Messages

I've been ill, trying to get my immune system caught up after two years of hiding from germs.   

I'll say at this point there's a 25% chance of me making the deadline and 75% chance of me needing an extension.

I'd like to publicly state that I've voted.  You know, just so democracy feels validated.  The choice was hard for me, but I'm not ashamed to admit that I mostly voted for Mandle in the end (my cursor kinda flirted with just the fringe of the button, so I'm not sure if the federal elections commission algorithm will interpret it as a whole vote or more of a hanging chad).  I feel compelled to leave feedback to the author, but as I don't want to get blacklisted by the spam-sniffer for citing his work I will cleverly hide my comments below.

Spoiler

That was a great story, Mandle!  It's a pity the pall of spam was cast over your work, likely discouraging a segment of the voting public from even reading it.  In future I will be sure to initiate my smear campaigns only after I've read your work myself.   

The highlights for me were some fantastic descriptions and a plot that kept me guessing.  There's kind of a Mad Max vibe going on, with crazy post-apocalyptic Aussies and... uh.... rusty metal vehicles.  The atmosphere of disinformation and the accompanying slow-reveal was well-executed, and the portrayal of the degradation of the oral English language was simply fantastic.

On to the little bothersome things.  The ending for me was a little weak and ambiguous (is Murto now the second ox?), and I felt the morphing danger of the Ev'ries could have been better explained in their introduction (the volcano bit) since that's public knowledge for everyone (except the reader) right off the hop.  I'm a little confused about the timing of the attack on Midfield, given that Daisy got ripped in half anyway.  Would it not have been more efficient to attack in the night when the townsfolk were off their guard, or for that matter right away when everyone had gathered around the train (which basically happened the next day anyway, only at greater cost to Walsh)?  But I get that post-apocalyptic drifters and swag men probably weren't the Napoleons of their time, and even the despicable Walsh wanted a bit of human contact as a reward for keeping up his end of the deal.  The only other thing that jarred with me as a reader was when the two oxen hauled the huge engine out of the fog and I thought to myself "yeah right, that thing probably weighs 100 tonnes!", but obviously you addressed that later in the story.... 

These are small quibbles against what was overall quite a strong outing.  Good work, Mandle! 

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I have a similar question concerning 15 relatives and a cat named Mushu.   

Wait, wait, wait.  We have to look up the deadline ourselves?  Truly now the world has passed me by.... (*insert white bearded smiley here*)

What, no voting deadline?!?  SWEET! 

I don't know, it kinda looks like spam to me.  Is there anyway to verify that this Mandle character is legit? 

[A Train of Thought]

A Train of Thought

   "Another one, Charlie?" Bertie asked, reaching for the whiskey bottle.  The family had operated a bar for years, now closed, but they were still slowly working their way through the last of the stock.

   "Maybe just half," Charlie said, smiling at his brother.  "The wife's got a big day planned tomorrow.  We're supposed to go out and buy that sofa she's been dreaming about for the new house."

   "Atta boy, Charlie," Bertie said, pouring a liberal half for his little brother and a larger portion for himself. 

   The two men sat in Bertie's living room late on a Friday evening, a bit of light music playing on the radio in the background.  They savoured the taste of the liquor for a while, each man lost in his own thoughts.

   "Pity about the market," Bertie said after a while.  "I don't think it's going to bounce back anytime soon.  Truth be told, I'm out a fair bit at the moment.  Do you know what a margin call is, Charlie?"

   Charlie shook his head.  He had become well acquainted with a number of financial terms since the stock exchange had crashed a couple weeks back on October 24, 1929, none of them pleasant.  But he put a brave face on for his brother.

   "We all thought it would go up forever...." Bertie said wistfully.  "Any man with a job could pick up stocks on credit - it was free money, Charlie!  Or it was as long as the stocks kept going up.  Now there's a scramble by the creditors to collect their loans.  Nasty buggers aren't taking any chances.  Do you know I heard from a friend that they threatened to burn his house down if he didn't pay up?"

   Charlie swallowed his whiskey hard.  As a matter of fact, he had heard of such things.

   "I figure if I stall long enough, things will turn around," Bertie went on.  "As long as I keep my job and can make small payments, things will be all right.  Those leeches can't get their money back if they kill the golden goose, right?  Of course there are a lot of employers that are feeling the crunch right now.  No one's buying, so they're starting to let people go.  That's the real danger."

   "Yeah," Charlie said, taking another drink.  He was a carpenter by trade, which didn't bode well if no one was building new houses.

   "The big corporations are hoarding all the money," Bertie said.  "They've got vaults full of the stuff.  Do you know I heard a man in New York is suing the B & O for twenty thousand dollars?  Twenty thousand, Charlie!  Claims they maimed his son when the train hit him.  Of course it remains to be seen if they'll pay up.  The corporations are good at keeping the money to themselves, unless public opinion swings against them.  Little rascal was probably playing on the tracks, which won't bode well.  You'd need a real compelling story to pry open those purse strings...." Bertie said, obviously turning the problem over and over in his head.

   Charlie took another gulp of whiskey, finishing it off.  Truth be told, he'd been thinking along the same lines as his brother for a couple weeks now.

     Bertie took a hefty swig of whiskey before continuing.  "You know, I wish I'd kept my nose clean like you, Charlie.  All baseball and family, the wholesome things in life.  What I wouldn't give for a clean slate like that."

   Charlie nodded solemnly but said nothing.  There was a lot going on in his mind.

*   *   *   *   *

   Saturday morning started early for Charlie.  He'd promised his wife Ida that he'd take her furniture shopping with their daughters, but that meant the other errands had to be done first.  Both of the girls were just about teenagers, and so they were taking on more responsibility in the household.  Kathryn, his oldest, cooked breakfast for the family that morning, while her little sister Janet was responsible for the wiping up.

   "There you go, Daddy.  Made to order!" Kathryn said, putting steaming plates of eggs and bacon in front of Charlie and his wife.

   "Thanks, Kitten," Charlie said, tussling his daughter's hair fondly.

   "You'll get hair in the food," his wife commented, always a stickler for detail.  That was okay, in Charlie's opinion.  He liked to be the fun one.

   "Yes Mother," he said solemnly, and winked at his daughter.

   Soon the whole family was sitting down to breakfast.

   "The gang is planning a baseball game in the open lot behind the Fielder's house," Janet said, munching away at her food.  "Will we be back by mid-morning?" she asked hopefully.

   "It's a long drive downtown," Ida said, "and the traffic is always bad.  And besides, I don't want you soiling your clothes like last time."  Of course Ida meant well, but she did come across as the murderess of all things fun.  "If anything, the church is having a book study this afternoon for youth just a little older than you."

   Janet rolled her eyes discreetly, but Charlie kept his eyes studiously on his plate.  It was well-known in the family that baseball trumped church in his opinion, but it was also well known that he would always defer to his wife on matters of child-rearing.  Carefully he put his fork down.

   "We're going to have to change our plans today," he said.  The table was suddenly very quiet.  "Bertie was saying yesterday that your Aunt Lulu is unwell," Charlie continued.  "Mother and I will run errands and look at furniture.  I want you two girls to go over to Lulu's and help out."

   "Aw!" the girls said in chorus, although Kathryn's seemed more heartfelt.  She cherished spending time with her mother and father after a long week of work and school.

   "When we get back, I want you ready for church group," he went on, nodding to his wife.  Of course whatever the girls got up to in the meantime was their own business.  He winked at Janet, for he knew very well what he'd be doing in her shoes.

   And then there was the scurry to get out the door.  Ida had to have her hat set just so, and she fussed over which gloves to wear on their outing.  Charlie took the opportunity to pull Kathryn aside.  "Take care of your sister," he said, giving his daughter a quick hug.

   "I will, Daddy," Kathryn promised.

   It was early enough for fog still to be lingering, especially in the ravines that snaked through the city.  Charlie set off down Lee Road in the family's Model T, but Ida nagged him about doing the groceries first.  "I thought we could do them after, so they don't sit in the car all the way downtown and back," he told her.

   "You know I can't stand grocery shopping later on a Saturday," Ida griped.  "The lines at the meat counter are something dreadful, and I can't abide the sort of gossip I hear from the late-sleepers in the aisles."

   "Yes Mother," he said solemnly, turning the car down a side street.  At just after seven on a Saturday morning the grocer's was still calm.  Ida made the rounds of each counter twice before she was satisfied she had found the best deals.  "We can't be too careful with money these days," she said, checking over her shopping list for the third time.

   "Yes Mother," Charlie agreed.

   Back in the car Ida continued to prattle, for that was how she filled the empty space when no one else was talking.  "Poor men," she commented, noticing a line of laid-off workers queuing up behind the grocery store to get a chance at cheap food that was nearly spoiled.

   "A sign of the times," Charlie said dismissively, pulling out.

   "But I can't feel they have anyone to blame but themselves," Ida went on.  "They should have been carefully saving while things were good, just in case there was a downturn."

   "Yes Mother," Charlie said, the words more a habit than any kind of actual agreement.

   "Mrs. Kleinser said the lines drained the soup kitchen pot at the church by mid-morning on Friday," Ida continued.  "We were all told to buy extra barley and root vegetables to donate so that we can stretch it farther next week."

     "Yes Mother."

        "Do you know I think I'm having second thoughts about this sofa," Ida continued.  "I don't think now is the right time.  I know I made you promise and that you are as good as your word, but maybe it would be prudent to save that money for now, just in case.  You know I grew up poor, and I just couldn't sleep at night if I thought the same thing might befall my daughters."

   "Me neither," Charlie said solemnly, turning back onto Lee Road.

   "So why don't we just turn around now?" Ida asked.  "There is no point in looking at fancy furniture that we don't intend to buy."

   Charlie considered his words as the road dipped down into the ravine.  "You know there's a cost to not having a sofa for another decade," he said casually.

   "We'll manage just fine," Ida said.  "Do you know Mrs. Roberts was saying there was quite a selection of used sofas available at auction these days.  People are trying to get back just a fraction of the money they spent, now that times are hard.  I would hate to benefit from the misfortune of others, but someone is going to buy those sofas one way or another, so it might as well be us."

   Charlie considered his wife's logic.  Deep down he hated the idea of sitting on someone else's old sofa, but at least this way he still got to make the trip downtown.

   "Say, which auction house is that?" he asked.

   "Cowan's Auctions, down on Euclid at East 18th Street," Ida told him.  "Mrs. Roberts said they run auctions on Saturdays until noon.  But I don't know why you insist on taking this 'short cut' down Lee Road.  The traffic always gets backed up in the ravines."

   "Yes Mother," Charlie said, slowing down.  There was a car ahead in the fog, braking fast.

   "And I don't like how the Erie Railroad leaves its crossings unmarked down here," she remarked.  "The other railroads have started to install signs and signals at the busier crossings for safety reasons.  Do you know only yesterday one of their trains hit a car at the East 123rd Street crossing?  I heard that... slow down!"

   But Charlie had glimpsed his chance through the fog.  He pulled around the car in front of him, despite the driver's frantic hand signals, and came to a stop right on the tracks, blocked in by traffic now in front and behind.  The wail of the approaching train was almost deafening.

   "Charlie!  What- ?!?" Ida exclaimed, suddenly at a loss for words.

   "I'm sorry Mother," Charlie said, bracing himself.

   The train dragged bits of the wreckage of the Model T a quarter mile down the track.

Spoiler

While a fictional account, this is as best as I can piece together what happened on November 16th, 1929 from old newspaper clippings.  Kathryn was my paternal grandmother, and was orphaned at the age of 13.  Her uncle Adelbert ("Bertie") took the girls in for a couple months, expecting a payout from the railroad, but lost interest when the family lost its case.  The girls were thereafter raised in poverty by their Aunt Lulu.

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Congrats Sini!  I would prefer a theme of SOMETHING next time around.  Anything is just too vague for those of us who lack focus. 

I would like to change my vote in favor of Ponch.  His last-minute near-forum-crashing non-entry has really inspired me.   

I thought only active AGSers were eligible to vote.  Somebody check that guy's membership card.   

[@ Stupot:]

Quick reads this time around.      Feedback is hidden below.

Spoiler

@ Stupot: Ah, the tried and tested limerick.  Fairly well metered and rhymed -a skilled reader could make it work out loud.  The central message is strong - despite the differences of specific places the important thing is that we do these actions together (and thus the place itself doesn't really matter, it could be anywhere).  I think something to work on is reconciling the contrasts that take up most of your verses (sunshine or rain, city or sticks, etc.) with the central theme, which seems for me to lose importance by only being mentioned once at the very end.  Perhaps it would be a stronger piece if anywhere was a running theme?

@ Sinitrena: I feel like a ghost whose mind has been messed with just trying to read your story!  The confusion is palpable as reality blurs with memory.  It's an interesting idea that ghosts who cling to a half-life also cling to memories like a person suffering from Alzheimers dementia.  You paint a hellish picture of someone confined within a frozen memory of life and the people who try to make his space their own, all the while making each other's "lives" completely miserable.  I'm not sure I got much closure from your final line: even if the people stopped moving in, the ghost still seems to be stuck in his rut. Overall it was an impactful story, if not enjoyable.

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As for questions about my story and the legality of bending the rules for the Raspberry Racing Romp, I think kind of like pod-racing the only rules are the law of the jungle.  But of course this could have been better explained in the story.... 

Just to clarify, we're back to open voting here in the thread, right?  (I.e. no secret ballot via PM).

Ah, helps to read the whole post. 

And... I'm assuming we contributors can just vote for the top two (as we ourselves would be, presumably, third place)?

[The Buzz About Rainbow Moon]

With a topic like ANYTHING my mind immediately went to My Little Pony, but I couldn't pull it off.      So here's a fairy yarn:

The Buzz About Rainbow Moon

   Rainbow Moon was not the prettiest fairy, which didn't help, and she wasn't the best with magic, which really didn't help.  She tried her best to put a brave face on these shortcomings, and she always learned from her mistakes, but somehow the fates always seemed to be stacked against her.  Try as she might, she never managed to make it far up the fiercely contested pecking order in Fairy Wood.  And thus her obsession with winning a Glitter Band.

   Her most recent run of bad-luck had started at the Dew Drop Dance, when her tight skirt had ripped up the backside as she was doing a particularly riské move.  How the other girls had laughed and giggled at her misfortune!  And then at the Midsummer Marvel Mash the grasshopper she had charmed made a complete ass of himself, bowling over the snack table and peeing in the punchbowl.  Rainbow Moon swore the other girls still made grasshopper chirping noises behind her back, but everytime she turned to catch them they were innocently prattling away to each other.  But the greatest indignity had happened last night....

   No, she would not allow herself to dwell on it.  Self-pity was like a target on one's back in Fairy Wood.  The other girls could smell the weakness, which would make their henpecking all the more viscous.  No, it was better to move on confidently.  Turn a setback into an opportunity.  She had a plan.  Sure, it reeked of desperation, but it was better than rolling over and accepting her fate of becoming the permanent butt of Fairy Wood jokes.  If she was going to go down, it would be on the race-track, not in the stands.

   But a Glitter Band - she almost salivated at the thought - a Glitter Band would solve all of her problems!  It was the ultimate status symbol, reserved only for the winners of the Raspberry Racing Romp.  Wearers of the Glitter Band demanded immediate respect, and it was the dream of every young flutter maiden to win one for herself.  If Rainbow Moon could pull off such a coup, despite her string of misfortune, then surely all would be forgiven.  There was just the little matter of beating out Fairy Wood's fastest and fittest in a battle of speed and wits.

   And that's what had brought Rainbow Moon here, to the starting ledge, in the pre-dawn twilight.  She shivered, despite the inappropriately luxurious fur coat she was wearing for the occasion.  It was glamorous, it was eye-catching, and it was vastly too heavy to be practical in a race.  But everything now depended on the sheer audacity of her plan.  She had to see it through, or all was lost.

   A tear came to her eye at the thought of loss.  Not losing the race, though that would be unfortunate - she had lost ten times before, after all.  It was a deeper loss that she mourned now.  How could she have been so stupid?!?  Scouting out the race course in the dead of night!  Carelessly she had flown right into a spider's web, and then there was a stark choice before her.  Either it was to be a slow death as a mummified monstrocity, slowly being drained of life by a sinister vampire, or it had to be a quick slice to the snared wings with her little pebble dagger.  She twitched the stumps of her wings under her coat sadly.  With charms and time they would grow back, but never as fast or as luxuriant as before.

   Which made her plan all the more foolhardy.  But now was not the time to change course.  Already the other competitors were arriving.  She could feel their eyes boring into her back, disdainfully dismissing her.  More and more fairy girls arrived, and there was laughter behind her, and the unmistakable chirping of a grasshopper, followed by louder laughter.  Rainbow Moon held her head high, letting the words roll off her like water droplets on a leaf.  She needn't have worried about them not noticing her.

   "I heard a rumour that somebody got themselves web-winged last night," said Twinkle Blossom, to the gasps of her snobbish circle.  There must have been some nodding in her direction, for soon she was swarmed by the entire racing contingent.  "Show us, show us!" they begged, giggling at the fun of it all.  Some were even so bold as to tug at her fur coat, but she clutched it tightly around herself as if to retain her last shred of dignity.  It was too soon yet, too soon....

   "Ladies!" came the sharp declaration from the Fairy Godmother that cut through the throng like a heron's beak through water.  "Take your positions!  You know that by tradition the Raspberry Racing Romp starts when the sun crests over the eastern hill!"  Rainbow Moon might be grateful for the respite, if not for the pitying sneer the Fairy Godmother gave her as she fluttered by. 

   The sky in the east was glowing pink, and the burst of dawn was nearly upon them.  The other girls spread out along the starting platform, preparing to make that all important first dash that often determined the order for the rest of the race.  Rainbow Moon squatted down and started weeping.

   "Oh, for the love of sunbeams...." the Fairy Godmother groaned, rolling her eyes.  Half the fairies on the starting line turned to look at Rainbow Moon.

   "It's true!" Rainbow Moon wailed, standing up, her face beat red, her mascara running down her cheeks.  "It's true that I got web-winged!  That's what you want to see, isn't it?  To see my little twitchy stumps that look more like squirrel eyelashes than fairy wings?  Well look all you want!"  All the fairies were now craning their necks to see, a morbid fascination overcoming their need to focus.

   And then Rainbow Moon dropped the fur coat over her shoulders, so that the rough-cut stumps of wings could be clearly seen by all.  A collective gasp went up through the crowd.  They would make fun of her in a moment or two, but for now each fairy cringed at the thought of losing her own wings. 

     Rainbow Moon let the shock set in.  Timing was everything now.  Too soon, and the shock would not have worn off.  Too late, and she would lose their attention.  The pink of the sky was so intense now - at any moment the blazing orange of the sun would burst over the eastern hill and the race would begin....

     "But I'm still here to race!" she continued proudly, stalling ever so slightly.  "That's why I've used my considerable magical talents to charm these!"  She dropped the fur coat to the ground now, revealing the two flies tethered to her belt.  There was a smirk from the crowd, and then a giggle.  Rainbow Moon said the command word, and the charmed flies began buzzing about manically on their tethers, and the very sight of this was so ridiculous that all the fairies burst out into uncontrollable fits of laughter.  They doubled over, they collapsed on each other, they wept for laughing so hard that they could barely breathe.

     "What a ditz!" Twinkle Blossom declared in an overly loud voice, and instantly all the fairy girls looked to the Fairy Godmother, for she would not tolerate such unladylike behaviour.  But the Fairy Godmother merely rolled her eyes and sighed.  "Perhaps she is," the Fairy Godmother said in her judgiest tone.  "But those flies carried that ditz off when the sun dawned two minutes ago, and the rest of you fools will have a hard time making that time up."

     It was a funny thing if you think about it, but no one laughed when Rainbow Moon won her Glitter Band.

I don't get the joke.  No wait, ha ha ha!  No wait, I still don't get it. 

The cute little toddler I used to push around in a stroller is in high school now.   

Cherry blossoms should definitely be the next topic.   

Congratulations everyone, but especially to Mandle! 

[@Stupot:]

It's them bots not voting!  Someone should invent a voting bot.... 

I've voted as well.  Comments concealed below because Mandle is fond of fig leaves.... 

Spoiler

@Stupot:

Short but sweet.  I liked the details (stupid automatic doors, think they're smarter than you!), and the mundane normality of the meeting at the cafe, complete with selfish thoughts as to why it would be a bother to meet with the push-cart woman.  The periodic twitches were particularly well woven into the fabric of the story.  But the best part was the big reveal at the end - what WAS Johanna doing when she zoned out all those times!?!

@ lapsking:

A bit fatalistic for my tastes, but I guess you're right that death inevitably gets its way in the end no matter how we dodge or plead or struggle.  From a technical perspective the rhymes work well but the meter is all over the place, which somewhat detracts from the effect.  There are a few awkward wordings to make the rhymes work (e.g. putting the subject and verb at the end of a sentence), and there are minor tense issues ("Never thought" usually uses the conditional tense - i.e. "would":  so "Never thought they'd be death's doomed prey", etc.).  It's always hard to compare poetry to prose in a writing competition, but I feel more attention to technical details would really improve this poem.

@Mandle:

Double crosses, triple crosses, my head is spinning faster than Bastone's little terrier legs on a freshly waxed floor!  I liked the writing (your "pulling the steel" line was great, but your "nose to lack-of-nose" line was priceless).  The end just threw me though, possibly because you used "new master" and "warm deep tones of his beloved master's voice" together in the last chapter.  Was Vito playing the players as the shadowy IMF Director?!?  Or was the director of the IMF actually the grim reaper - which raises all kinds of other questions?!?  If the axiom "always leave them wondering" applies to writing competitions, then you sir have done your work well!   

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Hey peeps, long time no ready.  Sorry about dropping off the face of the Earth, but I've been travelling with kids which entails both patchy wifi and zero me-time.  But we're back home now, so I whipped up a little something for the comp.  It was kinda going in three directions at once, which basically just tears the plot apart at the seams since I have zero editing time (you've been warned, Sini!  ).  Enjoy!

A Grim Task

     Decimus carefully straddled the highway.  He kept the newly risen sun to his back, so that its glare would not distract him from his task.  Towering fifty feet over the surface of the asphalt he would have cast an impressive shadow, but he was not truly part of this world of life and matter, and so he left no trace of his presence.  Only his sickle could interact with the world around him, and that only in a limited capacity.  Basically it cut a temporary hole between this world and the next, to let the spent souls through.  Simple stuff, really.

But there was nothing simple about Decimus’ technique.  He was Reaper First Class, winner of the Best Harvester award in his division fifteen years running.  For most reapings he was more efficient - his expertise was in harvesting on the fly without even slowing down.  But this one was special.  Not the soul of course - Frank Whatshisface who was late for work couldn’t stir up excitement if he had a cake-mixer grafted onto the end of his arm - no, not the soul.  It was the number that was exciting: this was Decimus’ ten-thousandth soul!  As such, he intended to make it memorable.

Unfortunately it wasn’t going to be rockstar memorable, or political assassination memorable.  Those were always fun, but you couldn’t help the order that souls' times ran out.  It was a part of the job to work the list you were given.  But the manner of the harvesting - that was left entirely up to the discretion of the reaper at the scene.  And this one was going to be spectacular!

Decimus squinted into the distance and spied Frank coming over the hill about a mile distant.  He was speeding down the highway as fast as his old Buick Regal would take him, swerving across the centre line as he tried to simultaneously shave and eat his donut breakfast, all while he drove into the blinding brightness of the rising sun. 

Decimus’ skull-like face cracked into a wicked grin.  He inverted his grip on his sickle so that he held it as a golfer might hold his club.  He did a few practice strokes, as he had seen middle-aged men do on the golf course right before they dropped dead.  He moved the sickle up to the centre line of the road, then carefully drew it back to let Exotic Dancing Rhonda drive past on her way home from the night shift.  Another practice swing up to the centre line of the road, and then the sickle was again drawn back, allowing Super Dad Jerry and his two-year-old son to make it to day care on time.  Decimus allowed the sickle to fall once more to the centre line of the road, before drawing it back for the last time.  Frank hurtled towards him, choking as he spilled coffee on his pudgy lap.  He screamed as he approached the invisible tunnel beneath Decimus’ legs….

…And then Decimus swung.  Frank’s soul was mercifully sliced from his body just as the Buick Regal flipped into the air, sailing over Hungover Steve’s pizza delivery van (by a remarkable coincidence he’d be seeing Steve again next month on this same stretch of roadway) before caroming off the highway and wrapping itself like a pretzel around a telephone pole.

It was a moment of pure glory for Decimus.  He felt like he closed his eyes to savour the feeling of accomplishment, except that his skull-like face lacked both eyes and the means to close them.  But how else to explain how the world faded to total blackness?

*   *   *   *   *

   Decimus awoke with a start.  “The fuck?!?” he muttered, shaking his cloudy head.  “Did you… did you just harvest me?!?”

   There were howls of laughter from around what Decimus realised was the office.  The entire division hooted and hollered from their desks.  His boss, Captain Scarabus, cracked a large smile and slapped him on the back, making the vertebrae inside his cowled-gown ring like xylophone keys.  “All right you numb-skulls, back to work!” he shouted.  “Decimus, I need to see you in my office.”

Decimus still felt a little unsteady, as if his soul were not put back in its proper orientation, but he tried his best to hide it as he followed his Captain past his still chuckling colleagues.  He was grateful having reached the office to have the opportunity to sit down across from the Captain’s desk.

“Ten thousand souls!” the Captain congratulated him.  “That’s quite an accomplishment, especially for a reaper of your years.  You should be very proud!”

“Thank you, sir,” Decimus nodded graciously.  “I strive to do my best.”

“I know, I know…” the Captain trailed off.  “That’s why I’m promoting you.”

“Sir?”

   â€œYou’ve done good things for this division, numbers wise.  It’s great, it’s really great.  But I’m catching a lot of heat these days about leakage - do you know what that is, son?”

   Decimus had a vague recollection from back in basic training.  “Something to do with souls that aren’t ready to let go?  Don’t they float around as ghosts until they finally make their peace?”

“Precisely,” Captain Scarabus nodded.  “It’s the latest vogue, reducing leakage rates.  And I’m sorry to say our division’s leakage numbers are dismal.  That’s why I’m reassigning you.”

   â€œWait, what?”

   â€œI think I was pretty clear,” the Captain said, suddenly quite serious.  “As of this moment, you’re plugging leaks for us.  Your first case is Sally the Cheerleader Wannabe.  Slit her own wrists in the bath-tub a month ago.  Since then she’s haunted the high school girl’s changeroom.  Your job is to bring her in.”

   Decimus felt like he was going to vomit, and this time he was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the prank his colleagues had played on him.  “Sir,” he started, “I’m not much good with this touchy feely stuff….”

Captain Scarabus just shook his head.  “Look around you, son.  We’re all heartless sons-of-bitches here - reapers are trained to be ruthless killers, after all!  But we all gotta move with the times, and you’re the best I’ve got.  Now get down there and convince Sally to give up the ghost.  We’re counting on you!”

   *   *   *   *   *
   Decimus gritted his teeth.  He didn’t so much mind shrinking down to mortal size - he did that plenty to get those hard to reach souls down in parking garages or stuck in water slide tubes.  Nor did he so much mind the crowding, like cattle in an abattoir pen - he’d worked Travis Scott concerts, after all.  No, it was the grim, prison-like sense of hopelessness in the highschool hallways as the third period bell rang that really stuck in his craw.

   â€œPoor kids…” Decimus muttered as Brady the Washroom Comic Drawer passed right through him, shuddering.  Brady was followed by Gloria the Whippit Queen and Dayna the Cat Lady in Training, who also both shuddered as they passed through Decimus’ invisible body.  Then it was Morris the Clammy Creepy Guy who passed through, but this time it was Decimus’ turn to shudder.   Some of the students at this school were into some weird, weird shit!

   â€œOK, you can do this,” Decimus said to himself, superfluously taking a deep breath to calm his nerveless bones.  “Let’s see…. Second floor, third hallway to the right, fifth door to the left…”  Alas, he ended up in an American history lecture where he was truly sorry that he couldn’t reap the students’ souls and save them the agony of living through it.  Decimus retraced his steps but managed to accidentally scare the wits out of an art teacher who was particularly attuned to the occult.  He got turned around again in the science hallway and received two weeks’ detention from the ghost of a die-hard vice-principal before finally finding the girl’s change room.

   â€œRight,” Decimus said, cracking his neck bones and getting his scythe ready.  “This is it.  Go time!  I’m just gonna march in there and set that ghostly teen drama queen straight.  I’m gonna make her see reason.  This is going to be an after-life altering moment!”  He was about to open the door when he overheard two girls inside swapping yeast-infection horror stories.  Decimus paused.

   Two hours later he was still hiding in the bushes out behind the sports field with Dale the Pot Head and Jimmy Day Drunk swapping incoherent stories.  Decimus was pretty sure they couldn’t hear him complaining, but the thread of conversation was bizarre enough that he couldn’t quite tell.  “Honestly, I don’t know the first thing about girl-drama,” he confessed, his head spinning from the psychedelic clouds wafting off of Dale.  “Sometimes I think I try so hard because deep down, I feel like I’m really just a failure trying to fake it till I make it.”

   â€œIt’s like a pig’s gotta wallow, man!”  Jimmy Day Drunk replied, swaying distressingly far to his right.

   â€œJelly bean,” Dale the Pot Head agreed.

   â€œDo you know what?” Decimus said, taking up his scythe again.  “I am going to march right into that girls’ change room.  Sure, it might be a warren of awkward feelings and body angst and disturbingly rancid smells considering that no one has died in there recently, but dammit I’ve got a job to do!  And there’s a young lady-ghost down there who needs me, whether she realizes it or not, despite her weird hang-ups and petty rivalries and obsession with Tik Tok and morbid fear of processed meat and her sixth toe that disturbingly haunts her beyond the grave in tiny toe-ghost form!  Wish me luck, boys, ‘cause I’m going in!”

   â€œAztec dance party, man,” Jimmy Day Drunk said, raising his hand to salute Decimus.

   And that’s how Gormanville High got its twenty-third ghost, who haunted the hallway outside the girl’s change room (except when the vigilant ghost of vice-principal Henworth was patrolling that particular hallway).  The students would shudder as they passed through him on their way to and fro on their busy schedules, but no more so than they would when the morbidly obese Mrs. Chaucy would council them into imagining everybody in their underwear when public speaking.  Indeed, Decimus fit in pretty well, especially during awkward student dances and at the anti-anorexia club.  As time passed and he slowly forgot his life outside the institutional bleakness of the education system, Decimus began to enjoy his role as a provoker of additional anxiety.  But for all that, he sadly never did work up the nerve to meet the ghost of Sally the Cheerleader Wannabe.

Wait, you didn't accept my 6 word submission? 

Yeah, sorry, we're travelling and I just couldn't squeeze out the time.  I'll be sure to vote, though! 

Whisper whisper extension! Whisper whisper whisper....