No Gods here by Alexandra Henry, Mexican Mule

          He certainly wasn’t the first man I have killed. And if all goes well, he won’t be the last. It doesn’t bring me joy knowing I am a murderer, but it brings purpose: vengeance. Retribution for those who deserve it. Some may say I’m playing God, deciding who lives and who doesn’t. But I know what I am, and it’s not any immortal being. I’m just doing the work that our systems fail to execute. No pun intended.

  It’s not easy work, but I push on, nonetheless. Most don’t understand, or don’t have the strength to do it themselves. So I do it for all of those who can’t. It’s a thankless job, too; it’s not like I can tell people about what I do. And each client requires months of extraordinary preparation. It takes time to do this job well, and it has taken years for me to perfect my trade. But I am getting older and tired. I need to find someone to take over when my mind and body can no longer uphold this service. But until then, I will continue.

This most recent client, a young man with an exceptionally long list of offenses, had been the most difficult assignment of my career. All in all, the job had taken nearly 18 months to complete, which wasn’t the longest time I had spent on one individual. What made this particular case so difficult was his fame. I knew there would be a lot of questions asked when he went missing. Many people praised this man, despite what he had done. His millions of social media followers stayed loyal fans, through accusation after accusation. He was rarely in public alone, often followed by paparazzi and a horde of young women longing for even a taste of his attention. Even in his home, late at night, there were always others lingering. It was like the man couldn’t stand being alone. And that made my job onerous.

I had to be extremely cautious this time, more so than I had ever been. The job was only half done. Yes, he was dead; I had made sure of that by slipping a hefty dose of aconite into his mezcal. Now, I had to make sure no one ever found him or traced his disappearance back to me. I went to work, scrubbing down every surface I had touched. This was the one place he frequented where there were no cameras, no creeping fans or bodyguards. He paid the hotel staff to keep quiet. This is where he brought his dates, or more accurately, his victims.

As his body began to cool to an ambient 68 degrees, the temperature at which he had set the thermostat just an hour ago, I called on the spirits for help. I chant the spell, which I know by heart now, the Latin words rolling off my tongue so effortlessly you’d think I actually spoke the language. A soft hum filled the room, getting louder with each word. Every inanimate object in the room began to vibrate with a terrifying force. The spell was working.

This is the part where I usually black out. I always come to, after who knows how long, and the body is gone; the job is done. This time is no different. The world went dark, and then, there I am, lying on the stale hotel carpet. Alone. I stood up, straightening out my little black dress, which I had retrieved from the depths of my closet. I hadn’t worn this one since the night with the strip club manager; that had been a particularly fun night. For me, at least.

The dress was uncomfortably tight, sticking to every curve and crease like plastic wrap. The neckline plunged so deeply that I had to move with such precision so as not to involuntarily give the general public a show. I saved that for a select few whom I could find no other way to sequester. Those were the lucky ones, I suppose, who were bestowed a final gift—a coup d'œil of my breasts before they saw whatever it is that comes after life.

 As clarity returned to me, which seemed to take longer and longer these days, I did one final sweep of the hotel room. Had anything fallen out of my purse when I tossed it onto the credenza? No. Had any of my hair clips fallen out during the night’s affairs? One, two, three, four, I counted. No. Had all his belongings disappeared with the body? Nothing on the carpet. I looked under the bed. Nothing there, either. I turned, still on my hands and knees, craning my neck to look under the oversized armchair that took up too much space in the cramped room.

“Fuck,” I cursed aloud. A wallet. I would have to dispose of this later. “I really am getting too old for this job,” I sighed, tucking the remaining evidence into my bra. I stood, a little too quickly, and had to catch myself from falling over. The world spun for a moment, and then it was still again. A feeling I couldn’t quite place rushed over me; fear, maybe? It passed, just as quickly as this episode had. I grabbed my purse and slipped into the hallway. The door shut silently behind me as I joined the rest of the world. I pulled a scarf from my purse and wrapped it around my head, being cautious to avoid looking directly at anyone. I stepped into the busy hotel plaza, becoming just another nameless shape among the crowd.

In the morning, I woke to find an intense ache had spread across my body. I must be getting sick, I thought as I forced myself out of bed. I popped a handful of extra-strength Tylenol because, despite the pain, I had work to do. I needed to finish last night’s job. I needed to destroy the wallet. I knew doing magic two days in a row was risky, but I couldn’t take a chance that someone might find the single remaining item that tied me to his murder. I began the recitation, focusing all of my energy on this shiny, leather object, barely the size of my hand. The dark leather was smooth except for the cursive initials, J.W., carved in the corner. This should be easy, but nothing was happening. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to see, feel, smell, and hear nothing but the wallet. And for a moment, there was nothing.

When I came to, the wallet was gone. “Thank God,” I muttered, gingerly picking myself up from the floor. I must have been out for a while this time because the sun was already on the verge of retreating for the night. The ache was gone but was now replaced by a sharp throb in my side. I needed food to replenish what energy the incantation had taken from me. At first, it took only a day or two to recover, but now I often need at least a week to regain my strength. This time would likely require longer because of that damn wallet. I shuffled my way to the kitchen, half bent over from the pain, and rummaged through the fridge. I stared at the nearly empty shelves: a carton of almond milk, some questionable-looking berries, an unopened jar of pickles, and a handful of nearly empty condiment bottles. I shut the door and tried my luck with the freezer. I pulled out a frozen meal and stuck it in the microwave, watching as a fine layer of accumulated ice crystals began to melt, trickling down the polypropylene packaging.  

I thought about my next client. I didn’t have the luxury to wait until I was fully rested to begin the next steps for that case. I try not to work multiple cases at once, but with how busy I have been, there’s a lot of overlap these days. I already completed the research phase of this next job; now I needed to begin putting the pieces in place. I fly to Minneapolis tomorrow for a dermatology conference. I have no particular interest in dermatology. I do, however, have a keen interest in one of the doctors who will be attending.

Like the last job, the accusations had been all over the news. Fortunately, this client did not have nearly the same amount of popularity, but still, this job would require extra caution. The doctor had managed to keep his license due to a lack of evidence, according to the judge, which meant it was time for me to step in. I grabbed my dinner from the microwave and went upstairs to pack. Between freezer burned bites of pasta, I stuffed clothing and toiletries into a duffel bag. There was no need for my little black dress this time. My plan for this client involved a different type of temptation: money.

The next morning, I was on the first flight out of Burbank. I shifted around in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position that eased the growing ache in my side. I’ll see a doctor when I get back, I thought. I tried to distract myself from the pain by looking out the window, but the scene of airport workers who were spread across the tarmac quickly turned into an open runway, which then transformed into an aerial view of sprawling Los Angeles. And then we were in a monotonous stretch of austere clouds, which stood no chance of diverting my mind from the sharp throb. I was well past the daily amount of Tylenol one is supposed to take, but I took three more anyways. I needed to focus, which meant I needed the pain to go away.

The flight felt like the longest five hours and two minutes of my life, but eventually I was in Minneapolis, waiting for my Lyft to the hotel where the conference was being held. Tonight, there was a welcome dinner at the hotel restaurant, where I would introduce myself to my target, using an alias, of course. I would tell him how impressed I was by his latest work onatopic dermatitis instead of eczema because it sounds more doctorly and pretentious. I will pretend to be fascinated by everything he tells me, and I will applaud him when he tells me how innovative and life-saving his research is. Finally, I will make him a proposition he surely won’t turn down, which will lead to a meeting to further discuss the details in private. Once we are alone, I will do what I need to do, and then I will make him vanish.    

The Lyft pulled up to the curb where I stood. I crawled into the back seat of the silver Honda Accord and did my best to greet the driver. But my attempt at good afternoon came out in a gargled jumble. The driver didn’t seem to notice over the noisy stereo, or maybe he just didn’t care, and departed the terminal. On the way to the hotel, I replayed the plan over and over in my mind. I thought of all the ways it could go wrong and how I would adapt if it did. I memorized my backstory about inheriting a fortune from a great aunt who suffered from dreadful eczema. I was looking for a physician who could run a clinical trial, and, in honor of my great aunt, of course, I would fund the entire project.

I was ready; I just needed to make it a few more hours. Still, as we inched along in the rush hour traffic, the pain intensified. I tried to get the driver’s attention, but my vision began to blur and no words would leave my mouth. All I could do was lay in a sitting fetal position, clutching my side, trying not to scream. Was this what appendicitis felt like? Or maybe it was ovarian torsion. I think I had read about that somewhere. My entire body shook, and if I had eaten anything today, it would have been expelled, redecorating the back seat. I could feel something warm and wet on my fingers. I raised my hand to my face, watching as blood dripped down my arm and onto the vinyl seat. I managed to uncurl myself enough to look down at my abdomen. Something dark and smooth was protruding through my pale flesh. I watched in horror as the object slowly dislodged itself from my insides, becoming more discernible with every strained breath. Even covered in blood, I could make out the familiar cursive letters.

I had never questioned where things went when I made them disappear. I never worried about what the magic was doing to me all these years, but now the damage was apparent. Maybe this is what I deserve for deciding who lives and who doesn’t. Or maybe this is some kind of necromantic karma. Who knows? Some may say I’ve been playing God, but I know what I am, and it’s certainly not immortal.

About the author:

Alexandra Henry is an educator and writer based in the Pacific Northwest. Drawing from lived experience, they write fiction that explores resilience and the psychological aftermath of trauma.

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A writer's tale by Shivangi Gajwani Jain, turmeric milk

 

I sit for long hours, I ponder longer. I weave words and worlds until my neck hurts and my legs tingle with little invisible things that crawl over and under it. The longer I sit, the more they grow, bite my flesh and numb my senses, refusing to ever stop. Unwillingly I stand, locking my thoughts in place lest they fall off my head before they are inked on paper. Dobby, my cat purrs. I roll my shoulders and slap my legs to shake off the old ache, tame my oddly behaving nerves.

I do this- every thirty minutes. One foot distance between my feet, back straight, hips turned out, perfect posture, my therapist would be proud. I bend at the waist, first left, then to the right, then forward, I continue counting. One, two, three… it happens then, mid-stretch, mid-count, my torso folded in half.

A string of words, not quite mine, an idea, almost divine, appears as though from another dimension. A spark, holding a fresh universe. We’ve all experienced this, haven’t we? When the really good bits, the ones we have waited for days, choose a random unremarkable moment to arrive. Today is that day, that moment. A story eager to be told, wiggles between the gyri and sulci of my brain and I know; it won’t wait for me to be done with my stretches or my aches to be gone. I hop-run to my desk, to the open notebook, and the laptop thrumming in anticipation. Oh, to be this alive!

My alarm buzzes, I turn it off. I can’t be bothered, can’t let life get in the way of this profound moment. This is beyond human intervention. I breathe, stilling myself, allowing a little trickle of this ‘grand thing’ to leak out of my body, through my fingers on to the page. My pen hovers, this is it, I can feel it in my teeth.

My phone vibrates, I flip it face down. The doorbell rings, I ignore the sharp ‘Tring’. It chimes again, accompanied by a loud thwomp against the wooden door. A delivery. Agitated, I grab the parcel and open it: more pens! When did I even order those? I fling myself towards the waiting desk, the blank page, the inviting glow of word doc.

I sit for long hours, I ponder longer. Words don’t come. Thoughts don’t fly. My fire is burnt out, my ‘new world’ sucked into a black hole of nothing. I sink to the floor, quite literally, my back rubbing against the greying tiles as I wonder at my life choices. Can I build a life around this? Can writing be considered a profession if I still need a day job to support myself? Will I ever be enough? Doubts climb out of my throat, lingering and filling my mouth with acid. I swallow and focus on breathing.

Dobby curls up on my chest, settles in. Her eyes half shut, she locks onto mine. She mews, tells me truths. ‘It could be worse. Life could be flat. Every day the same.’

I agree, remembering the thrill of the ‘little-giant’ things: a story bursting onto the page, a poem that wrings me dry and yet leaves me wanting, a recent acceptance letter, my first publication. I sit up, ‘Oh, to be this alive!’

Dobby, The sage cat nods in agreement. She is wise.

I stretch my arms, fold my legs underneath. I twist left, then to the right. I continue counting: my blessings.

…

About the author:

Shivangi Gajwani Jain is an award-winning prosthodontist, published academic, and a lifelong storyteller. Her essays and poems have been accepted in Gordon Square Review, The Adelaide Lit Magazine, The Hemlock Journal and The Wingword Magazine. She is represented by The Redink Literary Agency and lives in Mumbai with her family.

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The Take Away War by Henry J.E. Lewi, a glass of tap water

 It was Friday night when the war started; he’d phoned the local Chinese restaurant to order his take away and got the message, ‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised, please check and dial again.’ He checked his phone, checked the website and tried again, and again heard the same message. It was the same with the local Indian restaurant with the identical message, ‘the number you have dialled has not been recognised, please check and dial again.’

  ‘Fine,’ he thought, ‘I’ll go for a pizza,’ but on ringing the local Italian pizzeria he got the same message, just as he did when he rang the various food delivery companies, Deliveroo, Just Eat, Uber Eats, and every time it was the same, ‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised, please check and dial again.’

   The news alert notification on his phone announced ‘Breaking News: Cyber-Hack takes down all take-away food delivery services – More to follow.’

  The next alert read: ‘roads around take away restaurants have become congested and grid-locked as customers travel to order and pick up their Friday night take-away meals.’

  The Radio and Television broadcasts were now interrupting their services announcing the details of the Cyber-Hack and stating that the Government would clarify the situation over the weekend, with the Minister of State for Food Security and Rural Affairs stating: “this threat to our country’s welfare must be quickly dealt with, any attack on our country’s take away industry is a monstrous act and amounts to a declaration of war.”

  The following day the Cyber-Hack had spread to the petrol station forecourts of the major suppliers as well as the major rail networks, compounding the traffic congestion and gridlock.  On the Saturday afternoon the e-ticketing facility of the Premiership and Championship and most of the EFL clubs went down, as their digital entry facilities were similarly hacked, and access to the stadiums became impossible, causing near riots outside the numerous football stadiums all over the country. The overworked and overstretched Police already attempting to deal with the widespread traffic congestion, plus the increasing problems on the petrol station forecourts were unable to effectively deal with those football fans unable to gain entry to their various football stadiums around the country, the normally peaceful Saturday afternoon was now being overshadowed by riots and civil unrest.

  The Home Secretary made a statement via all the news networks asking for people to remain at home and clear the roads, stating: ‘these attacks on the very fabric of our society indicate that Foreign Actors are trying to bring down the country through an attack on its most basic services, but the Government were dealing with the problem and it would soon be resolved, “We ask for patience” was the underlying message.

  On Saturday evening all streaming services to the UK including YouTube were blocked, and the population could only access terrestrial channels for their evening viewing, but ‘Match of The Day’ was still available on the BBC, showing the Premiership teams playing in front of near empty stadiums.

 By the end of the weekend the air traffic control systems for the UK’s major airports including all five London airports as well as Manchester, Edinburgh, and Glasgow had gone down preventing all flights from both arriving and departing.

   As Monday dawned and the Supermarkets re-opened, their shelves were now being stripped bare as people rushed to stock up with food, but then the automated checkout systems failed and the bar codes could not be read.   Customers now had to endure queues of over two hours or more as the harassed supermarket workers had to slowly and manually checkout all items being purchased. Tempers frayed as customers fought over food items, and tried to cut the queues, and the supermarket security staff who were now being overstretched and overwhelmed, as were the police, and little could be done to calm the supermarket customers.

  In an emergency statement on the Monday afternoon, to a packed House of Commons, the Prime Minister stated that he, the Foreign Secretary and the Secretary of State for Defence were now in a ‘Dialogue’ with a number of Foreign Governments who were acting on behalf of those involved with the Cyber Hacks, ‘to reach a peaceful agreement to end this attack on the very fabric of our beloved Country.’

  The Leader of the Opposition pledged their support to the Prime Minister, ‘in this hour of need, when our country is being threatened with its very survival.’

  By Tuesday Morning, the supermarkets were empty, petrol was not being delivered at the pumps on the station forecourts, the trains were not running, food deliveries were at a standstill and the major airports were closed.   As the electricity grid now slowly shut down, an emergency declaration was made by the Prime Minister that afternoon, stating that, ‘an agreement had now been reached with a number of Foreign Powers; and the Government was resigning to be replaced by a ‘Government of Unification’ whose members had been selected by these Foreign Powers, and a return to normality could now be slowly expected.’

  The Prime Minister added that once everything had returned to normal The Country would enter the sphere of influence of these Foreign Powers and all current military and defence and trade treaties would be terminated, and replaced with more favourable treaties with their new partners.  

   It had taken 5 days and not a shot had been fired to bring down the country, and it had all started with a Cyber Attack on the country’s take-away food industry.

Bio:

Henry is a retired Surgeon and member of the Canvey Writers Group.

He has published a number of stories on the CafeLit site.

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Saturday Sample: The Brothers Alyson by Faye, Lager and lime

Me and Ma stare at the black and white photograph in the faded leather album. “That’s your Da and Dom,” Ma whispers.

She strokes the glossy image with a shaking finger.

Her whole hand shakes now, it’s part of her illness. “They were so strong, so handsome. All the girls

in the village wanted to marry them.”

“And you got Da and Lizzy got Dom,” I finish for her, as Ma gazes around the bedroom, as though she’s never seen it before.

In truth she’s lived here, in the Bridwood Nursing Home for nearly half a decade.

“They loved a flutter,” Ma wheezes. “The dogs, the ponies or…” She is getting tired I can tell.

Da and Dom, twin brothers, born two minutes apart, but as alike as two peas in a pod, rampaging around the sleepy village of Tressick and charming their way through their lives and livelihoods. Da had gone first, in his sleep, and Dom had followed a year later, exactly to the day, which everyone in the village found – inevitable.

I close the photograph album, very very gently, and stroke the surface. It holds so much and it’s worn out by the touch of our fingertips.

“Time for bed, Ma.” I help her up and walk with her Zimmer towards the bed, smothered with the vintage Paisley duvet, her favourite.

“Night, night,” I say. “Sweet dreams.”

Ma blinks up at me, from her pillows, child-like and trusting. I kiss her papery cheek, smell her lavender talcum powder. The scent takes me back to my childhood days – of me sitting on the edge of the bed, swinging my legs, whilst Ma got ready to go out for a night out with Da, Dom and Lizzy, and she’d be wearing her best pearl studs and high-heeled black sateen shoes.

I still have the earrings, but Ma broke the heel on one of the shoes running for the night bus to our village and Da carried her home up the hill, even though he’d had a few pints and was staggering all over the place.

Tears prick my eyes, as I’m blind-sided by memories. Looking back – it really hits you in the present.

I close the door, but leave the night-light on. The glow makes Ma look like a caterpillar cocooned – ready to become a butterfly.

Ready to be reborn.

Find your copy here

About the author

Alyson’s fiction has been published online – most often on the Horror Tree site – and in many anthologies. Her work has been read recently on BBC Radio and her latest collection, Darkness Calls is out on Amazon.

http://author.to/AlyFayeamazon

Unleashed by Moossa Casseem, death wish coffee

I take you back to the night over a year ago when a pack of wolves rushed at me from a forest of data on my computer screen. I shot up, knocking over my chair, my immediate response being one of shock and fear. But I would soon recognise the event to have been a timely intervention from my unconscious, a warning to heed of wolves circling.

I had recently returned from visiting several sites in my capacity as Chief Investigator for a clinical trial, and been absorbed in reviewing data on the efficacy of the drug concerned, a nootropic with the potential to transform users into the most complete individuals cognitively: supremely perceptive, alert and flexible.

I was both exhausted and exhilarated that night. While part of me longed to abandon all thought and effort and simply sink into a deep sleep, I would have pried my eyes open with matchsticks, if necessary, captivated as I was by the trial results, which included numerous participant reports of feeling intensely powerful.

Morning came with the rumbling sound of a refuse truck and the crashing of bins, the last thing I was aware of before slumping to sleep at my desk. I had a dream that the trial data was a symphonic score, and I was conducting an orchestra, creating music that was the most rousing and triumphant ever, when harsh, dissonant trills took over, and I awoke to the din of my phone disrupting the coda in my dream. The Principal Investigator at one of the research sites was calling, concerned that a newspaper was planning to publish a report alleging multiple incidents of serious rage reactions in the drug trial. We agreed that she would investigate the source of this story, and I would ask our media lawyer to caution the newspaper editor.

A thrum of trepidation clung to me as I turned on the radio, and someone said,

‘You better be ready. They are coming for you. You either fight or you die, that’s the truth.’

I opened a file I worked on during the night. A series of doodles and incoherent phrases was all I could find. My computer had been hacked!

*

In a hotel lobby, a growing crowd was jostling a group of us into a tight cluster. It was the day of the Society for Cognitive Enhancement conference, where I was to present a paper on New-generation Nootropics and Human Evolution. One of my colleagues was performing a frantic attempt to loosen his shirt-collar, while Blake, his lanky frame augmented as he grasped his raised head in his hands, stared at the ceiling; until he looked down his nose at me and spoke. Unscrambling the cacophony of voices, I decoded his utterance, a question about whether I was ready to ‘spill the beans.’

As my friend, Blake was privy to aspects of the drug trial that no one else was, outside the study. We had also discussed self-experimenting with the nootropic, which we referred to as ‘Bean,’ from the string of symbols, namely B34N, in the sponsor protocol code. Yet there he was, challenging me to publicly acknowledge that information about adverse drug reactions involving violence was being suppressed.

An announcement over the P.A. invited attendees to take their seats in the auditorium, and I and other speakers were directed to the green room to relax and prepare; but I found myself pacing the floor of that small room, to the consternation of others there. Then, when I finally stood at the lectern to deliver my speech, Blake in the audience motioned towards me as he leant into his neighbour, his mouth concealed behind his hand, spitting spite, poisoning other Society members against me, provoking a snigger that rippled like a metachronal wave through the conference hall.

‘It was Blake all along!’ my inner voice reverberated as I hurtled to my residence from the train station that day; and I chewed, swallowed, regurgitated, and re-chewed indications of hostility towards me. I told myself this was in order to evaluate and counter the threats I was facing, but I became stranded in a labyrinth of dark thoughts that laid bare my own failings, and my mood plunged. I switched on the radio and cranked up the volume to blank my mind. Someone said,

‘He who would live must fight. He who doesn't wish to fight has no right to exist in this world, where permanent struggle is the law of life and only the powerful survive.’

There and then, I removed a bottle of Bean from the drugs cabinet, and in a parody of self-experimentation and an attempt to fix my mind, took a swig of the bitter-sweet potion.

What happened next I’ve described in my book Unleash the Power Within, a testament to how the drug liberated me from a fearful state of mind to one of extraordinary lucidity and creativity, enabling me to come into my strength and make a deep impact on the world.

*

Blake phoned, and we met that evening. The ease with which he made-believe everything was hunky-dory between us was impressive. We discussed the Bean trial; I revealed that I had taken the drug; and as I talked further, I had the impression of sitting at a loom, weaving apparently disparate strands of information into a richly textured, vibrantly colourful tapestry that depicted a brave new narrative about the human condition. We arranged for Blake to visit me one weekend when he would have the opportunity to give the drug a try if he still wanted to, after looking over a detailed analysis of the efficacy data. He said he had noticed an aura of such authority around me when we met that evening that he had initially failed to recognise me; a fitting comment, as I felt that I had changed shape. 

When Blake arrived with a bounce in his step on the appointment day, someone on the radio was saying,

‘Swarms of vermin are invading our homeland, spreading misery, crime, poverty, disease and destruction, and we don’t do anything about it. It’s like a death wish for our country.’

I switched off the radio, installed Blake at my desk with a hardcopy of the trial results, tailored to reflect his needs and preferences; removed a key from the door of the drugs cabinet; dropped it in a box with a digital lock inside the desk drawer. Then I left to walk the city backstreets and feel its hidden pulse; and I stopped in an alley once to watch a game. It was as if I was in the cubiculum of an amphitheatre overflowing with a baying crowd as a cat stalked a mouse among the bins, leapt on it, repeatedly released it to seize it again, and tossed it in the air.

Blake was still at the desk when I returned, so absorbed in his task that he didn't hear me call his name. I prepared a lamb heart and liver casserole, which we enjoyed with a bottle of Syrah; and we discussed the report. Then, after we agreed that Blake would take his dose of Bean the following morning, we withdrew to the sitting room, and I brought out the port, most of which I alone would drink.

We reminisced about the time we first met over thirty years ago when we bonded over our shared interest in the application of nanotechnology in drug delivery. Perfidious Blake did most of the talking, and he soon slipped into a relentless exposition of his virtues while I wondered how the night would end; whether he would seek out what was mine when he supposed that wine had veiled my mind. Then I rose up from my chair and unmasked him for the fake and traitor he was by deploying a weight of inferential evidence he couldn't refute. Whereupon, I declared that it was payback time, and he would never lay his hands on Bean, and collapsed to the floor in a drunken heap - my final move in the test I was setting out for him.

*

I can see you now, my erstwhile friend, if I half close my eyes. You’ve moved out of your chair and are towering above me. You watch me intently, exhale a plaintive sigh. Next, laboriously, you lift me under the arms, drag me backwards to my bedroom, shove me on my bed, and leave.

            I was up at dawn. I proceeded to the kitchen and put the kettle on, then went to open the study door. The drugs cabinet was wide open, and there you were, outstretched beneath the desk. Next to you on the wooden floor was a bottle on its side, and a patch of oil from its open throat.

            Do you wonder how easy it was for Blake to get hold of the key to the drugs cabinet that night? He wouldn't have known that the Bean potion he drank contained a lethal concentration of active ingredients and wasn't intended for administration in its current form.

Several months have passed since then. So-called violence-related adverse events linked to Bean are increasingly seen as unexpected benefits, and instances of direct and strong self-expression.

A number of participants in the drug trial have joined me to launch a new political movement. We aim to bring about a radical restructuring of society through a programme of national renewal, with individual empowerment at its core.

Regimes come and go in a semblance of change. Power elites replace one another in never-ending circulation. Such has been the way of the world. But real change is finally coming. The old structures are about to tumble.

It’s been a protracted and arduous journey, but I’m nearing my destination. I’m the leader people have long waited for, and when I take the reins of power, my first act, on day one, will be to make Bean freely available to all who follow me.

About the author:

Moossa Casseem is a short story and poetry writer. He has been published in Bath Flash Fiction Award Anthology and The Other Side of Hope: journeys in refugee and immigrant literature.

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Cough by Andrew E Hart, pink gin

It was during the final movement of Schubert’s Ninth symphony in C Major, that I decided I would have to kill him. Once again, his cough was loud and persistent, ruining the concert for me and I am sure for all the other music lovers who had packed the Liverpool Philharmonic to hear some of the greatest music ever written, not some old fool coughing and spluttering.

 

It had been at the Christmas Concert that I first noticed him. I am not a Christmassy person but the older I get the more sentimental I have become so when ordering tickets for the new season I included this one as a guilty pleasure. The Phil had more children than usual, but they seemed well mannered and quiet, and so I sat back to enjoy some seasonal cheer and remember my childhood. And at first it was as fun as I thought it would be; some carols I remembered from school and couple of more popular numbers; I am not a snob and enjoy all sorts of music, at least in moderation.

 

But then – oh irony – during Silent Night, I heard a distinct cough from a couple of rows behind me; there had been a few coughs and sneezes throughout the first half; after all it was December and there were lots of children there, but for some reason this cough was particularly noticeable; a high pitched noise, and only half finished, as if there was still phlegm in the man’s throat, and yes it definitely was a man’s cough. And as the concert headed towards the interval whoever it was coughed again and again.

 

I hoped that he would take the opportunity to have a drink or take a cough sweet – the Philharmonic used to supply cough sweets at the entrance which I thought was an excellent idea, but have not done so for awhile -. But no sooner had everybody resumed their seats and the orchestra burst into some Motown Christmas schmaltz than there was that awful cough again, at least once per every song or movement.

 

I could not concentrate on the music and peered in front of me trying to see who it was making such an unpleasant noise, perhaps by mind control I could get him to stop. After awhile I realised who it was; a man in his late fifties I would say, smartly dressed and with a shiny bald patch. Every so often his head would bob slightly and that was when he coughed. I guessed he was on his own, as the two people next to him were a young couple who clearly had nothing to do with him, and were probably incredibly annoyed at having such a unpleasant neighbour.

 

The concert finished and He strode past me, just as I stood up, not caring that he had ruined the concert for me and presumably for most of the audience. I tutted at him, and for a moment he paused before carrying on out of the auditorium and into Liverpool. I hoped he got run over on the busy road outside the Philharmonic and that his death was very slow and very unpleasant.

 

But alas he must have reached home unscathed, because a fortnight later he was there again and so was his cough. It was an all Mozart programme; the 22^nd Piano Concerto, the overture to The Marriage of Figaro and his Clarinet concerto. All great stuff, but the opening notes of the overture were only just sounding out when I heard that familiar cough, and there was that man again, in the same seat looking pleased with himself and clearly enjoying himself hugely, and causing misery to all around him.

 

The concert was ruined; when I couldn’t hear him coughing I was waiting for it, so that I could not concentrate. And the music just passed me by, and I love Mozart and had been looking forward to the concert hugely since I bought the tickets last summer, it was going to be one of the highlights of the season. What upset me was that when I had bought my tickets they were always the same seat, in the middle with a good view of the orchestra but unfortunately also a few rows behind this ghastly man.

 

I wondered who he was; a widower perhaps whose quiet, and subservient wife died quickly and perhaps with some relief; escaping the noise of her pompous and loud husband. I imagined him laying down the law with his relatives, when they forced themselves to visit him. Or going out for his usual constitutional, his neighbours avoiding him so that they did not have to listen to his blather.

 

At the interval I stepped outside and looked across at the Victorian monstrosity that is the Anglican cathedral and shivered in the cold, smelling the damp and cigarettes from the smokers who had escaped for a quick fag.

 

And then, for the first time ever, I decided not to go back in; I just could not bear the thought of sitting through another hour of listening to this man cough, ruining this lovely music. I left the hall and jumped a bus back home to Childwall, one of the more congenial parts of Liverpool. Halfway home when a man got on and started coughing I almost got up and bludgeoned him to death, but restrained myself, and anyway it was soon my stop and I left giving the man a baleful glare as I did so.

 

As you can imagine I was not especially looking forward to the next concert, and in fact considered not going. It was a selection of English music; songs and incidental music by Purcell and various pieces by the likes of lesser-known composers such as Henry Lawes, Matthew Locke and William Boyce. Ordinary I would normally would have looked forward to it but I did not want to listen Him coughing all the way through such lovely music. But in the end habit got the better of me and at the usual time after a light dinner I got on the bus and headed to the city centre.

 

And lo and behold as I sat down and watched the orchestra settle down and tune their instruments there was no coughing, and when I looked over and in front the Cougher was not there, his seat empty; perhaps he had died of whatever it was that was causing him to cough; consumption or something equally unpleasant….I did hope so.

 

The orchestra began with Purcell’s most famous piece of music, his Abdelazer Suite, and I settled down to enjoy it, although naturally I was on edge, just waiting for that cough, but it didn’t happen, and I began to relax.

 

And then Abdelazer came to an end, and as I applauded, there was the sound of someone running down the aisle, and there was The Cougher looking apologetically at those around him, before sitting down in his usual seat and joining in the applause and – of course – giving a cough, just to make sure we all knew that he had arrived.

 

At first I thought I would walk out, perhaps I could start going to the Bridgewater Hall in Manchester; it would mean getting a hotel for the night, and taking the odd day off work, but it would be worth it to be able to enjoy live music in peace once again. But then I thought, why should I have my leisure time ruined by a selfish old duffer, and I determined to do something more practical.

 

What surprised me, was that nobody else seemed particularly bothered. There were a couple of middle-aged women sat next to him and they seemed to be enjoyed the concert despite their neighbour’s noise and the fierce looking man sat immediately behind him, had not tapped him on the shoulder, there were no glares or tutting. Perhaps it was something about the pitch of his cough that particularly annoyed me, but it was more than that; it was so often; every few minutes a partial clearing of the throat and then the cough, so loud and harsh before ending with a little gulp. And then before you knew it, he was starting the whole routine again.

 

As the concert ended I waited for The Cougher to leave and then followed him out; he was going at my usual pace, so it was not difficult to keep up. He headed down Hardman Street and then Bold Street and towards Liverpool Central Station, which was what I had been dreading as I thought I would lose him; fortunately the ticket office was empty so I was able to quickly purchase a day ticket (“are you sure sir, wouldn’t it be cheaper to buy a single to wherever you are going; it is almost ten”).

 

I had seen The Cougher heading towards the Wirral line, and fortunately he was still there as I reached the platform; I could hear his cough echo along the tunnel. He got on the first train that came along and I followed Him on and sat at the other end of the carriage, pretending to be engrossed in my book, but watching him all the time. He was not on the train for very long; once we had gone through the tunnel and into what used to be Cheshire he got off at Birkenhead Park and I followed him out of the station.

 

He headed through the park, which was dark and quiet, and I quickly caught him up.

“Hello”.

He smiled at me, “hello to you.”

“You were at the concert at the Phil weren’t you?”

He smiled, any momentary fear gone, “yes indeed a lovely concert don’t you think?”

I was seething with anger, meeting my enemy had not helped, “it would have been if I had not been disturbed by this awful coughing.”

“Oh indeed” the Cougher answered, “I must say I was so engrossed in the music I did not hear anything.”

 

And that was enough; I pushed him as hard as I could and he fell and then I kicked him again and again. Someone could have come at any time but I did not care; I doubted that even if they had I would have stopped my assault, but it was a cold night and nobody seemed to be about to interrupt me. And at last The Cougher, was lying dead in front of me; giving one final, pitiful cough as he breathed his last.

 

I left him there, as a warning to others and hurried back to the station and tidied myself up in the bathroom before heading back into Liverpool and then home; fortunately I live alone and my neighbours are elderly, so I doubt anybody noticed my late return (gone midnight). I should have felt guilty or scared after what I had done, but truth to tell I didn’t. He was dead and I was glad.

 

Even over the next few days I did not worry about what I had done. I bought the Liverpool Echo and sure enough the following evening it was headline news about a Mr Harris found dead in Birkenhead Park and the Local MP bemoaning how unsafe Birkenhead had become. They talked a little about Mr Harris; a retired solicitor and – as I had thought – a widower, loved by all who knew him, although not by those who had to sit near him at concert. By the end of the week the story had disappeared from the newspaper and I stopped buying the Echo.

 

By the next time of the next concert, three weeks later, I had almost forgotten about what I had done; it was as if I had dreamed it and I cannot remember feeling as happy going to a concert as I did that evening. It was not even a particularly good one; something by Brahms and Dvorak’s New World Symphony. But the thought of being able to listen without being disturbed made me very happy.

 

And so it started; I sat back and relaxed, until I realised my throat was somewhat sore; I tried to swallow it but there was this tickle, and eventually I gave a couple of coughs in the hope of clearing it but the tickle remained. At the end of the first movement I gave a very loud cough to the clear annoyance of the couple next to me; but what could I do. And throughout the rest of the concerto it was a constant battle to stop coughing or at least not cough too loud.

 

At the interval I hurried to the bar, and bought an orange juice, and for a moment I felt relief, as it eased my throat; I really should have ordered another one because by the time I got back to my seat my throat felt as sore as ever. And throughout the New World my torments continued, as I struggled not to cough or gulp, and of course I saw the irony but at least I was trying to do something about it; if only I had some cough sweets or a bottle of water with me.

 

I felt eyes upon me as I struggled, a young man who was sat with his girlfriend a couple of rows in front of me, kept turning to look at me, so I smiled in apology, but he did not seem impressed. Next time I would bring lozengers and water. It must have been nerves, because once I left the auditorium my throat felt fine and I did not cough once for the rest of the evening.

 

A week later, I went to a concert at the Music Room behind the main concert hall; this was a complete performance of Bach’s Cello Suites, one of my very favourite pieces of music. I felt fine as I sat down but had my cough sweets to hand just in case and a bottle of water.

 

I like the Music Room; it is more intimate; and there is a sense that you are sitting with the real lovers of music, not just those who like a tune you can whistle, and who don’t know their Messiaen from their Mahler. I am truly not a snob, but here, with a hundred or kindred spirits I felt at home.

 

As the orchestra’s cellist sat down and started to play suddenly I felt as if there was something lodged in my throat, and I had a desperate need to cough it out. I grabbed a sweet, but it got stuck in my jacket pocket, but eventually, after some tugging, I got it out and then unwrapped it; my god it was noisy, and then as it came out of the wrapping the sweet fell to the floor but desperate now I picked it up, and tried to pick off the dust from the floor.

 

Then I popped it into my mouth, aware that my exhibition was causing consternation. And so nervous was I that I gulped at the sweet and for a moment it stuck in my throat and I could not breathe, I hyperventilated briefly before I grabbed my water and swallowed some and fortunately after a heart stopping moment or two, the sweet disappeared down my throat. As I recovered myself, I realised that the concert had stopped and that everyone was looking at me, not only the cellist, who after giving me a glare resumed playing, but a pair of angry eyes which I recognised from the last concert.

 

As soon the cellist had bowed and put down his bow, I walked out as quickly as I could, never having felt so embarrassed and ashamed in all my life. I had ruined a fine performance by such an exhibition, and I wondered if I could ever attend a concert again.

 

Even on the bus home, I felt as if somebody was watching me; somehow having heard of my antics at the concert. Feeling even more ashamed, I got off the bus and headed home; it is a thirty minute walk from the stop, but usually I enjoy thinking about the music and enjoying the peace and quiet, but this time I felt an idiot, a bumbling old fool, and for the first time felt guilty about what I had done a few weeks ago.

 

 And then I realised that there were footsteps behind me, coming fast, as if to catch up with me,,…and then a voice young and cultured but with a touch of Scouse.

“Excuse me, weren’t you at the concert….?”

I turned around to answer, but before I could do so, I felt a tremendous bang on my head and the sound of a thousand drums echoing in my brain.

 

Bio:

Andrew was born many years ago in Yorkshire England, but now lives in Cheshire where he writes stories and works with prisoners out on licence.

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