Saturday Sample: January by Jim Bates, black coffee

 

From under the covers, I checked my phone for the outdoor temperature. The reading came up and I blinked twice to convince my disbelieving eyes. Oh, wow. I honestly didn’t expect it to be so cold out there, but, minus twenty-eight degrees? Man, that’s brutal.

The curtain on the window at the head of our bed had frozen onto the pane of glass. My wife Meg yanked it free and used her fingernail to scrape ice off the window to try and look outside.

I watched the ice shavings fall to the sill.

‘Cold out, I guess,’ I said, trying to strike a congenial tone.

It fell flat. ‘Geez,’ Meg said. ‘You think? The ice is so thick I can’t see a thing.’

From the next room three-year-old Allie heard us talking and cried out. ‘Daddy, I’m freezing.’

‘Yeah, Dad. It’s like the north pole in here.’ Five- year-old Andy was not known to mince words.

From their muffled voices I could tell they were both huddled under their covers for warmth.

‘Coming!’ I yelled.

Meg gave me a shove to get me going. ‘You see to the kids. I’ll get breakfast started.’

 

‘I’m on it.’ I swung my feet out of the warm covers (flannel sheets, cotton blanket, wool blanket, thick quilt) and onto the floor. ‘God. It’s freezing in here.’ I could see my breath. ‘Damn. The stove must have gone out.’

‘Welcome to the Northwoods,’ Meg said, standing up and pulling her thick robe tight. Then she grinned. ‘Are we having fun yet?’

I raised my eyebrows and shook my head. ‘No comment.’

‘Good,’ she said. To make her point, she blew out a cloud of vapor. ‘None needed.’

She went off to the kitchen while I hurried into the kid’s room. We were living in a tiny, four hundred square foot cabin, on the edge of the small town of Esker, located on the shore of Lake Moraine in northcentral Minnesota. We were on the main highway between Bemidji thirty miles to the north and Park Rapids thirty miles to the south. Our plot of land was one-hundred feet by one-hundred and fifty feet and in a grove of about one-thousand dead or dying jack pine trees, average diameter four inches, average height eighty feet. At one time it might have been dense and lovely, but now it was, frankly, mildly depressing, if you thought about it, which I tried not to. You could see right past the bare trunks of the trees to the boarded-up building across the highway and the empty homes on either side of us. In other words, it was kind of a forest, kind of not.

 

It was January 2021, and we’d moved up here to get away from the pandemic. So far so good. None of us had been infected, but that was beside the point. We hardly saw anyone, let alone interacted with them, so getting Covid wasn’t a huge concern. The pressing issue was that it was so cold the very real possibility of us freezing to death kept rearing its ugly, frozen head.

We’d been here a week, and it seemed like a year. I helped the kids get dressed and got the fire going in the wood stove that provided our only source of heat. I’d done a crummy job banking it with logs when we’d gone to bed the night before and the              fire        has burned      out.      Lesson              learned, hopefully. The kids helped with the re-starting process for about a minute, handing me a stick or

two, before beginning a rambunctious sword fight.

By the time the fire was roaring and the little cabin was starting to heat up, Meg had put together a warm and filling breakfast of oatmeal and pancakes.

The kitchen was small, but we were all four able to squeeze around a table shoved against the wall across from the sink.

‘What’s on the agenda today, Lee?’ Meg asked. ‘Firewood. I’m going to cut some more,’ I told

her, dumping maple syrup all over my pancakes before adding a dollop to my oatmeal. ‘We’re going through it pretty fast.’

 

The woman we’d rented the cabin from, Gladys Hawkinson, initially wanted to sell the one-hundred- year-old structure. She’d had no takers, but when we contacted her about renting, she’d agreed.

‘You’ll have to cut your own wood, though,’ she told Meg on the phone. ‘I’m done with that BS.’

Meg and I agreed to her terms. I mean, seriously, I was twenty-nine and in shape from working out at the health club and running. How hard could cutting wood be?

Well, I’ll tell you, if it were sixty degrees in the middle of October, it’d be fine. But way below zero in the first week of January, chain sawing firewood was another story.

‘Okay,’ Meg said, leaning over to Allie and wiping syrup from her chin. ‘Sounds like a good idea. Make sure you dress for it.’

No argument there.

Our landlady had had ten chords of fifteen-foot logs delivered as part of the rental agreement. It was a mix of poplar, birch, oak and pine. ‘Here’s a chainsaw,’ Gladys told us when we’d met in Park Rapids where she lived to finalize the agreement.

‘Thanks,’ I told her. I’d never run one before, so she gave me a quick lesson. Piece of cake, I thought to myself.

‘Still want to rent?’ she asked.

The pandemic was getting worse. Vaccines were on the way, but because of our age we’d have to wait a while. I looked at Meg and she nodded. We were all in. ‘Yep,’ I said. ‘Bring it on.’

She shook hands with us. ‘It’s a deal.’ And we signed the lease.

 

Later, I will swear on a bible with my frozen fingers that under her Covid mask she was smirking. Suckers, I’m sure she was thinking. You’re signing a year’s lease to live in that dump. It’s your funeral. Just make sure you pay me on time and we’ll be fine.

We waved good-bye and drove our Honda Fit north thirty miles to Esker. It was twenty-nine below. We had no idea what we were getting into.

That had been a week ago. The temperature had stayed way below zero and our days were spent with me cutting firewood and Meg running an at home preschool for the two kids. When she needed a break, she came out and cut wood, and I took over with the kids.

We shared cooking and cleaning and kept reminding ourselves we doing this for safety of our family from Covid. Especially for Andy and Allie. We hadn’t had our shots because the vaccines hadn’t been released yet. My parents had gotten Covid early on in 2020 and Mom and Dad had both died. All over the world, people were dying every day and it was scary, so not many begrudged us moving north, and the ones that did, too bad for them. For us, it was the right thing to do for our children.

That morning, I used the chain saw to cut a good supply of sixteen-inch-long logs. Then, after lunch, the next step was to use my axe and split them. Once that job was completed, I’d load up the wheel barrel and haul split wood to the back porch where I’d unload it and stack it inside, ready to be used in our stove. All of this while navigating through two feet of snow on the ground.

The one good thing? Cutting firewood was hard work but warm work. I actually worked up a sweat even though the day had warmed to no more than ten below. I’d even taken my insulated jacket off.

The bad thing? It was exhausting work and by late afternoon my arms were like two lead weights hanging from my stiff and sore shoulders. I’m sure that had something with what happened. I was coming down the home stretch on splitting the logs and not paying attention. (Another lesson learned, hopefully.) I took a might swing and managed to NOT hit the log exactly dead centre like I should have. The axe deflected and hit me square in the shin bone. Oh. My. God. The pain was unimaginable. Not to mention the blood.

Later that night after we’d gotten the kids to bed, Meg and I sat on the couch in the living room which was the main room in the cabin. It was also where the wood-stove was located and the warmest room we had.

‘How are you feeling?’ Meg asked, sipping from her nightly glass of red wine.

I set my book aside, and, grimacing, tried to sit up straight. I had my leg stretched out, resting my foot on a stool. ‘Not too bad.’ I’d opened a three-inch gash in my right leg. The doctor at the clinic in Park Rapids had stitched me up and said, ‘You’ve got a nasty bruise, but at least you didn’t break any bones. Go home, rest, and let it heal.’

I got the feeling he’d seen this kind of thing before.

Meg looked at me. ‘This is going to make cutting firewood difficult.’

‘I know.’

She was quiet, thinking, then asked, ‘What do you think? Should we break the lease and go home?’

I             didn’t   have    to          think.   ‘No.      We        made   a commitment, remember?’

Meg smiled. ‘We did.’

‘We’ll stay for the kids, even though,’ I pointed to my bandaged leg, ‘it’ll be even harder.’

‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘Me neither.’

‘I still think it’s the right thing to do.’ ‘Me, too.’

She stood up and kissed me and helped me stand. I put my arm around her and we headed to the bedroom. ‘Hold it,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Let’s not forget the fire.’ ‘Right.’

We added more logs and went to bed.

 

Tomorrow was another day. There was wood to cut and bring in. We didn’t have any choice. Somehow, we’d figure out a way to make what we were doing work. We really didn’t have any other choice. We had a pandemic to try and beat. I just had to be more careful outside. Especially with that damn axe.

 

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About the author:

Jim is an award-winning author who lives in a small town in Minnesota. His stories and poems have appeared in nearly hundred online and print publications. His collection Resilience was published in early 2021 by Bridge House Publishing. Additional stories can be found on his blog: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.

Daybreak by Zara Thustra, still water

 

The grey moon hangs low in the night sky, casting a pall across the valley where a sleepy suburban town lies. Down here, in OneTown, terraced houses press shoulder to shoulder along narrow streets, while birch trees shed their gilded leaves on the cold autumn wind.

Every house comes with a tessellated driveway and a privet hedge. Every house comes with a conservatory and a flowerbed. Every house comes with a back garden and a swing.

Husband, Wife, and Daughter live in one such house. In the gloom of the hall, where the grandfather clock ticks away, snapshots of their life hang on their wall of joy. This picture is at the public pool: Husband is belly-flopping to Wife and Daughter’s great delight. Here, they’re making faces at the monkeys in the zoo enclosure. Their favourite is that one over there: they’re huddled together by the newly built snowman in front of the chalet (a freezing day, but worth it, because then they had warm cocoa by the fire).

Upstairs, the family nestles in the arms of Morpheus. The parents’ bedroom lies in a veil of silence. A mosquito’s buzz blares out of the dark and tears the veil asunder. The noise hangs briefly over Husband’s head, unwavering, before trailing away to nothing – only to make another fly-past, sounding like the scraping of a fork across a metal sheet. Husband stirs under the covers. The buzzing tails off once again. Husband switches on his bedside lamp. The light encloses the bed in a warm shell, where it feels safe and comfortable, keeping the rest of the room in semi-darkness.

Weedy, with heavy bags under his eyes and greying hair, Husband belies the fresh-faced man in the family pictures. Only five years have passed, yet now he looks fifteen years older. He studies the green digits on his alarm clock and begins to fidget. Four a.m. already. He must be up for work in exactly two hours, a routine he adheres to, as does everyone else in OneTown, like the followers of a religious order.

His ears pick up a vibration in the air. Right away, Husband spots the fuzzy outline of a mosquito launch off the lampshade and then cling to the wall on his bedside. He can’t allow that nuisance to ruin his seven-hour sleep. Anything to hand to squash it? Let’s see…Yes, the black book.

Husband slips out of bed and pads up to Wife’s dressing table on the other side of the bed.

The black book, a vade mecum of standard civil behaviour, is issued by the Department of Civility of OneTown. Every family owns one, without exception. On the front cover, the following words are embossed in glittering gold:

 

DUTIES OF THE FAMILY: THE HUSBAND, THE WIFE, AND THEIR CHILD

 

Husband has second thoughts about using the black book as a swat. What would Wife think if she saw him? What about the others in town if they learned of it? As long as no one catches him, there’s no harm done.

And so, he lifts the book from its spot next to the scented candle and the lighter, then tiptoes back over to his side of the bed and slinks towards the mosquito. At the wall’s edge, he peeks at Wife – still sleeping – and slams the book down on the mosquito, which drops dead to the floor. Husband scoops it up and clasps it in his fist. Then he places the book back just so, right next to the scented candle.

Talk about stress.

Catching his reflection in the mirror, Husband’s face blanches: Lucius, naked, grins back at him. Two sides of the same coin. Unlike Husband, however, Lucius hasn’t lost an ounce of his silver lustre.

“How many more years did you believe you could ignore me?” Lucius demands. “This time, there’s no getting r—”

“No, no, no. Not again,” Husband says. Eyes closed, he grips the edge of the table. “Get away.”

He chances another look at the mirror: his own reflection. What a relief.

Quick, back to bed. This done, he hides the dead mosquito under his pillow. Good, everything is back to normal. He turns the light off and soon falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

The dripping of water, as in a cave, echoes in Husband’s ears. He pulls himself up and out of sleep, arriving not in his bedroom, but in infinite black space.

Husband feels his way in the dark, his eyes adjusting slowly. In the distance, he picks out the weak light of a lamppost. Under it, something angular juts out from the ground. As he approaches, alert for the slightest sound, the object resolves.

A headstone.

Husband peers at the inscription.

 

LUCIUS

COWARD

 

A naked figure detaches itself from the darkness. Husband’s face twists in horror as Lucius steps into the yellow light.

“Go away,” Husband says and keeps well out of Lucius’s reach. “Let me be.”

Lucius withers Husband with a stare. He creeps towards Husband, forcing him into retreat.

They circle each other.

“Let you be?” Lucius says. “Look at you. You are dying. We are dying. And you are letting it happen without a fight.” His hand shoots out, finger trained at the headstone. “I refuse to let that come to pass. It is time for you to wake up.”

Husband bumps against the lamppost behind him and comes to a standstill. “What’s there to change?” he says. “Things are what they are. That’s the way it is for everyone. Anyway, it could be worse.”

“What could be worse?” Lucius bursts into laughter. “What could possibly be worse than your so-called life?”

The lamppost light flickers off. And back on, now glowing red.

No sign of Lucius.

The loud clump of feet alerts Husband to the presence of danger. And sure enough, five white automata appear out of the shadows. They surround him. A bell tolls somewhere in the darkness.

BONG. BONG. BONG.

The automata press in on Husband through the gauze of red light: fixed smiles on their masks, arms and legs chopping the air like mechanical axes. Over the loud tolling, they parrot stock phrases at Husband, who remains trapped inside the Tenth Circle of Hell.

“The bank has granted us a loan. Are we getting the chalet?”

“Your key performance indicators are down. Give me better results.”

BONG. BONG. BONG.

“You have one more month to complete your tax return.”

“Pleeeeease say yes to Mummy. You’d be the best daddy in the world.”

“Buy our products with 0% interest-free credit.”

BONG. BONG. BONG.

Reeling from the all-out assault, Husband covers his ears to shut out the cacophony, but he makes no effort to fight back and drops to his knees. When the automata finally cluster around him, the bell falls silent, and they melt away.

“What could be worse than being always accountable to someone?” Lucius says from the lamppost. He stands Husband on his feet. “Our future is now. It’s time to burn our bridges.”

“That sounds too hard.”

“My friend, it’s easier than you think.” A smile brightens Lucius’s face. “Then the most wonderful thing will happen. We’ll be accountable only to our self. Come on, what do you say?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.” Husband looks down, avoiding Lucius’s eyes.

Lucius pushes him away. He rejoins the shadows. Then his voice permeates Husband’s thoughts. ‘“I can’t”? We’ll see about that.”

The red light blinks off.

 

* * *

x

A mosquito’s buzz breaks the silence.

Husband wakes up in the pitch-black bedroom. The grating noise thrums overhead, taunting Husband, and fades away.

“Oh, what am I going to do?” Husband berates himself. “Is there more than one mosquito? Please, no.”

He hits the light switch and lifts his pillow. The dead mosquito isn’t there. He rakes over his corner of the mattress to no avail. From the corner of his eye, he glimpses the framed picture on Wife’s bedside table: two newlyweds locked in a tight embrace. Lucius’s words haunt him.

Our future is now. It’s time to burn our bridges.

The mosquito sweeps across Husband’s field of vision, then zigzags into the shadows.

Why not sleep in the sofa? Yes. No. Otherwise, how would he explain that in the morning? He should switch on the ceiling light, then. He can’t risk waking Wife and getting caught red-handed. Argh, there’s no way around it: somehow that damn mozzie must be found.

Husband bolts out of bed and fetches the black book from the dressing table. Then he combs his bedside wall for the mosquito, though the further he sweeps along it, the fainter the light from the bedside lamp.

To his right, Wife wakes up. She clears her throat. “Honey?”

No answer.

“Darling? Are you alright?”

Jesus Christ. Can’t he be left alone for one fucking minute, without having to explain himself? In semi-darkness, reaching the bedroom corner, Husband moves leftwards on to the sidewall. His eyes straining, they roam the wall. Up and down, up and down, up—

“I’m talking to you,” Wife says from the bed behind Husband. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I’m so sorry, darling.” Husband tears himself away from the wall. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He crouches down at his bedside. “Could you please try to go back to sleep? I promise you, I’ll follow suit shortly.”

“Tell me first what you’re doing. Surely, it can wait until tomorrow, can’t it?”

Husband hangs his head. He’s never going to find that bloody insect.

The bedroom door eases open. Now what?

Rubbing her eyes, Daughter steps into the room. Wife jumps to her feet, moving to the door, and flicks the ceiling light on.

“It’s okay,” Wife says to Daughter, and hugs her close. “Your daddy can’t sleep either. He is not feeling himself.”

The mosquito whines past Husband’s head. This time Husband has a clear view: it whizzes across the empty bed to attach itself to his bedside lamp.

“Daddy,” Daughter whispers, “maybe if I give you a magic hug, you will feel better?”

Husband ignores her as the mosquito buzzes off the wall. He stomps across the bed, tossing the black book aside, his eyes locked on the flying beast. It’s now or never—

“Are you out of your mind?” Wife says.

This intrusion knocks Husband off balance; he stumbles off the bed.

The mosquito zigs over his head and zooms out of sight.

Fuck. Calm down, you are going to find it. Then things will be as they should be, and he won’t have the last laugh.

“Daddy?” Daughter takes a step forwards. “Why aren’t you answering Mummy?”

Wife joins her. “Darling, can we act like normal people and go back to sleep now?”

With nowhere to go, Husband backs into the corner of the bedroom. Images flash across his mind: the lamppost in infinite black space; the five masked figures move in on him; he drops to his knees…

The tame lion snaps back to reality.

“No.”

This simple two-letter word roars around the bedroom.

Husband draws level with Wife and Daughter at the open bedroom door, a river of tranquillity flowing through his veins. Finally, he speaks again.

“Leave. Me. Alone.”

Wife and Daughter float away like two ghosts through the doorway, disappearing into the shadows beyond.

To his surprise, Husband cracks up, his sides splitting so violently that he strains to breathe. Indeed, it is easier than he thought. He slips off his glistening gold band like a snake shedding its skin.

A renewed Lucius picks up the candle lighter from the dressing table. He snatches the black book from the untidy bed sheets. Without a second thought, he sets the book on fire and hurls it. The burning book lands on the floor with a heavy thud. Lucius watches the flames shrivel the pages until only ashes remain.

He slams out of the bedroom.

 

* * *

 

High in the hills, under the night sky, Lucius looks down at OneTown, a speck of light in the shadowy valley. His face cracks into a smile.

It is done.

He turns his back on OneTown for good, and, naked, begins to scramble up a slope through a wood of oak trees. Above the canopy, the night sky darkens to indigo. Lucius reaches the hilltop.

Far ahead of him, the sun rises over a road running through the open countryside. As Lucius climbs down the grassy slope on the other side, birdsong rings out in the summer sky. Soon, the sun reaches its zenith.

At the bottom of the slope, Lucius strikes out along the road towards his new life, shading his eyes against the brightness.

 

The Beginning

 Bio:

Zara Thustra is an English teacher who lives in Cornwall, England. He is happily married and has two beautiful daughters, Amber and Natalia. He hopes to fulfill his childhood dream of having one day a collection of his short stories published. His favourite book is Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

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Shelter in a New World by Emma Ainley, flat Cola

 

Be careful walking across Crystalline Bridge and its ever-growing craters. North Sorilla’s hailstorms were chipping away at it. Each strike of a hailstone scratched the glass and deepened the wounds.

            Heath wanted shelter. No matter one’s stage in life, or how much money someone had, shelter was a human right. Especially during storms like this one, Ellen – people still named their storms, despite their increasingly destructive powers and growing number of victims. It felt insensitive.

            Yet, North Sorilla’s naysayers complained that ‘people nowadays aren’t tough enough.’ Apparently, young people couldn’t withstand the hailstones and their ‘little pinches’ not unlike vaccinations. Thousands of vaccinations from the sky every week, causing colds rather than preventing them.

            If the bridge collapsed, then the last of North Sorilla’s connections to the outside world would be gone. The bridge did not cross water – not until the hailstones melted, anyway. It stretched over a ravine, where the bottom smouldered and smoke clouds masked the deep drop. Good luck traversing the ravine without the bridge. And good luck trying to build any additional structure during or between the near-weekly storms.

            Climate change. A hot topic twenty years ago. A topic that North Sorilla dismissed as ‘another buzzword.’ Well, until the hailstones had grown the size of bath bombs. Until the hailstones slammed into the ground and fizzed as they melted, simmering with whatever chemicals made up groundwater these days.

            Well, North Sorilla thought, it’s too late to do anything drastic to reverse the situation. They did rid the country of fossil fuels, cars, and anything toxic or only perceived as such. However, North Sorilla focused on continuing life in its new environment, rather than undoing climate change. Enduring the weather, walking to local shops, and working and playing locally. Of course, work and play choices were limited. Work included putting out a lot of wildfires, evacuating people from floods, all of that.

‘You need something, son?’ a man called from his car window.

Shields stuck out of the car’s roof, stretching from the sides like helicopter blades. These ‘blades’ guarded the windows.

Cars. A rare sight in North Sorilla. Hybrid cars weren’t good enough for them, and they were too scared of electric car batteries to allow them anywhere further than the bridge.

‘A way out of here,’ Heath said, and the man’s lips twisted.

‘Me too. Can’t afford it. Hope you’ve got enough money.’

            ‘No. I’d rather be homeless somewhere with calmer weather.’

            ‘Heh, wouldn’t we all. The world won’t give us that anymore, son. Climate change affects everywhere.’

            True. Through no fault of his own, he, like the rest of the population, was suffering Earth’s hand-picked consequences. Heath was born a decade after climate change was deemed irreversible; he hadn’t experienced life before it.

            ‘C’mon,’ the man said. ‘Hop in. We’ll find somewhere to go. People aren’t crazy everywhere.’

            At least the man’s car was some form of shelter. Heath allowed himself to be driven into the distance.

Bio:

Born in Scotland, Emma Ainley is a student who is studying creative writing and the English language. She usually writes fantasy and speculative fiction.

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I want to break free by Georgie Arnaud, bitter cold brew coffee

 “You need to be more discreet,” Gemma whispers to Lea as they pretend to be listening intently to the CEO’s company updates.

 

“I am fucking discreet,” Lea whispers back a little too loudly, causing one of their dedicated co-workers to spin around and give them both a dirty look.

 

“I don’t think you understand what’s at stake here L.”

 

“Of course, I do, just drop it, we’ll be fine.”

 

“The people we work with are some of the nosiest people I’ve ever come across in my life, especially…” Gemma nudges her head in the direction of Angela, the dirty looker standing astutely in front of them, listening to each of the CEO’s words like they’re sustenance which gives her life.

 

“You think I don’t know that? Look, Jeremy almost saw me earlier but that’s it. Key word being almost! I am being as careful as humanly possible.”

 

Gemma and Lea spend the rest of the monthly company meeting feigning interest in the success of their sales numbers and upcoming work events, each holding onto the bliss of what awaits them on their lunch break.

 

Finally, the meeting comes to an end and they each make their way back to their individual cubicles on either side of the office. Their CEO starts to make his rounds, so Gemma and Lea both instinctively drop their heads to avoid eye contact. Barry is how you would envision any CEO of a large tech company, white, middle aged, bald and bordering on psychopathy. He hides his psycho under a strategic cheesy smile that impressively never falters, and with the use of several trips to his personal espresso machine throughout the day. The smell of his coffee lingers around him like a cloud, alongside a constant air of self-importance.

 

The lack of eye contact unfortunately doesn’t work on Barry. It never does. “Ahhh, Gemma.”

He says, slinking his way over with an impressively convincing enthusiasm that almost makes you feel bad for him. He’s trying. “It’s Gemma, isn’t it?” he asks, as Gemma spins in her chair to face him. “That’s me,” she replies, trying her best to plaster on a smile for his benefit.

 

“How are you? How’s sales treating you? And your daughter is she well?”

 

He has done his homework, Gemma notes.

 

“Great! Yeah, everything’s great, my daughter is…Well, she’s just fine.”

 

“Good, good,” he grins.

 

“I was sorry to hear about your friend, Josh, he was ughh…He was a good employee.”

 

Gemma’s stomach drops at the mention of his name.

“Yes…He was a great employee…Sorry but uhm, weren’t you in charge of those layoffs?”

Her hard expression doesn’t falter as she awaits his reaction to her question. She wanted to see him fumble, she longed to see his façade crack, even momentarily.

 

Disturbingly, his smile doesn’t drop an inch. “Not directly, no,” he responds with ease.

“Anyway, you enjoy the rest of your day Gemma.” He strides away, looking for the next lower-level employee to target.

 

“You should be more careful Gem,” Lea appears at her side a few minutes later, each of them watching Barry charm Brenda from customer service a few cubicles away.

 

“You saw what happened to Josh, I can’t afford to lose you too. We both need this job.”

 

Gemma blinks away tears with a heavy inhale. “I don’t even know what happened to his daughter L, I mean she has no parents now, Josh didn’t think much about that before he jumped of that bridge, did he? Fucking idiot he is…I mean was.”

 

Lea leans over to give Gemma’s shoulder a squeeze. “Great hair though.”

 

Gemma laughs at that. Lea always had a way of making her laugh, even amongst an office full of robotic assholes. Their humour is what bonded them initially, however, it was their mutual disgust for their jobs that cemented their inseparable friendship.

 

Lea glances to the clock at the front of the office hopefully. “Cheer up it’s almost lunch time,” she almost squeals with excitement as she dances back to her desk.

 

“Back to work ladies,” Barry yells across the office, causing the murmur of voices to disappear as they divert their attention to Barry’s authoritative disciplining. “This isn’t a dance floor Lea, this is a professional environment, your co-workers are trying to concentrate,” he says sternly, then turns to wink at Brenda who giggles quietly at his flirtation.

 

 

Gemma turns back to her desk, the fear of Lea’s words having some truth, causing her heartbeat to quicken with anxiety. She says a silent prayer, I need this job, please do not let me lose this job. She thinks of her sister who lost her job just a few months ago and hasn’t left the house since. Her two kids have had to drop out of school and become home-schooled and she is maybe a few weeks away from losing her house entirely. Gemma makes a mental note to visit her after work and deliver some food and basic necessities.

 

A sudden ding brings her out of her trance. An email notification flashes on her desktop screen. “I want in.” Is all it reads. She looks at the sender.

 

Darryl Jeffords, from accounting. Darryl is a father of three in his thirties, who, to his credit, always says good morning to Gemma on the way to his desk and gives her friendly smiles whenever they catch each other staring into space throughout the day. The friendly kind that’s not too leering, which is a rare thing for a man his age.

 

She swivels in her chair to see Darryl’s head peeking just above his desktop a couple of cubicles away. There is a quiet desperation in his eyes, she knows all too well. She sighs, then nods once in his direction. “Yes!” he yells, garnering the attention of half the office. He plays it off by muttering something about great numbers under his breath and the zombies of the office return to their screens without so much of a change in their muted expression.

 

“Meet us at the last elevator on the right at lunch time and delete this email thread after reading this.” Gemma writes back.

 

 

“Who told you?” Lea interrogates Darryl as the three of them stand waiting for the elevator at the end of the hall.

 

“No one. I promise! I just saw you two disappear at lunch every day and come back looking so…serene…and I just, I need…I need that. This place will drive you insane if you let it. You guys get that…right?”

 

Lea and Gemma look to each other in unison, sharing a silent conversation.

 

“Yes. We do,” Gemma responds.

 

The elevator finally arrives and they all pile in, each of them feeling lighter the further they get from the toxic vortex that holds them all captive for most of the day.

 

As they descend, their smiles return and the anxiety restricting Gemma’s chest all morning releases like the ripple of a stone landing in a still pond. The doors open on level 1, a floor that had been closed for refurbishments months ago but hadn’t been given the funding yet to actually complete said refurbishments. It sat idle for a while, collecting dust, until Gemma and Lea happened across it one day on their lunch break. They could no longer stand to sit in the break room in the office that offers no privacy or space to escape anyone or anything. So, they ventured to find somewhere free from the disease.

 

Darryl gasps audibly like a four-year-old seeing a jumping castle for the first time. On one side of the room is a collection of books and board games stacked as high as Darryl himself. On the other, is a record player and stereo stacked with CDs and records and an empty dance floor will a hopscotch drawn in pink chalk. Gemma strolls to the corner of the dim lit room and flicks a switch that ignites the room in different colours sprouting from the disco light sitting on the ground. He stands there, mouth agape in awe for a moment.

 

“You two are fucking awesome,” he says, collapsing into a bean bag chair situated beside the pile of books.

 

“If you tell anyone Darryl, we won’t hesitate to castrate you. We mean it,” Gemma says, shuffling through the records and landing on Queen, her eyes beginning to glimmer again with joy.

 

“Gemma, Josh and I all pitched in,” Lea says proudly, picking up a hidden box behind the record player and pulling out a pile of canvas paper and oil paints.

 

 

“My kids would love this.”

 

“Well, this isn’t for your kids Darryl,” Gemma snaps back.

Darryl ignores her, leaning back in his beanbag, content in his comfort.

 

The rest of their lunch break consists of Gemma boogying to Queen, while Lea observes, laughing as she doodles with her paints. Darryl takes a nap, his gruff snores, audible even over Freddie Mercury’s operatic vocals bouncing off the walls of the almost entirely vacant first floor.

 

 

The next day begins as any other. Gemma and Lea arrive at the office at 8am, ready for another day of the same old shit, one hour of pure freedom, and then again, the same old shit.

 

“I hope Jeff doesn’t ask me to stay late again tonight,” Lea sighs as she plonks her dishevelled handbag on her desk.

 

“You let him get away with it. The little fucker knows you’ll say yes. You just need to tell him no.”

 

“Gem, you know I can’t risk that any more than you can.”

 

Gemma glances at the zombies who’ve begun to fill their cubicles. “Hey, where’s Darryl? He’s usually here before us.”

 

Lea shrugs. “Maybe he’s sick.”

 

 

By lunch time Gemma and Lea are practically leaping from their seats. They make sure no one’s looking as they round the corner towards the elevator.

 

The elevator doors slide open when they reach the first floor, but an eerily empty room awaits them.

 

“Did we press the wrong button?” Gemma asks, a nausea beginning to course through her lower stomach.

 

Lea shakes her head, her face now an ashen grey.

 

“Where the fuck is our shit? Oh my god, they found out. They know Gem. Oh fuck. Oh no. We’re screwed, we’re going to get fired, oh my god, we’re going to be living on the streets.”

 

“Okay, calm down,” Gemma says, running her hands through her hair, staring at the empty grey room in front of them. They didn’t leave so much as a speck of dust behind.

 

“They haven’t fired us yet, right? We’re going to be fine. We’re just going to go up and pretend this never happened.”

 

Lea bends forward heaving as Gemma presses the button to the office floor. When the doors open again, Barry stares back at them, his usual unsettling grin unfaltering.

 

“Hello ladies, care to explain where you’ve been?”

 

“Uhm just uhm, well the lady’s bathroom is out of order, so we went looking for another one,” Gemma spits out, trying to hide the quiver in her voice.

 

“Ahhh I see, well I think it’s been fixed, so there’s no need to go wondering off now, we’ll all miss you too much,” he replies, giving her one of his signature winks.

 

Gemma and Lea stand staring back at him, waiting for him to let them past.

He doesn’t move.

 

“You don’t happen to know where Darryl is today, do you Barry?” Gemma asks, holding his stare.

 

“Darryl’s been relocated. He will now work for us at our branch in the city,” he says, barely moving a muscle.

 

Their anxiety resurfaces tenfold, clawing at their insides as they’re subjected to Barry’s unrelenting, lifeless, eyes. Brenda glances down at his hands tucked behind his back in the reflection of the glass behind him, she can just catch a glimpse of the words ‘Immediate Dismissal’ and Darryl’s name printed in bold red writing underneath.

 

Bio:

Georgie Arnaud originally completed her degree in journalism in Australia, but quickly realised she needed more creative freedom and room to express herself through writing. She now focuses on writing dark, existential pieces about love, pain and politics.

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