u/Beelz2go

The bike chain screeched as she exerted all her muscles on the pedals. Going uphill on this bad tarmac was heavy, and her bike was heavily loaded. She glanced at the cart she was pulling. The device rumbled in it. She automatically checked all the corners. Everything was secured.

In the distance, a flag flapped in the wind. Green and yellow. The text on it was impossible to read from this distance. She had heard of it in the last settlement she visited, although it was hardly a settlement; ten, perhaps fifteen people were still there. Goosebumps formed on her arms at the memory of the body that swung from the gallows in the town square. A child rapist and murderer, she was told. Hard nowadays to see justice from revenge. Still, it was not hers to judge. She had a different function, one that stirred hope instead of fear.

Covered in sweat, she stopped, got off her bike, secured it very carefully, then unscrewed a bottle and drank some water. The people from the last settlement had shared what they could spare. It wasn’t much. She had to hope the castle in the distance had some to spare, some they would be willing to trade for some entertainment and good news.

She looked at the flag again. The word “Beanery” was now readable.

“At least this is the right place.”

She let her heartbeat settle by sitting down for a minute. Pine trees shared their shade with her. More than half were dead, still the shade was very much there and welcome.

“Good, Suus,” she told herself. “Get ready to be as charming as you can be.”

With that, she stood up, grabbed her bike, and pedaled the last stretch up to the castle. The heavy iron gate read: The Beanery.

***

“Halt,” a heavy female voice sounded when Suus rang her bell. She had done so for the last few minutes. Experience taught her it was better not to surprise people. She got off her bike, secured it, and held her hands up high.

“I am Suus, a projectionist,” she started with as clear a voice as she could manage. “I am here to show a film of old times.” Suus pointed at her cart.

“A film?” another voice croaked from behind the wall. “Like we used to see in movie theaters?” Giddy with anticipation, the voice was light. “The children would love that.”

Suus treated it as her cue. “I have some excellent children’s movies. How about Shrek?” Suus knew very well getting in was the hard part. If she got in, everything became easier, less chance of being shot.

Suus saw a head glance over the wall, a young muscular woman. Especially when accounting for the fact there was almost no food left, that was a very good sign. Things to share.

“How? We have no electricity.” The woman looked at the cart. “Show what you’re hiding under the blanket.”

Suus heard the cocking of a gun. She exhaled. “Come on down, you can check everything. It is a projector and some equipment so I can attach it to the bike. I pedal, you watch the movie.” Her hands held high, she moved three paces away.

“Does she have a gun?” the old voice croaked.

“Well, no,” the guard answered. “Abigail, don’t get involved. No, that is against the…”

Suus heard a beam move from the large gate she faced.

“She is going to talk us to death? Steal our food with nothing but her charm, eh?” the old woman croaked, her voice loaded with the sweet undertone of sarcasm. “Come on, Barb, I taught you better.”

The sigh from the guard was audible.

***
Suus was standing in a factory hall. Once, every bean harvest from miles around was canned there. Now it was a refuge, a refuge with tons of canned beans. Suus tried her best not to get distracted by the smell.

Abigail, the old woman, stood next to her smiling. “You eat nothing but beans for a few years, see what it does to your bowels.”

Suus had a hard time responding. All the inhabitants had stopped their work and gathered around Suus and Abigail.

“Miss, miss?” Two small children pulled at Abigail’s pants. “We were not allowed to trust strangers,” the little girl said, pointing at Suus.

Abigail smiled. “No, Amanda, we should not.” She petted her on the head. “I have a feeling you will be thankful.” to the other one.

Abigail then stretched her arms out for silence. When unsuccessful, she tapped the floor with her staff. All fell silent.

“Well, thank you. This young woman”—Abigail pointed at Suus, who felt Abigail had redefined young that instant—“has something fun to share. Go on, dear.”

Suus bit her lip. “Well, before I start, nothing is free these days.”

One loud boo came rapidly closer.

A man in his thirties, with two large young men carrying guns beside him, pushed others away while moving forward. “Who let her in?” he yelled. “Abigail, dammit. You were warned. This means banishment.”

The crowd murmured.

“Really,” the man yelled as he stood in front of Suus and Abigail, then turned toward the crowd. “One of these days she will let the wrong one in, and then we lose all our food, our security. Dammit, people, the last straw has passed.”

Abigail hit the man on the head with her staff. “Do not curse, there are children.”

The man violently turned his head. Suus saw the flashes in his eyes. He nodded to his two guards, who stood like statues.

“What are you waiting for?” the man yelled.

“It is Miss Abigail, sir,” the guard on his left said, staring at his feet. “We know her from when she was our kindergarten teacher.”

The other guard dared to look at Abigail, then immediately averted his gaze towards a spot on the far wall.

The man fumed. “For fuck’s sake.”

Another slap of the cane followed.

Suus took a step forward. “People of the Beanery, I come with two things,” she said, ignoring the man in front of her. “Letters from other settlements and… a movie.”

“Don’t listen to her. The letters are probably fake, just a ruse to get food.”

Suus shrugged. “Food would be appreciated. Then again, no guarantee there is a letter for any one of you.”

One woman of about fifty looked at her husband beside her. They both nodded. “We are willing to give her some of our ration, if it all is true, of course.”

Another from the crowd made the same proclamation, many others followed.

The man in front looked as if he were eating lemons, many lemons. He turned to Suus, leaned in, and whispered so only she could understand.

“I will shoot you if you are not gone by the evening.”

Suus looked at the man. The two guards had their hands on the triggers of their guns. Suus stared at him unblinking, then took a stack of papers from her bag.

***

“Shirley Baker?” she called out the name on the envelope.

Silence.

“Charles Abbot?” Another one. She looked hopefully into the crowd.

The crowd murmured. The people made way until a lane was formed. An old man in the back was looking straight at Suus.

“I’m Charles.” He slowly walked to the front.

Suus gave him the letter. “It is from your son. I met him down south.”

Suus smiled, tears already welling in her eyes as she knew very well what was about to happen.

The man looked at the paper in his hand, then toward Suus. Both of them looked at each other with wet eyes.

“Jort?” the man said after a few seconds.

Suus nodded. “Jort is still alive.”

The man wept. “Jort is still alive?”

Abigail squeezed his shoulder. “Read it, Charles,” she said. “Read it aloud.”

The man with the guards wrinkled his nose, looking around at the faces of the people. He saw people smiling, crying at the chance that any of their loved ones were still alive, then looked back at Suus and Abigail. Abigail nodded, a slow deliberate nod. Her eyes were not friendly.

***

“Dad,” Charles read aloud, while his voice skipped a few tones. He had to swallow a big lump after every word. “I’m okay. I hope you are too. I am currently working as a gasoline mule for a small settlement near the village we grew up in. Most cars are empty, but there is a trick to checking the fuel lines, those always have some left.”

Charles wiped away the tears. “So smart, my Jort. I knew he survived.”

He tried to read further but broke down completely. Someone from the crowd came forward and guided him to a seat further down the hall.

The room was dead quiet. All eyes rested on Suus.

Suus needed a second to get her voice under control. Abigail pinched her cheek. “It’s okay, dear. Take your time.”

***

It took only half an hour to distribute all the letters. Four people left in tears after hearing someone was still alive. Suus breathed deeply, then raised her hands. Abigail helped by hitting her cane against the ground. Silence once more took over the hall.

“People, please write letters and give them to me. Everywhere I go, I will try to deliver them. I will come back after a time to let you know, and hopefully give you more.”

People applauded.

The man in front waved at all of them. “No, no, no, you are no longer welcome.” He shook his head violently. “Charles is already talking about searching for his son. Do you know how dangerous that is?”

Abigail answered. “People are free to leave, right?”

The man sighed. “Of course. Leave our food, and leave.”

The crowd murmured.

“It is not your food,” someone shouted.

The man pointed at the shouter. “Into the box!” He pushed one of his guards toward the man. “I will not tolerate lawlessness here.”

He turned toward Abigail and Suus. “Get them out. I do not want them here.”

A shoe flew toward the man. The crowd started to shout.

“You leave.”

Abigail smiled.

The guard sighed, then took the man by his arm. “Sorry, sir,” he said as they carried the man out.

“You will regret this! This is my Beanery. I own it, as did my father before me!” the man yelled while he tried to wrestle free from his own guards.

When the commotion settled down. Suus lowered herself to one knee and faced the children that were sitting in front. “Now how about a special treat for you?” She smiled. “I am going to let you watch a movie.” The children looked at each other with eyes of disbelief. “What… what is a movie?” 

***

Suus was being hugged by most of the inhabitants of the Beanery while setting up for the screening. Charles came toward her.

“How are things down south?” he asked while helping her hang up a large white sheet.

“Down south it is hard; the weather is warmer, food even more scarce. People are making impossible choices to survive.” She smiled at him. “But there are still settlements, with people working together. Some have justice, some help travelers.”

The sheet hung to her liking.

“Civilisation is still there. Just under a big pile of ash.”

Charles nodded. “I cannot thank you enough. I think I will go back south,” he said. “If you want, I can take letters off your hands that need to go that way.”

Suus looked at him, shocked. “What?”

Charles opened his palms toward her face. “If you want. No pressure.”

“Charles, that is so kind of you.” Suus hugged him. “That is the reason I keep on doing this, in the hope of finding people that want to glue instead of break.”

Charles turned red as Suus kissed the man on the cheek.

***

As she was checking all the wires from the bike to the large projector she had set up, the whole Beanery waited between it and the hanging sheet. Voices were happy, people laughed, children played. Suus smiled.

Abigail walked toward her with a bowl of steaming mixed beans. “If you pedal for ninety minutes, you better get some food in you.”

Suus bowed her head as she took the bowl. Food was something sacred. “You are so lucky with this place,” she said while taking the first spoonful.

“We all signed a contract with him now,” Abigail smiled, “that we work for the boss in exchange for food, shelter, and safety.” She let out a laugh. “We made the shelter and safety, you know.” Then she added, “And we cook for ourselves while he does nothing.”

Suus nodded. “Those people you see everywhere. I heard of an old businessman who demanded his batteries fixed. He did not live long.”

She made a strange look as she pulled a large string out of her bowl.

“Bark from the pine tree,” Abigail said. “Vitamin C. Trust me, only beans will kill you.”

Suus ate the string. “Chewy,” she smiled.

“What is the box?” she asked. “The man said, ‘Put him in the box?’”

Abigail made a throwaway gesture. “He made a rule where dissenters are put in a box for a day so they learn to behave.”

Suus nodded. “Not the worst I came across.”

Abigail let out a puff. “It killed two already.”

Suus said nothing. She got on her bike.

“People, quiet! Close all the curtains. We are going to watch ‘Shrek’ “ Suus announced. 

Cheers and applause from the crowd. The room was made dark. Suus pedaled which made the projector shine a light and the film slowly rolled from the reel in the projector. The image was slow at first, then faster until it reached full pace. 

***

People laughed at the donkey, children were amazed by the dragon. All found someone familiar in Lord Farquaad.

The film was reaching its apotheosis. Suus pedaled happily. She heard the laughter and the joy.

From the edges of her vision, she saw a shadow moving toward her. Suus inhaled, she stopped pedalling for a second.

“Just stop and enjoy the movie, I will leave in the morning.” She whispered out of breath as the pedalling took its toll.

The man's eyes were dark.  He breathed with short bursts. “A leader sometimes needs to make unpopular decisions.” he raised a long serrated knife . Suus was looking him straight in the eyes, there was no wavering when he brought the knife down. “I need to protect them, keep them together.”
Tears welled in her eyes as she saw a woman in the corner writing a letter to her long lost daughter, Charles was tracking a route on a map. She whispered as she felt the blood filling her throat. "Too late." She fell silently onto the ground.

The mill turned slower, the sound starting to drag. Then it stopped. Disappointment rolled over the people of the Beanery. Abigail turned her head to see why Suus had stopped pedalling. She screamed. All faces turned the same way.

“She was turning us against ourselves,” the man said, a bloody knife in his hand. “If people leave, we cannot have the security and shelter we grew accustomed to.” He pointed at all of them. “This was for your own good.”

The man pointed at his guards, who had been enjoying the film. “Now escort Abigail out of the Beanery, so we can return to normal.”

The crowd was silent. A woman started sobbing in the middle of it. One of the children walked up to the man and spat at him. His mother quickly tugged him away.

Abigail walked three paces toward the man. She looked him in the eye. “You know, we learned something today,” she said in a remarkably clear voice. “He who orders others around is not fit to rule.”

One by one, the inhabitants of the Beanery started to stand up, muttering words to the guards. The guards stood up themselves. They watched Abigail, then the man.

“Into the box?” one of the guards floated the words.

The man answered. “No, you fool. Out of the compound with her.”

“Into the box?” he said again.

The man fell silent as he watched Abigail. Abigail turned around and faced the crowd. “I am not your leader, nor is anyone. What do we want?”

The man muttered curses.

“We vote?” someone asked.

Abigail nodded.

The vote was banishment. The vote tallied: one against the rest in favor of banishment.  Executed immediately.

***

Abigail and Charles stood over a freshly dug grave just outside the Beanery, under a living pine tree, the healthiest one they could find. A simple wooden cross stood there.

“Here Lies Suus, She Projected Hope.”

carved into it.

“I will go south,” Charles said. “Suus kept a detailed map. I know where to go, where it is safe.”

Abigail nodded. “This madness will not get us,” she said.

A woman stepped forward. “I will go north with the projector,” she said out of the blue. “People need this.”

None disagreed.

The bike chain screeched as she exerted all her muscles on the pedals. Going uphill on this bad tarmac was heavy, and her bike was heavily loaded. She glanced at the cart she was pulling. The device rumbled in it. She automatically checked all the corners. Everything was secured.

In the distance, a flag flapped in the wind. Green and yellow. The text on it was impossible to read from this distance. She had heard of it in the last settlement she visited, although it was hardly a settlement; ten, perhaps fifteen people were still there. Goosebumps formed on her arms at the memory of the body that swung from the gallows in the town square. A child rapist and murderer, she was told. Hard nowadays to see justice from revenge. Still, it was not hers to judge. She had a different function, one that stirred hope instead of fear.

Covered in sweat, she stopped, got off her bike, secured it very carefully, then unscrewed a bottle and drank some water. The people from the last settlement had shared what they could spare. It wasn’t much. She had to hope the castle in the distance had some to spare, some they would be willing to trade for some entertainment and good news.

She looked at the flag again. The word “Beanery” was now readable.

“At least this is the right place.”

She let her heartbeat settle by sitting down for a minute. Pine trees shared their shade with her. More than half were dead, still the shade was very much there and welcome.

“Good, Suus,” she told herself. “Get ready to be as charming as you can be.”

With that, she stood up, grabbed her bike, and pedaled the last stretch up to the castle. The heavy iron gate read: The Beanery.

***

“Halt,” a heavy female voice sounded when Suus rang her bell. She had done so for the last few minutes. Experience taught her it was better not to surprise people. She got off her bike, secured it, and held her hands up high.

“I am Suus, a projectionist,” she started with as clear a voice as she could manage. “I am here to show a film of old times.” Suus pointed at her cart.

“A film?” another voice croaked from behind the wall. “Like we used to see in movie theaters?” Giddy with anticipation, the voice was light. “The children would love that.”

Suus treated it as her cue. “I have some excellent children’s movies. How about Shrek?” Suus knew very well getting in was the hard part. If she got in, everything became easier, less chance of being shot.

Suus saw a head glance over the wall, a young muscular woman. Especially when accounting for the fact there was almost no food left, that was a very good sign. Things to share.

“How? We have no electricity.” The woman looked at the cart. “Show what you’re hiding under the blanket.”

Suus heard the cocking of a gun. She exhaled. “Come on down, you can check everything. It is a projector and some equipment so I can attach it to the bike. I pedal, you watch the movie.” Her hands held high, she moved three paces away.

“Does she have a gun?” the old voice croaked.

“Well, no,” the guard answered. “Abigail, don’t get involved. No, that is against the…”

Suus heard a beam move from the large gate she faced.

“She is going to talk us to death? Steal our food with nothing but her charm, eh?” the old woman croaked, her voice loaded with the sweet undertone of sarcasm. “Come on, Barb, I taught you better.”

The sigh from the guard was audible.

***
Suus was standing in a factory hall. Once, every bean harvest from miles around was canned there. Now it was a refuge, a refuge with tons of canned beans. Suus tried her best not to get distracted by the smell.

Abigail, the old woman, stood next to her smiling. “You eat nothing but beans for a few years, see what it does to your bowels.”

Suus had a hard time responding. All the inhabitants had stopped their work and gathered around Suus and Abigail.

“Miss, miss?” Two small children pulled at Abigail’s pants. “We were not allowed to trust strangers,” the little girl said, pointing at Suus.

Abigail smiled. “No, Amanda, we should not.” She petted her on the head. “I have a feeling you will be thankful.” to the other one.

Abigail then stretched her arms out for silence. When unsuccessful, she tapped the floor with her staff. All fell silent.

“Well, thank you. This young woman”—Abigail pointed at Suus, who felt Abigail had redefined young that instant—“has something fun to share. Go on, dear.”

Suus bit her lip. “Well, before I start, nothing is free these days.”

One loud boo came rapidly closer.

A man in his thirties, with two large young men carrying guns beside him, pushed others away while moving forward. “Who let her in?” he yelled. “Abigail, dammit. You were warned. This means banishment.”

The crowd murmured.

“Really,” the man yelled as he stood in front of Suus and Abigail, then turned toward the crowd. “One of these days she will let the wrong one in, and then we lose all our food, our security. Dammit, people, the last straw has passed.”

Abigail hit the man on the head with her staff. “Do not curse, there are children.”

The man violently turned his head. Suus saw the flashes in his eyes. He nodded to his two guards, who stood like statues.

“What are you waiting for?” the man yelled.

“It is Miss Abigail, sir,” the guard on his left said, staring at his feet. “We know her from when she was our kindergarten teacher.”

The other guard dared to look at Abigail, then immediately averted his gaze towards a spot on the far wall.

The man fumed. “For fuck’s sake.”

Another slap of the cane followed.

Suus took a step forward. “People of the Beanery, I come with two things,” she said, ignoring the man in front of her. “Letters from other settlements and… a movie.”

“Don’t listen to her. The letters are probably fake, just a ruse to get food.”

Suus shrugged. “Food would be appreciated. Then again, no guarantee there is a letter for any one of you.”

One woman of about fifty looked at her husband beside her. They both nodded. “We are willing to give her some of our ration, if it all is true, of course.”

Another from the crowd made the same proclamation, many others followed.

The man in front looked as if he were eating lemons, many lemons. He turned to Suus, leaned in, and whispered so only she could understand.

“I will shoot you if you are not gone by the evening.”

Suus looked at the man. The two guards had their hands on the triggers of their guns. Suus stared at him unblinking, then took a stack of papers from her bag.

***

“Shirley Baker?” she called out the name on the envelope.

Silence.

“Charles Abbot?” Another one. She looked hopefully into the crowd.

The crowd murmured. The people made way until a lane was formed. An old man in the back was looking straight at Suus.

“I’m Charles.” He slowly walked to the front.

Suus gave him the letter. “It is from your son. I met him down south.”

Suus smiled, tears already welling in her eyes as she knew very well what was about to happen.

The man looked at the paper in his hand, then toward Suus. Both of them looked at each other with wet eyes.

“Jort?” the man said after a few seconds.

Suus nodded. “Jort is still alive.”

The man wept. “Jort is still alive?”

Abigail squeezed his shoulder. “Read it, Charles,” she said. “Read it aloud.”

The man with the guards wrinkled his nose, looking around at the faces of the people. He saw people smiling, crying at the chance that any of their loved ones were still alive, then looked back at Suus and Abigail. Abigail nodded, a slow deliberate nod. Her eyes were not friendly.

***

“Dad,” Charles read aloud, while his voice skipped a few tones. He had to swallow a big lump after every word. “I’m okay. I hope you are too. I am currently working as a gasoline mule for a small settlement near the village we grew up in. Most cars are empty, but there is a trick to checking the fuel lines, those always have some left.”

Charles wiped away the tears. “So smart, my Jort. I knew he survived.”

He tried to read further but broke down completely. Someone from the crowd came forward and guided him to a seat further down the hall.

The room was dead quiet. All eyes rested on Suus.

Suus needed a second to get her voice under control. Abigail pinched her cheek. “It’s okay, dear. Take your time.”

***

It took only half an hour to distribute all the letters. Four people left in tears after hearing someone was still alive. Suus breathed deeply, then raised her hands. Abigail helped by hitting her cane against the ground. Silence once more took over the hall.

“People, please write letters and give them to me. Everywhere I go, I will try to deliver them. I will come back after a time to let you know, and hopefully give you more.”

People applauded.

The man in front waved at all of them. “No, no, no, you are no longer welcome.” He shook his head violently. “Charles is already talking about searching for his son. Do you know how dangerous that is?”

Abigail answered. “People are free to leave, right?”

The man sighed. “Of course. Leave our food, and leave.”

The crowd murmured.

“It is not your food,” someone shouted.

The man pointed at the shouter. “Into the box!” He pushed one of his guards toward the man. “I will not tolerate lawlessness here.”

He turned toward Abigail and Suus. “Get them out. I do not want them here.”

A shoe flew toward the man. The crowd started to shout.

“You leave.”

Abigail smiled.

The guard sighed, then took the man by his arm. “Sorry, sir,” he said as they carried the man out.

“You will regret this! This is my Beanery. I own it, as did my father before me!” the man yelled while he tried to wrestle free from his own guards.

When the commotion settled down. Suus lowered herself to one knee and faced the children that were sitting in front. “Now how about a special treat for you?” She smiled. “I am going to let you watch a movie.” The children looked at each other with eyes of disbelief. “What… what is a movie?” 

***

Suus was being hugged by most of the inhabitants of the Beanery while setting up for the screening. Charles came toward her.

“How are things down south?” he asked while helping her hang up a large white sheet.

“Down south it is hard; the weather is warmer, food even more scarce. People are making impossible choices to survive.” She smiled at him. “But there are still settlements, with people working together. Some have justice, some help travelers.”

The sheet hung to her liking.

“Civilisation is still there. Just under a big pile of ash.”

Charles nodded. “I cannot thank you enough. I think I will go back south,” he said. “If you want, I can take letters off your hands that need to go that way.”

Suus looked at him, shocked. “What?”

Charles opened his palms toward her face. “If you want. No pressure.”

“Charles, that is so kind of you.” Suus hugged him. “That is the reason I keep on doing this, in the hope of finding people that want to glue instead of break.”

Charles turned red as Suus kissed the man on the cheek.

***

As she was checking all the wires from the bike to the large projector she had set up, the whole Beanery waited between it and the hanging sheet. Voices were happy, people laughed, children played. Suus smiled.

Abigail walked toward her with a bowl of steaming mixed beans. “If you pedal for ninety minutes, you better get some food in you.”

Suus bowed her head as she took the bowl. Food was something sacred. “You are so lucky with this place,” she said while taking the first spoonful.

“We all signed a contract with him now,” Abigail smiled, “that we work for the boss in exchange for food, shelter, and safety.” She let out a laugh. “We made the shelter and safety, you know.” Then she added, “And we cook for ourselves while he does nothing.”

Suus nodded. “Those people you see everywhere. I heard of an old businessman who demanded his batteries fixed. He did not live long.”

She made a strange look as she pulled a large string out of her bowl.

“Bark from the pine tree,” Abigail said. “Vitamin C. Trust me, only beans will kill you.”

Suus ate the string. “Chewy,” she smiled.

“What is the box?” she asked. “The man said, ‘Put him in the box?’”

Abigail made a throwaway gesture. “He made a rule where dissenters are put in a box for a day so they learn to behave.”

Suus nodded. “Not the worst I came across.”

Abigail let out a puff. “It killed two already.”

Suus said nothing. She got on her bike.

“People, quiet! Close all the curtains. We are going to watch ‘Shrek’ “ Suus announced. 

Cheers and applause from the crowd. The room was made dark. Suus pedaled which made the projector shine a light and the film slowly rolled from the reel in the projector. The image was slow at first, then faster until it reached full pace. 

***

People laughed at the donkey, children were amazed by the dragon. All found someone familiar in Lord Farquaad.

The film was reaching its apotheosis. Suus pedaled happily. She heard the laughter and the joy.

From the edges of her vision, she saw a shadow moving toward her. Suus inhaled, she stopped pedalling for a second.

“Just stop and enjoy the movie, I will leave in the morning.” She whispered out of breath as the pedalling took its toll.

The man's eyes were dark.  He breathed with short bursts. “A leader sometimes needs to make unpopular decisions.” he raised a long serrated knife . Suus was looking him straight in the eyes, there was no wavering when he brought the knife down. “I need to protect them, keep them together.”
Tears welled in her eyes as she saw a woman in the corner writing a letter to her long lost daughter, Charles was tracking a route on a map. She whispered as she felt the blood filling her throat. "Too late." She fell silently onto the ground.

The mill turned slower, the sound starting to drag. Then it stopped. Disappointment rolled over the people of the Beanery. Abigail turned her head to see why Suus had stopped pedalling. She screamed. All faces turned the same way.

“She was turning us against ourselves,” the man said, a bloody knife in his hand. “If people leave, we cannot have the security and shelter we grew accustomed to.” He pointed at all of them. “This was for your own good.”

The man pointed at his guards, who had been enjoying the film. “Now escort Abigail out of the Beanery, so we can return to normal.”

The crowd was silent. A woman started sobbing in the middle of it. One of the children walked up to the man and spat at him. His mother quickly tugged him away.

Abigail walked three paces toward the man. She looked him in the eye. “You know, we learned something today,” she said in a remarkably clear voice. “He who orders others around is not fit to rule.”

One by one, the inhabitants of the Beanery started to stand up, muttering words to the guards. The guards stood up themselves. They watched Abigail, then the man.

“Into the box?” one of the guards floated the words.

The man answered. “No, you fool. Out of the compound with her.”

“Into the box?” he said again.

The man fell silent as he watched Abigail. Abigail turned around and faced the crowd. “I am not your leader, nor is anyone. What do we want?”

The man muttered curses.

“We vote?” someone asked.

Abigail nodded.

The vote was banishment. The vote tallied: one against the rest in favor of banishment.  Executed immediately.

***

Abigail and Charles stood over a freshly dug grave just outside the Beanery, under a living pine tree, the healthiest one they could find. A simple wooden cross stood there.

“Here Lies Suus, She Projected Hope.”

carved into it.

“I will go south,” Charles said. “Suus kept a detailed map. I know where to go, where it is safe.”

Abigail nodded. “This madness will not get us,” she said.

A woman stepped forward. “I will go north with the projector,” she said out of the blue. “People need this.”

None disagreed.

The bike chain screeched as she exerted all her muscles on the pedals. Going uphill on this bad tarmac was heavy, and her bike was heavily loaded. She glanced at the cart she was pulling. The device rumbled in it. She automatically checked all the corners. Everything was secured.

In the distance, a flag flapped in the wind. Green and yellow. The text on it was impossible to read from this distance. She had heard of it in the last settlement she visited, although it was hardly a settlement; ten, perhaps fifteen people were still there. Goosebumps formed on her arms at the memory of the body that swung from the gallows in the town square. A child rapist and murderer, she was told. Hard nowadays to see justice from revenge. Still, it was not hers to judge. She had a different function, one that stirred hope instead of fear.

Covered in sweat, she stopped, got off her bike, secured it very carefully, then unscrewed a bottle and drank some water. The people from the last settlement had shared what they could spare. It wasn’t much. She had to hope the castle in the distance had some to spare, some they would be willing to trade for some entertainment and good news.

She looked at the flag again. The word “Beanery” was now readable.

“At least this is the right place.”

She let her heartbeat settle by sitting down for a minute. Pine trees shared their shade with her. More than half were dead, still the shade was very much there and welcome.

“Good, Suus,” she told herself. “Get ready to be as charming as you can be.”

With that, she stood up, grabbed her bike, and pedaled the last stretch up to the castle. The heavy iron gate read: The Beanery.

***

“Halt,” a heavy female voice sounded when Suus rang her bell. She had done so for the last few minutes. Experience taught her it was better not to surprise people. She got off her bike, secured it, and held her hands up high.

“I am Suus, a projectionist,” she started with as clear a voice as she could manage. “I am here to show a film of old times.” Suus pointed at her cart.

“A film?” another voice croaked from behind the wall. “Like we used to see in movie theaters?” Giddy with anticipation, the voice was light. “The children would love that.”

Suus treated it as her cue. “I have some excellent children’s movies. How about Shrek?” Suus knew very well getting in was the hard part. If she got in, everything became easier, less chance of being shot.

Suus saw a head glance over the wall, a young muscular woman. Especially when accounting for the fact there was almost no food left, that was a very good sign. Things to share.

“How? We have no electricity.” The woman looked at the cart. “Show what you’re hiding under the blanket.”

Suus heard the cocking of a gun. She exhaled. “Come on down, you can check everything. It is a projector and some equipment so I can attach it to the bike. I pedal, you watch the movie.” Her hands held high, she moved three paces away.

“Does she have a gun?” the old voice croaked.

“Well, no,” the guard answered. “Abigail, don’t get involved. No, that is against the…”

Suus heard a beam move from the large gate she faced.

“She is going to talk us to death? Steal our food with nothing but her charm, eh?” the old woman croaked, her voice loaded with the sweet undertone of sarcasm. “Come on, Barb, I taught you better.”

The sigh from the guard was audible.

***
Suus was standing in a factory hall. Once, every bean harvest from miles around was canned there. Now it was a refuge, a refuge with tons of canned beans. Suus tried her best not to get distracted by the smell.

Abigail, the old woman, stood next to her smiling. “You eat nothing but beans for a few years, see what it does to your bowels.”

Suus had a hard time responding. All the inhabitants had stopped their work and gathered around Suus and Abigail.

“Miss, miss?” Two small children pulled at Abigail’s pants. “We were not allowed to trust strangers,” the little girl said, pointing at Suus.

Abigail smiled. “No, Amanda, we should not.” She petted her on the head. “I have a feeling you will be thankful.” to the other one.

Abigail then stretched her arms out for silence. When unsuccessful, she tapped the floor with her staff. All fell silent.

“Well, thank you. This young woman”—Abigail pointed at Suus, who felt Abigail had redefined young that instant—“has something fun to share. Go on, dear.”

Suus bit her lip. “Well, before I start, nothing is free these days.”

One loud boo came rapidly closer.

A man in his thirties, with two large young men carrying guns beside him, pushed others away while moving forward. “Who let her in?” he yelled. “Abigail, dammit. You were warned. This means banishment.”

The crowd murmured.

“Really,” the man yelled as he stood in front of Suus and Abigail, then turned toward the crowd. “One of these days she will let the wrong one in, and then we lose all our food, our security. Dammit, people, the last straw has passed.”

Abigail hit the man on the head with her staff. “Do not curse, there are children.”

The man violently turned his head. Suus saw the flashes in his eyes. He nodded to his two guards, who stood like statues.

“What are you waiting for?” the man yelled.

“It is Miss Abigail, sir,” the guard on his left said, staring at his feet. “We know her from when she was our kindergarten teacher.”

The other guard dared to look at Abigail, then immediately averted his gaze towards a spot on the far wall.

The man fumed. “For fuck’s sake.”

Another slap of the cane followed.

Suus took a step forward. “People of the Beanery, I come with two things,” she said, ignoring the man in front of her. “Letters from other settlements and… a movie.”

“Don’t listen to her. The letters are probably fake, just a ruse to get food.”

Suus shrugged. “Food would be appreciated. Then again, no guarantee there is a letter for any one of you.”

One woman of about fifty looked at her husband beside her. They both nodded. “We are willing to give her some of our ration, if it all is true, of course.”

Another from the crowd made the same proclamation, many others followed.

The man in front looked as if he were eating lemons, many lemons. He turned to Suus, leaned in, and whispered so only she could understand.

“I will shoot you if you are not gone by the evening.”

Suus looked at the man. The two guards had their hands on the triggers of their guns. Suus stared at him unblinking, then took a stack of papers from her bag.

***

“Shirley Baker?” she called out the name on the envelope.

Silence.

“Charles Abbot?” Another one. She looked hopefully into the crowd.

The crowd murmured. The people made way until a lane was formed. An old man in the back was looking straight at Suus.

“I’m Charles.” He slowly walked to the front.

Suus gave him the letter. “It is from your son. I met him down south.”

Suus smiled, tears already welling in her eyes as she knew very well what was about to happen.

The man looked at the paper in his hand, then toward Suus. Both of them looked at each other with wet eyes.

“Jort?” the man said after a few seconds.

Suus nodded. “Jort is still alive.”

The man wept. “Jort is still alive?”

Abigail squeezed his shoulder. “Read it, Charles,” she said. “Read it aloud.”

The man with the guards wrinkled his nose, looking around at the faces of the people. He saw people smiling, crying at the chance that any of their loved ones were still alive, then looked back at Suus and Abigail. Abigail nodded, a slow deliberate nod. Her eyes were not friendly.

***

“Dad,” Charles read aloud, while his voice skipped a few tones. He had to swallow a big lump after every word. “I’m okay. I hope you are too. I am currently working as a gasoline mule for a small settlement near the village we grew up in. Most cars are empty, but there is a trick to checking the fuel lines, those always have some left.”

Charles wiped away the tears. “So smart, my Jort. I knew he survived.”

He tried to read further but broke down completely. Someone from the crowd came forward and guided him to a seat further down the hall.

The room was dead quiet. All eyes rested on Suus.

Suus needed a second to get her voice under control. Abigail pinched her cheek. “It’s okay, dear. Take your time.”

***

It took only half an hour to distribute all the letters. Four people left in tears after hearing someone was still alive. Suus breathed deeply, then raised her hands. Abigail helped by hitting her cane against the ground. Silence once more took over the hall.

“People, please write letters and give them to me. Everywhere I go, I will try to deliver them. I will come back after a time to let you know, and hopefully give you more.”

People applauded.

The man in front waved at all of them. “No, no, no, you are no longer welcome.” He shook his head violently. “Charles is already talking about searching for his son. Do you know how dangerous that is?”

Abigail answered. “People are free to leave, right?”

The man sighed. “Of course. Leave our food, and leave.”

The crowd murmured.

“It is not your food,” someone shouted.

The man pointed at the shouter. “Into the box!” He pushed one of his guards toward the man. “I will not tolerate lawlessness here.”

He turned toward Abigail and Suus. “Get them out. I do not want them here.”

A shoe flew toward the man. The crowd started to shout.

“You leave.”

Abigail smiled.

The guard sighed, then took the man by his arm. “Sorry, sir,” he said as they carried the man out.

“You will regret this! This is my Beanery. I own it, as did my father before me!” the man yelled while he tried to wrestle free from his own guards.

When the commotion settled down. Suus lowered herself to one knee and faced the children that were sitting in front. “Now how about a special treat for you?” She smiled. “I am going to let you watch a movie.” The children looked at each other with eyes of disbelief. “What… what is a movie?” 

***

Suus was being hugged by most of the inhabitants of the Beanery while setting up for the screening. Charles came toward her.

“How are things down south?” he asked while helping her hang up a large white sheet.

“Down south it is hard; the weather is warmer, food even more scarce. People are making impossible choices to survive.” She smiled at him. “But there are still settlements, with people working together. Some have justice, some help travelers.”

The sheet hung to her liking.

“Civilisation is still there. Just under a big pile of ash.”

Charles nodded. “I cannot thank you enough. I think I will go back south,” he said. “If you want, I can take letters off your hands that need to go that way.”

Suus looked at him, shocked. “What?”

Charles opened his palms toward her face. “If you want. No pressure.”

“Charles, that is so kind of you.” Suus hugged him. “That is the reason I keep on doing this, in the hope of finding people that want to glue instead of break.”

Charles turned red as Suus kissed the man on the cheek.

***

As she was checking all the wires from the bike to the large projector she had set up, the whole Beanery waited between it and the hanging sheet. Voices were happy, people laughed, children played. Suus smiled.

Abigail walked toward her with a bowl of steaming mixed beans. “If you pedal for ninety minutes, you better get some food in you.”

Suus bowed her head as she took the bowl. Food was something sacred. “You are so lucky with this place,” she said while taking the first spoonful.

“We all signed a contract with him now,” Abigail smiled, “that we work for the boss in exchange for food, shelter, and safety.” She let out a laugh. “We made the shelter and safety, you know.” Then she added, “And we cook for ourselves while he does nothing.”

Suus nodded. “Those people you see everywhere. I heard of an old businessman who demanded his batteries fixed. He did not live long.”

She made a strange look as she pulled a large string out of her bowl.

“Bark from the pine tree,” Abigail said. “Vitamin C. Trust me, only beans will kill you.”

Suus ate the string. “Chewy,” she smiled.

“What is the box?” she asked. “The man said, ‘Put him in the box?’”

Abigail made a throwaway gesture. “He made a rule where dissenters are put in a box for a day so they learn to behave.”

Suus nodded. “Not the worst I came across.”

Abigail let out a puff. “It killed two already.”

Suus said nothing. She got on her bike.

“People, quiet! Close all the curtains. We are going to watch ‘Shrek’ “ Suus announced. 

Cheers and applause from the crowd. The room was made dark. Suus pedaled which made the projector shine a light and the film slowly rolled from the reel in the projector. The image was slow at first, then faster until it reached full pace. 

***

People laughed at the donkey, children were amazed by the dragon. All found someone familiar in Lord Farquaad.

The film was reaching its apotheosis. Suus pedaled happily. She heard the laughter and the joy.

From the edges of her vision, she saw a shadow moving toward her. Suus inhaled, she stopped pedalling for a second.

“Just stop and enjoy the movie, I will leave in the morning.” She whispered out of breath as the pedalling took its toll.

The man's eyes were dark.  He breathed with short bursts. “A leader sometimes needs to make unpopular decisions.” he raised a long serrated knife . Suus was looking him straight in the eyes, there was no wavering when he brought the knife down. “I need to protect them, keep them together.”
Tears welled in her eyes as she saw a woman in the corner writing a letter to her long lost daughter, Charles was tracking a route on a map. She whispered as she felt the blood filling her throat. "Too late." She fell silently onto the ground.

The mill turned slower, the sound starting to drag. Then it stopped. Disappointment rolled over the people of the Beanery. Abigail turned her head to see why Suus had stopped pedalling. She screamed. All faces turned the same way.

“She was turning us against ourselves,” the man said, a bloody knife in his hand. “If people leave, we cannot have the security and shelter we grew accustomed to.” He pointed at all of them. “This was for your own good.”

The man pointed at his guards, who had been enjoying the film. “Now escort Abigail out of the Beanery, so we can return to normal.”

The crowd was silent. A woman started sobbing in the middle of it. One of the children walked up to the man and spat at him. His mother quickly tugged him away.

Abigail walked three paces toward the man. She looked him in the eye. “You know, we learned something today,” she said in a remarkably clear voice. “He who orders others around is not fit to rule.”

One by one, the inhabitants of the Beanery started to stand up, muttering words to the guards. The guards stood up themselves. They watched Abigail, then the man.

“Into the box?” one of the guards floated the words.

The man answered. “No, you fool. Out of the compound with her.”

“Into the box?” he said again.

The man fell silent as he watched Abigail. Abigail turned around and faced the crowd. “I am not your leader, nor is anyone. What do we want?”

The man muttered curses.

“We vote?” someone asked.

Abigail nodded.

The vote was banishment. The vote tallied: one against the rest in favor of banishment.  Executed immediately.

***

Abigail and Charles stood over a freshly dug grave just outside the Beanery, under a living pine tree, the healthiest one they could find. A simple wooden cross stood there.

“Here Lies Suus, She Projected Hope.”

carved into it.

“I will go south,” Charles said. “Suus kept a detailed map. I know where to go, where it is safe.”

Abigail nodded. “This madness will not get us,” she said.

A woman stepped forward. “I will go north with the projector,” she said out of the blue. “People need this.”

None disagreed.

Steam curled over the table, the scents of spices slowly taking over the room. Even the flame from the candle perched in the middle leaned towards it, growing hungry. With slow clunks of his wooden crutch, Henry limped to the table, carefully trying not to spill the water in the carafe he carried in the one arm he still had. He pinned it against his hip as he worked the crutches. The dents in the metal carafe showed how often he had practised.

When he arrived at the table, he balanced on his one leg, carefully placed the crutch in a device made of duct tape and tubes, then set the water on the table. He sat down, inhaling, his lips curling upwards as he nodded.

“We have a good life, haven’t we, Caleb?” he said while lowering his hand towards the ground and letting it hover there.

“Woof.”

From the kitchen, with a wiggling tail, Caleb came in, her head bobbing slowly from side to side.

“Come, old woman.” Henry tapped the side of his chair.

Caleb carefully pushed her head against the hand and gave it a single lick.

“You want a bean?” Henry plucked an elephant bean from his bowl and lowered it towards Caleb, who very carefully took the bean from the old man’s hand, then lay down by Henry’s foot, happily munching on it.

“I tried some curry powder on it,” Henry explained while taking a spoonful of the bean and rice dish, blowing on it before eating.

“Bit spicy, isn’t it?” he laughed as Caleb coughed.

Caleb’s head went up in one fluent motion, her ears both pointing towards the door. Henry sighed.

knock

A soft knock, almost inaudible.

knock

Even softer, as if a quick burst of wind had hit the door.

crash

The loud sound came from the foot of the door.

The man already had his hand on the crutch.

“Caleb, get my gun.”

Caleb walked briskly towards the living room, where a revolver lay on the table. Gently, with her mouth, she took it and brought it back to Henry, who limped towards the door.

***

Caleb was showing her teeth before the door opened. Henry saw it and nodded. Together with the flickering candlelight, the teeth drew attention away from her impoverished, thin body. Henry held the gun in his hand, pointing it towards the door. With one quick nod to the growling Caleb, he opened it.

On the table, the bowl of bean curry kept spreading its scent. The steam vanished as soon as the door opened. The candle fought for its life to stay lit.

Caleb stopped growling. Henry lowered his gun. On the steps lay a young man, his face so thin the lines of his skull were clear to see. He raised his head toward Henry and Caleb, a feat he clearly lacked the strength for.

“Please.” The voice was soft, croaking from the dryness of his throat. “Help.”

Henry looked at the young man’s body, then shrugged.

“What do you think, Caleb?” he asked.

The old dog stopped baring her teeth and began smelling the man on the floor. Her nose moved over his clothes and across his whole body. After thoroughly inspecting him, she turned her head towards Henry, then licked the man’s cheek once.

“Let’s get him on the couch.”

Caleb started tugging. Henry helped as much as he could with his one leg and one arm. The man was so light it made Henry shake his head.

“I’m not sure he will survive,” he muttered while looking at a cupboard. “It is possible we are going to waste an IV.”

He petted Caleb on the head. She barked.

“You’re keeping me human, Caleb.” Henry sighed as he limped towards the cupboard.

***

Jort opened his eyes. Everything was blurry, but he felt warm. He was in a room that smelled strange, partly of wet dog, mixed with the scents of garlic, pepper, and basil. Drool rolled over his chin. Automatically, he tried to wipe it away with his arm, but it felt so heavy he only managed to raise it a short distance. He was already shaking from the effort. A sharp pain shot through his arm, as if something was pulling him back.

“Wait, wait. You’ll pull your IV out.”

He heard a voice, light and friendly, before a soft tissue wiped the drool from his chin.

“You were right, Caleb,” the voice said to someone outside Jort’s blurry vision.

Then came words that nearly made him cry.

“Let’s see if you can keep some soup down.”

The steam of the hot broth tickled his nose. The garlic, pepper, and salt made him lift his head as if pulled by the scent. He slurped the sweet liquid in. He tasted the fat, the creamy thick soup. Something was mashed into it. Potatoes. Tomato. One spoonful of real food sent warmth rushing through his body.

“Thank you,” Jort cried after swallowing. Thick tears immediately made use of the fresh source of salt and moisture.

After a second he added, “Please don’t eat me,” remembering exactly what the world was.

Jort heard the spoon stirring the soup, then carefully lifting another spoonful from the bowl into his mouth.

“I am, and remain, a vegetarian,” the old voice said. Jort thought he heard an amused vibration in the otherwise baritone voice.

“And the other?” Jort swallowed again. His vision adjusted slightly. He could now see the man, the man with one arm. He smiled at him, then looked down.

“Caleb, come say hi,” the man said.

Jort felt weight settle upon his chest when a light “woof” sounded from somewhere outside his vision. He laughed.

“Save your strength,” the man said, giving Jort another spoonful.

Jort ate in silence. Then sleep took him, less haunted than it had been in a long, long time.

***

Jort sat upright on the couch. Henry sat on a chair in front of him. In only three days, some of his strength had returned. The IV was out for the first time. Henry petted Caleb, who had found a spot on the couch now that Jort was no longer taking it up completely.

“She gave away her spot on the couch for you.” Henry smiled. “She will expect regular petting in exchange.”

Jort nodded. He still felt what the weeks of starvation had done to his body, though he was slowly regaining the strength to walk small distances. He tickled under the dog’s chin. She squinted her eyes and looked at him.

“Caleb,” Jort said, “I think I owe you my life.”

Then he turned back to Henry and ate another spoonful of stir-fried vegetables.

“Who’s Liz?” Henry floated the question. “You kept saying her name in your sleep.”

Jort stopped breathing, looked at the man, and remained silent.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said. “You can talk about it when you’re ready.”

Silence settled over the room for a few seconds. Then Jort took another bite.

“Amazing you still have this amount of food.”

Jort chewed heavily. The first few bites of solid food had made him cough violently as he swallowed them almost whole.

“I owned a grocery store in the resort nearby,” the man said. “When the madness hit, all the tourists left. So I took it all.”

Henry stood up and limped to the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a bowl that he placed in front of Caleb, who attacked the food like it had personally offended her.

Jort looked at the old dog eating. His eyes traced her ribs; he could count every one of them.

“She does not look well. Is she okay?”

Henry sat back down in his chair. His eyes settled on Jort. Unease grew in Jort’s stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Jort said. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

Henry sighed again. His eyes darkened as they fixed on Jort.

“You would have found out eventually,” he said. “Unfortunately, dogs need meat to survive. I ran out almost a year ago.”

Jort waited a second, then looked into Caleb’s bowl. Small chunks of meat drifted in the beans and grains.

His brain tried to connect the dots. The source of the meat hit him like a shovel.

He stood up immediately, as if shocked by some unseen electric wire. Much too quickly for his condition. He collapsed as fast as he had risen, only to be caught by Henry’s strong arm. Henry lowered him back onto the couch.

“You’re feeding me to feed your dog?”

Jort’s eyes flashed toward the door, then to the gun on the table. He grabbed it in a single motion. Henry did not stop him. Caleb kept eating as if nothing had happened.

Henry’s eyes drifted to where his leg used to be, then to the stump of his missing arm.

Jort lowered the gun and opened his mouth. Henry nodded.

“Your arm and leg,” Jort said.

Henry nodded again. He petted Caleb.

“I do not think she knows, but in order to keep her alive—”

“It took some sacrifice,” Jort finished. “Henry, that is—”

Jort stumbled over the words.

“I haven’t seen a dead animal for years,” Henry continued. “It was the only way.”

He smiled.

“I do not regret it.”

Jort closed his eyes.

“What will you do when you have nothing left to, ehh, give?”

He swallowed.

“I have one more leg to give,” Henry said. His voice had thickened now. Jort could hear the wet sob he was holding back. “She is seventeen. I hope she will die of old age before she starves.”

Henry stood up and limped away, leaving Jort staring at Caleb, who was licking her bowl clean.

Steam curled over the table, the scents of spices slowly taking over the room. Even the flame from the candle perched in the middle leaned towards it, growing hungry. With slow clunks of his wooden crutch, Henry limped to the table, carefully trying not to spill the water in the carafe he carried in the one arm he still had. He pinned it against his hip as he worked the crutches. The dents in the metal carafe showed how often he had practised.

When he arrived at the table, he balanced on his one leg, carefully placed the crutch in a device made of duct tape and tubes, then set the water on the table. He sat down, inhaling, his lips curling upwards as he nodded.

“We have a good life, haven’t we, Caleb?” he said while lowering his hand towards the ground and letting it hover there.

“Woof.”

From the kitchen, with a wiggling tail, Caleb came in, her head bobbing slowly from side to side.

“Come, old woman.” Henry tapped the side of his chair.

Caleb carefully pushed her head against the hand and gave it a single lick.

“You want a bean?” Henry plucked an elephant bean from his bowl and lowered it towards Caleb, who very carefully took the bean from the old man’s hand, then lay down by Henry’s foot, happily munching on it.

“I tried some curry powder on it,” Henry explained while taking a spoonful of the bean and rice dish, blowing on it before eating.

“Bit spicy, isn’t it?” he laughed as Caleb coughed.

Caleb’s head went up in one fluent motion, her ears both pointing towards the door. Henry sighed.

knock

A soft knock, almost inaudible.

knock

Even softer, as if a quick burst of wind had hit the door.

crash

The loud sound came from the foot of the door.

The man already had his hand on the crutch.

“Caleb, get my gun.”

Caleb walked briskly towards the living room, where a revolver lay on the table. Gently, with her mouth, she took it and brought it back to Henry, who limped towards the door.

***

Caleb was showing her teeth before the door opened. Henry saw it and nodded. Together with the flickering candlelight, the teeth drew attention away from her impoverished, thin body. Henry held the gun in his hand, pointing it towards the door. With one quick nod to the growling Caleb, he opened it.

On the table, the bowl of bean curry kept spreading its scent. The steam vanished as soon as the door opened. The candle fought for its life to stay lit.

Caleb stopped growling. Henry lowered his gun. On the steps lay a young man, his face so thin the lines of his skull were clear to see. He raised his head toward Henry and Caleb, a feat he clearly lacked the strength for.

“Please.” The voice was soft, croaking from the dryness of his throat. “Help.”

Henry looked at the young man’s body, then shrugged.

“What do you think, Caleb?” he asked.

The old dog stopped baring her teeth and began smelling the man on the floor. Her nose moved over his clothes and across his whole body. After thoroughly inspecting him, she turned her head towards Henry, then licked the man’s cheek once.

“Let’s get him on the couch.”

Caleb started tugging. Henry helped as much as he could with his one leg and one arm. The man was so light it made Henry shake his head.

“I’m not sure he will survive,” he muttered while looking at a cupboard. “It is possible we are going to waste an IV.”

He petted Caleb on the head. She barked.

“You’re keeping me human, Caleb.” Henry sighed as he limped towards the cupboard.

***

Jort opened his eyes. Everything was blurry, but he felt warm. He was in a room that smelled strange, partly of wet dog, mixed with the scents of garlic, pepper, and basil. Drool rolled over his chin. Automatically, he tried to wipe it away with his arm, but it felt so heavy he only managed to raise it a short distance. He was already shaking from the effort. A sharp pain shot through his arm, as if something was pulling him back.

“Wait, wait. You’ll pull your IV out.”

He heard a voice, light and friendly, before a soft tissue wiped the drool from his chin.

“You were right, Caleb,” the voice said to someone outside Jort’s blurry vision.

Then came words that nearly made him cry.

“Let’s see if you can keep some soup down.”

The steam of the hot broth tickled his nose. The garlic, pepper, and salt made him lift his head as if pulled by the scent. He slurped the sweet liquid in. He tasted the fat, the creamy thick soup. Something was mashed into it. Potatoes. Tomato. One spoonful of real food sent warmth rushing through his body.

“Thank you,” Jort cried after swallowing. Thick tears immediately made use of the fresh source of salt and moisture.

After a second he added, “Please don’t eat me,” remembering exactly what the world was.

Jort heard the spoon stirring the soup, then carefully lifting another spoonful from the bowl into his mouth.

“I am, and remain, a vegetarian,” the old voice said. Jort thought he heard an amused vibration in the otherwise baritone voice.

“And the other?” Jort swallowed again. His vision adjusted slightly. He could now see the man, the man with one arm. He smiled at him, then looked down.

“Caleb, come say hi,” the man said.

Jort felt weight settle upon his chest when a light “woof” sounded from somewhere outside his vision. He laughed.

“Save your strength,” the man said, giving Jort another spoonful.

Jort ate in silence. Then sleep took him, less haunted than it had been in a long, long time.

***

Jort sat upright on the couch. Henry sat on a chair in front of him. In only three days, some of his strength had returned. The IV was out for the first time. Henry petted Caleb, who had found a spot on the couch now that Jort was no longer taking it up completely.

“She gave away her spot on the couch for you.” Henry smiled. “She will expect regular petting in exchange.”

Jort nodded. He still felt what the weeks of starvation had done to his body, though he was slowly regaining the strength to walk small distances. He tickled under the dog’s chin. She squinted her eyes and looked at him.

“Caleb,” Jort said, “I think I owe you my life.”

Then he turned back to Henry and ate another spoonful of stir-fried vegetables.

“Who’s Liz?” Henry floated the question. “You kept saying her name in your sleep.”

Jort stopped breathing, looked at the man, and remained silent.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said. “You can talk about it when you’re ready.”

Silence settled over the room for a few seconds. Then Jort took another bite.

“Amazing you still have this amount of food.”

Jort chewed heavily. The first few bites of solid food had made him cough violently as he swallowed them almost whole.

“I owned a grocery store in the resort nearby,” the man said. “When the madness hit, all the tourists left. So I took it all.”

Henry stood up and limped to the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a bowl that he placed in front of Caleb, who attacked the food like it had personally offended her.

Jort looked at the old dog eating. His eyes traced her ribs; he could count every one of them.

“She does not look well. Is she okay?”

Henry sat back down in his chair. His eyes settled on Jort. Unease grew in Jort’s stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Jort said. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

Henry sighed again. His eyes darkened as they fixed on Jort.

“You would have found out eventually,” he said. “Unfortunately, dogs need meat to survive. I ran out almost a year ago.”

Jort waited a second, then looked into Caleb’s bowl. Small chunks of meat drifted in the beans and grains.

His brain tried to connect the dots. The source of the meat hit him like a shovel.

He stood up immediately, as if shocked by some unseen electric wire. Much too quickly for his condition. He collapsed as fast as he had risen, only to be caught by Henry’s strong arm. Henry lowered him back onto the couch.

“You’re feeding me to feed your dog?”

Jort’s eyes flashed toward the door, then to the gun on the table. He grabbed it in a single motion. Henry did not stop him. Caleb kept eating as if nothing had happened.

Henry’s eyes drifted to where his leg used to be, then to the stump of his missing arm.

Jort lowered the gun and opened his mouth. Henry nodded.

“Your arm and leg,” Jort said.

Henry nodded again. He petted Caleb.

“I do not think she knows, but in order to keep her alive—”

“It took some sacrifice,” Jort finished. “Henry, that is—”

Jort stumbled over the words.

“I haven’t seen a dead animal for years,” Henry continued. “It was the only way.”

He smiled.

“I do not regret it.”

Jort closed his eyes.

“What will you do when you have nothing left to, ehh, give?”

He swallowed.

“I have one more leg to give,” Henry said. His voice had thickened now. Jort could hear the wet sob he was holding back. “She is seventeen. I hope she will die of old age before she starves.”

Henry stood up and limped away, leaving Jort staring at Caleb, who was licking her bowl clean.

De laatste warmte van de zon, verdampt de tranen op mijn wangen, die als een dijk tegen de zee, alle golven hebben gevangen.

Als de kloven van mijn lippen, de smaak van zout vergeten, zouden ze dan het zoete, van je lichaam nog wel weten?

Wanneer het rode van mijn ogen, net als het eb teruggetrokken is, blijf ik dan alleen over, zonder zij, zij die ik mis?

Maar ook wallen eroderen, ooit zullen ze zijn bezweken, toch zal ik je voor altijd, meedragen als een litteken.

Marissa listened as the waves came crashing in, breaking on the reef in a rhythm. The last wash of them wetted her back as she lay on the sand. Above her the clouds drifted by. It was a spring day; a weak sun shone on the sand grains next to her. Marissa felt herself breathing, every lungful of air felt like a thousand needles pricking in her back. Her back wound felt a bit better now. At first, the salt of every wave nearly caused her to lose consciousness; now it hurts, but she could manage. With both her elbows, she pushed herself from the sand. The shock of pain electrified her body, but still she succeeded. Marissa sat on the sand. She looked at the clear water when it came in, then retreated to the sea, reddened with blood. Her blood.

The sound of the waves numbed it, but the shooting could still be heard. Marissa turned her head; halfway through the motion, she stopped, catching her breath, the pain was unbearable now. She stretched her neck so she could see the city behind her, still burning. Black hellish smoke, thick as oil, was hurled into the air only for the wind to blow it away from the beach. It rolled over the land like the waves in front of her, suffocating just the same. The gunshots were fewer now, but still every few seconds a gun was fired. Unable to see which side was winning, Marissa carefully laid down on the beach again. For a moment, she closed her eyes.

***

“Birb, wake up, darling. Birb. Sleepy head. Birb.”

Marissa’s eyes shot open. It was dark already. For a minute, unaware where she was, then slowly she recognised the stars, then the feeling of the wet cold waves. She was shivering and sweating at the same time. Her back throbbed with slow but strong pulses of pain.

“Birb, wake up, Darling. Birb! Help Neal… Birb,” screeched something next to her. She felt something on her chest. From the periphery of her vision: a white head, black beak, and a proud upright feather on the head.

“Who?” Marissa’s throat hurt from the sheer dryness. She swallowed once. “Who are you?” her voice was so hoarse only a whisper came out.

“Sleepy head. Birb, wake up sleepy head. Birb! Help Neal.” The bird excitedly jumped up and down on her chest.

“Neal it is.” Marissa tried to move; she felt her vision fading. With a big inhale, she turned her whole body sideways, launching Neal toward the sand.

“Wake up… Birb… Neal happy… Birb!” Neal gained his footing fast and hopped towards her head. “Darling thirsty? Birb. A sip? Birb!”

Marissa now lay on her side. She was waiting until the pain lowered so she could try to stand up. Her eyes and mind tried to investigate the bird. Ok. A cockatoo, named Neal. Looks clean and fed. Then Neal’s question sank in. “Yes. Drink, please.”

Neal excitedly jumped up and down before he spread his wings and flew away. “Birb… So polite. Birb! Good boy.”

Marissa managed to drag herself a few meters up the beach away from the water. Immediately she felt a bit warmer. She took some breaths to celebrate, then tried to sit up. The pain that radiated in her back was almost ripping her unconscious again. With one hand, she touched the origin of the pain. She felt a painful, perfectly round hole on her lower back, one or two fingers’ length from her spine. Damn, that was close. She smelled her finger. Just blood, nothing in it. No guts were hit; the bullet was probably still in.

With mighty flaps of his wings, the white bird landed next to her, a small metal flask in his beak. “Birb. Darling needs sippies? Birb!” He dropped the flask in front of Marissa.

Marissa looked at it for a few seconds, then took it, opened the flask, and drank. “Fuck!” she said out loud, it was clean water!

“Birb. Bad words. Birb. No cookie for Darling. Birb.” Neal screeched and jumped a bit away from Marissa.

Marissa swallowed the clear water, then smiled. “I apologise, Neal.” She felt the water reach her stomach. It made her feel instantly better, although her back pain was still awful. The bullet needed to go out.

“Birb. Help Neal?” Neal jumped a bit closer and tilted his head slightly, looking Marissa in her eyes, waiting.

“What do you need, Neal?” Marissa sat a bit straighter, holding out a hand and slowly petting Neal’s head.

“Dora sick. Birb, help Neal? Birb.” The bird jumped on her lap, pulling her clothes with his beak. “Birb, Dora sick. Birb!”

Marissa sighed. The pain she felt was her mind already letting her know how much standing up would hurt. Neal continued to pull at her clothes. Marissa drank the last of the bottle of water. “Ok, Neal.”

Every muscle in her body disagreed with her when she stood up awkwardly by rolling on her stomach, pushing her body up, then pulling her knees under her one by one. She almost fell down again; the sand was heavy to walk on. Neal flew onto her shoulder.

“Birb, Neal help. Neal cookie. Birb!”

Marissa needed all her attention not to fall. “Great, Neal. Cookies it is. Now which way?”

Neal flew away for a moment, then landed on the sand and screeched. “Dora sick. Birb!”

Marissa slowly walked toward the bird, every step a little bit less painful. Still, she needed to stop and let the pain fade every few minutes.

***

Marissa walked over the beach. In the moonlight she saw bloodstains on the sand. Was that her blood from when she crawled on the beach? She couldn’t fully remember. She was shot, that was sure. She remembered the pain and that she hid behind a wall. A flash of blue shot before her eyes. She wasn’t sure what it meant.

Then suddenly, as if her brain was jump-started, she remembered her. Her face was clear as day.

She stopped; her knees were shaking and buckling. Neal flew closer.

“Birb! Dora sick. Darling get cookie. Birb.”

Marissa felt her stomach turn and bubble. She tasted bitter gall in her mouth. The bullet flashed in her mind, it sounded as if it was just fired. The smell of the smoke. The sharp scream of the woman next to her. She saw the bullet enter and exit the woman's head. Then she felt the sharp pain in her own back.

Immediately her hand went to the wound. It was still bleeding, just a trickle.

Neal pulled at her pants. Marissa nodded. “Yes, Neal, I’m coming.”

She could only hope this Dora was not going to kill her, that it wasn’t all a trick. She looked at Neal. Smart bird. It could all be a trap. Still, staying outside would kill her all the same.

Marissa shook her head and forced the thoughts away. The memory of the shooting made her vision sharper again, the numbness slowly retreated.

She walked further. Neal flew a bit further and sat on the remnants of a fence.

***

“Birb, Dora sick, help Neal. Birb.” Neal screeched on the fence, hopping up and down excitedly.

It took Marissa a few minutes to reach him. Then she needed to climb the dune. Her eyes started watering from the pain every step uphill caused her.

“Birb, cookie for Darling!” Neal’s enthusiastic screeches pushed Marissa uphill until she stood sweating, panting, and crying with one hand on the fence.

“What now, Neal?” Her voice was shaking. Her vision blurred again. She focused on the pain just to stay awake.

Neal flapped, then suddenly, nothing.

Marissa stared at the fence, then let her gaze wander over the dunes and toward the beach. No Neal.

“Was it all a dream?”

A few breaths later the pain was manageable again. She looked around again, shook her head heavily. “For fuck’s sake.”

Then from inside the dune came the screeches.

“Birb. Bad words. No cookie for Darling.”

Marissa breathed easier again. “Well, either I am insane or Neal is real.”

A small, barely felt gust of wind made Marissa look at the dunes strangely, as if the sand was moving.

“Sheet,” she stumbled the word out as she saw it move in the wind. Over the dunes a sheet with sand glued on it moved in the wind. Now that she knew it was there she saw it clearly.

“Bad words. No—”

“Sheet, I said sheet!” Marissa let out a painful laugh. Slowly, she pushed the sheet aside.

With an open mouth, she looked at the inside of the hideout, it was made of brick walls, sand coming through the mortar. It wasn’t big, but it had light. Candles on every surface. A small device sat against one of the walls where muddy water was on top and clear water in a glass next to it. Next to it: rows and rows of canned goods. Enough for years. 

On the back side, against the wall were two mattresses. On one of them something moved. A person was breathing with heavy wheezing breaths.

“Neal?” a weak, shrill voice of a woman said. “Neal, is that you?”

Neal hopped towards the woman. “Darling help Dora. Neal get cookie. Birb!”

With slow but deliberate movement, the woman petted Neal on the head. He screeched happily.

“Darling gets a cookie for sure,” the woman said.

Then she turned towards Marissa.

“I am shot,” she wheezed to her. “Shot in the lungs.”

Marissa got closer with small steps. “I got shot in the back,” she said while lighting another candle.

She looked at the woman, at the blood-stained bright blue sweater she was wearing, then at the woman’s face. a scar on her left cheek. One of her eyes was twitching.

Both of them were like statues.

“You shot me,” the woman in blue said.

“And you me,” Marissa said back. “You killed my friend.”

The silence in the room was pregnant with violence for a minute.

Marissa shrugged first.

“Well, I suppose we owe Neal a cookie.”

The woman in blue laughed, then coughed immediately.

“Then let’s get the first aid kit and patch each other up.”

The woman nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“No you are not, and neither am I,” Marissa answered.

Marissa listened as the waves came crashing in, breaking on the reef in a rhythm. The last wash of them wetted her back as she lay on the sand. Above her the clouds drifted by. It was a spring day; a weak sun shone on the sand grains next to her. Marissa felt herself breathing, every lungful of air felt like a thousand needles pricking in her back. Her back wound felt a bit better now. At first, the salt of every wave nearly caused her to lose consciousness; now it hurts, but she could manage. With both her elbows, she pushed herself from the sand. The shock of pain electrified her body, but still she succeeded. Marissa sat on the sand. She looked at the clear water when it came in, then retreated to the sea, reddened with blood. Her blood.

The sound of the waves numbed it, but the shooting could still be heard. Marissa turned her head; halfway through the motion, she stopped, catching her breath, the pain was unbearable now. She stretched her neck so she could see the city behind her, still burning. Black hellish smoke, thick as oil, was hurled into the air only for the wind to blow it away from the beach. It rolled over the land like the waves in front of her, suffocating just the same. The gunshots were fewer now, but still every few seconds a gun was fired. Unable to see which side was winning, Marissa carefully laid down on the beach again. For a moment, she closed her eyes.

***

“Birb, wake up, darling. Birb. Sleepy head. Birb.”

Marissa’s eyes shot open. It was dark already. For a minute, unaware where she was, then slowly she recognised the stars, then the feeling of the wet cold waves. She was shivering and sweating at the same time. Her back throbbed with slow but strong pulses of pain.

“Birb, wake up, Darling. Birb! Help Neal… Birb,” screeched something next to her. She felt something on her chest. From the periphery of her vision: a white head, black beak, and a proud upright feather on the head.

“Who?” Marissa’s throat hurt from the sheer dryness. She swallowed once. “Who are you?” her voice was so hoarse only a whisper came out.

“Sleepy head. Birb, wake up sleepy head. Birb! Help Neal.” The bird excitedly jumped up and down on her chest.

“Neal it is.” Marissa tried to move; she felt her vision fading. With a big inhale, she turned her whole body sideways, launching Neal toward the sand.

“Wake up… Birb… Neal happy… Birb!” Neal gained his footing fast and hopped towards her head. “Darling thirsty? Birb. A sip? Birb!”

Marissa now lay on her side. She was waiting until the pain lowered so she could try to stand up. Her eyes and mind tried to investigate the bird. Ok. A cockatoo, named Neal. Looks clean and fed. Then Neal’s question sank in. “Yes. Drink, please.”

Neal excitedly jumped up and down before he spread his wings and flew away. “Birb… So polite. Birb! Good boy.”

Marissa managed to drag herself a few meters up the beach away from the water. Immediately she felt a bit warmer. She took some breaths to celebrate, then tried to sit up. The pain that radiated in her back was almost ripping her unconscious again. With one hand, she touched the origin of the pain. She felt a painful, perfectly round hole on her lower back, one or two fingers’ length from her spine. Damn, that was close. She smelled her finger. Just blood, nothing in it. No guts were hit; the bullet was probably still in.

With mighty flaps of his wings, the white bird landed next to her, a small metal flask in his beak. “Birb. Darling needs sippies? Birb!” He dropped the flask in front of Marissa.

Marissa looked at it for a few seconds, then took it, opened the flask, and drank. “Fuck!” she said out loud, it was clean water!

“Birb. Bad words. Birb. No cookie for Darling. Birb.” Neal screeched and jumped a bit away from Marissa.

Marissa swallowed the clear water, then smiled. “I apologise, Neal.” She felt the water reach her stomach. It made her feel instantly better, although her back pain was still awful. The bullet needed to go out.

“Birb. Help Neal?” Neal jumped a bit closer and tilted his head slightly, looking Marissa in her eyes, waiting.

“What do you need, Neal?” Marissa sat a bit straighter, holding out a hand and slowly petting Neal’s head.

“Dora sick. Birb, help Neal? Birb.” The bird jumped on her lap, pulling her clothes with his beak. “Birb, Dora sick. Birb!”

Marissa sighed. The pain she felt was her mind already letting her know how much standing up would hurt. Neal continued to pull at her clothes. Marissa drank the last of the bottle of water. “Ok, Neal.”

Every muscle in her body disagreed with her when she stood up awkwardly by rolling on her stomach, pushing her body up, then pulling her knees under her one by one. She almost fell down again; the sand was heavy to walk on. Neal flew onto her shoulder.

“Birb, Neal help. Neal cookie. Birb!”

Marissa needed all her attention not to fall. “Great, Neal. Cookies it is. Now which way?”

Neal flew away for a moment, then landed on the sand and screeched. “Dora sick. Birb!”

Marissa slowly walked toward the bird, every step a little bit less painful. Still, she needed to stop and let the pain fade every few minutes.

***

Marissa walked over the beach. In the moonlight she saw bloodstains on the sand. Was that her blood from when she crawled on the beach? She couldn’t fully remember. She was shot, that was sure. She remembered the pain and that she hid behind a wall. A flash of blue shot before her eyes. She wasn’t sure what it meant.

Then suddenly, as if her brain was jump-started, she remembered her. Her face was clear as day.

She stopped; her knees were shaking and buckling. Neal flew closer.

“Birb! Dora sick. Darling get cookie. Birb.”

Marissa felt her stomach turn and bubble. She tasted bitter gall in her mouth. The bullet flashed in her mind, it sounded as if it was just fired. The smell of the smoke. The sharp scream of the woman next to her. She saw the bullet enter and exit the woman's head. Then she felt the sharp pain in her own back.

Immediately her hand went to the wound. It was still bleeding, just a trickle.

Neal pulled at her pants. Marissa nodded. “Yes, Neal, I’m coming.”

She could only hope this Dora was not going to kill her, that it wasn’t all a trick. She looked at Neal. Smart bird. It could all be a trap. Still, staying outside would kill her all the same.

Marissa shook her head and forced the thoughts away. The memory of the shooting made her vision sharper again, the numbness slowly retreated.

She walked further. Neal flew a bit further and sat on the remnants of a fence.

***

“Birb, Dora sick, help Neal. Birb.” Neal screeched on the fence, hopping up and down excitedly.

It took Marissa a few minutes to reach him. Then she needed to climb the dune. Her eyes started watering from the pain every step uphill caused her.

“Birb, cookie for Darling!” Neal’s enthusiastic screeches pushed Marissa uphill until she stood sweating, panting, and crying with one hand on the fence.

“What now, Neal?” Her voice was shaking. Her vision blurred again. She focused on the pain just to stay awake.

Neal flapped, then suddenly, nothing.

Marissa stared at the fence, then let her gaze wander over the dunes and toward the beach. No Neal.

“Was it all a dream?”

A few breaths later the pain was manageable again. She looked around again, shook her head heavily. “For fuck’s sake.”

Then from inside the dune came the screeches.

“Birb. Bad words. No cookie for Darling.”

Marissa breathed easier again. “Well, either I am insane or Neal is real.”

A small, barely felt gust of wind made Marissa look at the dunes strangely, as if the sand was moving.

“Sheet,” she stumbled the word out as she saw it move in the wind. Over the dunes a sheet with sand glued on it moved in the wind. Now that she knew it was there she saw it clearly.

“Bad words. No—”

“Sheet, I said sheet!” Marissa let out a painful laugh. Slowly, she pushed the sheet aside.

With an open mouth, she looked at the inside of the hideout, it was made of brick walls, sand coming through the mortar. It wasn’t big, but it had light. Candles on every surface. A small device sat against one of the walls where muddy water was on top and clear water in a glass next to it. Next to it: rows and rows of canned goods. Enough for years. 

On the back side, against the wall were two mattresses. On one of them something moved. A person was breathing with heavy wheezing breaths.

“Neal?” a weak, shrill voice of a woman said. “Neal, is that you?”

Neal hopped towards the woman. “Darling help Dora. Neal get cookie. Birb!”

With slow but deliberate movement, the woman petted Neal on the head. He screeched happily.

“Darling gets a cookie for sure,” the woman said.

Then she turned towards Marissa.

“I am shot,” she wheezed to her. “Shot in the lungs.”

Marissa got closer with small steps. “I got shot in the back,” she said while lighting another candle.

She looked at the woman, at the blood-stained bright blue sweater she was wearing, then at the woman’s face. a scar on her left cheek. One of her eyes was twitching.

Both of them were like statues.

“You shot me,” the woman in blue said.

“And you me,” Marissa said back. “You killed my friend.”

The silence in the room was pregnant with violence for a minute.

Marissa shrugged first.

“Well, I suppose we owe Neal a cookie.”

The woman in blue laughed, then coughed immediately.

“Then let’s get the first aid kit and patch each other up.”

The woman nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“No you are not, and neither am I,” Marissa answered.

My eyes are set on the television as she comes into the room. I know she looks at me, I can feel it. All my strength it takes not to give her a glimpse, to see her eyes prying through me. Judging, always judging, never positive. I know this is all my fault. I simply forgot. Now I can only hope she does not notice it, vain hope, I know her so well. This evening is going to be hell if she notices it.

With small deliberate steps she moves forward, there is no doubt where she is walking towards. Her clock is perfect, as perfect as she is herself. Her nose makes sounds, sniffing. I hear the sniffing louder, she probably turns her head and looks at me. She knows something is off. I hear more steps, slowly going to her dinner. Another sniff, this one more audible, more deliberate. I stare at the game on my screen. Since she came into the room I haven’t made an action. Through the group speak people are checking if I am still alive.

“For now I am,” I joke back, then I feel the hard lump in my throat when I swallow. For now I am. Ask me again in ten minutes.

***

I enter the room. My afternoon beauty sleep went well, the servant left the warm on this time, good. He is still learning. He is sitting there gaming again, fat boy. Hmmm today he is not really into it. As if something is holding him back, or he died again in the first 3 seconds by some Japanese 12-year-old. She nods. Yes, probably it.

So, 5 o’clock exactly. Dinner time. Sniff. Hmm, this does not smell like the dinner I ordered. Wait a second, is he sweating? Did he forget my food again? I am gonna hurt him so bad. Puke on his curtains. Hah! The black ones this time. Or? It does not smell bad. Fish. Sniff sniff. Hmm, tuna filet, and is that the smell of shrimp? Perhaps he just added some on the top. I did call for more shrimps. She walks another few steps.

***

I turn my head very slightly. I died in the game. Some 12-year-old Japanese kid who apparently dislikes me a lot killed me again. I see her almost reaching the food. She can see it now, her head lingers for a few seconds, did she notice? With a sudden single movement her head violently turns my way. As if a rubber band pulled me back, I am once again staring at the screen, pretending not to be killed by my nemesis. I hear three steps coming closer. Then the dreaded sound, the one that makes me scared for my curtains. I know her revenge, I suffered it more than once.

“Meow!”

Dammit, she noticed. I feel her jumping on the couch, her claws in my leg as she comes to sit on my lap.

“Afk,” I manage to scream before the claws make my voice sound like a little girl. I am looking in the face of my cat. She sits on my lap facing me. Perfect straight back, as if she came from a commercial. Only her eyes do not look like a happy kitty. They look like a lion who is seconds away from her kill.

“Meow!”

I know exactly what she is trying to say, I wipe the sweat from my brow.

***

“What is this?” I scream out. “This is not my happy chow. These lumps are bigger, the texture is off.” I turn my head to see the man on the couch. He immediately shifts his head back to the screen.

“Unbelievable,” I yell, while sneaking towards the couch. “You changed my food?” I see him through my slitted eyes. “The disrespect.”

The man's face reveals that he already knows what comes next, the guilt drips off of it.

“Unacceptable!”

This lack of respect needs another correction. One mighty jump from my legs and I am on the couch. I don’t need my nails for this pathetic small jump. Still, if he ruins my meal it is only fair I ruin his couch, game, curtains, and perhaps some plants. The one with the big leaves looks particularly fragile. I continue so I sit on his lap, nails deep in the pants of the man, I look him straight in the eyes. He scratches my ears. He wants to divert my attention with scratches! Hmmm, scratches. No! My nails dig deeper, this is important, I will have his attention.

“This is not my own meal, is it?”

Without waiting for a reply:

“Now fetch my food.” I tell him without blinking. “I am hungry.”

***

“I’m sorry, Kitty,” I start with the best soft voice I have. “The shop was out of your normal food, so this one was the closest.”

This was the truth. Well, part of it.

“This one even has more tuna and shrimps. You love tuna and shrimp.” I scratch her head behind her ears. I do not feel her relaxing, I stop as I know what she will do with that hand.

“Meow,” she says back, her nails digging deeper into my legs. I lift her up ever so gently and walk with her towards her bowl. I carefully put her next to her bowl of food. Then crouch on my hands and knees, so my head is at the same height of her

“Look, Kitty, nice big chunks, whole shrimps. And look,” I show her the package, “the cat on it even looks like you.”

She turns her head away and hisses.

“I know, I normally mix it in with your regular food so we transfer slowly to the new one. But there was none.”

“Meow!” it drips of contempt. She sniffs the food again, then takes a small bite. She chews while looking at me. A big sigh after she swallows.

***

The man mutters some apologies. Not enough. I demand my own food. It is Wednesday, so tuna with shrimps, but not this garbage. I will make you listen, and then make you not forget.

What is this, carrying me? This is not agreed upon. You need some more scratches to the arm? So you can cry like a little girl again? Your wish is my pleasure.

He sets me down by my bowl. My bowl with that abomination of food in it. The smell is quite good actually. I wonder if I should take a bite. After all, I need sustenance. He kneels beside me. Good, he learned that, otherwise I would climb upwards from his legs. He can learn.

Hmm he is telling me something…Yes, there is a point, the shrimp-tuna ratio smells a bit better, but still, I am not getting used to another food.

“Give me my food.”

I swear to Scar, you will regret this day.

I smell his breath. By the gods of old, awful minty smell. Then those words, his betrayal of my trust. My heart sinks into my paws. My claws extend fully as I feel my tail grow bigger.

“You did what?”

Trick me by slowly changing my food. This is, this is… unheard of. Your life, sir, is forfeit.

I look at the bowl, the scent is settling in. A dribble of drool escapes my mouth. Let’s see. Puke on curtains, claws to arm, kill the plant. This all will cut into my nap time. I do not need to get energy somewhere. He is looking at me. When I eat, he will take it as encouragement.

I take a resistant bite.

Dammit, it is good. Do I dare to say better than the old one? And it does look like me… wait, what is that?

I exhale as I am barely able to swallow.

“Blasphemy!”

This will not go unanswered.

“Say your prayers human, this ends tonight.”

***

I take a step back. As the kitty hisses at me, tail big, her eyes scream attack.

“What’s wrong, Kitty?”

I search for what could upset her so much. Then I see it. Again a mistake by me. One of the cans of food has a sticker on it.

“2 for 1,” it says.

Oh no. Kitty hates discounted articles. I shake my head at my own stupidity. This will be a rough evening. I run towards my banana plant. I know she had her eyes on it.

My eyes are set on the television as she comes into the room. I know she looks at me, I can feel it. All my strength it takes not to give her a glimpse, to see her eyes prying through me. Judging, always judging, never positive. I know this is all my fault. I simply forgot. Now I can only hope she does not notice it, vain hope, I know her so well. This evening is going to be hell if she notices it.

With small deliberate steps she moves forward, there is no doubt where she is walking towards. Her clock is perfect, as perfect as she is herself. Her nose makes sounds, sniffing. I hear the sniffing louder, she probably turns her head and looks at me. She knows something is off. I hear more steps, slowly going to her dinner. Another sniff, this one more audible, more deliberate. I stare at the game on my screen. Since she came into the room I haven’t made an action. Through the group speak people are checking if I am still alive.

“For now I am,” I joke back, then I feel the hard lump in my throat when I swallow. For now I am. Ask me again in ten minutes.

***

I enter the room. My afternoon beauty sleep went well, the servant left the warm on this time, good. He is still learning. He is sitting there gaming again, fat boy. Hmmm today he is not really into it. As if something is holding him back, or he died again in the first 3 seconds by some Japanese 12-year-old. She nods. Yes, probably it.

So, 5 o’clock exactly. Dinner time. Sniff. Hmm, this does not smell like the dinner I ordered. Wait a second, is he sweating? Did he forget my food again? I am gonna hurt him so bad. Puke on his curtains. Hah! The black ones this time. Or? It does not smell bad. Fish. Sniff sniff. Hmm, tuna filet, and is that the smell of shrimp? Perhaps he just added some on the top. I did call for more shrimps. She walks another few steps.

***

I turn my head very slightly. I died in the game. Some 12-year-old Japanese kid who apparently dislikes me a lot killed me again. I see her almost reaching the food. She can see it now, her head lingers for a few seconds, did she notice? With a sudden single movement her head violently turns my way. As if a rubber band pulled me back, I am once again staring at the screen, pretending not to be killed by my nemesis. I hear three steps coming closer. Then the dreaded sound, the one that makes me scared for my curtains. I know her revenge, I suffered it more than once.

“Meow!”

Dammit, she noticed. I feel her jumping on the couch, her claws in my leg as she comes to sit on my lap.

“Afk,” I manage to scream before the claws make my voice sound like a little girl. I am looking in the face of my cat. She sits on my lap facing me. Perfect straight back, as if she came from a commercial. Only her eyes do not look like a happy kitty. They look like a lion who is seconds away from her kill.

“Meow!”

I know exactly what she is trying to say, I wipe the sweat from my brow.

***

“What is this?” I scream out. “This is not my happy chow. These lumps are bigger, the texture is off.” I turn my head to see the man on the couch. He immediately shifts his head back to the screen.

“Unbelievable,” I yell, while sneaking towards the couch. “You changed my food?” I see him through my slitted eyes. “The disrespect.”

The man's face reveals that he already knows what comes next, the guilt drips off of it.

“Unacceptable!”

This lack of respect needs another correction. One mighty jump from my legs and I am on the couch. I don’t need my nails for this pathetic small jump. Still, if he ruins my meal it is only fair I ruin his couch, game, curtains, and perhaps some plants. The one with the big leaves looks particularly fragile. I continue so I sit on his lap, nails deep in the pants of the man, I look him straight in the eyes. He scratches my ears. He wants to divert my attention with scratches! Hmmm, scratches. No! My nails dig deeper, this is important, I will have his attention.

“This is not my own meal, is it?”

Without waiting for a reply:

“Now fetch my food.” I tell him without blinking. “I am hungry.”

***

“I’m sorry, Kitty,” I start with the best soft voice I have. “The shop was out of your normal food, so this one was the closest.”

This was the truth. Well, part of it.

“This one even has more tuna and shrimps. You love tuna and shrimp.” I scratch her head behind her ears. I do not feel her relaxing, I stop as I know what she will do with that hand.

“Meow,” she says back, her nails digging deeper into my legs. I lift her up ever so gently and walk with her towards her bowl. I carefully put her next to her bowl of food. Then crouch on my hands and knees, so my head is at the same height of her

“Look, Kitty, nice big chunks, whole shrimps. And look,” I show her the package, “the cat on it even looks like you.”

She turns her head away and hisses.

“I know, I normally mix it in with your regular food so we transfer slowly to the new one. But there was none.”

“Meow!” it drips of contempt. She sniffs the food again, then takes a small bite. She chews while looking at me. A big sigh after she swallows.

***

The man mutters some apologies. Not enough. I demand my own food. It is Wednesday, so tuna with shrimps, but not this garbage. I will make you listen, and then make you not forget.

What is this, carrying me? This is not agreed upon. You need some more scratches to the arm? So you can cry like a little girl again? Your wish is my pleasure.

He sets me down by my bowl. My bowl with that abomination of food in it. The smell is quite good actually. I wonder if I should take a bite. After all, I need sustenance. He kneels beside me. Good, he learned that, otherwise I would climb upwards from his legs. He can learn.

Hmm he is telling me something…Yes, there is a point, the shrimp-tuna ratio smells a bit better, but still, I am not getting used to another food.

“Give me my food.”

I swear to Scar, you will regret this day.

I smell his breath. By the gods of old, awful minty smell. Then those words, his betrayal of my trust. My heart sinks into my paws. My claws extend fully as I feel my tail grow bigger.

“You did what?”

Trick me by slowly changing my food. This is, this is… unheard of. Your life, sir, is forfeit.

I look at the bowl, the scent is settling in. A dribble of drool escapes my mouth. Let’s see. Puke on curtains, claws to arm, kill the plant. This all will cut into my nap time. I do not need to get energy somewhere. He is looking at me. When I eat, he will take it as encouragement.

I take a resistant bite.

Dammit, it is good. Do I dare to say better than the old one? And it does look like me… wait, what is that?

I exhale as I am barely able to swallow.

“Blasphemy!”

This will not go unanswered.

“Say your prayers human, this ends tonight.”

***

I take a step back. As the kitty hisses at me, tail big, her eyes scream attack.

“What’s wrong, Kitty?”

I search for what could upset her so much. Then I see it. Again a mistake by me. One of the cans of food has a sticker on it.

“2 for 1,” it says.

Oh no. Kitty hates discounted articles. I shake my head at my own stupidity. This will be a rough evening. I run towards my banana plant. I know she had her eyes on it.

My eyes are set on the television as she comes into the room. I know she looks at me, I can feel it. All my strength it takes not to give her a glimpse, to see her eyes prying through me. Judging, always judging, never positive. I know this is all my fault. I simply forgot. Now I can only hope she does not notice it, vain hope, I know her so well. This evening is going to be hell if she notices it.

With small deliberate steps she moves forward, there is no doubt where she is walking towards. Her clock is perfect, as perfect as she is herself. Her nose makes sounds, sniffing. I hear the sniffing louder, she probably turns her head and looks at me. She knows something is off. I hear more steps, slowly going to her dinner. Another sniff, this one more audible, more deliberate. I stare at the game on my screen. Since she came into the room I haven’t made an action. Through the group speak people are checking if I am still alive.

“For now I am,” I joke back, then I feel the hard lump in my throat when I swallow. For now I am. Ask me again in ten minutes.

***

I enter the room. My afternoon beauty sleep went well, the servant left the warm on this time, good. He is still learning. He is sitting there gaming again, fat boy. Hmmm today he is not really into it. As if something is holding him back, or he died again in the first 3 seconds by some Japanese 12-year-old. She nods. Yes, probably it.

So, 5 o’clock exactly. Dinner time. Sniff. Hmm, this does not smell like the dinner I ordered. Wait a second, is he sweating? Did he forget my food again? I am gonna hurt him so bad. Puke on his curtains. Hah! The black ones this time. Or? It does not smell bad. Fish. Sniff sniff. Hmm, tuna filet, and is that the smell of shrimp? Perhaps he just added some on the top. I did call for more shrimps. She walks another few steps.

***

I turn my head very slightly. I died in the game. Some 12-year-old Japanese kid who apparently dislikes me a lot killed me again. I see her almost reaching the food. She can see it now, her head lingers for a few seconds, did she notice? With a sudden single movement her head violently turns my way. As if a rubber band pulled me back, I am once again staring at the screen, pretending not to be killed by my nemesis. I hear three steps coming closer. Then the dreaded sound, the one that makes me scared for my curtains. I know her revenge, I suffered it more than once.

“Meow!”

Dammit, she noticed. I feel her jumping on the couch, her claws in my leg as she comes to sit on my lap.

“Afk,” I manage to scream before the claws make my voice sound like a little girl. I am looking in the face of my cat. She sits on my lap facing me. Perfect straight back, as if she came from a commercial. Only her eyes do not look like a happy kitty. They look like a lion who is seconds away from her kill.

“Meow!”

I know exactly what she is trying to say, I wipe the sweat from my brow.

***

“What is this?” I scream out. “This is not my happy chow. These lumps are bigger, the texture is off.” I turn my head to see the man on the couch. He immediately shifts his head back to the screen.

“Unbelievable,” I yell, while sneaking towards the couch. “You changed my food?” I see him through my slitted eyes. “The disrespect.”

The man's face reveals that he already knows what comes next, the guilt drips off of it.

“Unacceptable!”

This lack of respect needs another correction. One mighty jump from my legs and I am on the couch. I don’t need my nails for this pathetic small jump. Still, if he ruins my meal it is only fair I ruin his couch, game, curtains, and perhaps some plants. The one with the big leaves looks particularly fragile. I continue so I sit on his lap, nails deep in the pants of the man, I look him straight in the eyes. He scratches my ears. He wants to divert my attention with scratches! Hmmm, scratches. No! My nails dig deeper, this is important, I will have his attention.

“This is not my own meal, is it?”

Without waiting for a reply:

“Now fetch my food.” I tell him without blinking. “I am hungry.”

***

“I’m sorry, Kitty,” I start with the best soft voice I have. “The shop was out of your normal food, so this one was the closest.”

This was the truth. Well, part of it.

“This one even has more tuna and shrimps. You love tuna and shrimp.” I scratch her head behind her ears. I do not feel her relaxing, I stop as I know what she will do with that hand.

“Meow,” she says back, her nails digging deeper into my legs. I lift her up ever so gently and walk with her towards her bowl. I carefully put her next to her bowl of food. Then crouch on my hands and knees, so my head is at the same height of her

“Look, Kitty, nice big chunks, whole shrimps. And look,” I show her the package, “the cat on it even looks like you.”

She turns her head away and hisses.

“I know, I normally mix it in with your regular food so we transfer slowly to the new one. But there was none.”

“Meow!” it drips of contempt. She sniffs the food again, then takes a small bite. She chews while looking at me. A big sigh after she swallows.

***

The man mutters some apologies. Not enough. I demand my own food. It is Wednesday, so tuna with shrimps, but not this garbage. I will make you listen, and then make you not forget.

What is this, carrying me? This is not agreed upon. You need some more scratches to the arm? So you can cry like a little girl again? Your wish is my pleasure.

He sets me down by my bowl. My bowl with that abomination of food in it. The smell is quite good actually. I wonder if I should take a bite. After all, I need sustenance. He kneels beside me. Good, he learned that, otherwise I would climb upwards from his legs. He can learn.

Hmm he is telling me something…Yes, there is a point, the shrimp-tuna ratio smells a bit better, but still, I am not getting used to another food.

“Give me my food.”

I swear to Scar, you will regret this day.

I smell his breath. By the gods of old, awful minty smell. Then those words, his betrayal of my trust. My heart sinks into my paws. My claws extend fully as I feel my tail grow bigger.

“You did what?”

Trick me by slowly changing my food. This is, this is… unheard of. Your life, sir, is forfeit.

I look at the bowl, the scent is settling in. A dribble of drool escapes my mouth. Let’s see. Puke on curtains, claws to arm, kill the plant. This all will cut into my nap time. I do not need to get energy somewhere. He is looking at me. When I eat, he will take it as encouragement.

I take a resistant bite.

Dammit, it is good. Do I dare to say better than the old one? And it does look like me… wait, what is that?

I exhale as I am barely able to swallow.

“Blasphemy!”

This will not go unanswered.

“Say your prayers human, this ends tonight.”

***

I take a step back. As the kitty hisses at me, tail big, her eyes scream attack.

“What’s wrong, Kitty?”

I search for what could upset her so much. Then I see it. Again a mistake by me. One of the cans of food has a sticker on it.

“2 for 1,” it says.

Oh no. Kitty hates discounted articles. I shake my head at my own stupidity. This will be a rough evening. I run towards my banana plant. I know she had her eyes on it.

The rain came down in that particular, spiteful way it reserves for suburbia: not cleansing, just insulting. Maleficent stood at the bus stop, her black robes pooling in a small, oily puddle. The horns, of course, were a problem. They caught the wind like twin sails, and every few seconds she had to tilt her head against the gust, a gesture that looked regal but was mostly just annoying.
“Stupid dragon,” she muttered, not for the first time. “Stretches his hamstring playing fetch. Honestly.”
The bus was late. It was always late when you were evil incarnate. Goodness had a way of making public transportation run on time.
She heard him before she saw him: a wet, scuffling sound, like damp laundry being dragged across concrete. Then the coughing. Then the singing. “The fishes, my love, the fishes in the sea, they’re fresh and they’re wriggly and they’re looking at me…”
Gollum materialized from the hedge. He was wearing a tiny, waterlogged lion cloth and carrying a reusable shopping bag that read THERE IS NO PLANET B in cheerful green letters.
“The grocer only has the processed kind,” he hissed, by way of greeting. “In the little tin. With the smiling dolphin. We hates it. Precious hates the smiling dolphin. It lies.”
Maleficent raised one elegant eyebrow. “Processed fish is an abomination. The mercury in it is always less than you expect.”
Gollum nodded vigorously, his pale eyes darting to her horns, her claws, the general air of ancient malevolence she wore like a perfume. “You. You’re the dark one. The one with the thorn. We know your type.”
“I’m not a type,” Maleficent said coolly. “I’m a first principle.”
A flicker of something — respect, perhaps — crossed Gollum’s gaunt face. Then his expression soured. “And they call me evil. Just because we was corrupted by a little gold thing. A trinket. A bit of jewelry, my birthday present.” He coiled his fingers around his own throat, defensive. “Smeagol isn’t evil. The Ring is evil. Smeagol is a victim of circumstance. That means we get a seat. If the bus is full. It’s in the victim handbook.”
Maleficent turned to face him fully. The rain seemed to part around her shoulders. “The Ring would have no effect on me.”
Gollum stopped his fidgeting. “What?”
“I am evil,” she said, simply. “Genuinely, structurally, origin-story evil. No cursed object could amplify what is already absolute. If anything, my proximity would dilute the Ring. Your precious would become…” she smiled, thin and sharp, “…ordinary.”
Gollum stared. His mouth opened. Closed. A small, strangled noise escaped him.
“Why would we want the Ring to lose its power?” he whispered, horrified.
Maleficent said nothing. She turned back to the road. Sometimes the silence was crueler than any curse.
***
The bus arrived with a pneumatic hiss. It was packed. Two seats remained, a bench of four, facing each other like a polite approximation of hell. In one corner sat a man in a black suit. A black cape was draped over the seat. He was holding a newspaper in front of his face. The newspaper trembled slightly, failing entirely to conceal the two pointed bat ears from his mask.
In the other corner sat a pale man with a badly glued false mustache and oversized novelty glasses on a spring. Beneath the glasses, a lurid pink rash spread across his nose and cheeks. He was scratching. Constantly.
Gollum and Maleficent locked eyes. They agreed on something. They turned in unison and scanned the aisle for other seats. There were none. The driver coughed. The bus lurched forward. They sat.
“Good afternoon,” said the man with the mustache, in a strained, high-pitched voice. “My name is Henk. I am going to see my aunt. She has excellent scones.”
Maleficent folded her arms. “You’re riding a bus.”
“I enjoy public transport,” said Voldemort, sweat beading under his fake nose. “It is… democratic.”
“You think it’s beneath you,” she said. “You once made a man eat his own eyeballs for suggesting you take the Tube.”
Voldemort’s composure cracked. The mustache tilted. “The winds, you vicious harpy! The winds are gale-force! I cannot hold a broom in this weather! Do you know how difficult it is flying with a rash? I have chafing. I am forced to travel like a - a - ”
“Muggle?” Gollum offered, innocently.
“Yes,” Voldemort spat. “Exactly. A filthy, butterbeer-swilling, electricity-believing Muggle.”
Gollum pulled a cracked phone from his lion cloth. “That word doesn’t mean what you think it means.”
“I invented the word,” Voldemort hissed. “In 1947. I wrote it in a diary. Muggle. From mug, fool, and -gle, diminutive. It is mine.”
Gollum tapped the screen and held it up. A dictionary entry glowed in the grey light.
Muggle (n.) - informal: a person who lacks a particular skill or knowledge in a specific area. “I’m a total muggle when it comes to changing a tire.”
Voldemort stared. His false mustache slowly peeled off and landed in his lap. The glasses followed. Without them, his rash looked even worse; livid, weeping, deeply undignified.
“They changed it,” he breathed. “The dictionary people. They democratized my slur.”
Maleficent looked him up and down. “You,” she said, “are a total muggle when it comes to disguise.”
Voldemort pouted. He crossed his arms, sank into his seat, and refused to make eye contact with anyone.
The bus stopped. Two figures in peaked caps climbed aboard—ticket controllers, radiating the smug, merciless energy of people with laminated authority.
From behind the newspaper came a low, gravelly whisper: “I’ve faced the Joker. I’ve faced Bane. I’ve faced my own trauma in a black leather suit. But this? This is cruelty.”
The other three sighed. Heavily. In perfect unison.
The first controller tapped Batman’s shoulder. The newspaper lowered by two inches. A jaw of pure granite was visible. So was the complete absence of a ticket.
“Identification, sir.”
Batman leaned in, lowering his voice to a subsonic rumble. “I am vengeance. I am the night. I am…”
“You’re fare-dodging,” said the controller. “That’s a crime.”
Batman flinched as if struck.
“He owns the company,” Gollum said, picking a thread from his cardigan. “Wayne Industries. Operates this entire bus network. Didn’t buy a ticket.”
“Tight pants,” Batman muttered. “Couldn’t fit my wallet.”
“You can pay by phone,” Maleficent said.
“My phone is in my other utility belt.”
“How did you get the newspaper?” Voldemort asked, suddenly curious.
A long pause. “I didn’t steal it,” Batman said.
The other three looked at each other and shrugged. “He stole it,” they said in unison.
The controller held out a handheld scanner. “Ticket, sir. Or you leave.”
Batman emptied his pockets. A single Batarang. Three smoke pellets. A photograph of a dead robin. The novelty glasses from Voldemort’s disguise. He offered the glasses to the controller. “These are prescription.”
“They have a fake nose attached.”
“A medical condition.” Voldemort hissed.
The controller was unmoved. “Ticket. Or off the bus.”
Outside, the rain intensified. It was the kind of rain that seemed personal.
Batman leaned in close, cupping a hand to the controller’s ear. “I am Bruce Wayne,” he whispered. “I own the company. This is a misunderstanding.”
The controller smiled. It was not a kind smile. “I know. You're the one who restructured last quarter. Remember the layoffs? Four hundred drivers? This year no bonus was the message? Well I just got it.” 
Batman stood. He walked to the door. He stepped into the downpour. And then he screamed—a raw, operatic howl that cut through the sound of the rain:
“IT IS RIDICULOUS THAT EVERY EVIL CHARACTER HAS A TICKET AND I DON’T!”
From inside the bus, Gollum whispered beneath his breath. “We copied ours.”
Maleficent nodded. “I stole mine from a child.”
Voldemort looked at his ticket. “Mine’s legitimate. My assistant bought it. I don’t know how. I assume dark magic and a corporate card.”
The controllers moved down the row. Gollum presented his ticket proudly. It was, unmistakably, a black-and-white photocopy of a valid pass, so fuzzy and misaligned that the expiration date read JANUARY 0000.
“Not even a color copy?” asked the controller.
“The environment,” Gollum said, with the desperate sincerity of a man who had just thought of the excuse. “Color cartridges have microplastics.”
“Off.”
Maleficent handed over her ticket. The controller held it up to the light. A small, grinning cartoon frog was visible, along with the words CHILD AGES 4 -12.
“This is a child’s ticket.”
“I am a child,” Maleficent said, as regally as possible. “You tell me I look old?.”
“Off.”
Voldemort stood up before they reached him. He adjusted his rash, tucked his mustache into his pocket, gave the controller his ticket and walked calmly toward the door.
“Your ticket is valid sir,” the controller said, confused.
“I know,” said Voldemort as he paused at the door, rain misting his bald head.“ I felt like one of the good guys for a moment. It was unbearable.”
The three of them stood at the side of the road: the ancient fairy, the wretched creature, and the Dark Lord. The bus pulled away, revealing Batman already halfway down the block, cape dragging through a puddle, muttering about structural inequities in municipal transit.
Gollum held up his reusable bag. “Fish shop’s three miles. Want to walk?”
Maleficent looked at the rain. The sky. The sheer, tedious indignity of it all.
“Fine,” she said. “But I will burn the place down. I really need to feel something”
Voldemort sneezed. The mustache flew out of his pocket and cartwheeled into a drain. “Does anybody know the way to the ministry?”
Malifecent shrugged, “ next to the fish shop.
They walked. The rain did not stop. Evil, it turned out, had no special dispensation from bad weather. That was the real tragedy.

Iedereen is een ster,
dwalend in een oneindige leegte,
vliegend in een absolute kou,
niet wetend waar we precies vandaan komen,
geen uitzicht waar we naartoe gaan,
met een onmeetbare snelheid,
overgeleverd aan een onbegrijpelijke wet.

Langzaam opbrandend.
Staat de toekomst al vast.
Tot er helemaal niks meer is,
en we met een grote klap
een worden met het niks.

Iedereen is een ster
in een onvulbaar vacuüm,
doelloos energie spuwend.
Een alles verlichtend,
levenloos object.

TL;DR: In the late 1800s, many painters argued photography wasn’t real art because it was “just pressing a button.” This short story explores that debate and how similar arguments appear whenever new art forms emerge.

The Gallery of Victorian Art, London, 1880. A single man is looking at a displayed work. He shakes his head, mutters, “Dammit, unbelievable.” Then turns his head, scanning the gallery until he sees a guard; a whiff of air escapes his nostrils. With six big steps, he stands in front of the guard.

“Sir.” The man in the suit frowns, one hand on his whistle.

“Have you seen that?” he asks, pointing at the display he was upset about earlier.

“The photograph?” the guard frowns. “A beauty, isn’t it?”

“It is an abomination.” The man crosses his arms. “This is an art gallery. Art.”

The guard looks the man in the eyes. A second of silence lingers. “And?”

“A photograph isn’t art; it is just an easy way to make a painting.”

The guard takes a long breath of air; his eyes flash from left to right, stopping somewhere in the middle. “Ah,” he says as the tension drops from his shoulders. “Come with me, please, sir.”

“Fine, you found the director?” the man says, following the guard.

“Better,” the man says when he stops next to a young man, moustache proudly curled. “I found the artist.”

The artist eyes the man next to the guard. He takes a sip of his champagne, then puts the glass on a table nearby. He rolls his eyes at the woman next to him, who nods with pursed lips and walks a few steps away, staring at some painting depicting an endless discussion.

***

“How can I help you, sir?” The photographer smiles; his eyes fail to cooperate and make a dead impression.

“Yes, I heard you were the button presser of that.” The man points at the photograph, his face looking like it is biting on pigeon poop and knowing it very well.

The photographer sighs. “You are a painter, I presume?” He looks the man up and down. His clothes depict the standard penniless painter, all right. He clearly wears his best pants, with only two or three paint spots on them. A blouse that is so worn it does not have a specific color anymore—“washed” is the best description. “Yes, you are a painter.”

The man nods once, slightly, then resumes his arms-crossed stance. “You call yourself an artist. You don’t do anything. Just press a button on a machine and voilà, money.”

“Well, it is a bit more than that. You need to get the composition right, then make sure all the settings are correct.” In his mind, he sees that particular frame again. “Then wait for exactly the right time.” He smiles. “If it shows what you want it to show, if it is stripped of everything that is distracting, then you press the button. Then you create art.”

“That is the whole point. You do not create; you simply capture. Without the subject already being there, you have nothing. I, on the other hand, do not need any prerequisite—only paint, skill, and creativity.” He points once again at the photograph. “That is not art. It never will be.”

“You are right there; we only capture what is there. Still, it needs skill and vision to show it.” The photographer caresses his moustache.

“It isn’t skill. Skill is learning a craft, putting in hundreds of hours to perfect it, creating a fingerprint on your work. A photo is just a photo.”

“One is gifted and can learn to play piano within the hour. The other takes years. Is the gifted less an artist?”

“The gifted one still needs to learn how to put their soul and feelings into it.” A finger points menacingly at the photographer.

“I will tell Mozart that.” The photographer shakes his head and sighs. “Have you actually looked at it, or saw it was a picture and that was enough for you?”

“I refuse to look at the thing.” The man points his finger at the photographer. “Do you know how you’ll be the death of us, real artists?”

“Yes, I heard the list. It is cheaper to do; therefore, more people can afford it. You will see photographs in every household before long.” The photographer beckons a gallery employee who is serving drinks. “Isn’t that a good thing, that art is more available?”

“Not art—cheap depictions, a mechanical print, soulless.” The painter also gets a drink from the server. “You cannot have the same feeling with a picture as with a painting.”

“I understand your fear, And I agree it is not like a painting, still I think time will tell it will prove itself as an artform.” The photographer sees the woman he talked with earlier come closer; she points at the painter. He smiles, then waves at her.

“With all my strength, I will try to get it out of the museums.” The painter takes another sip.

“As is your right.” The photographer listens to his wife, who whispers in his ear.

“Wait, He is the what guy?” He turns toward the painter again.

***

“So you’re the banana guy?” the photographer asks the painter.

“I paint primary bananas, yes.” A light, startled tone is in his voice; his face tenses slightly.

The photographer leans in. “And that is art?”

“Yes,” the painter nods. “They are all works of art.”

“You paint the same banana in a bowl, the same setting, the same colours.” He smiles. “They all look similar to that one popular banana painting, don’t they?”

“Every painting is unique.” The man straightens his jacket. “I like to think every painting is a little better than the one before.”

The photographer twists his moustache. “Banana paintings sell right now?”

The painter drinks his drink, raises his shoulders, then nods.

“I presume you don’t actually like to paint the same banana over and over again?” the photographer asks.

The painter sighs. “I can paint bananas well. The people want banana paintings.”

“So if that trend stops, you’ll paint whatever the public wants?” the photographer waves at some relatives.

The painter looks back at where the wave was directed, then turns toward the photographer again and nods. “Yes. I need to eat.”

“I don’t think that is art; I think that is kitsch.” He bites down on a cookie.

The painter’s eyes grow wide, and his mouth opens slightly. “What? No. Why?”

“You’re flooding the market with cheap variations of one famous banana painting. It is derivative and cheap.” He swallows. “Not art.”

“But it is real, not a mechanical, soulless picture.”

“Even more than the thousandth banana painting?”

“You insult me, sir.”

“As much as you insult me,” the photographer continues. “Thousands of similar banana paintings make it stop being art. The pictures at least show something unique; they convey a feeling that is deliberately put there by the artist.” He pauses. “The way your derivative paintings can never do.”

The painter shakes his head. “Things made with skill and thousands of hours of practice will never convey the same as a simple chemical reaction.”

“I think, sir, we agree to disagree.” The photographer reaches his open hand toward the painter.

The painter watches the hand, then shakes his head violently. “Hmph.”

“Can I ask you one more question, sir? Then I suggest we go our separate ways.” The photographer’s face looks sour.

“Fine.”

“Where in this or any gallery can I see one of your paintings?”

“...”

(I still want to mention this whole story is human written and edited.)

Is it really worth it?
Walking toward that rising sun,
to greet another day begun,
as if there’s something left to find.

Where is the reward
that justifies the pain,
of waking to this cold, hard world,
never willing to change?

Another day of people nagging,
begging for some attention.
It’s tiring to mention:
it never makes them content.

If only there were pills
that let the slumber stay,
without the price to pay
of a thousand unwanted tears.