mud flaps, huh?

Halle couldn't take it any more. Even she was surprised by what she couldn't take any more. It was always someone else, something else that made her so emotionally angry that her skin would start to break out in hives and she'd start to pass out from hyperventilation before forcefully calming herself down. It was hard work, harder every time, but she hadn't lost consciousness. Yet.

This time it was the darkness. So complete was the darkness that she wasn't even sure if she was still on the road, still on this planet or maybe she was but those others out there, those ones with the gleaming smiles and perfect hair, they had drifted away leaving all the darkness just for her. For the loser, for the - she stopped, took a deep breath and counted backwards - the Mama Groovy's patented hives curing method for not getting pissed. Halle bent down to feel the ground. It was still hard and cold. That was no indication, because at this time of year everything was cold and hard, even people. So she slipped a mitten off and felt the ground again. What she felt through the cold was an indication of cement, a strange, gritty feeling, that not quite real texture of being held together by something other than nature. Just like her.

The laugh that escaped her lips as she slipped her mitten back on was spiteful and mocking, but at least it killed the last of the futile anger that had been building up.

"Just like me, huh? Now whose thought was that? Certainly not one of mine. Mom's maybe? Or even Dusty's?" She laughed again, this time there was actually mirth in the sound. "Halle, my girl, you do realize that you are talking out loud to yourself just to make sure that there still is life in this darkness, that there still is you in this darkness."

She twirled once, twice, and about-faced, just like she had learned as a little girl in ballet, when she had pretended that there was magic in the movements and a future to her life. She bowed back at the place she had last spoken aloud as if responding to her past self. "Of course I know. I know I know. I know things even you, yourself have forgotten like this-" she curtseyed, bending low and sprung into a leap.

Through the air she flew and before her foot touched back down to the earth, before she reconnected with what was real, she felt that she had left this cold land for good - that she had leapt beyond the grasp of gravity and family, the crap pealing away as she left earth's atmosphere. In that moment, she felt again that movement brought magic back to the world or - no, that movement brought people back to magic. It was a wild, exclamatory leap, which probably felt much better than it looked, but who was here to judge? Halle felt that it would never end, that she would never come back down out of the sky where she found herself among clouds - the world however had different plans for her.

Her foot lightly touched back down, found no purchase, no connection to the ground and slid out from under her. This unfortunate movement made her other leg swing forward wildly, reacting to the fact the momentum of the movement had not been abated but agitated by the slip and back she fell. Her head bouncing painfully on the ground, making small white stars explode before her eyes. She sat up quickly but the effort made her head swim and she rolled over and puked.

When some of her composure had returned, she reached down beneath her left leg where she felt an unnatural shape that had to hold the answer as to why she slipped, to what had stolen the perfect moment from her. What she pulled from the ground - with effort, as if the earth was reluctant to reveal its devices - changed her life forever. There in her small hands, before her slightly unfocused eyes was a squarish piece of rubber and on it - arched in what many think of as a submissive pose but Halle recognized as a show of strength, of dominance - was exactly the woman that Halle determined to become.

things

"Who were you talking to?"
"No one."
"Liar - I heard voices."
"What did you call me?"
"I said Liar. I know there was some one in here with y-"
"Never call me that. Never ever or you will be so sorry. Look around Ethel. There's no one here. The voices were from the TV."
"The TV's not on."
"I just turned it off."
"It's not warm."
"It was only on for a minute - I said, look around Ethel, there's nowhere to hide anyone."
"What about the couch?"
"Look under it."
"I mean in the couch - between the-"
"That's ridiculous, no one could actually hide in-"
"Then what's that hand sticking out?"
"Uhhh, what hand?"
"This one. Come on out you go - ooo Henry, I am going to rip you such a new one, that-"
"Good evening, ma'am."
"What the-"
"Good evening again, sir."
"Please forgive our intrusion into your lives and your husband's obvious fibbing but as we are-"
"T!!"
"F!!"
"B!!"
"C!!"
"C!!"
"-it was quite necessary that you find us in our element just as the gentleman did-"
"-just as-"
"-everyone does eventually"
"What exactly are you and what exactly do you think you're doing in my couch?"
"Please take a seat my dear lady and-"
"-all will be explained-"
"-in time."

"Miles to go before we sleep," he muttered.

"Yeah," I replied, rolling my head around to face him. "Miles and miles and miles and-"
"Shut up."

It wasn't just a pretty saying to fill the silence. Raylyn knew where we were supposed to rendezvous with the rest of them, but that wasn't enough. The tunnel system here was a maze of circles and circles off of circles. Dead-ends would have been better, at least then you knew you were going the wrong way. Here though, you just had to take note of what few landmarks there were and hope you weren't retracing your steps. It probably would have been easier if it wasn't so fucking cold for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that the water was frozen, so you couldn't even use it's flow-direction as a guide. To complicate matters, the wheels of the trolley I had been haphazardly propped up on squeaked something fierce, so that the sound echoed down corridors, off walls, around corners - disconcertingly coming from all ways at once. The trolley also limited the paths that were open to us, so Raylyn could have gone much quicker on his own, but I wasn't about to let him leave me behind - not here.

"We'll just go up here."
I looked up the long iron ladder. At least this one looked like it was entirely attached to the wall, but I shook my head. "How the hell you expect me to get up that?"
"I don't."

He dropped the trolley handles and began to climb. I reached out just in time to get a good grip on his ankle and pealed him off the wall like a pancake. He held on strongly, but I had gravity on my side and soon he came crashing to the cement. The clatter reverberated through the tunnels making me deaf for a moment.

"Hey! You want us both to end up invalid on that trolley? If you hadn't noticed, I'm the only one here to push you!"
"I'll make sure you end up on this trolley if you try that again," I muttered.
"Look, I'm going up. I'll find some help up there and get you back. Deal?"
"No way."
"There's nothing down here but lost ways and potholes we can't get that thing across," he stated blandly. I knew he was talking about the trolley, but I could tell by his tone that he was using 'thing' to refer to me too.
"No way."
"Fine! Suit yourself," he said as he grasped both handles of the trolley and started pushing again.

His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible above the noise of the cart wheels, as he said, "You brought this on yourself." And then he dumped me. Just like that. Just as if I was a pile of garbage, of offal that one has to get rid of to use a perfectly good cart. The ground was cold as I slammed into it, the jolt verbing through my torso, making all the parts of me that already hurt grind with pain.

"You brought this upon yourself," he said again, his voice louder this time and then he climbed out of sight.

I was dazed, but the scream I heard a moment later brought me to my senses. It echoed louder than any noise had yet. It filled my head with such dread that when the silence was finally regained, I wasn't sure if I was still sane. No matter. I was sure that if I didn't move now, I'd be dead before long.

And I had so many people to see before that.

Aching, pushing, pulling with my arms, I made it safely around the upturned cart to the base of the ladder and began the long climb. It's amazing the things you can make your body do when there's no other choice. Humans, like most predators, have a fierce desire to live and when that desire is put to the test, we humans can out adapt any creature on this planet. That's where our biggest strength lies and that night I was the strongest man alive. My legs had stopped working - probably due to being hacked off somewhere beneath the knees - but there way no way that I was going to let Raylyn - Raylyn that mother-fucker - leave me lying in a sewer to die. Oh he was going to get his and I was going to give it to him.

I pulled, weight upon weight, rested my butt on cold iron when I thought I couldn't go on and then I went on. It took a long time to get to the top but I did it. I did it. There was no way I was going to die that easily. There was some sort of material blocking the opening. It was easy to grasp, but gave so much that it provided little leverage as I tried to pull myself out of the crack between the pads. That was what they were. There were two pads, like the lips of a mouth closing over the hole and the little light beyond was artificial. What was this?

But I didn't have much time to think, I had to get myself through the opening or I was going have even less time to regret thinking on the 50 to 60 foot fall to the cement. I closed my eyes and did that too. That was all there was to it. If I had to do it again, I'm sure I could but I definitely couldn't explain how to do it. I passed out almost immediately. My body just quit on me as soon as it knew we had survived. We had both survived. Body and mind overcoming even the cushions that posed as a final obstacle.

There was one thing I saw and heard before oblivion overtook me - though I wouldn't swear to actually being conscious when I saw it: There was Raylyn sitting at a table, teacup in hand, white lace napkin tucked into his collar, staring at me horrified and looking like a trapped animal. And the last thing I experienced before the world was lost to me was a voice, the sweet high-pitched voice of an old woman, saying, "Oh look another one has come to tea. You know that's the seventh visitor to come out of my couch this month alone."

Sammy and the Devil

It was a bright and shining morning. Sammy went through his usual morning ritual: as always, his morning clothes were neatly folded on the table beside the door to his bathroom, which was beside the shower, beside the sink, beside his toothbrush on the back of his toilet beside the door to his bathroom. Sammy knew that the events associated with these objects happened in reverse order, that this was reverse temporal thinking. Once and only once, he had tried to set up his morning in the correct order prior to going to bed, but it didn't work. He dozed a little and kept waking up in front of the door, wondering if he was late for work. And besides after the table comes breakfast, the best place to start.

Sammy thought about driving to work and nearly lost his breakfast. Certainly, he would have spilled his coffee if it weren't for the sudden thought of the subway. Carefully, he set his coffee down, still shaking, and went to retrieve his briefcase by the door. By the door, hung his dark green jacket. Dark green, that meant it was Thursday. Thursday, that meant it was taxi day. Taxi day, that meant he could bring his coffee. He went back to get it before going out to the waiting yellow cab.

The nice thing about taxi day, Sammy mused, is that the driver knew the appropriate path. He always had the same driver; Sammy wasn't even sure that the man drove cabs on any other day. But it didn't matter, that was the best thing about Thursday morning - things were allowed not to matter.

First the Bank, where Sammy got out and checked his balance as he did on every Thursday. No surprises there, that was good. Then on to his Bank (Sammy kept his own money in a different bank than the one he worked in - otherwise it would be a conflict of interest). Exactly, five minutes early: coat, hanger, briefcase, bathroom, coffee, chair, desk, drawers, books. As much as it displeased him, Sammy had to be temporal at work, at least at the beginning of work and as such, he was always vaguely uncomfortable there. He often daydreamed about everything and everyone moving backwards in time. He was in one of these dreams when He walked in.

The front door to the bank opened and in walked the prince of princes, the Dark Lord, the Great Deceiver himself, Lord Lucifer of the seven hells.

There was an aura of applause that followed him on this day - because he felt like it. It hovered on the edge of hearing, like a lot of people clapping on the other side of a thick cement wall in a building across the street. Everyone in the bank paused for a moment and looked toward the door, even if they were not in line of site by virtue of being three stories up and in the bathroom. But that was Satan for you, if there was anything he enjoyed more than a good entrance, it was that people noticed when you put the extra touches on - they really stopped to take notice. One woman screamed and rushed toward him, the cross necklace she wore out-stretched before her. The Devil merely bowed formally and the woman kept running right through the door, out into the street and beyond hearing, screaming the whole way. She ran all the way to the pier, joined a traveling circus as a show girl and eventually ended up in a brothel in Calcutta, where she keeps her bank security badge framed and hanging above her satin covered bed - but that's a different story entirely. Lucifer liked the way his blue pin-stripped suit crinkled as he straightened back up.

Sammy, who's desk faced the front door, didn't even glance up. He was too engrossed in a vision of clawing his way out of his grave, to grow younger by the day, like someone had pressed the rewind button on the remote of his life. The vision was so real, so vivid, that he could nearly feel the dirt under his finger nails and the slight wrinkles around his eyes and mouth stretching out.

The Devil frowned. Those closest to him fainted and one man's hair caught on fire.

If I lie really still, I can hear my fingernails growing.

It took me a long time to figure out what the soft, scraping, high-pitched whine was. At first, I searched my whole place for the origin of the irritating sound. I first noticed it right after Jg died.

We had been at the corner pub as was our practice. Jg had already dived into the whiskey bottle by the time I met him, having been detained at work for incorrect apparel. It's amazing. Simply amazing. They used to just send people home when they were dressed inappropriately for work. But ever since the infamous Sanction-Suit, where an employee had been sent home for an ugly tie, got drunk on his way home and shot up a bar - killing a number of people - no one gets out unmatched. The families of the dead in conjunction with the bar owner actually sued our company for damages. AND WON. Come on, people. If they were in the bar before lunch, then they were already dead and just hadn't realized it yet. The families were obviously waiting for someone to blame for this fact. Why didn't the court see this? Why do they coddle people who want to blame other people for their own follies? I had just started working for the company but I knew the man. Stephan DeAlec had been among the dead for sometime before the incident but his family got the biggest settlement out of the deal.

Ah well.

I suppose I shouldn't know these things, but his boss was so pissed about it (he had wanted to fire the slob long before and had just been waiting for Steve to slip up, then the bastard goes and shoots himself) that he'd been in rare form the following days. Yelling at people for anything and everything so everyone on our floor knew exactly what had happened.

Now the company security keeps a closet full of conservative, tasteful if dull apparel and it is company policy not to let anyone leave until they are properly dressed. That way the company is blameless if another employee goes on a murderous rampage. The day Jg died, I almost made it out the door, but the fat security guard who couldn't see his own feet, noticed mine and the fact that I wasn't wearing socks. It took a while for that sweaty doughnut of a man to locate not just socks, but matched socks that matched my shoes, pants, shirt, jacket, tie, jacket, gloves, hat, eyes, nose teeth hair. (These security guards are trained in unarmed combat; combat with a gun; personal self-sacrifice and good fashion tips). The process was further drawn out by the paperwork and the bloody beating I gave the guard because I don't like to wear blue socks. I tried to tell him this was why I had no socks on, that being the only color I had left at home, but he didn't listen. I signed my name, smiled lamely at him and left - the image of his his bloody face pleading for mercy firmly planted only in my head.

I burned the socks, then threw them at some bum asking for change as I went into the bar.

Jg was chatting to a girl when I walked in. She was ugly, obviously uninterested in him and slightly disgusted. But he had cornered her. As soon as his attention turned to me, she made a dash for freedom and tripped over his suddenly out-stretched foot. She made a grab for me as she fell but that wouldn't have been proper. I stepped out of the way and watched her go down, her arms and breasts flailing under her skimpy shirt. I heard the crack when she hit and the juicy sound blood splattering. Why didn't the girl catch herself on the ground with her hands instead of trying to rely on the kindness of a stranger? Stupid woman. After a stunned moment, she ran from the bar and hardly anyone noticed.

As usual, the night got quite hazy after that. Where Jg is almost entirely a whiskey drinker, I go with my tequila and gin. But that's a problem isn't it? Since I can't decide which I like better, I switch drinks: one gin martini, one margarita, one gin 'n juice one shot of tequila. Jg has commented on it before, on his amazement that I ever make it home alive. See the irony here? I do remember him pointing out a quiet little man sitting at the bar staring into his drink (one of those colorful ones that'd probably have an umbrella in it in another place). Jg always goes for the smallest victims he can find.

"That man's been looking at me funny since I came in," was all he said as he started to stand. I merely shrugged, knowing this wasn't true - that this was just Jg's excuse for starting trouble, in case anyone asked me later. I'd have tried to stop him, but it hadn't worked before and wouldn't have worked this time.

There's a lot of blurriness after that. Jg was gone a long time, longer than usual given the size of the man. I never found out what happened to him. There was just all that blood and then I was home. And it was very quiet at home.

Too quiet.

That's when I first heard my fingernails growing - as I pulled the covers over my head that night. But as I said, I didn't realize what it was at once, nor for many nights after that.