Saturday Sample: Afterwards by K M Kendrick, spring water

 

Girl

 

 

This is the story of my death.  And of what happened next.

 

 

They don’t understand what is happening at first.  They arrive confused, frightened, and entirely naked.  They have no memory of what their life was like before.  I am the only one who does, and I have no idea why.

I like to help them, if I can.  It can help just to see another human.  I show them where their things are.  I try not to hang around once they’ve calmed down.  I’ve never been much of a social person, even before.

It never gets fully light here.  I used to love that time, back home, when the streetlamps were flickering on, and the sky was becoming a deep indigo.  It felt like a twisted joke when I arrived here: a messed up version of Heaven where the stuff you love becomes, well, hellish.

I know I’m dead because I remember dying.  I took an overdose when I found out I was pregnant.  An overreaction, in hindsight.  It was a proper overdose, designed to kill:  I did my research.   I became sick, and sleepy, and at the very last moment repentant and cowardly: ohgodnowhatdidido?  Too late, here I am. 

The first few days in this place were predictably nightmarish.  I woke up stark naked, in the middle of the night.  I remember screaming with cold, and fear.  I had never felt cold like this when I’d been alive; it felt as though my blood was freezing on the inside.  I curled into a ball and wished to die all over again.  Except this time I didn’t.  I remained miserably alive, in Hell. 

It wasn’t until I’d calmed down that I found the bundle which had been left for me.  Clothes, shoes, a knife and some food.  I didn’t stop to wonder who my benefactor was.  I dressed, I ate and then I curled up again and cried myself to sleep, hoping to wake up somewhere else.

There isn’t much to look at in this world.  I remember the old world being so full; of people and things, lights and noise.  This world is quiet, and dark.  I spend my days trying to find shelter for the night.  You can’t stay in the same place because you might get found.  So you look for somewhere new each night.  A tree with leaves is OK if you can climb it; if you can get high enough up they probably won’t see you.  Most of the trees are bare but you can still camp behind them. 

Some days I want them to find me. 

The tree I slept behind last night is a huge old skeleton.  I’ve been here a couple of days now, which is unusual for me, but I like this old fella.  One of its limbs is pointing out towards the edge of the trees as though it’s trying to direct me.  It has character.  I’ll probably move on today though.

I’ve started leaving markers around the woods to help me to navigate.  I carve a heart shape into the bark.  Sorry old man.

 

It’s the middle of the morning before I start to pack away my few possessions.  I’ll travel in the direction I’ve decided to call North.  There is no reason for this decision and it isn’t really North.  It’s as meaningless as everything else in this place.

I’ve just picked up my bundle and am about to walk when a tiny noise immediately puts me on my guard.  I stop and look around, trying to seem as though I’m not looking.  I spot him almost straightaway.  I remove the knife from the pack.

‘Come out.’

Nothing.

‘Come out.  Now!’

Still nothing.  I move towards the trees, holding the knife in front of me.

‘Who are you?’

I can see him a little more clearly now.  I relax a little. 

‘Oh.  You’re new.’

He’s a boy of around twelve or thirteen.  He’s staring at me with terror in his eyes.

‘It’s alright.  I’ll help you.  There must be some things around here for you.  Let’s see.’

I find his pack behind one of the trees.

‘Look.  You have some clothes here.  And food.  Oh, and –’ I hold up a bow. 

I half turn my back as he dresses.  You can never be totally sure about them, but he looks alright.  When he’s dressed I hand him the rest and he eats, hungrily. 

‘You’ll be fine, now,’ I lie.  ‘Just stay hidden at night.’

He is staring at me with wide eyes.  He looks like he is going to cry.  For a moment something stirs in me; something I’ve locked away.  Then I turn away from him and begin to walk.

After a few minutes I turn and look back.  The boy is behind me.  I stop walking. 

When he reaches me I say ‘Look.  You can’t come with me.  I can’t even look after myself.  I’ll get you killed.’

He just looks at me.  Sometimes they can’t remember how to talk.  He must be a mute.

‘Just stay here, okay?’

He stops walking.  For a moment I feel something – disappointment maybe, or guilt.  Then I carry on.

I walk until the late afternoon.  I finally stop when the light is disappearing.  I’m still in the woods.  The clearing in front of me looks disturbingly similar to one I spent the night in a few days ago.  That should have been way back, in the opposite direction.

It’s more open than I’d like but I’ll just have to take my chances.  Soon it’ll be too dark to continue.

I sit on a rock and eat the remains of my breakfast.  The fading light is casting eerie shadows across the landscape from the skeletal trees and jagged hills.  I daren’t risk a fire, not here. 

He appears in the distance.  He’s followed me all day.  He looks exhausted; he’s walking in zig-zags.  Pity finally overpowers self-preservation.  When he reaches me I offer him my blanket.  He accepts and falls asleep immediately, while I watch him and shiver.

 

I lived in a city.  Cars passed our house day and night.  There was always light.  I had a telescope but you couldn’t see many stars because of light pollution.  So every now and again we’d go off somewhere into the countryside with a blanket and the telescope and just look at the stars.

I miss stars.

 

I finally fall asleep.  I’m awoken by a noise I don’t recognise.  It sounds like an animal.  My hand goes to my knife.  I stand over the boy and wait.  He stirs.  Don’t wake up.  The last thing I need is him panicking and crying right now.

There is a snuffling sound to my left.  I close my eyes even though it is completely dark.  It doesn’t sound too big.  It is getting closer.  I wait until I actually feel its breath on my skin and I thrust forward with the knife.  It makes a thin squeal and I hear it drop, heavily.  I stand motionless for a few minutes in case there are any more but everything is silent.

Sleep has left me now.  I’m alone with my thoughts. 

 

Another memory appears, unasked for.  Me and Mum.  We’re in the kitchen, making a cake.  I can smell it as it cooks; it smells really nice.  I’m happy.  I hug Mum, and then out of nowhere she starts to cry.  Big crying, as she used to say, not just a sniffle.  She won’t tell me why.  I wonder whether I did something wrong.  It isn’t till later that I understand.

     

The boy wakes with the meagre morning light. 

      ‘Hi,’ I say. 

He stares at me for a moment.  Then he says: ‘hi.’ 

I smile.  I think that’s my first smile in this place.  I’ve almost forgotten how.

‘You can talk!’

He nods.  ‘Yes.’

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Yes.’

I use the first light of the day to help me skin the animal I killed last night. 

‘What is that?’

‘An animal.  It was him or us.  And now we can eat him.’

‘OK.’

I make a fire.  That’s one thing that’s easy enough here; everything is tinderbox dry.  Keeping it small and hidden isn’t quite as easy.

We tear off strips of meat and cook them in small chunks, eating as we go. Then I wrap up the rest to eat later.

‘Can I stay with you?’

He looks at me with pleading eyes.  I don’t know how to refuse.

‘Alright.  But you have to take care of yourself.  I can barely take care of me.’

‘Alright.’  He seems to relax a little.  ‘Where are we?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know.  I woke up here like you did.  Do you remember anything from before?’

‘Before?  What do you mean?’

That would be a no then.  ‘Never mind.  Do you have a name?’

He stares at me blankly.  I consider him; short black hair, brown skin, big brown eyes.  He reminds me of my cousin.  ‘I’m going to call you Ali.’

He nods.  ‘What should I call you?’

I think about this.  I had a name, back then.  But the person attached to it was so different from me.  ‘I don’t know.’

‘What about Girl? I could call you Girl.’

I shrug.  ‘Alright.’

It doesn’t take long for me to discover that not only is Ali not mute, he’s very talkative.  Annoyingly talkative.  He’s a question-asker. 

‘Where do the things come from?  The packs?  When we arrive?’

‘I don’t know.  Where do you think they come from?’

‘I think someone is looking after us.’

I look around at the dead landscape.  The earth here has been scorched in a wide arc.  It grins at me unpleasantly.  I can see no goodness here. 

When I look back at the boy I see the hope in his eyes.

‘Yes, maybe,’ I say.

 

There’s something I should probably share with you at this point.  It seems like you’ve earned it.  You’ve stayed with me this far.

I have a secret, and it goes like this:

The truly ironic part of all of this is that the thing the overdose was designed to cure is still here with me: I am still pregnant, the only lost soul in the whole of the underworld who is with child.

 

My life had been pretty normal until my fifteenth year.  It was just me and Mum, living in a council flat.  My Dad didn’t exist to me in any real sense; he was a story Mum told every now and then.  Sometimes the details changed as though she had made him up entirely.

We were happy.  Take a look at fifteen year old me: I was confident, doing well at school (take that statistical probability).  I had a boyfriend, sort of.  He wasn’t my baby’s father.  He was a sweet, nerdy kid from my school year.  George.  We had fun together that was never going to amount to a lifetime commitment.  We’d bunk off school together every now and again and do something more enjoyable. We lived a couple of miles from the seaside so we’d walk up there sometimes and play in the arcade or mess about on the beach.

I barely recognise that happy, carefree girl: taking selfies on the pier, getting detentions.  Thinking too much about her hair.  A normal teenager.

It changed.  Why did it change?

How did I get to here?

 

I know I am pregnant because a) I feel crappy all of the time and b) I still have all of the symptoms: sore boobs, nausea, pain.  No period, if periods are still a thing here.  Who knows?

And also, I just feel it.  It’s as though the whole death thing never happened to me.  It’s like I’m exactly the same person I was before, except I’m in this shitty place and I remember dying.  So there it is.  In about seven months Hell is going to hear the pitter patter.  If I can survive that long.

 

‘Do you remember before?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, what was it like?’

‘Big.  And complicated.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well – there were lots of things.  We had so much stuff.  Phones, IPads, TVs.’

‘What are they?’

‘Just things.  They helped us talk to each other.’

‘Oh.’ A momentary pause.  ‘How?’

I sigh.  ‘Enough, Ali.  Enough questions.’

‘Please?  Just tell me.’

‘Alright.  Last one.  We could see each other and hear one another’s voices.  And we could send messages.’

I could see him trying to decide if he could risk another question.  ‘No.  I need a bit of alone time.  I’ve been on my own for weeks, and now you.  It’s too much, all in one go.’

He looks a little crestfallen, then smiles broadly.  ‘I’ll get some firewood,’ he says. 

‘Be careful,’ I warn him.  ‘Keep looking around you.’

‘You do care about me!’

‘No.  I just don’t want to have to rescue you.’

He disappears into the leafless wood. 

I sit still, enjoying the quiet left behind in the boy’s wake.  It is nice to have some company.  Even if he talks too much.  I’m starting to realise that I’ve probably spent too much time alone.  I’ve adjusted to it, and now it’s hard to change back.

There is a faint breeze, which is unusual.  It blows the dust around in swirls around my feet.  I wiggle my feet and it causes the dirt to make new patterns in the air.  You make your own amusement here.        

I’ve been daydreaming for a while when I realise that Ali should have returned by now.  I pick up my knife and follow his footprints. 

A few metres away I find him in a clearing.  He is in a tree.  Below the tree are two – what are they?  I can’t focus on them properly.  They are looking up at him.  Something about them is repulsive; they’re beasts.  I feel sick just looking at them.  I want to kill them, to completely destroy them.  I know I’m outnumbered.  I go back to the camp and find Ali’s bow.  I’ve never used one of these before, but it seems like my best option.  I try to keep myself hidden and aim the arrow towards the nearest one.  It makes it hissing noise in the air and lands nowhere near them.  I try again and miss again and this time they see me.

The nearest creature comes charging at me making angry noises.  It’s still out of focus.  I discard the bow and charge towards it with my knife.  At the last moment the creature seems to panic and the two of them run away.

I’m shaking.  I walk over to the tree and hold out my hand to Ali.  He takes it and climbs down clumsily. 

‘Let’s go.  They could come back.’

‘Alright.’

We go back to the camp and gather our things quickly.  Ali looks scared.

‘What were they?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘They were horrible.’

‘Let’s just go.’

We walk in the opposite direction to the creatures, to minimise the risk of meeting them again.  The day isn’t too hot so far; the wind is keeping us cool.  If it continues we should be able to walk most of the day if we have to.  Maybe we won’t have to.  Maybe we’ll get lucky today.

Half a day’s walking takes us out of the forest.  This is progress, but it also leaves us vulnerable to attack.  We can’t walk for long in open ground. 

‘Let’s stop here a while and figure out what to do,’ I say. Ali looks pleased at this suggestion and immediately starts rummaging for the food in my pack.

Lunch is difficult.  The wind is blowing the dust around so much it’s impossible to eat and the meat is becoming ruined.  Ali looks like he wants to cry again so I stand over him while he eats, annoyed with myself for being soft. 

‘Thank you,’ he says, quietly. 

The dust storm solves our visibility problem anyway.  It’ll be impossible for someone to see us through this.  We can walk on.  We just have to hope it lasts till we get to shelter.  We walk, coughing and blinking and trying to swim through the dust and hoping against hope that there isn’t anything in the middle of the storm that we don’t want to meet.

     

The dust storm is followed by a regular storm.  Rain is infrequent here, but it does occur, and it’s drinkable.  This rainfall is pretty heavy; fat, globular drops which we catch with our tongues.  Once I’ve put out our empties to refill Ali and I set about splashing one another.

About the author

Karen Kendrick is a writer and creative writing teacher from the North West of England.  She writes poetry and fiction which straddle the boundary between reality and fantasy.  She lives in Astley, Greater Manchester with her husband, two sons, a dog and a snake, and many plants.  Afterwards is her first novel. 

Find a copy of the novel here 

 

 

 

The Trumpet Call At The End Of Time by Henry Lewi, old wine

 

He sat in the park, just outside the ancient city, cradling his Infinite Trumpet and looked out over the Biblical plain, and remembered.

  He recalled, how throughout the long eons of human history he’d blown his trumpet, sometimes alone, sometimes with others, and sometimes amongst serried ranks of trumpeters.

  His Trumpet call had gathered men, it had led them into combat, and it had announced both the start of the battle and its end. It had signalled the advance, and had sounded the retreat of an army.  His trumpet call had led men in the faraway lands of the East, across the blazing hot sands of Africa, and the vast plains of Asia. It had led men in the wars of religion, the wars of succession and the wars of conquest. It had led the Roman Legions trying to civilize the people of Germania and Gaul, it had led the Crusaders in their Religious Wars; and it had led the invading hordes from the East trying to conquer the West.

  His Trumpet had announced the advance at Austerlitz and at Waterloo, and had led the charge of the Light Brigade in Crimea.  The sound of the Infinite Trumpet had held the line at Gettysburg, had signalled for the men to advance from their trenches in the Great War, and had led the massed advance across the Steppes of Russia, and finally had sounded the Last Post for the fallen.

  He had survived these many millennia – no one ever wanted to hurt, maim or kill the man with the Infinite Trumpet. Whenever and wherever the battles were fought, whichever armies were involved, they always, always left the Trumpeter unharmed; they always left him to play his piece for the fallen.

  In more recent years, he had played his instrument in the Speakeasies of Chicago and New York, and in the smoky jazz clubs of the Deep South.  He had played with the greats as well as the indifferent, he’d played alongside those in tune, and alongside those that had missed the beat, or had missed a note, but it didn’t matter. He’d played and he’d watched; played as the public sat and listened; played as they drank and danced to his various tunes, and always and everywhere he was known as the ‘Man with the Infinite Trumpet’. 

  Throughout all of time he had missed his brother who had disappeared many, many centuries ago; and every few years he had climbed to the tallest hill he could find, and had used his trumpet to call for his brother, but to no avail. He had wondered where he was, as like him he had been formed at the Beginning Of Time, and he would continue until the End Of Time, why he didn’t know, it just WAS.

  Since the last great conflict, as well as the numerous more recent wars, there had been little need for the ‘Man with the Infinite Trumpet’.  Modern technology had replaced him on the battlefield, but he constantly watched and patiently waited.

  War was now being fought from afar, with missiles, radio and electronics, and in this ‘Empty Battlefield’ there was little call for the ‘Man with the Infinite Trumpet’ to either sound the advance, or announce the retreat; but always he was called upon to play for the fallen; but this was now, only during those few peaceful times.  In the current present, he had no role to play amongst the modern fighting man, but amongst the survivors he played to remember those who were no more.

  He still watched, he still waited and he would still call his brother from those high hills.

  Now the forces were again gathering.  They were gathering at the crossroads of the World and at the crossroads of Time.  They were gathering on the Biblical Plains, the Wastelands and the Deserts, and the intensity of the conflicts were growing.  Alliances were being made, North and South, East and West, Religion by Religion, Country by Country; the forces of the Light and the Dark were now gathering.

   Here as ordained, on these very Biblical Plains the time of Armageddon was now fast approaching.

 He stood on the mound of Megiddo, raised his trumpet to his lips and blew his Infinite Trumpet as he had done many, many times before before to summon his brother.    

  Finally after all these long years, there at last, in the distance he could see him, now fast approaching. His wings outstretched holding a flaming sword in his right hand, his brother Michael flew towards him. 

  The Archangel Gabriel again sounded his trumpet and finally, finally after all these long, long years unfolded his own wings to greet him. Now at last together, they could now face the forces of Lucifer gathering for the Final Battle at the End Of Time.

About the author

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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King of the Dunk Tank by Louis Kummerer, water

The dunk tank, that’s what I do. Every weekend I’m someplace different: a church festival in Sandpoint, Idaho; a county fair in Lonoke, Arkansas; a fundraiser in Waterbury, Vermont. I sit on a narrow plastic seat above a tank of water. The locals pay $5 for three balls and they take their shot.

That’s how I make my way in this world. That’s my job. And, to be honest, it’s not a great job. It’s not even a good job. I live pretty much hand to mouth. No benefits, no paid vacation, no retirement plan, no future.

But I’m not complaining, because at least I know why I’m here.

There was a time long ago—back before Mattie—when I thought that maybe I was serving a larger purpose in life, that maybe I was ever so slightly nudging the world towards more goodness. Because occasionally one of the locals would hit the target. I’d suddenly drop into the cold water and emerge dripping wet with a shocked look on my face. The crowd would laugh riotously, and for those few, short moments, the sadness in their small lives receded. That was my singular contribution towards the betterment of humanity.

All of that changed after Mattie showed up.

I’m at a county fair in Sandusky, Ohio. My night’s over and I’m outside the dunk tank, still wet, shivering in the early fall air. I’m bent over, arranging my gear in a metal trunk when a tall, well-dressed woman with an almost palpable aura of self-confidence walks up.

“Hi there” she chirps, as soon as we make eye contact.

Before I can answer, she extends her hand and says “Mattie.”

“I saw you in Payson, Arizona last week,” she explains as we shake hands, “And in Urbana, Illinois the week before that. And also in Skowhegan, Maine.

I frown and give her a suspicious look.

“I’m not stalking you,” she says with a dismissive laugh, “I’m just a fan of dunk tanks. And I have a suggestion on how you can get better at this.”

“I sit on a seat and wait to fall in the water,” I reply, “How can I get better at that?”

“Ponder those words for a moment,” she says.

She pauses as if she were waiting for a light-bulb to go on in my head. Instead, I simply shrug. She sighs and continues.

“Look, you just sit and wait. Right? You’re not in control. And life is all about control.”

She leans in close to me as if she were about to divulge a dangerous secret.

“Accuracy,” she whispers in my ear, “is a function of mental focus.”

Then she steps back and says, “Well, gotta run. Nice meeting you.”

She abruptly turns and walks away, but she looks back at me from a distance.

“Think about what I said,” she shouts.

I do think about what she said. I think about it a lot. She’s right, I decide. I could be doing better. Her mental focus remark wasn’t just an idle comment. It was a vital piece of information, a key to taking control of my job, maybe even my life.

I spend several days mulling over her suggestion, running through various options in my head. Finally, I come up with an idea.

The following weekend in Bend, Oregon, I’m sitting in the dunk tank surveying the crowd, seeing if there’s anything I can use. A young man steps up and pays $5. I carefully assess him as he picks up the first ball. Late teens. Cocky. Eager to show off for the attractive young woman he’s with.

“Hey, buddy,” I shout, “Hope you impress that pretty, young thing, because, honestly, she doesn’t look that impressed right now.”

He sneers, winds up, and throws a fastball that sails just a little too high.

“Ohhh, disappointing,” I yell, “Kinda like last night, am I right Miss?”

His face tightens into an angry grimace and he hurls two more fastballs that woosh past the target and slam hard into the canvas backdrop. Five dollars in the cash box, no payout.

The next guy is in his early twenties. Tall and gangly. He’s wearing a tee shirt with a high-school baseball logo. He looks like he might have been a pitcher once, maybe a good one. But he seems nervous in front of the crowd, maybe a little worried about living up to his high school reputation.

“Oh, boy! We got a ringer here, folks” I yell, “You probably already know this guy’s good. So pay attention, because he’s probably gonna do something you don’t see very often. He’s gonna go three for three. Mark my words.”

Three more errant pitches. Another five dollars in the cash box.

In the following weeks, I continue tweaking my strategy, honing my skills. Event after event, small town after small town, I’m slowly getting better. I rarely get dunked anymore. I’m no longer just sitting there waiting for one of the locals to drop me into the water. I’m luring them in now, sizing them up, playing with their minds, and taking their money.

Word of my uncanny success spreads. Eventually, I sign with an agent who begins billing me as King of the Dunk Tank. He books me into larger venues: Texarkana, Arkansas; Columbia, Missouri; Pueblo, Colorado. I’m the main attraction at every event. Kids want my autograph, women give me their cellphone numbers. I’m traveling first class, staying in nice hotels. I’m no longer pushing humanity towards more goodness, but I’m making a lot of money.

Battle Ground, Indiana. I’m midway through my night and still dry when a scrawny middle-aged man with thick glasses and a determined look on his face steps up to the line.

I survey him casually. He’s small, maybe 5’6”, spindly legs, short arms. He’s wearing suspenders and a long-sleeve shirt buttoned at the collar. He’s so weird that I can’t get a good read on him, so I wing it.

“I don’t think this guy can even see me,” I shout, “Let alone throw a ball this far.” The crowd bursts into raucous laughter.

Sploosh! I suddenly find myself submerged in water. A little shocked, I reset the seat and climb back on.

“Congratulations, Shorty,” I yell to him, “You’ve just proven that even a blind squirrel finds an acorn sometimes.”

He immediately launches his second ball and I hit the water again. He dunks me once more with his third ball, then without saying a word, puts down another $5 and dunks me three more times. He goes three for three again on a third round. Finally, he collects his payout, gives me a farewell salute and disappears into the crowd.

I’m rattled and the rest of the night doesn’t go so well.

“Off night for the King of the Dunk Tank,” the cashier says as she counts the returns.

“I guess even a king has a bad day once in a while,” I respond.

“I just wish the king’s bad day would have been on somebody else’s watch because we’re barely breaking even here.” she sighs, “By the way, that guy that really wailed on you left his card.”

She hands me a soiled and wrinkled business card. The only words on it are: “Mr. Apophis, Monkey-Wrench-into-the-Works Thrower”

The next weekend in Pierre, South Dakota, I’m ten minutes into my evening when he shows up again. He puts down $15 and he dunks me nine times. Then he smiles at me and points at the King of the Dunk Tank sign. He shakes his head and laughs as he turns and walks away.

The rest of the night is a disaster. I get dunked eight more times and we end up losing money. The event sponsors grumble; my agent is getting nervous. I realize that I’m going to have to take control of the situation before things get any further out of hand.

When he shows up the following week in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, I’m ready for him. After he dunks me the ninth time, I emerge from the water and immediately pull myself through the trap door in the back. Dripping wet, I step into the street. He sees me and begins scurrying off, his bandy legs churning like an eggbeater as he weaves through the crowd. He’s surprisingly elusive and I struggle to keep up with him, but when he ducks into a dark alley, I catch him. I grab his arm and shove him against a wall.

“Who are you?” I shout.

“I’m Mr. Apophis…” he says in a thin, high-pitched voice.

“Yes, I know, Monkey-Wrench-into-the-Works Thrower,” I say, giving him another shake, “Why are you here and what do you want with me?”

“You’re hurting my arm,” he whines.

I release his arm. He shudders slightly and recomposes himself.

“Don’t take this personally," he says, “But this whole thing is ridiculous.”

“What whole thing?” I ask.

“You, your kind,” he sighs and pauses, then continues in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “You’re really not very bright, you know, even the best among you. None of you get what’s going on here and you never will because you lack the mental horsepower. Worse yet, you don’t understand how profoundly ignorant you really are. So you strut around as if you’ve figured everything out. All of it.”

He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s so annoying.”

“Oh. And then…” he slaps his forehead in astonishment, “Then, to add insult to injury, that insufferable twit Ma’at, or whatever she’s calling herself these days—I think it’s Mattie now, right?”

I nod, suddenly realizing who he’s talking about.

“Mattie,” he makes air quotes as he says her name, “Flits around like a drunken matron at a neighborhood block party, stoking your arrogance with her absurd notions of control.”

From the confused look on my face, he can tell that I’m not following, so he dumbs things down for me.

“It’s like this,” he continues, “You people are obsessed with this simplistic cause-and-effect idea. You always want to know why. Why are you a dunk tank target instead of the starting quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys? Is it genetics? Environment? Character?”

“What all of you are too dull to comprehend is that, in every case, the answer is blatantly obvious and always the same. For instance, in your case, do you know why things are the way they are in your life?”

Not willing to risk an answer, I simply shake my head.

“Because!” he bellows.

“Things are the way they are because that’s the way they are. There is no order, no reason, no cause-and-effect. The universe is chaotic. It’s fueled by randomness. The problem with so-called Mattie is that she convinces people like you that you can throttle the universe, put a saddle on it, ride it as if it were a horse that can be broken and bent to your will.”

“You want to know why I’m here? Well, that’s why. I’m cleaning up the mess Mattie’s made. I’m putting things back to normal.”

Suddenly a crowd of people enters the alley, laughing and talking loudly as they walk towards us. I turn to look at them momentarily and when I look back, Mr. Apophis has slipped away, disappeared back into the night.

I don’t see him again but evidently he succeeded in putting things back to normal because I’m getting dropped into the water regularly now. I’m no longer billed as King of the Dunk Tank. I don’t have an agent anymore, I’m not a main attraction, I don’t travel first class. I’m not playing with anybody’s mind. I’m not even pushing humanity towards more goodness. I’m just sitting there in the dunk tank, letting the locals take their shots.

That’s the way things are now. Back to normal.

But that’s okay. I may be one of the dimmer luminaries in a species that was never very bright to begin with, but at least now I understand why I’m here.

I’m here because I’m here. That’s just the way things are.

About the author

Louis Kummerer is a technical writer working and living in Phoenix, Arizona. His work has been published in Bright Flash Literary Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bristol Noir, The Chamber Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, and 101 Words.

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