pulled out the International Herald Tribune I’d purchased on the way.

Since the train ride ended at the airport, there was no need to pay attention to getting off at the right stop, so I relaxed and read the newspaper. After half an hour, we should have been approaching the airport, but there was no announcement, nor could I see any sign of it out the window. 

I found an English-speaking conductor and asked how much longer before the airport. Before answering, he grimaced and held his hands up, palms outward. I’d learned this was a universal sign Italians made, if they were going to give you some bad news. “Signore, is not the right train. Wrong train for the airport. Must go back to Roma Termi.”

After berating myself, I got off at the next stop which was Campo di Carne, which means “field of meat”, or “cattle pasture.” It was such a small town that there was no station building, only an open-air platform, and fields with grazing cows on the other side of the tracks. 

There wasn’t even a train schedule posted anywhere, nor was there a public phone kiosk in sight. Three elderly Italian men were sitting on a nearby bench, carrying on a lively conversation. Greeting them, I learned they spoke no English, and I knew too little Italian to find out anything, though.

I discovered later, when I checked a map, Campo di Carne was about 20 miles south of Rome and less than ten miles west of the airport. Campo di Carne was on a rail line connecting some dozen towns to Rome. It primarily served commuters, which explained why there were few trains in the middle of the day.

After waiting over two hours, I was feeling like one of the main characters in the famous absurdist play by Samuel Beckett, “Waiting for Godot,” In the play, two men wait for someone named Godot, who never arrives.

An Italian gentleman, wearing a suit and tie, showed up a bit later. I assumed he was going to Rome and greeted him, “Buongiorno, signore. Parla Inglese?” (Do you speak English?). He replied, “Un po,” (a little). With a few words and by pointing at his wristwatch, he let me know a train would arrive in five minutes. 

When it came into view, I wanted to scream, Hallelujah
I didn’t get back to Rome until three hours after my son’s plane had landed. Thankfully, he didn’t know I planned to meet him, so he didn’t wait, but found his own way.

When I got back to our apartment, my wife looked relieved and asked, “Where on earth have you been for the last four hours? Neal got here fine and is in taking a nap, but we were worried about you.” 

Like a seasoned traveler, my son had taken the Leonardo Express to the central station and then got a taxi. He’d written out the address to our apartment and shown it to the taxi driver. After getting dropped off, he used the intercom in the lobby to call Marie from downstairs. 

I sheepishly explained what had happened to me, although I still didn’t  understand how I got on the wrong train. For my wife and son, it was more evidence that I was the perfect archetype of an absent-minded professor.

What I found out later from my Italian friends was that trains other than the Leonardo Express might use Track 23.  When I said that the train’s engine had “Leonardo da Vinci” painted on its side, they explained that ItaliaRail sometimes put names of famous Italians on its train engines. It also might have been leftover from a special commemoration for Leonardo. 

Or maybe it was all a big plot to get me “Waiting for Godot” at Campo di Carne. In our always-connected world today, Vladimir and Estragon, the two men in the play, couldn’t be expected to wait long for Godot without one of them pulling out their cellphone and calling or texting him, asking when he’d arrive. 

<![CDATA[PHYLLIS SOUZA - ELEANOR AND THE BODY STRETCHER]]>Thu, 16 Jan 2020 14:11:59 GMThttps://www.scarletleafreview.com/short-stories38/phyllis-souza-eleanor-and-the-body-stretcher
Phyllis Souza lives in Northern California and is retired from a long real estate career. After taking several on-line writing classes, she started writing flash fiction and short stories. Her stories have been published in Café Lit, Spillwords,, Friday Flash Fiction, and  Scarlet Leaf.

​Eleanor and the Body Stretcher

​The year was 1953.
After school on Thursdays and Fridays and all day on Saturdays, Eleanor worked in the hosiery department at Farley's Department store. She wore her hair tied up in a ponytail, painted her lips cherry red, and brushed her eyelashes with her spit-moistened Maybelline mascara.
Saturday afternoon; people were milling all over the store.  Eleanor made $1.63 an hour. Not fair that the boy selling in the men's department is making more than I am. She knew this because it was policy; boys always made more than girls for doing the same thing. He earned $1.85.
It didn't matter if women were short or tall or their legs were shaved with a two-edged Gillette or not. They all wanted beautiful legs.
Around three — on the first floor in the hosiery department — Eleanor stood at the back of a sales counter. Behind her, was an open-faced shelf stuffed with boxes of stockings.
A woman around thirty walked up— and Eleanor asked, "Would you like to see the latest fashion in leg wear?"
"Yes, I would." The lady fingered through stocking samples hanging from an arm rack. "These are full of snags," she said, wrinkling her nose.
"Oh, I know. Just there to show shades."
"Say, you're awfully young to be selling ladies hosiery. How old are you?"
"I'm fifteen, but I'll be sixteen in a couple of months."
"Well — I guess you're old enough." She raised a brow. "I'd like to see some sheer stockings, tan ones. You know, something that will show off my legs."
"You mean like Betty Grable's. She was a pin-up girl during World War II, famous for her legs."
"Yes, like hers. " The customer tossed her head back and ran her hand through her long blond hair.
"I've seen pictures of her in magazines, and you know what?" Eleanor declared. "You look alike." Except for that ugly mole on your face.
"You think so? You're very observant. Now, can you show me some stockings?"
After opening a Berkshire hosiery box, Eleanor checked her nails for rough edges, curled her fingers into her palm and gently slid a fist into a nylon stocking. Slowly turning her wrist right, then left and right again,  "Beautiful, aren't they? Do you like the color?"
"Yes, they’re lovely. The shade is perfect. I'll take a pair."
"How about two? You know just in case, you might get a run."
"Okay, you've convinced me."
Not long after the blonde lady left the hosiery department, Zara, the manager, showed up.  "Eleanor, I couldn't help noticing how well you handled that customer. You're a fine sales clerk."
"Thanks. I like my job."
"Do you have any questions?”
"Yeah, I'm curious, what are those bongs coming through the PA system? They never stop ringing."
"Oh, those are administrator codes. Three bongs is a call for security. Did you notice a big woman, carrying a black handbag, walking around pretending to look like a customer? She's the store detective."
"Wow!" I wonder if she has a gun in her purse.
"She's watching for shoplifters."
"Gee, I never knew."
Zara looked down at Eleanor’s shoes. "Eleanor, would you mind not wearing saddle oxfords? We're trying to sell hosiery, not bobby socks."
"Okay." Eleanor's face reddened. Maybe I can borrow my mother's shoes. We're the same size.
"I'd like you to go up to the second floor and ask someone in the notions department for a body stretcher," Zara said. "I'll cover for you."
"What's a body stretcher?"  Eleanor thought but didn't ask.
Eleanor left the hosiery department and sauntered over to the escalator. She grabbed on to the hard rubber handrail, halfway to the top—this thing moves too slow. Deciding to hurry things she sprinted up. As she was stepping off, she caught her foot in the steel teeth and tumbled onto the second floor. A crowd gathered.
A man, the tallest she'd ever seen, reached out and offered his hand.
"No, no thank you, I'm okay." She got up, straightened her skirt, and looked into the face of a kid pulling on a long piece of licorice in his mouth.
"Ha, ha," he chuckled, turned, and ran off.
"Are you okay, girly?" asked a woman with a thin face and a pointed nose.
"I'm fine. Can—can somebody please help me find the notions department?"
"It's on the other side of ladies underwear," someone called out.
Eleanor, rubbing her right hip, limped away.
"Hi, I'm Eleanor. I work downstairs in the hosiery department. I was sent here to pick up a body stretcher."
"Oh," a saleslady laughed and called out to a co-worker. "Ellie Mae, have you seen the body stretcher?"
Ellie Mae came out from a back room, scratching her head. "My gosh, let me see? Where was it?" She glanced at Eleanor. "The last time I saw that contraption was when Billy used it. About a week ago, just before the poor guy died.”
"He died?" Eleanor felt sick to her stomach.
"Now, Ellie Mae, don't go scaring this pretty young girl. You know he didn't die from using that body stretcher. He dropped dead in the stockroom while counting inventory."
"That's right, he sure did. By the way, who wants the stretcher, anyway?"
"Someone in hosiery."
The woman looked at Eleanor. "Who sent you?"
"Zara did."
"Of course, Zara." The lady bit on a hangnail. "Honey, we don't have a body stretcher. Tell Zara to stop playing practical jokes, especially on someone as young as you."
Feeling like a fool, but pretending not too, Eleanor asked, "What about Billy?"
"He works here, but he didn't die. We were just going along with the prank."
“Oh, I see.” Eleanor took a deep breath. No— body stretcher.  No— dead Billy.
Eleanor returned to her station. She told Zara: "The lady in notions, couldn't find the body stretcher, said it might still be in the stockroom where Billy died."
"Billy died? My God, I didn't know. Excuse me, I think I'm going to be sick."
"I'm sorry. I thought you knew." And, I’m not changing my shoes. 

Eleanor  and the Body Stretcher was published 8/4/19  with CafeLit
<![CDATA[MAHALA SPILLERS - CHOICES]]>Thu, 16 Jan 2020 14:07:36 GMThttps://www.scarletleafreview.com/short-stories38/mahala-spillers-choicesMahala Spillers is a published poet and essayist, studying for a Creative Writing BFA in Winter Park, Florida.

You can find her work at Literary Yard and Down in the Dirt magazine.


“Why did you let me smoke that stuff?” Meg asked Chloe as she exhaled a billow of  smoke.
      Chloe patted her on the back. “We smoked the same stuff and I’m fine. You can choose whether you have a good time, or not. Stay out of your head.” 
“I don’t want to have a bad time. I just know that it’s not going to end well.”
“You’ll be okay.” Chloe continued in a hushed tone. “I was wondering about Arliss. Is he single?”  
Meg made eye contact with Arliss across the room. His sympathetic gaze held on hers. A small smile upturned the corners of his mouth. Her pupils dilated. 
“Last I heard. I haven’t seen him in a while. ”
Chloe gave her a clued-in look. Meg winced at her friend’s pity. “Don’t you think your kids might look too master-race with the blonde hair and blue eyes?” Meg said. 
Chloe sighed. “Not looking to be impregnated, Meg. Just put in a good word?” 
Meg softened at her friend’s pleading and nodded. “Oh god. My lungs are collapsing!” she exclaimed with her hand on her chest. 
“You’re fine. Breathe. Then go talk to him.” Chloe swatted at her and stood up from the couch to leave. Arliss quickly replaced her.
“Are you baked?” he asked with a laugh. 
“As a pie, my friend.”
“Are you going to be okay?” 
She paused too long before she responded, “I’m fine.” 
He studied her face before speaking. “So, you’ve been handling everything well?” Arliss asked as he sat beside her. 
“Yes and no. Have you talked to your brother about everything?”
Arliss’ eyes widened and shifted. “He’s mentioned it-- and you. I wouldn’t worry. My opinion of you hasn’t changed.” 
“He hates me. Doesn’t he?” 
“Hey. He hates me too.” 
“I really hurt him, huh?”
“We really hurt him.”
Meg sighed deeply and hung out her bottom lip like a dog. Arliss noticed this and scooted closer beside her. “What’s this about?” he said as he playfully nudged his knuckle against the protrusion of her mouth. 
 She flinched at his touch and sucked it back in.  “It was a caricature of a sad person.”
“Why are you sad? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I did a lot wrong,” she said quickly, shifting to another subject. “What do you think about this party? Anyone catch your eye?”  
Arliss inhaled and smiled, eyes fluttering across her face. He exhaled before he spoke, “I like how red your cheeks get when you’ve been drinking.” His hand returned to stroke her face.
 She allowed it at first, eyes closed at the sensation of his skin against hers, before she pulled back with a nervous laugh.  “I have some gossip. Want to hear?”
Arliss eyed her sadly as he brought his hand down but indulged her with a nod. 
“My friend, Chloe--”
“The little blonde one?” he asked, glancing at Chloe who was smiling happily.
 Meg’s shoulders dropped. “Well.uh. She thinks that you’re real attractive and she wants to make little blonde Aryan babies with you.”
He chortled with amusement. “In those words, exactly?” 
“No. Actually. She just wants to put her mouth on your mouth.” 
“You want me to sleep with your friend?” he asked. 
“I’m presenting this information to you in a total Choose-Your-Own-Adventure kind of way. Purely optional. She wanted me to mention her to you.”
“I don’t know her, so, I’m not interested.”
She relaxed her shoulders just to tense again. “That’s why you should talk to her. You talk to her, get to know her, sleep with her, pop out a few kiddies...”
“Look, Meg, I’m not looking to be a father and I don’t want to have a one-night stand.  I like to sleep with people that I’ve known for more than a night. Girls that I like?” His voice dropped up and down with hints
“I’m sorry.  You can choose who you want to sleep with. You don’t need my screenings.”
“It’s not that. You’re avoiding the problem here. It’s not just that you want me to sleep with someone else. You’re avoiding the conversation.” 
“What is there to say?” 
“There are things that can be done. Things we can change.” 
“I just know that this will end badly because it already did end badly.”
“How’s that? Nothing even began?” He shook his head in disbelief.
 She eyed him back so that he would know. She shifted her sadness back to the catalyst. 
“Chloe plays guitar and piano,” she said, pointing to her friend. 
He didn’t look where she coaxed. He kept his eyes darted on her, but she refused to look back. Finally, after avoiding his attention, he looked at Chloe. She smiled and gave a little wave. 
“Maybe she should just pick one,” he said, returning his attention to her.
Meg bit her lip, on the verge of tears. She continued to avoid his stare. 
“I can understand why he resents you,” he said coldly. 
       She couldn’t help but look at him when said that. She searched his eyes for proof that he meant it. She brought her hand quickly to her chest as her breathing became irregular. She eyed him with disbelief. 
 “And what about you?” she said after a long breath. 
“We already jumped the fence. What’s the apprehension about? We don’t have to take it so seriously. I’m willing to take it slow.” His voice raised with hope. He grasped at her hand. 
She slid away from him once more.  “I don’t think I can take it. Period.” 
“You really want me to hook up with Chloe?” he said as a test. His eyebrows were raised, awaiting a response she couldn’t give. Through a shaky breath, she said, “Yes.”
He sighed and slipped up from the couch. He gave her one last knowing look before he sat beside Chloe across the room. Meg clapped her hand over her chest. She wasn’t sure what was collapsing now. 

<![CDATA[JACOB WRIGHT - SAFE]]>Thu, 16 Jan 2020 14:04:58 GMThttps://www.scarletleafreview.com/short-stories38/jacob-wright-safe
Jacob Wright is a story telling, a game play tester, and an artist. Jacob has written many stories in the publication pipe line. He hopes to become a writer for games. He is currently in FullSail university to get his Bachelors in fine arts for creative writing. Jacob can be contacted though the following. 
Emails- Xenozane22@gmail.com / Jdwright@student.fullsail.edu 
Social media- Jacob Wright on Facebook / @JacobWr41781923 on Twitter


I keep running, trying to get away, covering my ears trying to drown them out, but they would be there at every turn. 
“Get back here you little shit!” said my father, chasing after me. 
“You’re worthless. Why did I even give birth to you?” said my mother, her voice echoing in my head. I kept running trying to get away from them but as I got to the door it wouldn't open. I turned around and saw my father, looking at me with pure hatred and my mother, looking at me with pure disgust. 
“You're not going anywhere,” he said grabbing me by my hair. 
“Let me go! Someone please help me!” I said. 
“Why would anyone want to help a pathetic thing like you?” she said. My father started hitting me and with every punch I just kept begging.  
“Please stop!” I said, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. As my father was about to hit me again, he suddenly said, 
“May, wake up!” I suddenly find myself in my bed and next to me was my sister, Abigale. 
“May are okay!?” she said, looking at me. 
“Abi!” I said, immediately grabbing on to her, with tears running down my face. “They were after me again I kept running away but they kept coming!” 
“The nightmares again? May you poor thing.” she said, holding me. A few months ago, Abigale and her father adopted me as her little sister. My parents were very abusive both physically and mentally to the point where I ran away in the middle of the night. I kept running until a cop found me and brought me to the station. The cop was Abigale’s father, Jack and when I told him my story, he had my parents arrested and offered me a place in his family, however even with my parents gone they still left me with scars and I would often have nightmares like tonight. 
“Why won't they leave me alone? What did I do to deserve this? I just wanted them to love me!” I said, still crying in Abigale’s arms. “My mom was right I really am worthless!” I said, after hearing that Abigale then said, 
“May, look at me.” I looked at her and she rubbed the tears off my eyes and said, “You're not worthless you’re a beautiful and smart little girl and your parents weren't deserving of your love. I wouldn't even call them your parents their just horrible people that will never hurt you again.” 
Hearing this I started crying again. 
“You’re safe now you've got me and dad with you now and if anyone tries to hurt you again they'll have to deal with us.” 
I just couldn't stop crying. I was so happy to have a new start with Abigale and her dad. 
“Feel better now?” 
“Yes… thanks, Abi.” 
“You’re welcome, sis, now let's get you back to sleep.” 
I was about to get back into bed but I was reluctant.  
“What's wrong, May?” 
“I...I don't want them to find me again.” 
Abigale, then picked me up and said, “Want to sleep with me tonight?”  
“Can I?” 
“Sure, let’s go.” Abigale then brought me into her room and we got into bed. “You ok now, May?” 
“Alright.” Abigale gave me a kiss on the head and said, “Goodnight, May.” 
“Goodnight, Abi.”

<![CDATA[MICHAEL BYRNE - ROUTINE]]>Thu, 16 Jan 2020 14:02:27 GMThttps://www.scarletleafreview.com/short-stories38/michael-byrne-routine
Michael Byrne is a writer/ photographer from Rochdale England residing in London. His past work can be found online via Psudopod Podcast and in Print via Scribble Magazine and Hellbound Books Publishing. His work can be found at staticculture.wordpress.com and @london.after.midnight


He’s christened him the ‘Wise Man’. A commuter Dr Alex Pinner sees every day on the train to London. Every day. Without fail. Same seat, same station. Rodent-like hair sprouting from pale Anglo-Saxon jowls with wire glasses masking green eyes. This could be Merlin, he thinks, disguised as best a fey creature a thousand years old could. Cord trousers and a tweed waistcoat a decade or so out of date. He wonders, Dr Alex Pinner, a consultant psychiatrist at Hollow Hill Hospital, why the Wise Man should still have to get up of a morning and travel to work when he is clearly past retirement age. Had he not saved for his future? A young tearaway perhaps now making up for lost time. Or was the reason more benevolent? Volunteering in a day centre for homeless children? Or nursing abandoned kittens to health before seeing them off, tear in eye, to their forever homes all across London? Or maybe he was a paedophile. Or a John off to see his favourite girl- wasting his pension on what little comfort he could derive from feeling close to someone, even for just half an hour. 
The Wise Man shifts in his seat and Alex realises he is staring at him, a thing he often does. Neither seem to mind, however, and Alex takes his time to turn his eyes away back to his laptop and his paperwork locked within. Five more stops come and go, the ratio of people injected and ejected staying unbalanced. At the sixth stop the Wise Man stands silently, slips past the gaggle of people and exits as the doors seal the remainders in. Alex can barely see him leave behind the denim clad buttocks of an overweight man, but he is comforted by the repetition of his exiting all the same. The Wise Man’s reliable pattern now part of his own routine, synchronising two strangers into a cosmic sequential tapestry.
Dr Alex Pinner himself maintains a regimented routine. Daily he is up at 5am to jog around the emerald plains of Surrey, deposited as he is in a three bedroom detached with his wife, Margot- an editing executive for an advertising firm. After his jog is complete, when his chiselled muscles glisten with sweat and he feels as confident as the male models in Margot’s adverts, Alex returns home and showers. He then sits with his wife of ten years for breakfast. Her cheeks flushed from her own morning exercise. Raven hair tied back hiding its symmetrical shape and precisely even bangs, looking like a helmet worn ready for battle in the realm of advertising. Breakfast consists of fruit, protein smoothies and black coffee with filtered water from the pearl white monolith fridge that dominates the kitchen. Natural light from the multitude of windows cascading onto shimmering surfaces making the room feel like a greenhouse. Or ant farm. After breakfast; shower, dress for work, a kiss to one another then for Alex a short drive to the station before boarding a train into the city. Post work Alex goes to the gym near Hollow Hill Hospital. Continues to maintain his pristine figure. Returns home for around seven pm. Eats a light, well-presented evening meal before then focusing his attention on Margot if she is free to be focused on. They will watch a film together, discuss work and irritations of the day and enjoy a small glass of wine each that sometimes leads into two. Occasionally they even fuck. Though this is pre planned as well. Clothes are arranged, scents wafted, lubricants prepared. Pills checked. There are three bedrooms in Alex and Margot’s detached house. There is no rush to fill them. 
This day, a Thursday in May, had started no differently to the countless Thursdays that had come before it and that Alex had presumed would come after. He entered Hollow Hill Hospital, consulted at ward round, spoke to patients with manufactured empathy and aloof authority. Responded to calls, emails and letters and wrote up cases before heading to the gym from which he would then head home. But as Alex finishes grunting and straining in front of a wall long mirror his phone begins to vibrate, stored as it is, in his locker. Post shower, towel taut around his waist Alex notices the missed call. It is from work. He takes his time to answer, dressing first.  
“Dr Pinner?” Alex recognises the voice as Angie, the Matron of Bondi ward. He mumbles a response and she continues. “We’ve just had word from the police. They’re bringing Nigel Innes back in.” her voice raises as if the statement were a question.
“I see…” he says waiting for more information. 
“It’s not good. They’re saying he’s killed someone.”
Alex’s mind goes blank except for a singular flashback from four weeks ago. In the cavernous space of his memory he sees himself sat alone at a table, a spotlight on him from the heavens that Shows him signing the discharge papers of one Mr. Nigel Innes. 
By the end of his two week stay Alex Pinner had considered Nigel a malingerer.   He had arrived with no particular fanfare or spectacle. Was calm and co-operative throughout assessment, took medication as and when prescribed, did not get involved with other patients and often times would be found in his room reading. His only reason for being there, Alex found, was that quite suddenly he had left his ten year job as a librarian in a small municipal library to wander the streets of London and sleep in a cardboard box despite owning outright a house in Epping. When asked why, he had said because his neighbour was not real.  Alex had asked him in what way and Nigel’s response was vague and inconsistent. Was he manufactured? No was the response. So he was human? No was the response. An alien then, demonic creature? None of the above. In the fortnight Nigel was there no answer of any substance found its way out of his mouth, and notes on his progress were scant. Then, as his section came close to expiry, it emerged that Nigel Innes was not taking his medication after all when a nurse found him in the bathroom, fingers down his throat ready to flush out his anti-psychotics. At the same time information dripped into the hospital from external agencies that Nigel had not so much left his job but had been suspended for following a woman, a regular patron in fact, around the library, as evidenced by the CCTV. 
It was clear Nigel Innes was unusual but Alex could see no evidence as to how this was a result of mental illness. As such he recommended discharge. Nigel was given the option of staying informally until arrangements were made to get him home but he left the same day. As quietly and unobtrusively as he arrived. A ghost hidden behind the mania of the other patients. Had he not signed his discharge sheet they may never have known he’d left. 
This past recollection continues to swirl around Alex as he re-enters Hollow Hill, the thoughts of enjoying his evening meal dying in the face of the reality of staying late at work. Thinking of the unassuming Nigel Innes with blood on his hands. Blood that could easily pass to him. He was right to discharge him, Alex assures himself- swiping his ID badge to access Bondi ward. There was no evidence he would harm anyone. The courts loved an oblation on which to pin the blame however, and Alex knows he would be it if he wasn’t careful. 
Bondi ward; ten rooms connected by a large communal area painted in bright but tired primary colours and adorned with positive but exhausted affirming quotations. The night staff greet him and Angie approaches, an older woman, tall and naturally nimble, her dark skin still fresh despite the demands of work and family. Surrounded by an invisible mist of authority. 
“We’ve put him in room ten.” she says, placing notes into Alex’s hand. 
“How is he?” 
Angie shrugs, “He’s…Nigel. Quiet, calm- we’ve placed him in restraints as a precaution but honestly he doesn’t seem to be agitated or aroused at all”
Alex reads the notes from handover, scans through the fluff and rhetoric to find that from police custody a mental health professional concluded he was detainable. How the police had been called to a possible attempted break in followed by numerous calls of suspicious persons in the same area. How they had walked up to Nigel’s house and knocked loudly and finally, when checking the perimeter, found him sat in the garden, tired from exerting himself too hard.  His arms covered in blood and gore up the elbows, a streak across his forehead where he had wiped his moistened brow. His neighbour supine on the grass next to him. Mouth open wide. Chest even wider. The report failing to mention one of the officer’s sudden urge to vomit.
“Yes,” Alex says letting the image sink in “let’s keep him restrained for now.” 
They enter Nigel’s room together. His eyes are closed but he is not asleep and slowly he opens them, a small smile of recognition appearing on his face. He has been medicated intravenously as a precaution, Alex noting the cannula still affixed to Nigel’s right arm.  
“Hello again.” Nigel’s voice is without emotion of inflection. Alex ponders if this is put on. 
“How are you feeling, Nigel?” Alex asks as he continues to scan the notes.
“Fine. A little tired.” his response.
“Yes, that will be the medication I’m afraid”.
Nigel shakes his head “I was tired before that. Been a busy day.” Alex recreates the crime scene mentally. Slowly he sits on a chair next to the bed. Near Nigel’s feet. Near the door which Angie guards in case the restraints fail by an act of some unholy deity. 
“My God, Nigel, whatever possessed you to do such a thing?” the concern is genuine. Nigel fidgets in his bed, stretches a little while he constructs an answer.
“I was looking for something.” He says. Alex wonders if he’s deliberately being evasive and so asks him outright. 
“No.” Nigel says and then after a silence that would seem to contradict his one word answer, “It’s just that I’m not sure you’d understand without evidence.”
“I take it that means you didn’t find what you were looking for?”
Nigel nods. 
“But you knew it was inside your neighbour so you had to kill them to get it?”
Nigel now shakes his head and sighs. “Yes but he wasn’t alive to begin with, was he? So how could I have killed him?”
“You might not have thought so, Nigel, but he was alive. He had a name, a family…”
Agitation stirs the still waters of Nigel’s presentation. “Yes, yes. All the trappings of being alive sure. A job. A house. But he wasn’t alive. Not like you and I. He was different”
“Explain to me how.”
“This would have been a lot easier if I’d found some proof.” Nigel appears to say to himself, like a scientist dictating notes midway through an experiment. “They’re cunning, I’ll give them that.”
Alex looks to Angie who returns the stare before he refocuses on the man ahead of him in restraints. 
“Let’s go back to the beginning.” Alex probes deeper, “You first came here because you said your neighbour wasn’t real.” 
Nigel nods. 
“What first made you think this?”
Nigel deliberates for a moment. “He was trying too hard to be normal.” 
Alex’s face is one of confusion. Nigel takes the hint. 
“His life was too perfect. He had the perfect car. The flawless house. Faultless hair even. But what did he do exactly to get these things? Where had he come from to fill this void of monotony that was missing in the world?  I’d speak to him and he’d say he worked in finance. Could never explain what that meant. I’d greet him of a morning. Same time every day for ten years. It would be the same response. “Nice weather”, “Terrible weather”, “How’s it going?” and so on. Triviality for a decade. And then one day, while I waited in for a parcel, I watched him leave his house dead on eight as usual. I watched him walk to his car, the alarm switching off with a flash of headlights. And then he turns. Turns to face where I should have been standing to greet him.”
Nigel goes silent for a moment.
““How’s it going? Nice Weather we’re having!””
“There was no one there?” Alex asks and Nigel nods.
“very odd- as if he didn’t even realise he was talking to himself. A week later I was off with a cold. Sure enough each morning same thing. A greeting to the aether. Then I noticed his car.”
“What about it?” Alex asks and Nigel tries to sit up in his bed, alert if sluggish from the drugs. 
“Eight in the morning he sets off to work in his blue BMW. The elusive world of finance awaiting. Nine AM looking out of the window I happen to see a car drive past; a blue BMW. Home early. But he just drives past. Ten rushes by and the same thing happens. Eleven, twelve, one, two, three, four, five. Clockwork. Then I begin to worry. Does he know I know something? That I’m watching him? So Monday I begin the routine again. Leave the same time he does, approach the end of my garden wait for a confrontation or complaint but instead?”
Alex predicts the answer, “Hi How’s it going?”
Nigel nods. “Exactly.”
“Is it just your neighbour you saw doing this?” Angie asks as Alex scribbles some notes. And Nigel shakes his head once more.
“No, I’ve seen people at work too.”
“The woman you were following?” Alex again predicts accurately.
“Ten am arrival, same book shelf, stand fifteen minutes, select same book, read twenty minutes. Sit down ten…repeat variations on a theme.” Nigel looks down, remorseful almost. 
“If only I could have found some evidence then I wouldn’t sound as crazy as I do. Instead I look like another lunatic killer.”
“So you admit you’re a killer?” Alex looks for a nerve to bow like a violin string but finds none. 
“…A figure of speech.”
Alex begins to notice his head throbbing from all the content. How, they will ask, could he have let someone so purely unwell out into the world with no treatment plan? No follow up. No regard will be given to his previous presentation. The focus will be on the here and now. Rubbing his eyes he gets up to leave but Nigel interjects. 
“Inquiline. From the Latin Inquilinus.” Nigel says and Alex turns to him. “Look it up, it’s happening all around us.” 
Alex closes the door and speaks in hushed tones to Angie, declares that the patient is clearly suffering from paranoid delusions and that despite his calm exterior there is penchant for violence as brutally demonstrated from his attack on his neighbour. Angie agrees to keep him sedated and restrained for now. It is past nine and Alex feels the walls of the ward closing in on him, he needs to get home. Before he does curiosity pulls him to a nearby PC and he searches the internet.
INQUILINE: noun Zoology.
An animal exploiting the living space of another, e.g. an insect that lays its eggs in a gall produced by another. From the Latin Inquilinus meaning Lodger or Tenant. 

Alex did not usually let the ravings of his patients interfere with his commute. But then this was the first time in a short but successful career that one had gutted a fellow human. This within weeks of him writing a report to suggest he was simply trying to obfuscate from his infatuation with a woman at work. He knew that the mental health professional who visited Nigel in custody did the right thing in sectioning him again and that Nigel Innes was clearly very disturbed. Yet he couldn’t help but feel that if he were to see that colleague anytime soon he would punch the fucker right in the mouth. 
Alex sighs. Looks down at his phone. There are no texts from Margot. He has written one for her. An apology of sorts. An explanation of why he is home late. Of the horrors of his day. Of fear of what is to come. He has not sent it. Staring at himself through the funhouse mirror of the train window he considers if he wrote the text for himself. Hoping that somehow this state of the art device would suddenly evolve to possess AI, and would reassure him everything would be alright. It did nothing of the sort.
What did he mean, Alex wonders. What cryptic world view is hidden by the word “inquiline”?
Once birthed from a tunnel and with full signal, Alex looks again at the word’s meaning on his phone. “Exploiting the living space of another”. Did Nigel believe that his neighbour was another species perhaps? And if so how was it exploiting the space it inhabited? Alex scrolls past synonyms and articles relating to parasites and insects. Of Gall Wasps who, with almost unearthly design, deposit their eggs with those of other wasps. Unseen. Unnoticed. 
Alex conjures a wasp version of Nigel Innes; a rundown scraggy-haired wasp; the cloying smell of sweat clinging to him as he desperately tries to convince other wasps that the pupating larvae are not their own but of an invasive species. 
As he reaches his car Alex thinks of Nigel Innes’s victim and the randomness of such a vicious attack. Considered an outsider by an outsider. Victimised for being faultless and predictable. Careful to separate the visual and auditory hallucinations from Nigel’s expositions he finds himself empathising with the neighbour. He too is successful, he thinks firstly. He too drives a BMW. But it is when he arrives home that the real thought he was supressing climbs to the surface. He too is unexciting and regimented. 
Alex undresses in the dark as he realises this, careful not to wake Margot who is making quiet nasal utterances in her sleep. He lies there a moment, feeling awkward in his own skin before turning to Margot and kissing her. Gentle at first but then harder, more sensual. She stirs in frustrated half sleep. Asks him what he’s doing. He answers with a tender hand sliding under the covers. She complains of work in the morning but he whimpers, innocently, but demanding also. Slowly Margot begins to enjoy herself, taking the lead as she often does. Alex lies back and smiles. A routine is being broken. They rarely ever screw on Thursdays. But it’s not enough he thinks as she kisses his navel. The bedroom suddenly feeling stale and clinical, Alex takes her hand and guides her to the kitchen. He lifts her onto the kitchen worktop. It is a cliché, he knows, but one he has never practiced before and so he is satisfied both in the experience and the spontaneity though over excitement means the coitus is short-lived. 
Margot adjusts herself and pours a glass of water while Alex sits silently at the kitchen table. She asks if he’s coming to bed.
“In a minute.” He responds. Only then is he asked if everything is okay but he chooses not to say anything.  Margot returns to her torpor, still irritable at the lack of sleep she will now have. Alex makes to follow but the thought of breaking the routine further still haunts him and so he takes a glass and bottle of wine and heads to the living room though he knows already the glass is just for show. The TV glows putrid greens and yellows into the dark room and he tries to pay attention to the pointlessness of it all. But exhaustion and alcohol wrestle him into submission and he slips into a deep drunken slumber at two-thirty. 

It is the black dreamless sleep of an inebriated mind. Alcohol and late hours at work combining forces to weigh Alex down for longer than he anticipates. Away from his bedroom it is not his alarm that stirs him but a sheet of natural light intruding past the blinds and onto his face. A mask of sunrays over his eyes. He wakes and stretches, taking his time like a man on holiday until he realises that it is past nine and this is a work day. And that a murderer sits in a forensic mental health ward he has duty over. Knowing his presence will already be missed he none the less grasps onto some glimmer of hope that he can still arrive in a reasonable time. His morning jog and breakfast schedule kyboshed, a slim slice of sourdough bread and glass of orange juice a poor fuel for the day ahead. Margot is nowhere to be seen, her side of the bed neatly returned to order, bowls and cutlery cleaned and returned to their stoic sentry in the cupboard. It was almost like living alone, Alex thinks as he slams the front door closed and enters his car. Almost like living with the ghostly presence of a partner no longer around. Was Margot the spirit in this scenario he wonders or was it himself, removed as he was from a pattern of behaviour they had perfected for years. 
Attempting to park the car is futile, his usual selection of spots by the station all taken due to his tardiness. A congestion of vehicles runs down the narrow tract of road and it is a good three-minute walk to the station from where he finally embarks on foot, running now to catch a train he had otherwise timed proficiently for.  
Alex sits catching his breath in a manner as to not draw attention to himself. No loud gasps or exertions. In through the nose, out through the nose. Finding a seat is easy, the morning exodus is already dying down. Strange to see a different set of faces, he thinks. Strange that this commute exists for people not in a blind panic to get to work before nine. Like existing outside of time, he muses. Stranger still then, when scanning the array of human oddities before him that Alex Pinner’s eyes fall upon the Wise Man. Sat as ever in his usual seat, staring blankly as ever in his general direction. What odds must it be? Alex asks himself internally, that we should both be late on the same day? Alex thinks on Nigel Innes, scares himself slightly when he remembers the videos he watched of the gall wasp. Metallic ovipositors pulsating as they eagerly pierce the gooey flesh of fruit. The gooey flesh of other larvae.  
He reaches for his phone through a force of habit but it is not in his jacket pocket and Alex realises he has left it at home, where it rings off and becomes bloated from voicemails. The victims’ family’s solicitor. The head psychiatrist of the hospital. The police. All are trying to inform him of the most recent events in relation to Nigel Innes. 

 The vultures are already circling Hollow Hill when Alex arrives, checking microphones and camera equipment. Taking notes and phone calls. Despite leaving his phone at home he takes this swarm of journalists as the clear omen of doom it portents to, yet secretly prays that it is not in relation to him. He slips past, a rat in a viper pit, the congregated staring at him hungrily but unsure if he is their intended prey. He shows his ID card subtly to reception and is let through the airlock, making his way to Bondi ward, where on arrival he is confronted by Angie, a few health staff, and Lorraine Symons; Chief Executive of the Hospital. He is not surprised that Angie’s demeanour is much more sympathetic then that of Lorraine Symons. Behind them all are two unknowns. Plain suits and ties, hiding any humanity they may otherwise present unclothed. 
“Where have you been?”  Lorraine asks in a predictable farrago of concern and annoyance.  Alex explains his absence, says he stayed late when he heard his patient had returned after the incident, overslept. But he is distracted by the unknowns who chatter amongst themselves by Nigel Innes’ door. 
“Sorry but what exactly is going on?” he asks.
“We tried calling you-” Angie interjects then Lorraine bulldozes into the fray 
“It’s about Nigel.”
“My phone…I left it at home- what about Nigel, what’s happened?”
“That we are yet to figure out.” Lorraine’s voice is ice. 
“Alex, Nigel is dead. He was found this morning.” Angie says putting Alex out his misery. 
Alex reels slightly, smirks in the face of such absurdity. 
“Dead? But he was in restraints. He was sedated.”
“They’re not sure yet how. Cardiac arrest perhaps.”  Angie takes a deep breath “But they’re not ruling out accidental overdose by staff.”
“Which, as you can imagine, puts us in a very serious situation.” Alex tries to focus on Loraine as she speaks but the information is difficult to process. Why did he drink so much wine last night?
“Angie tells me the patient was calm and lucid. Was there a reason you felt he needed to be restrained and administered sedatives?”
The trial begins, Alex thinks to himself, feeling the woodpile building below his feet. But he won’t go timidly. 
“Well considering he had just ripped his neighbour apart I thought it best not to let him roam around the ward.”
“Staff are trained to physically restrain patients are they not, Angie?”
Angie stutters, “Well yes but the risk-”
“I’m only thinking about what the tribunal will say” Lorraine looks over her shoulder at the unknowns, “And the courts.”
Police, Alex realises. Of course that’s who they are. Their prized possession now eternally silent. No answers will they be able to give the grieving relatives or the voyeuristic mob. They too will want to pin the blame on someone.
“They would like to speak to you, naturally,” Lorraine puffs her chest out, “after which I think it’s probably best you head home while we figure out what to do.”
 Already Alex feels the eyes of patient and staff alike scour him for answers he does not have. The medical chart was checked and double checked. If the medication wasn’t given as prescribed, then it’s the staffs fault surely. Alex makes a note to repeat this mantra to himself until he believes it to be so. How sure was he that he checked the dosages? Was he remembering accurately that he left proper instructions to staff, or simply overlapping past memories of doing this to create a reassuring fantasy? 
Lorraine excuses herself to talk to the officers in an effort to introduce them to Alex who wanders over to the reinforced window, peering down at the TV vans and cameras. Angie moves aside him silently. 
“It was on the news this morning.” She says.
“I didn’t see it.” He responds, rubbing his temple. 
“Lucky you managed to get through that crowd.” 
Alex chuckles, “I’m not famous. Not yet anyway.”
“Give it a week.” Angie adds and they both smile.
There is a polite cough behind them and Alex turns to see the detectives standing before him, ready for an audience. 
Alex uses a back entrance to make his escape. There is still no suggestion that the reporters gathering outside have any idea of his identity or even if they are concerned about his part in the tragedy that has unfolded, but Lorraine Symons does not want to take any chances. And neither do the detectives. He thanks the caretaker for giving him his freedom via a fire door, fresh air hitting his exhausted face without remorse. Walking to the station he thinks on the detectives’ questions. He had been with them for an hour or more. Apprehensive at first, but calming when the line of questioning seemed less focused on if he had been negligent and more on what, if anything Nigel had said regarding motives. 
“Did he say why he killed him?” The first had said, adjusting his tie. The eldest of the two, he’d smelt of abrasive aftershave. Square jawed and dark haired, parted to the side. Alex had answered without hesitation. Told them of Nigel’s belief that his neighbour was unnatural in some vague sense. Taking note as he spoke of the intense stare from both, thin smiles painted on skin that needed to see more sun.  Their clothing he had noted also seemed slightly too big for their frames. Not so big as to look like clowns in a circus, but enough, on close proximity, to wonder if they both went to the same inept tailor. 
The youngest then took over questioning. 
“Did you believe him when he said his neighbour wasn’t real?” 
“What?” Alex had shook his head, “of course not.”
“Err I think what we mean is,” The eldest interjected “is that did you think Mr. Innes was being honest with you about his motives or was covering up?” the youngest then nodded. That’s exactly what he had meant. He was bald with thin eyebrows covering dots for eyes, his appearance conjuring images of terminal illness in Alex’s mind. 
Alex had admitted that he did believe that Nigel was genuine, that for whatever reason, Nigel believed his neighbour to be somehow not natural and had taken it upon himself to prove this in the most monstrous way imaginable. But then was quick to add Nigel did not present as such on first admission so as not to destroy his own reputation and incriminate himself. 
 “And you believed him?” the youngest asked again. Alex was confused by the question but the eldest dismissed the need to answer with a wave of his hand. 
“Did you read his diary?” the eldest had spoken again while correcting his tie before looking at the youngest who flicked his fingers repetitively against the palm of his right hand. 
“I didn’t know he had a diary.”
“It’s online.” The youngest had said with overflowing enthusiasm but again was cut off by the eldest. Their relationship, their demeanour, was it actually as unusual as Alex thought, or was he overtired from the last eighteen hours? But the more he attempted to shake the feeling the more he focused solely on their mannerisms and the more Nigel’s delusions ran wild in his imagination. Every ninety seconds the youngest would flick his fingers on his palm as before. The eldest would readjust his tie after each question and sigh and nod after every answer. Suddenly he found himself asking to see their badges and they presented them as they did when they first met without issue. 
“Are you okay?” the eldest had asked, and the tie was slightly repositioned as ever.  
 “I err. I’m just tired. As you can imagine it’s been a pretty stressful morning.”
“We can imagine.” the youngest had repeated. 
Alex had stared at him and he in turn returned the favour, smiling but distant. He looked down and saw that the note pad in front of the youngest was empty. 
They let him go. Said they’d probably need to speak to him again. Details were swapped. 
Before he left the room Alex had turned to them both. “Do you have any thoughts on Nigel’s death? I mean are you treating it as suspicious?”
The detectives had looked at each other briefly before the eldest answered. “We’ll be looking into it.”
“Dr. Pinner” the youngest chirped, “Please don’t look at Mr. Innes Diary. The online one. Please”

The air is, while uncaring, still helpful in clearing the fog from Alex’s mind as he reaches the train platform. Helping him focus on objective reality. He had heard anecdotes, while studying, of psychiatrists going crazy from exposure to the mad and maybe this was his moment to become an addition to the urban legend. The train arrives and Alex stands his ground while others alight from it en masse. Confirmation Bias he reassures himself as he sits down. He was looking for patterns and thus he found them. He smiles to himself, recycling his medical training that acts as a mental wall to the bellicose thoughts. Apophenia he thinks to himself; abnormal meaningfulness. The fact that he can identify what he is doing is a relieving indicator that he is not going crazy.  Alex reassures himself further by noting that if he looked around the train now seeking only those wearing glasses he would be certain that the entire world was losing twenty twenty vision. And so he looks up and scans the other commuters, smiles at the number he counts wearing all manner of spectacles. Then freezes, scans back and holds, dumbfounded. There he is. A different seat on a different train but appearance identical to every day he has ever seen him. Sat the end of the carriage alone. It is the Wise Man. 

Alex knows what he is doing is beyond reason and yet he can’t help himself. Unsure if he is trying to prove Nigel right or wrong and how he will feel from either outcome. It’s been an hour and the Wise Man still has not noticed Alex Pinner following him, Alex keeping a cautious distance, feeling the cold sweat of guilt jolt through him at every casual glance directed his way from passers-by. Feeling as if somehow they know he is stalking an old man through the streets. He reflects on the notion of getting caught, how he would explain his preoccupation with a man going about his business to the authorities.  So far he had watched him from across two aisles in a chemist, the Wise Man contemplating on a purchase before, with steadfast movement, he grabs his chosen prize and takes it to the self-checkout. Alex examines the aisle to see it containing a smorgasbord of denture cleaners. The ordinariness of it almost brings him to his senses, but Alex persists. From the chemist the Wise Man walks against the current of pedestrians on the busy street and Alex struggles to maintain his view of him, twice excusing himself to people he knocks into who hardly pay any attention. Suddenly a sharp right and the Wise Man descends a pallid stairwell in a narrow alley, grey with soot and grime from the city’s air. Alex sprints a little to make up the space between them, at first thinking he has lost him, a pit of anxiety opening up in his stomach. It soon rescinds though as Alex catches sight again. The Wise Man has entered a coffee shop, his back to the large window allowing Alex a perfect view of his specimen. The chase simmers here for an hour, Alex buying a coffee and sitting in view of his prey who sits alone with a newspaper and tall clear glass of hot water with a tea bag diffusing within. Alex wonders what looking natural actually looks like, begins to worry that he is obvious somehow but when he tries to take a sip of the coffee in front of him he only panics himself. That in the split second his attention is elsewhere, the Wise Man could cast some silent conjuration and spirit himself away. He tries then instead to sip the coffee without averting his eyes and is successful but for the odd dribble which he wipes. The slowing of the chase gives Alex time to think again on the absurdity of his actions, but he can’t help feeling a little exhilarated also. Wondering how many people did a similar thing every day. Selecting random strangers to follow and observe for some form of morbid fulfilment. Pathological people no doubt. He lifts his coffee once more but as he does the Wise Man rises sharply, as if a pin has been placed on his seat. The suddenness nearly makes Alex drop his beverage. With a purpose only Alex notices the Wise Man exits, his tea half drunk, the speed of his departure so unexpected that Alex struggles to shuffle his way out of the booth he has settled in. And so the game begins again, this time going with the herd back toward the underground station, boarding a train heading west towards the suburbs and Alex’s home. The carriage is silent as they travel and Alex becomes more lackadaisical with his espionage, staring straight ahead at the Wise Man, trying to pick up on any visual twitches or repetitive movements but all he does is blow his nose with a vibrantly coloured handkerchief that matches his waistcoat in a garish sort of way. Soon the train halts at Alex’s usual spot. The point to end this is here but he is unwavering. The doors close as quickly as they opened, sealing him into his mission. 
Ten minutes later the Wise Man alights at a leafy station basking in sunlight. He walks deeper and deeper into the small hamlet that the station caters for. A pretty place, Alex notes, serene and clearly occupied by the wealthy judging by the detached houses and Mercedes’ on silent guard outside them. He had not considered the Wise Man being of such fiscal stature but given his dress sense perhaps he was a retired man of the arts. It was reassuring, Alex thinks, as the Wise Man turns into a small garden that leads to a quaint thatched cottage, to see this figure he has obsessed over for the past two hours return to a normal suburban environment. He could now return home himself to get some much needed rest before seeking some legal guidance on the situation at work. Alex turns to walk away, giving the Wise Man one last casual glance as he enters his house. But the Wise Man does not enter. He simply stands there, occupying the hinterland between his home and the garden. Alex tries to see if he is looking at something. His phone perhaps. But there is nothing in the Wise Man’s hand except the plastic bag from the chemist he visited. A fear grips Alex and he steps out from a small crop of trees, steeling himself to approach the Wise Man, but as he moves closer the Wise Man pivots on his heels and as if reset, begins to walk away from the cottage back through the garden and toward Alex. He freezes, the excuses he has for his borderline criminal behaviour are pathetic and so as the Wise Man reaches him his only defence is a garbled mesh of syllables. But the Wise Man takes no notice, does not even stop to process Alex’s presence. Merely continues back through the hamlet and toward station once again. Alex takes a moment before turning to follow suit. The route back is uneventful save a brief stop at a rubbish bin which the Wise Man casually drops his plastic bag and denture cleaner into. When Alex reaches the same bin he lifts its lid to inspect it. He shudders. It is filled to the brim with denture cleaner and plastic bags from the chemist. 
Another hour with the Wise Man and Alex begins to familiarise the pattern, the mental wall of objective reality he had created now well and truly shattered. It is all truly uncanny. The same streets, the same chemist, the same coffee shop, the same sudden surge of energy before heading back to the cottage to stand there momentarily before heading back again to repeat. There was more to the Wise Man’s movements for sure, more labyrinthine rambles through a square mile radius and sometimes the pattern of the walk varied. But it was always the same streets and always with the same stops. 
Day begins to make way to evening, the sun drowning slowly into the horizon of skyscrapers. Alex confident enough now to not pursue the Wise Man so closely, knowing he will catch up with him without much effort. Instead he focuses on the chemist’s staff and the coffee shop’s baristas. Asks them if they know him and if he has patronised their stores for some time. But the answers are empty to the point of being unbearable. Most do not know who he is talking about and those that do only have a vague recollection of seeing him in the past week or two. They are unstirred by Alex’s impassioned elucidation of how many times he has watched the Wise Man come and go this past evening. His irritation now mixing with his desire for an explanation Alex decides there is only one course of action.
He has been waiting at the Wise Man’s cottage for an hour. He had thought his timing was near perfect but the delay in his arrival had proven otherwise. Despite the sunny day it has turned into a blustery night. A light rain causing the sharp smell of ozone to permeate the air. Alex stands in darkness, the shadow of the cottage obscuring him from the street lamps. He holds his arms tight across his chest to keep the warmth in. He knows how he looks but he no longer cares and as the Wise Man finally begins to make his way to his home and through his garden Alex emerges, his face glassy from rain water. The Wise Man stops in his tracks, looks Alex up and down and then smiles. 
“Do I know you?” 
Alex scoffs, “You’ve seen me around. I’ve certainly seen you.”
The Wise Man nods, moves out of the way but Alex counters. 
“Can I help you?” the Wise Man is calm which scares and angers Alex equally. 
“What’s in the bag?” Alex asks, a shivering finger pointing at the chemist bag.
“Oh just some-“
“Denture cleaner, yes I know.” Alex snaps “What was wrong with the other five you bought today?”
The Wise Man tilts his head “The other five?”
“By the looks of things you’ve had at least thirty bags worth.”
The Wise Man pauses, looks at his bag and smiles “I’m sorry I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
Alex’s finger now points at the Wise Man’s round nose “Don’t play coy, I’ve watched you all fucking day go in and out of the same shops. In and out of the same café. In and out in and out like a…a…like I don’t know what. But I want to know.” he composes himself, “So…tell me…what exactly is going on?”
The Wise Man’s voice quivers “Honestly I don’t know what you’re talking about but you are beginning to scare me.”
The implication of Alex being the threat stirs even more animosity. Even more determination to get the bottom of this. His finger now points to the cottage. 
“If I scare you then take your key and go home. Go on, open up and call the police.”
The Wise Man shifts his weight but does not move. Alex smiles
“Exactly. You won’t because you can’t go in there.” His confidence boiling over he pushes the Wise Man aside “I, however, can.”
The Wise Man protests, grabs Alex by the shoulder. A scuffle erupts. Petty in its appearance but both parties sincere in their determination. Both seem at a stalemate until Alex lets fly a hard elbow which hits the Wise Man in the gut. He collapses to the ground. Alex moves to the front door, reaches for the handle but stops. He is distracted by the whimpering of the Wise Man. Realisation sets in that he has just assaulted an old man. Possibly one that suffers from OCD. Alex approaches the Wise Man, begins to reach out to reassure him but the whimper turns quickly into a low-pitched moan before spasms ripple through his body. Alex grabs him as convulsions turn into a full seizure, reaching for a mobile phone that he remembers with profanity is still at home. He thinks in a panic, worrying three deaths may be on his conscience now, and reaches into the Wise Man’s waistcoat to check in case he has a phone. As he does so the seizure stops and Alex worries he is too late, the coldness of the body making him think that he has already passed. But as he moves his hand away it is grabbed by the Wise Man tightly round the wrist. His eyes flick open and he stares at Alex before beginning to snigger. Alex asks if he is okay but the response is more bemusement, now evolved into a full blown belly laugh. Alex squirms in the grip of the Wise Man, eventually prying himself free with enough force that he falls backwards. The Wise Man closes the gap between them, still laughing and Alex begins to walk away. Slowly at first but with increasing speed as confusion makes way for sheer terror. Before long he is running, the laughter from the Wise Man fading in the distance. A train is at the station and Alex tumbles into the carriage as its doors close. His fear does not subside until he reaches home where he sits curled in a ball in pitch blackness, the sound of the Wise Man’s laugh echoing through his mind. 
Slowly he gathers enough courage to collect his misplaced phone from the sofa. It is low on battery but still usable, dozens of missed calls and text notifications cluttering the top of the screen. He types Nigel Innes’ name in hope of finding his blog or diary, but all he discovers are search results that lead to a URL that has been deleted. By whom he dreads to think. His phone blinks out of life, its battery dead and he is left to process the day. Alex pictures the Wise Man still laughing at the entrance of his cottage. At Alex’s failed attempts to expose what was happening. Deciding to forego his previous nickname for the old man Alex settles on something now more appropriate. He christens him the Trickster. 

Three months have passed. Three months since Nigel was found dead. Since Alex Pinner had been suspended from work. Since he had confronted the Trickster. His time waiting for the tribunal and the trial of the facts spent either at home trying to piece together what resonances of Nigel’s blog remained online and returning to his commute, following others in the absence of the Trickster who now seemingly had disappeared. But his stalking of new subjects yields no results. And online the only thing found are short paragraphs of example text below links that lead to 404 page not found. Paragraphs that spoke confusingly of Hell or extra-terrestrial experiments. Flying wildly from one topic to the other though never enough of the script was shown to create a coherent context. Thus with stimuli waning Alex began to think on more pertinent matters. Sought professional legal help for the trial and tribunal, paid large sums to experts in medical law and was rewarded unceremoniously with a clear of any wrongdoing. Nigel Innes was not presenting as psychotic at the time of his first admission and there was no way of knowing he would go out and kill someone. As for Nigel Innes’ death a review of policy and procedure was called for, and a few heads rolled.  Front line staff that could be easily replaced. Nigel Innes had no family so there was no risk of compensation. In short Alex had been removed from the pyre. 
But normalcy was still far from him. He had not been to the gym in twelve weeks, his perfect body, bulging slightly with imperfect fat and weakening muscle. If Margot had noticed or objected she had kept it to herself. Indeed they had spent little time together despite Alex’s abundance of it. The three months allowing the notion that he was in a loveless relationship to germinate. 
But now exonerated it is only a matter of time before he is called back to work, to earn money again to pay for organic food, for his perfect house and to repair his eroding body. Purpose begins to take shape in his mind again and he slips quickly back into his routine ready for his return to the real world. To celebrate he sits with Margot at the kitchen table for dinner, a meal he has prepared. She congratulates him on his rebounding strength of body and mind. And after a few glasses of wine reminds him that this is their usual date night so they retire to the bedroom early. Alex wakes at the usual time for his morning jog with Margot already up and dressing for her exercise regime. He bends forward to escape the bed but its softness and warmth entraps him. He’s got used to the laid back existence and the thought of returning to the laborious formula of before is tiring in itself. One last lie in, he concludes, before tomorrow, getting back on track with complete conviction. His eyes droop as he drifts off, explaining himself to Margot who does not respond. 
He sleeps deeper than he intends, waking an hour later. Stretching his body in an effort to push the sleep from him he notes his urgent need to urinate and so heads to the bathroom. Once relieved, Alex staggers down the stairs toward the kitchen, hearing Margot preparing breakfast. There is the faint sound of conversation and he wonders who could be calling her at such an hour. Yet when Alex turns into the kitchen he sees Margot stood looking out of the window, her mobile phone on the table a few feet away. She is distracted and takes a moment to notice his presence. 
“Everything alright?” Alex asks and she responds matter-of-factly. Why shouldn’t it be? 
“Who were you talking to?” Alex sits down while watching her, carefully pouring a glass of fresh orange juice. But Margot does not know how to respond. She was not talking to anyone. 
Alex processes her response and concludes: “I must have been hearing things.” And returns his attention to breakfast. Margot laughs and moves the conversation to light meaninglessness to which Alex responds in kind until she makes her way to the hallway and onward to work. Stopping only to kiss Alex goodbye. He returns the affection, then holds her close. Longer than normal until she starts to squirm. 
“Stay with me today?” Alex pleads. She strokes his hair while prying herself from him. Repeats that she has to go to work. Alex nods and gives up his wife, watching her leave the room. And then, as the front door clicks back into place, he is up from the table, racing to the bedroom for his car keys and shoes. 
 It’s been about an hour now, the time it normally takes Margot to arrive at work. At least that’s what Alex had always thought. But instead of arriving at her employment he has followed her down one random road after another, snaking her way through residential streets in what feels like a hexagonal pattern on repeat. Though there are tears welling in Alex’s eyes it is not of any sense of loss or betrayal, not completely anyway. Rather a sense of validation and fear. He considered the idea that Margot was having an affair and that she was aware of him following her and so was leading him on a merry dance to spite him. Despite himself he found that the notion disappointed him. Such a pedestrian circumstance flying in the face of his discoveries. 
Margot turns onto a roundabout as she has done ten times already today, Alex not far behind, instinct taking over his driving, he knows that she will take third exit back toward home before starting the journey all over again. But this time is different. This time quite suddenly she takes the first exit and off onto the duel carriageway. Alex careers across two lanes to pursue, an accident barely missed. His departure hailed with a cacophony of car horns. 
The carriageway leads into the main artery of a motorway and Alex continues his pursuit until after about twenty minutes Margot signals to turn off into a junction. Alex easily replicates the move. From there it is a main road followed by smaller and smaller ones until finally Alex finds he and Margot are the only vehicles on a country lane, surrounded by green hedges that obscure the horizon, closing him in. He begins to fear an ambush but from who or what he cannot say. Then Margot turns with the road and out of view for a moment until Alex reaches the same corner though he does not need to pursue any further. Margot has stopped and Alex stares dumbfounded. 
Ahead of him a small bullring road, mud as opposed to tarmac. There Margot sits idling in her car staring out into the fields around her. But she is not alone. Alex exits his car and walks toward her, the last of several cars all doing the exact same thing. All parked in the same direction and all with one occupant staring dead ahead in the middle distance. Young, old, man, woman all manner and variety of person are presented. They take no notice of Alex as he walks amongst them, still donned in pyjamas and dressing gown, peering into their cars half crazed. Eventually his courage builds to knock on one of the passenger windows but there is no response from the man inside. A dark skinned youth with short cropped hair and well cut suit. And so Alex turns to Margot, kneeling at her window and talking softly to her. 
“Margot it’s me. What’s going on?” He wonders if he is heard at all and so tries to open the door but it is locked. 
“Margot!” he shouts now but there is still nothing. “Margot what the hell is happening here!”
An engine bursts into life at the front of the herd, and the others follow suit. As the convoy rolls out Alex shouts and bangs on Margot’s window but it is useless. At the end of the road the convoy separates, the congregated presumably returning to wherever they came from. Alex stands in the middle of the turning as he watches Margot, the last in the group, return to the country road and drive out of view. 

It is four pm and Alex Pinner has returned to the Trickster’s cottage. There is no response when he knocks at the door and peering through the window reveals nothing but a dark void. Repercussions have no weight now and so Alex takes a rock from the garden and smashes it against the window. It takes some effort, the first three times the rock simply bouncing back onto the ground. But eventually it shatters and as it does so a warm gust of air bellows from within. 
The fact that Alex cuts himself on the shards of glass is irrelevant to him. He is more concerned with the contents of the building or rather the lack thereof. The house is empty. A rational part of his mind fails to convince him that the Trickster may have simply moved house. If the last few months had taught him anything it was that the simplest explanation rarely held up to scrutiny anymore. The desolate nature of the cottage’s innards make it easier for Alex to focus on the warm wind emanating from within, the only thing of any notice. And so he follows it, rolling as it does out from the hallway and kitchen where, next to a gas cooker, a door whistles from the gap at its base. Alex opens it and the wind becomes a blast, a comfortable warmth as opposed to stifling, but definitely getting warmer as he descends the stairs into the cellar. 
Empty wine bottles collect cobwebs and dust which sway in the wind. Alex continues to follow, extricating a wooden crate from the source of the wind to reveal a tunnel seemingly dug by hand into the soft gravel. It is around a foot in diameter and descends sharply into darkness. Alex takes a moment to think about his next course of action. He could simply walk away. Have a normal life and return to work. Maintain the status quo and keep up the routine. It dawns on him then that a part of this routine would be Margot and he realises then that there is nothing normal to return to, no life to reclaim before this revelation. There is no debate in the matter any longer. Alex crawls headlong into the hole. 
The tunnel soon becomes larger, allowing Alex to crouch and then walk fully upright while the soil changes from the gravel near its entrance to a softer more clay like substance. The surrounding temperature is constant, becoming more humid the further Alex travels. Until at last he reaches  what appears to be a central point, a vibrant white light casting a central chamber in illumination, revealing countless tunnels all surrounding a circular chasm that from its centre emanates a dull industrial hum.
It is almost too much for Alex to contemplate and he wonders how many of the tunnels he can see lead to homes of people he knows. Was Margot always the way he witnessed her today or had she been replaced? Was there a tunnel under his home? Or Nigel Innes’ neighbour? Even Nigel himself?
He could not be sure of anything or anyone now, except of course himself. Throughout this whole ordeal he concludes, unware of the presence behind him, his own faculties have prevailed. 
He is not mad Alex realises, as a blow from behind brings him to his knees. He is not mad and neither was Nigel Innes. Alex Pinner had been right to release him. He smiles before fading out of consciousness. His integrity and his sanity remaining intact to the very end. What came after that an irrelevance. 

<![CDATA[ERIC BURBRIDGE - GRIP]]>Thu, 16 Jan 2020 13:59:22 GMThttps://www.scarletleafreview.com/short-stories38/eric-burbridge-gripEric Burbridge has been published in several literary magazines and is currently working on a novel as well as other short stories.


    Cynthia Massey meant business. The 5’3” frail addict watched the medium height and build uniformed mass transit worker approach. She stepped from behind a huge oak tree and pointed a 9mm pistol at his chest. He froze. “Don’t move,” she said in a soft, but stern voice. She didn’t want to break the 2am silence. She knew he couldn’t identify her in the dark hoodie. “Empty your pockets…now.” His hands didn’t move. “Have it your way.” She squeezed the trigger. He groaned and lunged at her before his face slammed into the grass. “Mess with me, you fool.” 
    She looked around; no lights came on in the houses that bordered the four square block park. She pushed him over with her foot. 
    Hurry… go through his pockets!
    She snatched his wallet and shook it. No money. She checked his front pockets. Bingo!  Cash, it felt like enough for an eight ball. She turned to run, but a hand grabbed her ankle like a vise grip. Cynthia fell forward into a pile of mud. Something stunk! Dog shit! She wiped her face on her sleeves. “Let me go,” she hissed and slammed the pistol into his skull, over and over again, but the grip tightened. The butt of the 9mm slid in the gashes on his head and blood covered her hand. He went limp.
    Finally, he was dead.
Run, now!
“Let me go.” She hit at her victim’s fingers with the pistol. The butt missed half the time and struck her ankle. Slow down, Cynthia.
    She stood, kicked and stomped the corpse’s arm. Nothing happened. She grabbed the other arm and tried to drag him on the wet grass. Cynthia forgot the knife in her pocket. She opened it, eased it between the fat fingers and twisted the blade. It snapped shut on a finger. She pounded on the knife until it cut through the bloody flesh and bone, fluid ran down her ankle into her sneaker. She worked the hand back and forth. She tried the next finger. 
Dammit! His ring got in the way.
Headlights approached and slowed. She ducked and a cop cruised by and put a light on the trees. Duck! The light passed over her head and the car kept going. Thank God.
Cutting fingers took too long.
Cynthia plunged the knife into the wrist. Repeated stabs and twists began to work. Cartilage and gristle snapped and popped. She pumped her leg rocking the clinging hand.
Come off, dammit!
She stabbed and stabbed the joint. Shit! She picked up the pistol, checked for cars, and moved her leg to position the hand. She squeezed off a round into the wrist.
Fall off, hand! It loosened; now try it.
She struggled to her feet; took a deep breath and yanked it. She stumbled backwards, fell and hit the back of her neck on something. Her arms and legs trembled out of control. The pain subsided, but she couldn’t move. Her screams for help were mere whispers.
Cynthia lay paralyzed and watched the starless sky brighten. Tears streamed down the side of her filthy fly infested face. It was his fault; all he had to do was give her the money. So, she’ll them he tried to rape her. When she recovers she’ll join a rape crisis group. The only hitch in the plan; she forgot if she used that 9mm in another stick-up.

The End

<![CDATA[ATTILA O'ROSS - DANTE]]>Thu, 16 Jan 2020 13:56:00 GMThttps://www.scarletleafreview.com/short-stories38/attila-oross-dante
Attila O’Ross is a Hungarian-born author, technical writer and software developer, living on a remote river island with his partner and three rescue puppies. When not busy running his software company, Attila writes about technology, meditation and breathing techniques, alongside stories that are sometimes weird, often genre-bending and, most of all, thought-provoking.


​    Dante Alighieri opened his eyes for the last time, looked around once more, smiled despite his burning fever, then breathed his last breath.
    For quite some time there was nothing, not even time, which made it feel like an instant, really; and when Dante opened his eyes again, he saw before him a frozen lake and in it a gigantic three-headed figure, whose size he could only describe so:
​"From his mid-breast forth issued from the ice;
And better with a giant I compare
Than do the giants with those arms of his."
​    As, indeed, he already had.
    Before he could have continued with detailing the size and appearance of this Emperor of Hell, the hideous creature broke his awe.
     “Ah, Dante! I have been expecting you!” said the Devil, and changed his form into a more human shape, which would have been, if Dante was in the capacity of making such observations, that of a typical politician, or corporate director.
    As Dante was not accustomed to seeing such abominable apparitions, he was equally frightened, and probably even more puzzled than he had been at the sight of the Devil incarnate in its infernal form. Horrible as that had been, Dante at least knew where he was standing with that kind of evil; but the sight of the smiling, smooth-mannered well-groomed man dressed in what Dante would have called a business suit if he knew the words, sent cold shivers down his spine.
    He had no time to ponder upon this change of representation, however, as Satan continued addressing him:
     “I’m a huge fan of your Divine Comedy, I have to say. You got almost all the details right. But, I’m afraid your work had become a little outdated after my latest additions to my great work, and thus yours is in need of some amendment.”
    Dante then asked whether the place was Hell.
     “Hell it is, indeed,” replied the King of the Underworld. “Allow me to show you around.”
    Upon inquiring whether Virgil was not still leading the guided tours, Dante was informed that, unfortunately, having had difficulties to keep up with the latest developments, Virgil had to be let go half a century earlier. Then, following the Devil wearing a well-tailored suit of a well-known brand, Dante began to reacquaint himself with Hell.
    Gone were the circles and the sinners with their sins so plain Dante was already familiar with, having invented them in the first place; and what he saw now puzzled him beyond his powers of description. He was looking at a scene so unfamiliar, he was for the first time in his life—or rather after it—lost for words.
    The Devil, seeing Dante’s bewilderment, offered a ready explanation.
     “What you see before yourself, my trusty chronicler, is my new design for Hell. It has been going on for a little over a century now, quite fresh, you might say.”
    Dante replied that he would never say such a thing. The Accuser continued, ignoring this.
     “See those tall buildings? Skyscrapers, I call them. The tower of Babylon would have looked like a puny cottage, compared to these. Those chariots with no horses? Automobiles. They travel so fast, you’d need a hundred horses to produce the same power. The fat birds in the sky are aeroplanes. They fly all across Hell and take people from place to place, where they willingly go to find new ways to suffer. And all those people you see? Seven billion of them. And all mine. Isn’t it beautiful?”
    Dante said he wasn’t sure what it was, but ‘beautiful’ would have been the last word on his mind right now. Then he asked how so many people could be squeezed into such a limited space, to which Satan replied thusly:
     “You are quite right there, this is but a single city. There are many like this and even more smaller settlements. Let me show you.”
    And with a swoop that made him feel like his intestines were suddenly trying to escape through his mouth, Dante found himself looking at a blue and green and white marble, on which no more activity could be discerned.
     “This’ the globe. The whole of my empire. It rotates slowly around its own axis, creating day and night dynamically without my intervention. Besides giving people something to do, it takes away the burden of maintenance from my shoulders. Much better than the flat disc He created in the first place,” said the Adversary, pronouncing the word ‘he’ with a defiantly mocking tone of voice.
     “Some people still refuse to believe in its new shape, and who could blame them, having lived for millennia on that boring flat dish. But come now, there is so much more you need to see.”
    And with this, they began to descend with such a speed that Dante’s eyes felt like they swelled to the size of his head, and his intestines were again keen on escaping his body, this time for good.
    It did not last long, however, and as suddenly as the descent began, and before he could even start wondering about the shape of the world, Dante found himself in a room, where a family of four were staring at a slab filled with flashing images.
    Not allowing puzzlement to set in—seeing that the writer was a little slow on the uptake when it came to his latest inventions—the Devil began to explain at once.
     “What you see now once was the typical pastime for a typical family. In many places it still is. What they are looking at is called a television, or TV for short, and the dumb expression on their faces perfectly illustrates their mental and emotional states. These people stopped thinking, or processing any real information, all their remaining attention being focused on the pictures coming from the screen. I first thought I’d make them drool and dribble saliva a little, but hey, look at what I made them do instead.”
    Dante did look and saw items he could not recognise, being drunk and eaten in a monotonous, mindless manner. Dante remarked how horrible a sight it was.
     “Thank you,” said the Lord of the Flies. “But we’ll cover mindless consumption later, let us now focus on the images they are looking at.”
    Then Lucifer proceeded to explain as Dante watched, all about celebrities, and reality shows, and the sugar-coated lies drip-fed to the watchers, so that they would believe everything they see, and would strive to live like that themselves, or at least  support the latest patriotic invasion of another country in pure self-defence, continuing to worship false idols.
    Dante agreed that it was, indeed, an ingenious way of torture, but could not comprehend how it was beneficial to torture people in a way that did not allow them to be aware of being punished.
     “It all connects with the other bits, you will see. For example, through the same channels, they are also fed other lies, called advertisements, that make them buy things they don’t need, pursue happiness in possessions, and generally over-consume everything, destroying themselves and their world in the process. Supporting war and aggression is a direct way to suffering, while wanting to consume causes suffering to people they do not even know. We will get there in time, do not worry.”
    Dante was amazed, although he did express his puzzlement over phrases like over-consumption. The Devil continued.
     “There is something else here, it’s the next step in the evolution of mass media, something called the internet. It’s far more evil than TV ever has been as, besides feeding even more lies and propaganda, it induces narcissism and a sense of self-importance, causing people to believe their own opinions are the only ones that matter and that their ignorance is as valuable as other people’s knowledge. It makes them vile, hostile, and lonely while kindling the illusions of freedom and opportunities. But its workings are too intricate to try and make you understand in this short time. For now, it is enough that you know it exists.
     “Oh, but I almost forgot my latest invention, the direct descendant of the TV!” exclaimed Abaddon, and ushered Dante into another room, where a family of five sat and lay in various positions, looking at small slabs in their hands, which kept flashing colourful images at them. None of them ever talked, their expressions were blank, their backs bent over the hand-held apparitions, and their appearance bore every recognisable trait of the deepest misery.
     “See those devices? They work just like the TV, only everybody has one on their person now, and feels they could not exist without them. Looking at them is the only reason they exist, or so they feel. They can access every falsehood the TV feeds them, and the internet I just told you about, right on these devices. If anything every alienated people successfully, this little device does. It is the pinnacle of my genius and in more than one way. But come now, I have so much more to show you.”
    Dante, bewildered and still in awe, followed the Devil as they exited left.     
     “What I want to show you next, is a somewhat dramatised representation of something that I would not be able to display in its real form. Watch first, then I will explain,” said the Antichrist, and by his sleight of hand two men materialised.
    The two were arguing hotly, debating something Dante could not quite follow. The Devil chimed in:
     “They are arguing about politics. See, the one on the right side is supporting the political left, and the one on the left side is all for the political right. What’s most interesting about their argument is that both of them are equally wrong about everything they say. Their opinions are based not on facts but on emotional responses to what they have seen or read in the news. Lies, basically, carefully constructed by yours truly, to make people like these believe in them. Now watch.”
    Dante said something about not knowing what political left or right meant, but soon fell silent and watched the argument with growing amazement. The two were now positively yelling at one another, shaking their fists at the other, but never taking a step closer. Now, they were shouting over one another, neither of them listening to anything the other had to say. When Dante thought this could hardly get any worse without turning into a full-blown duel, one of them picked up some mud from under his feet and threw it at the other. Then the other responded in kind and the mud hurling continued until one of them found, unlikely as it was, something similar in colour but much more aromatic than mud and threw that at the other. Suddenly everything was covered in the foul-smelling material, and the two kept throwing it at each other with two hands.
    Dante looked at Moloch in utter bewilderment, but the Devil only smiled and said:
     “No, wait, there is more. Just watch.”
    At this moment, a third person—unspoiled yet by the mud and the other substance, calm and reasonable in manner—appeared. He started talking to the first two, and in a calm, measured tone, explained to them why they were both wrong. Some of the words he used were long and complex and this apparently puzzled the two dirt throwers as much as they did Dante. The two, in turn, looked at the calm one with increasingly open hostility, and when the calm and clean man presented some documents which he said would prove his point and disprove the other two’s opinions, they physically attacked him as one, just like they were the oldest of allies, and beat the poor fellow to death, shouting unprintable insults at him.
    When this was done, the two talked a little about how idiotic the third one had been, and ridiculed all his arguments in the greatest of understanding, after which their old debate seemed to have re-ignited right out of nowhere, and within moments they were back at throwing at each other everything they could lay their hands on.
    The Devil took Dante by the arm, and pulled him aside, explaining as they went:
     “What you have seen was obviously staged, yet what it represents would look exactly like what you have seen, would people decide to do it in person. Where they choose to do it instead is this fine social medium I have created, called Screecher. It’s a really simple concept, people basically write very short, very ill-informed, but very much hyped opinions, in as few words as possible. These are called screeches. Then another person reads the screech, and either likes it or hates it. Those which they like they re-screech, and help it spread like a bad flu. Those they hate (and the majority are these), they will start screeching about in a hateful manner, often organised as mobs, screeching in chorus, until the whole of Screecher is aloud with only their screeches, drowning out all reasonable voices. The rest plays out exactly as what you have seen. The real victims are usually the innocent bystanders or those who try to apply a modicum of reason to stop the madness. Neither side likes reason or facts. Hype and opinions rule everything.”
    Dante said he was sure it was an ingenious invention, but he was quite lost as to what to make of it.
     “Don’t worry, with time you’ll not believe you could have ever lived without screeching at everyone all day, every day. But it’s time for our next scene.”
    And then the curtain fell, although where from, or where to, Dante could not tell.
    They were now on a street, where a group of people were abusing another group, calling them names, like ‘immigrants’, ‘terrorists’, and worse, none of which did Dante really understand, but the manner in which these words were hurled at those people made it obvious that they were insults. Some also accused the group of hating them for their freedom, and similar mind-numbingly dumb assumptions and accusations they heard somewhere else and didn’t really understand, but repeated nevertheless.
     “See, these people have come here to find refuge from a war those other people are waging in their country, and are abused for it. Let me show you.”
    And, at that very moment, they were at a far-away battlefield, where people very much like the former group of abusers—wearing fantastic looking military outfits and wielding weapons that made a lot of noise and killed from a distance—were fighting against people who resembled the group that was being abused in the previous location. Flying machines came and showered death and explosions over children and women. Towering monsters on wheels destroyed buildings. The air smelled of smoke and blood and was filled with loud explosions and screams.
     “Now, this is quite a condensation of the whole, but you can at least have an idea what modern warfare means here. Those weapons are more effective at killing than anything you have ever seen in your lifetime. Those flying drones are operated from a great distance by people who have never even been here and will destroy everything and everyone, indiscriminately. Those vehicles of destruction are capable of demolishing buildings faster than you can recite a verse from your great epic. The beauty of all this is, on the whole, that never are two armies of the same capability matched against each other. The world had tried that too. It did not work, in fact, it all ended that way. Now, this is a much better system, where the stronger and richer attacks the poorer and weaker, and calls it self-defence. Then they destroy their country and their people, and take their resources, and all the remaining wealth, and call themselves heroes, and tell those people they have solved their problems and liberated them. Oh, yes, and when the survivors seek refuge, they abuse them and call them names.”
    Dante then asked how it was that the people in far-away places would willingly support such horrific wars.
     “Simple enough, it’s through something called propaganda. You have seen the television and you have heard about the internet. There is something I call ‘the news’. It’s a great invention. In it, I can feed even more lies than through advertisements. See, the people back in their homes only know what they are told. And they are told that these poor people are evil, that they hate them and their freedom, that they must be punished and killed and destroyed. Then, to stop them worrying about all this horror, they are told about precision strikes, and that only military men from the enemy’s side ever die or suffer, and are carefully shielded from the torture war truly means to everyone else. Then they will happily support any war, and call it patriotic, believing it truly is defending their freedom, even as they are destroying the lives of others.
     “And, of course, there are other people who, through the various news channels, keep feeding them lies and telling them what to think or believe which, if you remember the drooling family, is not a difficult task, really. I call these ones ‘news anchors’. Most of them work for me directly.”
    Dante thought about this for a long time. Then he asked why not let two real armies of equal strength collide. Surely it would cause even greater destruction on the whole and require less effort to convince other people about the necessity.
     “I did have plans for some more global wars at the beginning, like those they had towards the end,” said the Devil, “but ditched the idea as the original ones never did deliver the desired results. Sure, the suffering was immense, but it did not last. After the first two global wars were over, the people came together to sing Kumbaya for a short while, and everything looked as if the world preferred peace. Then the third one came and ended everything for good. So you see, it was not really sustainable.”
    Seeing Dante’s horrified expression, the Father of Lies remembered he had forgotten to explain.
     “Yes, Dante, your world has ended in a crescendo of war, at a scale of both destruction and brutality you could never have imagined. Nobody much could, even as it was happening. But you see, the story of the apocalypse is nothing like you’d expect from that holy book of yours. There were no angels, no trumpets, and definitely no second coming of anyone. And, least of all, rapture. No, the end was swift, even though it took some time to prepare.
     “There was a great war at the beginning of the last of all centuries. It had rocked the world, but probably not enough, because a generation later there was an even greater one, towards the end of which one nation decided to drop bombs that destroyed entire cities in a blink of an eye. Two of them, in fact. It was beautiful. Those fools not only believed their actions to be somehow justified, but even took it upon themselves to lecture others on ‘democracy’ and human rights afterwards, which, being the only nation to ever use true weapons of mass destruction and that on civilians too, was the most beautiful hypocrisy I had seen to date, it was truly heart-warming.
     “Anyway, to cut a long story short—because you know I’d love to talk to you more about it, this is my favourite topic, but we have limited time here—the war ended eventually, and the world pretended to be at peace again. Our friends with the bomb decided to turn their talking into action, so everyone who disagreed with their idea of freedom and democracy—which in real terms meant racial segregation, financial oppression and a two-party system that served one financial interest, falsely classified as a ‘democracy’—began to find themselves invaded and waged war upon, in the name of freedom, democracy and peace. Best thing? The rest of the world cheered for it and even encouraged it. It was amazing, I really enjoyed those times.
     “But all good things must come to an end and so did this era of perfect disharmony, which many of its inhabitants would probably remember as a time of peace and prosperity, was there anyone left alive. See, others also liked the idea of having weapons that can wipe out entire cities with a single strike. They built their own arsenals, and the two greatest opponents in this arms race started threatening each other. First only in words. They called it a power-balance, but what it really was could be called something like mutually assured destruction waiting to happen. And that is just what happened next.
     “It was so predictable I wasn’t even there to orchestrate it, everything just went its own way. The two of them started dropping bombs on each other, wiping out all major cities, and when that was done, began targeting everything that seemed habitable. Most of their weapons systems were automated enough by this time to continue firing even when the people who started the war were long dead. Soon, smaller nations surprised everyone with their own smaller arsenals, nobody expected to even exist. It was a matter of hours, believe it or not. The previous war was fought for years. This one started at nine o’clock in the morning and was over by two in the afternoon. The fallout—that is the poison that remains after using those weapons—took another year or two to finish everyone else.
     “That’s the true story of the apocalypse. John was a raving lunatic, but even he could not come up with something nearly as horrible as it really was. And there was a vacancy too, so I moved in. Not wanting the entire planet to go to waste, I set up my den right here and built the new version of my empire on the ruins of the old world. It’s set up as a straight continuation of the world that had ended, so I made it look like that final war had never even happened. That was quite easy, nobody really could remember it, could they? There was a bit of a strain to ensure seamless continuity. In the first couple of years, there were glitches and even the colours went missing, which is evidenced by the films and movies of the era. Some people even noticed the discrepancies, but the majority dismissed their claims as conspiracies. And so, now we are here.
     “Anyway, now I’m going with smaller local wars, and powerful states engaging in wars against other, insignificant countries far from home, which cannot really defend themselves. All the while preaching peace and equality, as seen from the last days of the world. I like to keep the best ideas, and I do not wish to claim them as my own. I do give where credit is due.
     “Not only is this a more sustainable model, but the opportunities it creates are endless. For example, I can have people supporting war for what they think of as righteous reasons, even cheering for it, feeling all content and good about themselves for being patriotic, while all they really do is enable the suffering of their fellow men. In the end, everybody works for me. They even volunteer. But, of course, this does more than just cause suffering to the victims of war. It keeps the people who support these wars from ever succumbing to decency. Meanwhile, there is a constant fear of a larger conflict, which I ensure will never happen again, as what they have now just works so much better. See, small wars are profitable, but big ones are expensive, but fear is for free! Ingenious, isn’t it? And there are still people who insist on singing Kumbaya, as they continue to destroy themselves by other means, but more on that later.”
    Dante agreed that it was ingenious, also admitting that he had not the faintest idea how the song Kumbaya went.
     “It still needs some work, apparently,” said Satan, ignoring Dante’s remark, “as the two countries that are still able to annihilate each other and many others—as they already did—seem to produce somewhat less tension between one another lately, but I’m working to solve that. Anyway, I will not bore you with any more technical details.”
    To this Dante replied that he did not know what ‘apparently’ meant or what a ‘technical detail’ was, but otherwise he could see how all that could be problematic and assured the Devil that the last thing he felt was boredom.
     “But enough of this. Admittedly—although I’m sure you’ll have an issue with this word too—this is my greatest invention yet, but far from being the only one. Let me show you more.”
    Faster than he could say ‘Inferno’, Dante then found himself in a great hall, where the lights were a blinding bluish bright, and people were milling around, pushing strange hand-carts, or holding uniformly coloured baskets. There was so much food there, arranged on shelves and in heaps, Dante at first thought it was some great nobleman’s or even king’s kitchen, but none of the people around really looked like peasants; besides, nobody seemed to be cooking anything.
    The people were, instead, picking items off shelves, all individually packaged, and putting them into the carts. Every single person’s cart was so heavily loaded, Dante thought they were preparing for some great famine to come. When he asked Beelzebub about it, the latter replied that the people were simply shopping for a long weekend, as the next Monday was a holiday, so they could spend some quality time with their families. Dante quietly wondered whether every single person there had a family of fifty or more, all starving, although the general circumference of the shoppers suggested otherwise.
    Then they left the store in a whoosh, and Dante found himself in some kind of tailor’s workshop, only no tailor could be seen, but endless shelves filled with clothes in every colour Dante could imagine, and some which he—previously—could not.
    People of every shape, size and colour were looking at merchandise of every shape, size and colour, and posturing before mirrors of mostly the same shape and size—while colour did not relly apply to those—wearing some of them. Most of the items they picked looked as if they had been made by tailors that should be, if not necessarily hanged, but at least expelled from the guild for their crimes against common decency. Dante’s taste of fashion was deeply offended, but before he could remark on this, there was another whoosh and they found themselves in yet another store.
    There, everything was white and the lights even more blinding then before. Shelves were replaced by otherworldly-looking stands and the people were looking at some of the little devices the Serpent had introduced him to earlier, those that people kept in their hands and stared at all the time. A stylised image of a pear was visible on almost everything.
    Then the Devil turned to Dante and said:
     “We could go on and on, but these three examples should suffice just fine.”
    Dante replied that all he could see was luxury and riches, and while the people were not exactly wearing purple and gold and their tastes in clothing were questionable, to say the least, that alone should not really qualify as either punishment or suffering. Although it certainly qualified as both to anyone with a modicum of taste, he did suspect that was not the point.
     “Very well put, and you are right, that is definitely not the point,” said Satan and, with his sleight of hand, they were gone from the scene and into a new one that left Dante speechless.
    They were now outside, among mountains of trash and a stench like no other. A vast landscape was filled with waste, although mostly it was as alien-looking as anything he had seen before Dante immediately recognised it for what it was. Among the mountains—for the heaps of trash were, without exaggeration, the size of mountains—strange machines were pushing the waste up higher and higher. Crows and seagulls scavenged among jackals and mangy stray dogs. Here and there he could even see people picking up items for the devil only knew what use.
    Dante looked at Belial, bewildered, his expression a demand for explanation. The Devil understood immediately and explained:
     “Remember that first shop I showed you? Where all the food items were packaged individually? Yeah, this is all the packaging. And more. Everything, or nearly everything, ends up here after a really short time of use. Most of the things people use today are made to break after a couple of years, or even sooner. Clothes go out of fashion, electronics get outdated and undesirable, packaging is for temporary protection, and so on. After that, it all ends up here. People buy them, then throw them away only to buy a new one, which they will once again throw away, and this goes on ad infinitum, or at least until these mountains will cover everything.
     “Of course, most people never see this. They put their unwanted stuff in neat little containers, and other people come and take it away, so nobody needs to worry about where it all goes. The ones that pride themselves in ‘caring about the environment’ and similar self-indulgent ways of reinforcing their sense of worth, practise something called ‘recycling’. That means they separate their unwanted stuff into categories, and then send it here, all sorted. Maybe not all, but most of it ends up here nevertheless. Meanwhile, they go on buying stuff just like everyone else, continuously, because nothing they can buy will last. And because they think that they somehow live clean, they feel justified in buying things they don’t really need, and they even sleep better.”
    When Dante said that this was insanity, the Devil thanked him wholeheartedly.
     “It took me decades to design this, and I have to say it works rather well. With the last bit, that is of the illusion of recycling, in place, I think I can call it a masterpiece without sounding immodest.”
    Dante agreed that it was, but before he could say anything else, the scenery changed. He now saw endless rows of benches, where women and even children were bending over fast-moving weaving looms that made a rhythmic, upsetting noise. Dante recognised the tasteless items of clothing being made.
     “See them? They make the clothes those people were so happily shopping for, only to discard after a couple of months. One of these workers earns less in a month than a single shirt she makes will cost to those who buy it. Now, to the last bits.”
    They then visited two scenes in quick succession. In the first one, young African men and children were mining the earth in conditions that slaves would have considered cruel. Their backs were bent, their limbs thin and fragile. Armed guards with weapons similar to those Dante had seen the soldiers use before, were watching their every step.
     “Make no mistake, these guards are not here to protect the miners,” said the Lawless One, noticing Dante’s expression. “If somebody tries to steal, or leave without permission, they just get shot. Before you ask, these people are mining for the raw materials those gadgets are made of that you’ve seen in the Pear(tm) shop. Now the next bunch...”
    The Devil here paused for a moment and made a gesture that turned the scene into another one of those endless halls of benches, but instead of looms, here Dante only saw dirty-faced Asian children in ragged clothes, bending over small pieces of something he did not recognise.
     “...is assembling those same gadgets,” continued the King of the Bottomless Pit, finishing his sentence, not even waiting for Dante to take in all he was seeing. “These children are slaves, just like those miners before, or the women who weave the threads. Their labour is so cheap, it’s almost free. Of course, all the profits go to my devils—you will meet them later—who make sure it never re-enters the market so that new items have to be made for people to consume mindlessly.
     “Picture this,” said the Angel of Light proudly. “They now have all the technology to end hunger and most diseases for good. They have all the wealth necessary to achieve this and make everyone’s life comfortable nay, even rich. Can you guess what they do with it?”
    Dante replied that he could not really guess, but he did have some ideas after seeing all that.
     “They use the technology to create weapons—you’ve seen that already—and items nobody needs but everybody wants, as you saw just now. Then they sell these to the people, who queue to buy them and then wield these items like so many badges of honour. All the wealth then goes to a few who work for me and, as is their nature, they hoard it and guard it from those who need it. My devils keep all of it all nicely locked away for themselves. Of course, they never use all that wealth. Couldn’t really, even if they had some use for it, it’s just too much for so few people to own. What they have amassed in a few short decades is more than a larger country could spend in two lifetimes, but all the poor masses do is worship my demons for their wealth.
     “Still, and this is most interesting, it is not my associates who keep the system working. Of course, their oversight is essential, but the people who buy all those things that are designed for the sole purpose of being bought then discarded—those people who create a demand for even more after having bought already far more than could be justified with a sane mind—they are my greatest helpers in this whole machinery, they make it all go around. They do my bidding, and even my work for me without ever realising it. I call this market economy, automation, and capitalism. What these words really mean are over-consumption, scarcity and pathological hoarding. I have to admit, even I don’t quite understand the dynamics there yet, but you as can see I have not actually done any of this, they do it to themselves.
     “Of course, I do my best to help wherever I can. For example, some influential people would sometimes come up with a ‘great disruptive idea’ of how to solve it all, which basically does nothing beyond giving them the publicity they crave. You could say they are hell-bent on saving the world, but only as long as doing so does not threaten their wealth and profit. Then everyone can once again sleep better because the situation will surely be solved, and it is no longer their problem. Meanwhile those who could really do something about it all, continue to exploit the people’s gullibility, sell them single-use plastic, and talk about going to the Moon or Mars, or creating the latest ‘disruptive tech innovation’, that are usually solutions looking for a problem, while continuing to ignore the real-world problems they actually have. It’s quite sophisticated in its simplicity. Anyway, I don’t want to go that far over your head, I see you’re already confused.”
    Dante admitted that his head was indeed spinning and such waste and so much misery truly made Hell look like what it really was, although he also had to admit that it was just a little too much to process at once, but apparently some things never changed, not even in Hell, it would seem, and that it was probably just human nature.        
    Upon asking the Devil what happened to the system of circles and whether Hell still had some resemblance to its previous structure, Dante was assured that they were going to examine just that next. It was dark for a while, then everything lit up. Glittering gold and diamonds and crystals filled Dante’s vision, as what his eyes now beheld was luxury befitting a king or emperor. A bent old man was sitting on what looked like a sofa from Dante’s own life, such that he might have seen in a king’s court. The old man was looking out a window, untouched by all the beauty surrounding him.
    Maids and servants rushed in the background, noiseless and efficient and below, an army of gardeners tended the grounds. The old man said nothing, never even blinked, just stared out of the window with an unmovable expression.
    Smiling to himself, Dante declared to the Devil that he, at last, did understand something without needing any explanation. Upon being urged by the Power of Darkness to provide some of his own, Dante proceeded to say that he saw the old man was being punished for his greed in his lifetime, by being provided all the luxury the world can afford, yet unable to enjoy a moment of it. He suggested that the old method of torture seemed to work more efficiently as well as being more befitting to the sin when the Son of Perdition interrupted him.
     “Oh but you misjudge the situation, my trusted chronicler. This man is not being punished. He is one of my demons.”
    Replying to this, Dante explained that he could not possibly believe that, or why a devil would live in such luxury. The Proprietor of Hell explained:
     “It’s all to do with perceived social mobility, or rather a wish for it, and to provide a structural rigidity to the new levels of Hell. This man here is one of the richest people alive. He owns several banking corporations, two large pharmaceutical conglomerates, a holding that controls so much of the natural resources such as oil, gold, and rare earth minerals that it can basically create a market just by its own corporations trading between themselves, and the whole of the operation is so extensive, nobody knows it all concentrates in the hands of a single person. Admittedly, this is my most trusted associate, but there are others like him too, although not many.”
    Having only time enough to mumble something about the repeated use of the word ‘admittedly’, Dante then found himself in front of a big house, before which there was an open air pool filled with blue water and two slick looking horseless carriages on one side. The grass was freshly cut and immaculate, the house would have looked like a small palace, if not for the lack of battlements.
     “Now these people are still close to the top, although not quite at the top, and this level or class reaches downward somewhat. They are the directors, managers and leaders of the people you will see next, some maybe even entrepreneurs, but all of them still work for the one you have seen before or someone like him. These directors and leaders and entrepreneurs live off their subordinates’ achievements, which they claim as their own. They generally are not really good at anything, but they have the right connections and the right frame of mind, which is, always to blame someone else, never to claim responsibility, but always own success. They are what those below them call successful people. Often they spin off on their own, smaller corporations which eventually (and inevitably) end up being controlled by the same demons they once worked for. Obviously, they look down on the ones working for them, and admire their own superiors, aspiring to be like them one day. The more cunning ones might even achieve this after having tried long enough, although that is rare. They are not really all that interesting. Most of their lives are filled with trying to become more than what they are, while hoarding as much as they can, in a lame imitation of their betters. Let us move on.”
    Dante then found himself on a busy street, looking in through a large window to what looked like a tavern, only the people were drinking neither ale nor wine, but something from paperish looking cups.
     “Now these guys here,” said the Devil in a matter of fact tone, “are the next in the linear succession, if we skip a few uninteresting intermediate levels. Just watch.”
    Dante did, but could not make much out of the picture before him. The people were seated individually, each of them engrossed either in the small hand-held devices like the ones he had seen earlier, or tapping their fingers into weird looking L-shaped slabs, that made clicking noises. They wore scarves that looked as if they had been pulled off other people and strange looking eye-glasses that made the wearers look like village idiots. Some wore badly designed hats, and nearly all the men had bushy beards. Dante’s impression was that despite their best efforts to become the most unique looking scarecrow in the whole room, they really looked all the same.
     “I can see the recognition on your face,” said the Wicked One. “Yes, they really try with all their might to be the most unique among each other, and all they can achieve is looking more uniform than any group of mindless trend-worshipping numbskulls in the history of hype.”
    Dante murmured that he had no idea what trend or hype meant, but if these people worshipped them, they must be the greatest invention in Hell yet. To this, the Serpent of Old heartily agreed and commended Dante on his perceptiveness.
     “But this is only the surface. The best part is what’s in their heads. They despise the poorest and the workers below themselves. They envy the rich, secretly wanting to belong to them, although some might not be so ready to admit this. They imagine themselves to be unique, and enlightened, and generally better than anyone. They drink overpriced coffee at an over-hyped café and think they are doing something fashionable. They buy the latest gadgets they have no need for and feel they are unique for owning a device everybody in their group also owns. They practise a bastardised version of ancient traditions and feel they are somehow more spiritual and wiser than the sages of old. Truth be told, this is the single most abhorrent bunch I have ever created. I’m really proud of them. But we need to move on now.”
    Before Dante could say anything, they found themselves in a small apartment, where a family of four was crowded in a room, watching one of the boxes Dante had seen before. For all he knew, it could have been the same people.
     “Now these ones here do a little better off than the poorest, but only just,” said the Devil. “They make enough to pull through every day, then every week, then every month, until they run out of money, but the next salary arrives just in time. Whatever means they have to change this make no real difference but they do at least wish to live differently. All those pictures they see in the box make them yearn to be something they never could be, which in turn prevents them from doing what they can to really improve their situation. Dream too big, and your dream will always be beyond your reach. See, this yearning is even more dangerous than the apathy of those you are to see next because this makes them scorn those below them and worship those above. These people here truly admire the rich, and love to imagine themselves in their place, which allows the rich to grow even richer at their expense. And they cheer for it. But let us be off, there is still more to see here.”
    Dante was then ushered into a house, which barely passed for a hut. In it, a family of ten lived. The children looked miserable and dirty, their father was snoring hard, although it appeared to be only just past midday, and smelled of strong alcohol; while their mother was cooking a thin soup.
    The house was in a general state of disrepair, the roof seemed to be collapsing, the walls were peeling plaster. Outside there was a yard, filled with junk, and what once was probably a garden, overgrown with weeds.
     “See these people here?” asked the Devil, not expecting a reply. “They have every opportunity to provide for themselves and their children. They have a large yard and a garden. They could grow their own food and even keep animals. Hell, this place could produce enough to even sell some for a profit. Naturally, with less hungry mouths to feed, they would be even better off.
     “Yet, look at how they live. The father is a drunkard, the mother has given up on life a long time ago. This house has not been cleaned in years. And the children? They’ll have no chance to change anything they learn here. But this is a poor area, and such is the power of scarcity. It means that nobody ever sees a way out, even though it’s right in front of their noses.
     “From here, the people above are barely visible, the ones you have seen in the café and all of those beyond could live on another planet, as far as these people are concerned. Of course, this is reciprocal, those in the café have no idea these poor ones even exist. And yet, this is how the majority of people live. Not all are this miserable, and not all are that apathetic—I’m showing you the ultimate of both to make an example of the extremes—but most are the same hopeless.
     “I believe you see the pattern already. I’d wager, nothing much really changed since your time. It was a good system, really, I only had to modernise it for the new environment. The poor being miserable and hopeless, the rich being careless and discontent, everybody looking down at those below them and worshipping those above. It all just works. It keeps everyone from being content with what they have, yearn for what they might never attain and be generally as miserable as you would imagine such people being. Also, all of those you have seen now are equally responsible for all the environmental destruction I have not even had time to show you. They all consume beyond their needs and definitely beyond the capacity of this place to allow for. And probably, apart from the poorest, they all are capable of changing this, but nobody seems interested in real change. That apathy is what I call a hell of a way to live in Hell, if you excuse the pun.”
    Dante was silent. The Devil continued.
     “Of course, this is not everything. There are a lot more layers and levels, and different ways this all manifests in, but the base idea is the same. Anyway, these few examples seemed sufficient to illustrate the workings of the whole, while the finer points would need many lifetimes to pore over.
     “So what do you think? Ah, and before you ask, because I know you would, there are of course the more straightforward cases, like murderers and their victims, or indentured labour, which is just a fancy word for slavery, and sex workers, drug dealers and addicts, criminals, gamblers, alcoholics, rapists and their victims, and all the general population of what one would imagine Hell would be filled with, but those are kind of obvious in their own right, no need to specifically show them to you. Besides, most of those people know they live in Hell, even if they might not call it that. The oblivious masses are of much more interest, aren’t they?”
    Dante said that indeed it was the same across the ages but, of course, in the end, it all worked in the Devil’s favour. Yet, fortunately, there was still religion and spirituality that would give them hope and keep them on the right path. To this, Apollyon replied with almost choking on laughter. After several minutes, with a shaking voice, tearful eyes, and a grin as wide as his whole face, the Snake managed to say:
     “You don’t seriously believe anything you’ve just said, do you? You do? Come with me then. Come on, chop-chop,” and exited left, although where he exited to was far from obvious. Dante followed nevertheless, having no better idea what to do with himself.
     “Look, and look closely. Here is your mighty religion, all in one picture,” said the Devil, opening his arms in a spread that swept across the changing landscape.
Now a whirlwind of different scenes and images appeared, in it people of all religions of the world spoke at once, over each other, yelling at one another, their faces red, their eyes filled with hatred.
    Christians of so many denominations it made Dante’s head hurt were yelling the name of Jesus and shouting ‘love’, while kicking Muslims, and punching Jews with closed fists, eyeing Hindus suspiciously, while apparently making friends with Buddhists.
    The Jews whom the Christians were beating were, in turn, punching the Muslims, and convincing other Christians, who appeared to be more tolerant towards them, to buy them weapons, so they could defend themselves against the same Muslims they were crushing under their boots.
    Meanwhile, some of the Muslims were beating up everyone, but mostly Jews and Christians, yelling that they were the only true religion of peace.
    Serene Buddhists were stabbing Muslims, and spitting at Hindus, calling Christians devils and kicking the Jews before sitting down to meditate on serenity on peace. The Christians that were farther away and weren’t getting kicked directly, largely ignored this and continued to regard the Buddhists as their best friends, some of them even calling themselves Buddhists, without even appearing to have the slightest understanding what that really meant.
    Meanwhile, the Hindus were just beating everyone around them, yelling the names of one thousand gods.
The whole fracas continued in the background, while Dante was flying through churches and temples of all religions where the followers of each doctrine prayed with an ethereal tranquillity on their faces, and were convinced that they and only they were following the one right teaching.
    Dante was horrified but said that surely, Christianity must be the one true religion of love and that those who took part in the fighting were misrepresenting it and taken to following the misguided oath of false gods, when the Fallen Star changed the scene again, without a word.
    Now Dante saw a priest, dressed in all black, and wearing the cross. Before him, a child, no more than six years of age, was kneeling in prayer. Dante smiled. He expressed that his faith never for a moment faltered, and one could at least trust the clergy, but then the priest did something that burned into Dante’s mind forever.
    Smiling, and with a most holy air, the priest approached the child and told her that he had sinned and that all men were sinners, but she had to take away his sin by accepting him into herself because only her innocence could save his soul.
    Dante wanted to turn away, as the priest proceeded to sodomise the child, but the Ruler of the Darkness did not let him.
     “This is your most holy clergy. And I have to tell you that I did not do this. It disgusts even me, yet it is happening in the name of your religion.”
    The Devil spat, and continued:
     “This, and so much more. Look at her.”
    Dante then saw an elderly nun, among sick, ailing people. At first, it looked as if she was providing aid and support, praying at the feet of their beds and holding their hands, and Dante began to say that at least the cloisters and monasteries could still be trusted, but the Beast interrupted him.
     “Just look closer, will you? Look at her smile. She’s enjoying this.”
    Dante looked closer and agreed that she was rather joyful.
     “She calls it ‘beautiful suffering’. See, these people are in pain, malnourished and in need of medical attention. Yet all they ever get is a smile and a prayer. Some of them would be happy to at least be able to wash or have their bedsheet changed. But all she allows is a prayer. With that beatific smile on her face. The world adores her, you know, she is worshipped as the true face of Christianity, they call her a saint, the call her Mother... I could not agree more with that, I must admit. She is popular and receives more monetary donations than her clinics would ever need, but what really happens to all that money, God only knows. Not that He cares...”
    Dante was speechless. The Devil wasn’t.
     “That’s what’s become of your precious spirituality,” he said. “And at least three of the main religions call themselves the religion of peace, and/or love, depending on who you ask. Most also preach tolerance, but only towards those they like, much like the people you’ll see next. Just look at that bunch over there,”  and with that, he indicated a group of people who were nowhere to be seen only a moment before. “They are often atheists, meaning they don’t really have a religion, at least not one they would call as such. What is religion to the zealot, would be ‘identity’ to some of them.”
    The group in question was a colourful procession of men and women, all dressed in bright, happy colours, marching together in what seemed like a truly gay procession, many holding flags or wearing clothes of all colours of the rainbow. When Dante expressed his puzzlement about how that peaceful procession could even be compared to what he saw the religious zealots do in the name of love, the Devil said:
     “Oh, but it’s not them! Look at the sidelines!”
    There was, a little removed from the colourful procession, another group which seemed to be a lot louder. In it, some women were yelling at men, calling them names, and shouting words like ‘tolerance’, ‘acceptance’ and ‘patriarchy’. Men, who belonged to the same group, were quietly accepting the abuse, turning their anger towards other people instead, who happened to be near. Others, both men and women, yelled—with faces disfigured by rage that wanted to explode—’tolerance’ and ‘acceptance’ in the faces of innocent passers-by, spitting at them, and even kicking some people who were just trying to mind their own business. All the while they were screaming their support towards the colourful procession, the members of which seemed happy enough for the encouragement, in spite of the anger and hatred displayed by the supporting group.
    On the other side of the road, another crowd was worshipping a flag and some weapons, yelling at both the procession and the hate-filled preachers of tolerance, with the same hatred burning in their eyes and the same anger distorting their voices.
    Before Dante could make deeper observations, Leviathan began talking again.
     “The people in the procession there are harmless, although I can see how it seems easy to castigate them for all of this, and flag-worshippers do just that, simple as they are. But believe me, they are not to blame. They are too busy finding their peace and identity to ever really trouble others. They’re a peaceful bunch, meaning no wrong to anyone, and only wanting to be accepted and happy. At least that much can be said in their favour, even if their eternal quest to find the correct gender pronoun is as futile an attempt at making sense of this chaos as buying the next smart gadget and expecting happiness from it would be. Still, they are few, and they are peaceful. So they aren’t exactly interesting to us.
     “But those next to them, who claim to be on their side, and abuse everyone who doesn’t belong to the group, are the real deal. They talk about nothing but ‘justice’ and ‘tolerance’ while hating with all the rage they can muster, and make it appear as if the world was revolving only around their self-righteous indignation. Naturally, they ignore everything I have shown you. War, poverty, environmental destruction, and the suffering of others mean nothing to them. All they care about is their own nigh-sanctimonious outrage, to which they are addicted. They are even fewer than the group they claim to represent, but their loudness and intensity make it look like they are the absolute majority, which is as false a narrative as that of tolerance, which they use to mask their hate of otherness. See, this is what the ideal of acceptance had become. And, I have to say, this is once again their own doing, I had no hand in this but, as before, I am truly proud of them.
     “Those flag-waving idiots on the other side of the road? Those are an attempted response to the tyranny of the pseudo-tolerant. They are weak-minded and without much thought. They worship ideals and symbols but lose sight of their meaning. Regardless they are fuel to the fire like no other.
     “Needless to say, both groups are most active on Screecher, often collating their ideologies with a political side of their preference, adding to the already prevalent confusion of what those sides even mean, heightening my pride even further if that is possible.”
    Dante then said he could not even begin to think what to think of all that, it all appeared to be just too confusing, but as such, it was surely as befitting of Hell as anything.
     “Oh, but believe me, this was only the surface. This might have been the most obvious show of hypocrisy when it comes to love and tolerance, but I could show you more examples of parallels in duplicity, like nursing homes where the elderly are abused, just like those poor suffering souls before, or entire nations focusing on the symbols of freedom, turning them into objects of worship, their freedom having been non-existent for generations, but I fear you would not be able to understand just yet.”
    Dante agreed that he probably would not, but expressed his confusion as to how it all pertained to religion and spirituality.
     “See, religions and their gods and their principles, are just like all ideologies. They all really are the same, but they hate each other for their sameness, calling it a difference because their frame of reference and misunderstood symbols seem to contradict one another. It’s even worse when there is no contradiction because then everybody wants to be either the original or the one and only, and they will naturally hate everyone who aspires to the same. See, I am the only sure thing, and the one to be trusted to always do what’s advertised,” said the Deceiver, smiling. This is not at all restricted to religion, really. I mean it is, but official religions don’t condone this type of thinking and behaviour, and the non-religious would never associate themselves with the bigots, but under the surface it's the same force and sentiment driving all of them. I call it human nature.”
    Dante was struggling to process all of what was revealed to him, but could not dwell upon this confusion too long, as the scene before him once again changed.
     “There is so much more I should show you, but to really cover it all, we could go on forever, and I have other plans for you, my trusted chronicler. So we will not cover politicians, although I believe, since you’ve been involved yourself, you would be interested in what became of them, and how corruption distorted politics to be unrecognisable and indistinguishable from corporate interest. Or the police who, tasked with keeping the order, and pursue crime, are so often busy with keeping said politicians ‘safe’ instead, meaning safe from the wrath of the people they so habitually betray. Or the bankers and money loaners, who discovered something better than alchemy, that does not even involve gold anymore, just making money out of thin air and charging interest on it, it’s disingenuous, really. Then there are all the illegal drugs, and the prescription drugs, that are the same, but with different names, numbing and slowly killing people, so that the few at the top can profit. Or should I mention the abuse against the elderly, and the orphaned children in institutions tasked with keeping them safe and healthy, and care for them? Run by your favourite Church too, more often than not. Or have I already talked about that? I forget.
     “Yeah, I could really go on forever, but time is precious, or it would be if it were real, and there is so much more to do. So, however I enjoy this little sightseeing, the conclusion of our journey is imminent.”
    Dante then thanked the Devil for his hospitality but expressed his slight confusion over the design decisions he had made, and all the radical changes to how Hell was working now, compared to what he had written about.
    The Angel of the Bottomless Pit then, feeling compelled to explain, began to describe his reasoning thusly:
     “The whole issue with the concept of a Hell where people suffer for eternity for their sins they have committed is that they get used to it. They know they are in Hell, and why they got there. This gives them a sort of resignation, which in turn makes them numb. If you cannot change your fate, if you have no hope, the fires will no longer hurt, not really. It’s the hopelessness of your situation and the insatiable need to change it that’s the real torture.
     “So, after experimenting for some millennia with the Hell you had so eloquently described, I gave up on it and came up with...” at this point the Prince of the Power of the Air spread his normally winged arms as he said, “...this. A real masterpiece, don’t you think? OK, right, I know, I took inspiration from the real world, and the Apocalypse conveniently happened just at the right moment to allow me to redecorate, which sometimes makes me feel like I had a little help from above, but still, I call it pretty decent.”
    Dante considered this for a while and came to the conclusion that it, indeed, was. Only one thing troubled him still, so he asked the Devil his last question, to which latter replied:
     “When they die? Why, of course, they are born again. No, not in the ‘real world’, as you know that was permanently destroyed. They are reborn right here, in Hell. There is no escape. We give them hope, seeding various religions and ideas that keep their spirits up. Maybe there is an afterlife, maybe the next life will be better, and similar silly notions. They never give up hope, so it’s now a self-containing system.”
    Befuddled, Dante then asked about the issue of salvation, to which the Liar replied thusly:
     “Oh, but salvation is still a thing, surely. ‘Livest thou as thou shouldstest and thou shaltst be savethest’, or whatever gibberish they wrote in that book of yours. Well, you know what I mean, the principles are the same as ever. But look at these people. They could not really save themselves if their eternal lives depended on it. Which it really does, when it comes to that.
    Dante then expressed his admiration for the project and said that it was, indeed, magnificent. He then asked the Imp what would happen now he has been shown around.
     “Now comes the good bit,” said the Devil. “See that house over there? It’s waiting for you. Furnished with the finest tools for your trade, that will be the one that you so love: Writing. You will live an eternity here, knowing all this, remembering everything I have shown you just now. This was, of course, only the surface, but during your many lives, you will discover more and more of the intricacies of my great design, adding to your already unparalleled knowledge and your urge to warn everyone else about it all. You will keep trying to raise people’s awareness, trying to let them see it too, and you will fail every time. Your books, essays and writings will be popular. You will be successful, you will be rich, but you shall never succeed in your only true goal in all the lives you will live here. People shall never heed your words, never follow your advice, and they will continue making the same mistakes, again and again, until the end of time, even though you will write about it all in various forms, under different names. Everybody will love your words, but nobody will understand or follow them. That is your punishment, Dante.”
    When Dante asked which of his sins was the one that granted him such hideous punishment, the Ruler of the Darkness simply replied:
     “If you really need to have a specific sin to blame, it’s up to you. Just pick one, whichever you want, whatever you like or despise most. I’m liberal like that. After all, just describing me the way you did in your Divine Comedy would have granted you the opportunity to enjoy my hospitality. As I told you when you arrived, you had almost all the details right, but not all of them.
     “Go now, Dante, settle in. Unlike you, I don’t have all eternity, hahhhahhhahhhaha...”
    And with that, the Devil vanished.
    Dante stood there for a while, confused, and dazzled by all of what happened in such a short time, his head buzzing with all the new information he was supposed to absorb and later write about. There was only one slight problem. He did not understand anything of what he had seen, it was all so alien, so otherworldly, Dante did not know what to think of anything Satan had just shown him.
    He thought for a while about the few things he did comprehend, that he was supposed to write and that he would be famous and probably even rich. He decided, at length, that if what the Devil said was true, and nobody would heed his warnings even if he did manage to write about the reality of Hell, there was no reason to bother. He would, instead, write just whatever came to his mind, for once. He’d always wanted to do that. Not to worry about the morale, and all the meaningful, if high-browed metaphors, just write for the fun of writing.
     “Aye, that’ll do,” he said at last, and started towards his new house, his new life and his careers over many lives, his head already full with plans for stories, and characters. Boy wizards, women discovering their womanhood though gentle violence, clichéd cowboys covering their unoriginality with mysticism, spies, detectives and space aliens followed him, all waiting to be written, as Dante slowly descended into blissful oblivion, as the Devil watched with a smile spreading on his face.
                                                                        THE END