The Sad Tale of Cyprus Smith
Laugh
Falswal's Towel
Mr. Ji Goes For a Walk in the Park
Dinner with Mom
Flaming
Zombie
The Melancholy Hector Malton
Eustace and the Sun
A Tale of Eyeball Squishery

The Sad Tale of Cyprus Smith

Cyprus Smith saw the whole world in green. Everything he saw was green. Show him a purple shirt, and he'd say it was green. Show him a blue house, and he'd say it was green. Show him a red light, he'd say it was green. Cyprus was a terrible driver.

One might think this would make Cyprus a very green-minded individual; one might expect him to be very concerned about the environment. But he wasn't, of course, because everywhere he looked he thought he saw thriving plant life. But he lived in the city, in which there were very few plants. Nevertheless, Cyprus assumed everyone was complaining about nothing.

One day Cyprus was busy littering in the local mall. Abruptly, a crazy man ran out of the dynamite store with forty-seven green sticks strapped to his chest and a green digital timer ticking off three green minutes.

"You're all going to blow up!" he said in a particularly green-sounding French accent. A mall security guard threateningly brandished his walkie-talkie, the only item on his person. The Frenchman dropped dead from the sheer terror of facing off against the guard. The guard dropped too, fainting from both the excitement level and the exertion of lifting his walkie-talkie. Everyone else in the mall scattered away from the bodies, leaving only Cyprus to squint uncomfortably at the still-active bomb attached to the damp-crotched corpse.

He dialed the police on his cell phone while crouching over the timer. He got through to a man who told him how to remove the cover. The officer then instructed him in how to fashion a wire-cutter out of the ballpoint pen Cyprus had handy. Cyprus was as agreeable as he felt he had to be to survive until dinnertime.

The policeman told him to snip the green wire. "Whatever you do," he warned, "don't cut the red wire!"

"But officer, they're all green!" Cyprus exclaimed desperately.

"Then cut any one of them. It doesn't matter which one."

Cyprus did so, and promptly blew up.

Ironically, every one of the wires was actually green. Even more ironically, the colour Cyprus had always assumed to be green was actually red.

Laugh

I began to let my pen do a dance through my fingers, twirling and flipping for its own amusement. I eventually held it in one place and began to bounce it, so that the pencil, see-sawing between my fingers, resembled a flickering bow tie.

The image struck my brain of it being released, flying up to my teacher's face, and puncturing her eye, and she running screaming from the room. She didn't deserve that, of course, but the thought nevertheless sent swells of laughter rising up my throat. I began to shake with the effort of restraining myself. I was like one of those pitiful washing machines that hops all around like it has to pee. As this continued, I realised I could not last much longer before losing it. I stiffened my body to make the nervous shaking less overt, but succeeded only in shrinking my shudders into a million tiny vibrations.

I felt it rise, and seized up totally at a point when my fingers were in exactly the wrong position. The pencil was released, it flew up to my teacher's face, and straight into not her eye but her nose.

When she pulled it out, she had the Niagra Falls of nosebleeds. It was just then that, horrified though I was, the laugh escaped. As my teacher painted the floor in B positive, I exploded into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, the entire class stunned out of their minds. Shortly the teacher, pacing back and forth in a daze, slipped upon her own blood and fell to the floor. I laughed harder, until my vision dimmed and I discovered I had not breathed in over a minute. I joined her on the floor, slowly giggling myself to death and cursing myself for having been so bored.

Falswal's Towel

Maybe Falswal deserved what came to him. Maybe his karmic punishment was too harsh. These are not matters for any mortal to decide. It cannot even be said if the world improved, that fateful day when his luck suddenly turned.

The problems didn't really begin until the day prior, when Falswal insisted that his bastard son build his model airplanes in the bathroom sink, so the rest of the house wouldn't be destroyed by the clumsy boy's hobby. The horrid child apparently left his model glue out on the bathroom counter when he finished.

Ever since poor parenting had driven the boy to revolt and throw acid in his father's face, Falswal had dealt with the need to apply in great amounts before bed a very expensive lotion, to keep his face from falling off. This was left beside the sink, directly where the model glue now sat.

It wasn't until he had squeezed the glue over his whole face that Falswal realized what it was. With unthinking urgency, he grabbed a towel and tried to rub off the unwanted adhesive. This was not a particularly clever move on Falswal's part. The towel stuck instantly.

Shortly after this horrifying facial alteration, Falswal's life fell apart somewhat. The towel would not come off, though he tried everything. It had apparently fused with his flesh.

He could no longer be taken seriously in his job (selling towels, ironically enough). Falswal's sanity began to deteriorate over the following weeks. He was able to survive by cutting holes for his mouth and nostrils, but initial attempts were painful enough that he didn't pursue eyeholes. People would laugh at him wherever he went. Finally he cracked, and went quite thoroughly insane. He paraded all throughout the neighborhood, blasting on kazoo his masterpiece composition, "I've Got A Towel Glued To My Face, in C Major."

Falswal's son was so embarrassed at his mad father's actions that he threw another bucket of acid on him. Remarkably, the only damage it did was to burn the towel off. From that day forth, Falswal loved his son very much.

Mr. Ji Goes For a Walk in The Park

Mr. Ji thought he'd go for a nice walk in the park. When he arrived there he was pleased to see that it was completely immaculate; not a scrap of garbage could be seen. That made Mr. Ji happy.

Mr. Ji finished his Ice Cappuccino Double Latte Hot Chocolate, and couldn't bear to throw it on the ground, so he thought he'd put it in a garbage can. He saw a garbage can, so he put his cup in it. He noticed that the garbage can was bolted to the ground, so no one would steal it. That made Mr. Ji sad.

Mr. Ji sat on a bench, because he was tired. The bench was bolted to the ground, so no one would steal it. When he wasn't tired anymore, Mr. Ji got up from the bench.

He walked a little further through the park, and stopped to examine a tree. It was a very pretty tree. It was tall and sturdy, with big green leaves, and it was bolted to the ground. Mr. Ji couldn't understand why someone would steal a tree, but the adjacent treeless park was proof of the need for bolting.

Mr. Ji came to a second bench, and sat on it because he was tired again. There where pigeons all around, so he pulled out a bag of bread crumbs to feed them. He threw a few handfuls, but curiously they did not try to eat them. It was then that Mr. Ji realized the pigeons were all bolted to the ground. That made Mr. Ji sad.

Dinner with Mom

Esquando shifted uncomfortably in his beige plastic chair.

"I really like your daughter, Mrs. T," he said with false cheerfulness. She continued to squint suspiciously at him. He subtly made some quick movements, but elicited no response in her eyes. Hoping she might be dead, or at least too far removed to notice, he draped himself across the dinner table and whispered to his girlfriend.

"There are ripples on the top of my soup! I certainly haven't touched it, not with that oily film. I think there's something yodeling in it, and by yodeling I mean swimming."

"I know my mother's not the best cook, and by cook I mean yodeler, but try to eat it anyway. She's very sensitive -- you wouldn't want to hurt her feelings," Melindra whispered back.

Esquando nodded and retracted back to his seat, all the while acutely aware of the woman's penetrating gaze. He lifted the spoon to his lips and pushed it into his mouth. Still stubbornly shut, his lips forced most of the broth to dribble down his chin. Regardless, he found it difficult to belay his brain's order to gag. The effort was not made easier when a small minnow jumped out of his bowl onto his place mat, where it futilely flopped around for a few moments before dying. Esquando envied it.

"That's a marvelous painting," he commented as he indicated the far wall. As Melindra and her mother turned around, the latter with extreme caution, he grabbed his soup bowl and poured it into Melindra's. The other two turned back, having confirmed the odd fact that there was no painting on the far wall, and Melindra examined the soup overflow now cascading off the table onto her lap. Esquando fumbled to explain his comment concerning the absent painting.

"My mistake," he said innocently, "I guess that was just the wallpaper I was looking at. It's very nice, though. I like the... colour balance. It's very... appealing... with the... dots... and... the other dots. It lends a very... polka... texture... to the... visual... landscape. Quite a fascinating design." He checked his watch. "Goodness me! It's 6:15! We'd better leave now if we want to make it to the nine o'clock show, Melly."

Once they were outside the house, Melindra hugged him playfully.

"Just think about it, Esquando! Maybe one day you'll be calling her Mom!"

Esquando shuddered with gusto.

Flaming

The executives assembled shortly after lunch. President Quiggly sat at the head of the table and examined his board of directors with a forlorn look on his face.

"Okay, folks," he said after everyone had quieted down, "It's time to be entirely honest with one another -- I'm on fire."

It was true. He was on fire. Had been for some time. No one had really said anything.

"We're going to have to face the very real possibility that before long there won't be any of me left to run this company! I'll be all burned up! We need to decide now upon a new leader to take my place." Lubrough raised his hand.

"I'd like to volunteer for the position!" he excitedly blurted out. Bonworth frowned and shot up his own arm.

"Mr. Quiggly," he whined, "I'd like to point out that Lubrough is also on fire."

There were nods of agreement from all. Quiggly looked distressed.

"Well, we need someone to do it! Who can it be?"

Kraufthaussen appeared to be in a state of deep thought. She slowly put up her hand.

"Sir, I'd like to suggest something radical. What if... we put out the fires?" There were rumblings of discontent from everyone. The president shook his head in disapproval.

"Oh no, I don't think we can do that. That just wouldn't be right. Besides, how can we knowingly take the advice of someone who has two dozen leeches attached to her face and neck?"

No one had a good answer for that. Proposals continued to be forwarded all afternoon, but none were acceptable, so there was much flaming, melting, festering, and being eaten, and no work got done and everyone had a really lousy time.

Zombie

I first began to suspect my friend had become a zombie shortly after he ripped off my leg and started to bludgeon me with it. It must be made perfectly clear that this was by no means normal behaviour for Sam (which was his name), so I was understandably concerned.

I felt my main priority was to get the leg back, but he seemed to have grown rather attached to it. He was trying very hard to tenderize me with the limb, and was succeeding fairly well in his endeavour. He seemed especially fond of pummeling me about the head. I think he wanted my brain.

Attempts to reason with Sam (which rhymes with "ham") proved to be entirely ineffective, as I'm sure is often the case with zombies. For the first time in my life I saw the downside of insisting on wearing steel toed boots, as my own shoe was now causing my right ear to fall off.

The Melancholy Hector Malton

Those were bad days for the Maltons.

Things started going downhill after Hector quit his job at the office to become a freelance writer. Before long he learned that his skill was not all he had judged it to be. He now stared at his typewriter all day, still wearing the crinkled suit he had on the day he triumphantly came home and announced that sunny days were here to stay. His once white shirt was encrusted with the dried drool of many nights spent sleeping in his writing chair, in his new writing room, too exhausted to haul himself toward bed at midnight. Mostly it was out of a reluctance to crawl in beside Beatrice, who had become increasingly erratic since the money ran out. Though to call him content would not be appropriate, he was willing to remain in the tiny study if it meant he could avoid the terrorizing yells of his wife.

On a dreary Friday night, the house was assembled much as it usually was. Hector woke with a start. He suspected that some or all of the components of the sandwich he had eaten before dozing off had gone bad, probably to a point just short of gaining intelligence. He was drawn to the bathroom, and thanked every god he knew that it wasn't occupied. Several unpleasant bodily functions later he emerged into the decrepit hallway of their home. He pushed aside Billy's toys as he made his way to the living room.

Beatrice was passed out on the floor, a bottle of rotgut clenched in her hand. Billy sat on the couch and gazed intently into a bright table lamp while blinking rapidly, with the apparent goal of giving himself a seizure. Hector sighed before pulling him away from the light and sitting him in front of the television. Billy looked longingly at the lamp but Hector gave him a stern look, so he pretended to watch Seinfeld.

The door flew open and Wayne strode in, looking fatigued and paranoid. He'd been stalking Betty-Sue again. He retreated to his bedroom to continue formulating his plan for saying hello to her at school on Monday. Hector shook his head.

"I'm going for a walk," he said to no one in particular.

It was around nine o'clock when Hector exited the house in his ragged trenchcoat. There was an apathetic haze that hung over the poorly paved side street, and it made Hector inexplicably depressed. This was the time of year when the seasons uncomfortably shift from winter to spring, when the worst parts of both blend into one miserable mess. Clumps of dirty snow clung tenaciously to the sides of the road, and puddles of slush chameleonned themselves among the rest of the ground. Hector stomped straight through them without a second thought, overcome by the desire to get away.

It was not until he was in the centre of town that he realized how long he'd been walking. It was almost eleven, and in the back of his head he thought that he should make his way back home before the crazies came out, but his caution was overrode by what he saw. Down the alley between the dry cleaner's and pizzeria there was a door half open, where smoke wafted out into the night air. The sounds of quiet conversation also reached him, and his curiousity won out over the part of his brain that was still screaming warnings to him. Hector approached the door and peeked his head in.

Four fat men were sitting equidistant to one another around a circular table, engaged in a game of cards. One of them looked up and noticed Hector.

"What, you wanna play?" he said. Hector was terrible with accents, but he thought the man sounded Italian. He looked back up the alley to the empty street, but whatever he was looking for he didn't find. He turned back to the men.

"Uh, sure."

He pulled out of his pocket a crumpled ball of bills that was sneered at but accepted in exchange for some chips. The four men seemed amused in a way that should have triggered his alarms, but those were still apparently not functioning. He was dealt a hand and it wasn't until he began to examine it that he recalled suddenly that he didn't know how to play poker. He had all red cards and no diamonds, which was mildly heartening. There was a 10, a J, a Q, a K, and an A. Hector wondered what these were intended to represent. It was not as straightforward as he'd hoped.

"Are you in?" loudly penetrated his thoughts, and he caught on that he was somewhat behind the game. He panicked and threw all his chips into the middle, then silently cursed himself for being such an idiot.

The other players seemed slightly impressed. His wager was matched and his hand was called.

With trembling hands, he placed his cards down on the table, where they were soon joined by the four players' jaws. They looked at him, back at the cards, and then back to him, rendered completely speechless. With considerable effort, the one who had invited him in spoke.

"You try to cheat in our game, and you think we're going to take it?"

Hector emitted a peculiar whimper.

In retrospect he understood that he should be grateful to still have his life, but Hector always remained annoyed at the sidewalk for removing his favorite tooth. He knew he should also be happy that they only threw him as far as the sidewalk and not onto the road, but the biker that woke him up the next morning with some chiropractic assistance made him forget about small favours. Over several hours he crawled home, where a week later he inadvertently wrote The Great American Novel while cleaning the crap out of his typewriter keys. They lived happily ever after, until Billy's untimely seizure.

Eustace and the Sun

Young Eustace didn't like the sun. Frankly he was at a loss as to why so many people saw fit to worship it with such devotion. It's a big ball of fire, so what? That's what he'd say.

Besides, it's too hot most of the time. It makes you sweat, and gives you burns, and leaves you tired at the end of the day. None of that for Eustace. No sir.

One day, his mother insisted he do yard work. After all, his big brother always used to do yard work. Why can't you be more like Esquando? That's what his mother would say, when she was so inclined.

So as he turned away from the locked front door he surveyed the tasks ahead of him, and looked up at the ominous harbinger of burnage. He worked all morning, until at noon, when the sun was at its zenith, he collapsed on his back in exhaustion. He lay there asleep for much of the day, soaking in the sun's sinister rays. It was good he'd slathered on a thick coating of sunscreen, as he did every morning, or there might have been disastrous results. As it was, but one overlooked area had disaster.

When he later removed his V-neck shirt, Eustace gazed in horror upon the blackened triangle that adorned his chest. It was indescribably crispy, and the very movement of air over it caused him great discomfort. Ouch. That's what he said.

For weeks he could only wear pants, so great was the pain. He would lie over the covers of his bed all day, as any motion would cause the surrounding skin to shift. A container of aloe cream sat reassuringly on his dresser; the nearest point to the wound that wouldn't cause screamworthy pain. It was not a pleasant summer for Eustace.

Then one day, not to be confused with the one day previously mentioned, he noticed that a corner of the triangle had lifted. His curiosity won out and he stuck his finger under the flap. With a tentative tug he found he could pull it off further. He tugged again and pulled more off. He did it again, and again, and again. Soon he was peeling away his skin as fast as he could, not even caring about how much it hurt. He let out a delighted laugh, and he wanted to throw off his clothes and dance in the sun, so he could burn his body all over. Then he'd do it again.

A Tale of Eyeball Squishery

I lay in my bed contemplating the benefits of getting up for the day. Eventually I resolved that I would do so just after a cleansing face rubbing (the slow kind that ends with the person's fingertips clinging to either side of a mouth which is hanging open, and their skin apparently frozen while sliding off their face).

I began by massaging my forehead relaxingly, then ran my hands down with the thumbs leading. I quickly knew something had gone wrong. I had pressed too hard, and now my right thumb passed the event horizon. It plummeted down the slope that surrounded my eye socket, then pressed the gelatinous orb halfway into my skull. I released a primal scream as it hit my brain and deformed.

Before long I was huddled in the fetal position, praying to God that it would reshape and pop back into place.

It did.

He Dreamt of a Monkey
A Hundred Stones
Smile Sincere
He Dreamt of a Needle
Hair
He Dreamt of Dust

He Dreamt of a Monkey

He'd been spending much of the day debating quite what made him feel so seperate from the world. It was something that had plagued him for some time -- a distinct sense of detachment. As he drifted to sleep he could not escape a paranoid feeling of isolation.

He dreamt crazy dreams.

It was a manner of amusement park he had never imagined before. It was a zoo of sorts, except that there appeared to be no cages of any kind. Visitors walked freely among the animals, enjoying the mysteriously entertaining sight of big furry things moving around.

There was a monkey, or maybe a small gorilla -- he wasn't inclined to figure it out. A crowd surrounded the animal, pointing at its ridiculous monkey-ness and occasionally tossing it bananas. The black-spotted fruit bounced weakly off his body, and he appeared too lethargic to make any effort to shield his head. Occasionally a banana would burst on striking the monkey's face, leaving a smear of light yellow mush.

It was without any thought or hesitation that he approached the creature and began to speak to it. He did so not in the way one speaks to a poodle or obnoxious fly, but as one would speak to a person. And the surprising thing was that the monkey's eyes suddenly seemed alight with comprehension.

He asked the monkey how he was feeling, and received a depressed shrug. He pointed to a toy guitar placed in the monkey's area in the hopes he would hold it for amusing photo opportunities, asked if the monkey knew how to play it, and the monkey emphatically shook his head. The connection was instant and sincere.

Everyone appeared to consider him insane.

And there were no more dreams.

A Hundred Stones

The monk's English was much better than James had expected, and that made him a little more comfortable. The only thing he hadn't liked in his travels was the uncomfortable feeling that arose during exchanges, when he and the other both realised they were on totally different wavelengths, trying to express different things. At least this man had a strong enough command of the language to converse with James at a level from which they could work out confusions.

The walls seemed ancient. James knew they could only be a few hundred years old, at the most, but the whole monastery seemed to radiate a sense of immense weight. It was probably because of the silence -- which seemed infinitely loud in comparison to the sickly truck that had carried him as near as the dirt road went to his destination.

As he was led through the halls James thought he caught a glimpse of a few fellow Americans, but they were almost unrecognizable. Their red robes and hoods had nothing to do with this. It was their faces, really -- their eyes. There was not a trace of ego in them. Where once there might have been brash arrogance, there was now only silent solitude. No one else was speaking, and James felt like he was committing a sin for even hearing the whispered words of his guide.

Eventually they came to a small room in the heart of the building. James suddenly noticed he was still carrying his ratty backpack, and wished he had left it with his shoes at the door. The monk seemed to understand right away, and he took it off the traveler's hands and left.

James kneeled before the circular pool and peered into it, then tossed in one of the carved stones placed at the edge. The shallow water rippled outward. When the tiny waves hit the edge, they came back and quietly collided with the oncoming current. Before long there was no hint of pattern to the churning, and James had to strain to see any detail in the disturbance. The surface of the water began to see-saw -- up on one end and down on the other. He was pulled to one point of the scene, the water rising up. Falling down. Up. And down. And the flickering reflection of the candle light began to take form as the pure liquid harmonized into a steady rocking. In and out. In and out. And the flames burning, and the image swirling, and every sound was enormous. The room was so loud. The world was so loud. The fire was hot. In and out. The sound -- what was it? There was crackling, and the water was too thick to move through.

Heavy. It was very heavy. James found he couldn't move. He couldn't drag his limbs forward, through the water, to go anywhere. It was getting hotter, but there was still nowhere to go. James looked down and understood, seeing the beam across his torso. Nothing he could do would move it. He tried to scream, but the roar of the fire was too loud for anyone to hear him, even if they were near. It was all so bright, and then painfully very dark. And that was all.

The monk returned and grasped James' hand, gently helping him up and leading him out of the chamber. Still thoroughly dazed, James turned his head back towards the pool, but with a small hand the monk guided his gaze back ahead. The others were watching him now. James looked into the eyes of each one of them, and saw a hundred deaths; he understood.

Smile Sincere

We needed to change after that. There wasn't any choice involved -- if we didn't change, well... I'd rather not think about that.

It was like everything that we'd believed to be true... was wrong. Just like that. And of course, there was no warning. It came out of nowhere. Like they say: when we least expected it.

And everyone wanted to blame someone else -- no, everyone else -- but felt intuitively that it was their own fault, and their fault alone. I know that's what passed through my mind. But I think when you really get down to the core, we all had a part in it. Every last one of us. Not a small part, but a very large, important part. And if there was just one, maybe two people, I'm sure she could have managed. She would have managed. But from all sides at once was too much, and now...

They made us talk, one by one, to a man who came in.

His forehead was deeply creased, and his eyes tired, but he had a very convincing smile. That must have been why they chose him. He seemed sincere, and didn't deny how scarred he was. Not physically, but in his heart. Or... scarred doesn't sound right. Fatigued is the best word, I guess. He'd known a lot.

Even when they felt he had fulfilled his purpose, we convinced them to let him stay for at least a few more days. And it got to a point where it wasn't about feeling better than bad anymore. It was just about feeling better. And when it was over, when he had left... we had changed.

He Dreamt of a Needle

He stared at the note in his hands, shocked at what it said. He couldn't really believe it. He'd set out to make a friend, and somehow he'd made an enemy instead. Perhaps the result wasn't that surprising -- he'd said some unpleasant things -- but he'd thought those things had to be said if friendship would ever be an option. But the viciousness (and maybe veracity) of the words was on a scale he hadn't expected. He had been trying to clear his mind of everything that plagued it. It was obvious that he wouldn't have a clear mind for a long time. He took a moment to write an apologetic response, though he knew it was hopeless.

That night he dreamt crazy dreams.

He was addicted to something. Something that he always believed would make him feel gloriously good, but never did. He wasn't sure whether or not he was allowed to have this, but his drive didn't care. Resting on the nearby table was the needle. He grabbed it urgently, and in his haste it was crushed completely. To his dismay he saw that it was made of paper. He looked at the crumpled needle and cried. He could not have what he needed. It was more fragile than he had thought. He began to cry.

In desperation he looked around for a replacement -- anything would do. He found a dull galvanized nail hiding in a corner. It was his only option.

Sitting down back at the table, he pressed it to his inner wrist, and found it slipped into the flesh with barely any pressure. There was no pain, so he drove it in further until he hit the vein. When he withdrew the nail again he saw it remained the dull blue-grey. There was no blood.

He produced the vial from where he it stashed in his pocket, and took the cap off with trembling hands. The hole in his arm was as wide as a thick pencil lead, but he had to calm himself to get any of the misty liquid into it. He poured slowly, and felt nothing as it flowed into his body.

Without any pain or blood, he saw no need to dress his self inflicted wound. Thus he left it as it was. Weeks passed, and it would not heal. It began to collect dirt, and was soon clogged with horrible things. He was repulsed at himself, looking at the disgusting mark and the shadow that traveled down his wrist. He had not taken what he needed since he'd made that hole, but he refused to. He was too horrified by what had happened. The need was a distant ache in the back of his head, and he could suffer his way through it. So distracted was he by his marred arm, he didn't notice until much later that the need had gone. The day after he realized that, his wound emptied, and sealed overnight.

When he awoke at 2:00 in the morning, he was strangely tranquil. That was odd, after all that had just passed through his head. In fact, he felt happy. He fell back asleep quickly. There were no more dreams.

Hair

Milo stared at the floor despondently, overcome by the silence that pervaded everything. He missed his wife desperately. She'd been gone for almost a month now, caring for her ailing mother in California. Milo had stayed home to run the barbershop that they operated out of their aging home. He stood now in the front room, mustering the energy to turn on the light and start sweeping. He didn't know how late it was, but the whole house was dark. Only the moonlight streaming in through the windows illuminated the small room, and its single antique chair positioned before the ornate mirror. Most of the city was already asleep.

Milo sluggishly hit the switch on the wall and an unfriendly fluorescent glow stuttered into existence. He grabbed the push broom and began to round up the few hairs that littered the linoleum, muttering about how few people had been coming by lately. It made him wonder if they only came because of his wife's charm. He had always thought that his unassuming friendliness had been what brought out such loyalty in his regulars. Perhaps he was mistaken.

When he was satisfied with the pile he'd made, he took the dustpan off the hook and slid it through the hair. It squeaked loudly as it moved over the floor, shattering the odd calm.

He was tired, and finally gave in to his fatigue, climbing the long staircase up to the second floor. Entering his room and getting into the depressingly empty bed, Milo prayed he would fall asleep sooner than he had been recently. He did, but drifted into a disturbed sleep devoid of dreams. He tossed and turned for many hours, before waking with a start to a sound downstairs.

It was the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Someone was pacing back and forth on the porch, the old boards calling a warning up to the now fully awake Milo. He clutched his bed sheets, unable to move. The steps had now stopped.

With a caution fed by growing fear, Milo put on his robe and searched his room for anything that might be used as a weapon. Finding only his humble guitar, Milo gripped it around the neck and feebly raised it into the air. He was getting old enough that he could barely hold it in such a position, let alone swing it with any great force. He knew this, but it made him feel just a small bit safer as he made his way down to the door. To either side of it were large picture windows, with the wispy curtains drawn back to give a full view of their quaint garden and the darkened road beyond.

Milo's eyes searched the veranda from inside for any sign of who had made the sound. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark. When they finally did, something seized his heart -- he could see the vague outline of a figure in the furthest corner of the porch, pressed against the square column. There was a moment of mutual understanding between Milo and the hidden intruder, when they both knew the other saw them. Milo could scarcely breathe. Looking as he was for any movement from his evident opponent, Milo saw that he was minutely swaying, almost sickly. A moment later the shadow started to enlarge and Milo knew he was approaching the window. As he stepped into the moonlight, Milo gasped in fear.

He was huge, taller than most men and lanky but muscular. He did not yet have a considerable beard, though he had clearly not shaved in many days. His hair was a tangled mess, erratically pointing in all directions. These features were not what scared Milo. It was the man's face. His eyes sparkled like a mad man's, and his mouth bore a manic grin. With disbelieving horror, Milo's hands let the guitar crash to the floor as he began to back away from the window that the man was now almost touching. Seeing the back door as his best option, Milo turned and barreled down the hall as fast as he could, away from the man, not looking back at all. The old timer wheezed and coughed as he tried to move faster than his body would allow.

He slowed when he passed into the kitchen and looked through the door, for the powers of youth and insanity had let his tormentor arrive at the back first. The man did not waste time now and smashed through the glass window on the door. Pulling himself through, he didn't even seem to notice the gashes that the broken glass gave him. Milo let out a cry and turned around once more, trying to reach the front door again. He was too exhausted to run anymore, and at last fell to the floor of the hall. He could hear the man lumbering towards him. A large hand turned him over to face the ceiling, and he found a wicked blade in front of his face. Eyes welling up in tears from pain and fear, he could barely make out his crazed assailant's face. He was sure that the man was still smiling, for he could hear it in his voice.

"Are you the barber?" he almost giggled.

Eyes fixated on the threatening knife, Milo managed a nod. The man's hand again grabbed him, this time his head, and forced Milo to look at him and not the knife.

"I want you to cut my hair!" was the vital message he delivered.

Were he not mortally petrified, Milo might have laughed. Under the circumstances, humour was not on his mind. Survival was his first priority. He indicated the room up the hall.

"In there, then."

The man, who Milo now saw was wearing a prison uniform, grabbed him by the neck and hauled him to his feet. Milo was startled by a knife point poking his back, and he took the hint to set out for the haircutting room.

The overhead lamp was reluctant to flicker on, and when it did Milo finally got a good look at the man. Brought into the light, he suddenly seemed less threatening. He was clearly unstable, but a better look into his eyes showed that he was almost as shaken as Milo. Beneath the manic exterior was a soul that was exhausted, probably driven to do this through an insanity he didn't deserve.

He sat in the seat and faced the mirror. Not saying a word, Milo drew a comb and scissors out of the Barbicide and examined the man's head. He was shocked to see that in a few places the hair had been ripped out. This man wanted to get rid of his excess hair quite badly.

When he raised the scissors for the first cut, Milo realized his opportunity. He saw in the mirror that his unpaying customer had lapsed into what was almost a trance, and was barely aware of what was going on as he had his haircut. Milo looked back down at the man's neck, and again at the scissors in his hand. In a moment it could be over -- he had the power. He turned the duel blades around and lifted his hand, ready to jab it into the back of the man's neck.

He hesitated, distracted by morals. He wondered, how could he know it was the right thing to do? Might this man be just as much a victim as he? Milo had never been in prison, but it might be a tortuous and disturbing experience for someone with an unrealized mental illness. And surely, this man could not be held accountable for his actions. Dangerous though he clearly was, he was not of sound mind. The more Milo thought about it, the more he thought that if he were to kill the man now, than he'd be no better than him. He'd be just as much an animal -- worse, in fact, for doing it knowingly while of a sound mind.

Milo put his fingers back through the scissors and proceeded to cut the man's hair. It was no easy task. The hair was messy and uneven, and tested his skills as a barber. His hands shook less and less, as he forgot himself and began to see the man as more and more human.

He finished up after half an hour, and the man roused himself from his reverie and saw that the task was complete. He smiled again. With deliberate motions he rose from the chair and faced an equally satisfied Milo.

"Thank you," the man said jovially, before plunging his knife into Milo's gut.

He Dreamt of Dust

It began to obsess him. He tried to cross the carpet from every direction, but found there was no way to pass without causing the creak. He would anticipate it with every part of his body, and tensely stiffen as he neared the spot. His approach was always slow and cautious, always hoping there would be no creak this time. There always was. It infuriated him that the offending imperfection was just beyond his reach -- just beyond his ability to fix. It would insult him when he was at his weakest, it's plaintive call bouncing between the walls of his room. There was nothing he could do but cover his ears and hope it wouldn't creak too loud. It began to drive him mad.

He could take it no longer, and forced himself to go to bed. That night he dreamt crazy dreams.

He was in a small square room made entirely of stone. A tiny window revealed that the simple home was placed on a grassy isthmus, flanked by inviting ocean waters. The room suddenly felt confining, and he was overcome with claustrophobia. He couldn't exit, though, for there was a haggish woman blocking the door. She held a crooked straw broom that she raked across the cold floor, sweeping up great clumps of dust and dirt. Every few moments she'd raise it, and with a sinister glint in her foggy eyes she'd violently shake it in his face. Each time this happened she dislodged a great cloud of detritus that hovered around his head. His panic had him taking in huge lungfuls of air, and he swallowed a large mass of the dirt. It choked him, clogging his throat enough to make him more desperate. He couldn't bring himself to move his feet, and she continued to shake the filth at him. His legs finally buckled and he collapsed. The last thing he saw as the grime filled every crevice of his lungs was the blue sky peeking through the little window, then all went black.

When he awoke, the creak was crying out of its own accord on the other side of the room. He wrapped his head in his pillow and tried to fall back asleep, but the creak continued all night. There were no more dreams.