Tag: shortstory

The people who don’t die – Very Short Story

Not long ago I planned to travel the world, now I’m dying. My name is Brynn and this is my story:

I come from a beautiful country where death is rare and also cherished because it signifies a time of change for my people. I was born 998 years ago which makes me a child in the eyes of society but I never saw myself that way. There’s a great party when we turn a thousand and on our birthday we go into the forest and make a marking on our birthstone. We keep track of our age more easily that way. At a thousand marks we have our second birthstone and we celebrate yet again (we find many excuse to have a party) but alas, we are not immortal so getting old enough to have a third or a fourth stone is a real honor.  

I remember when my brother turned a thousand, he received lots of gifts, gifts that I was jealous of. Oh how I wish I could’ve received such an honor! Just two years away… If only I’d waited. Now I’ll die in disgrace without having accomplished a thing. The humans have always fascinated me and I don’t blame them for my death. Their lives are so short yet they accomplish so much. They destroy and create life like it has no meaning. It’s as if time moves faster for them which makes them unable to see the small things and appreciate moments of peace.

I meet my grandparents regularly. They are as old as some of the trees and their bodies are almost as rigid. They decided a while ago that they’ve lived long enough and stopped moving. You can’t kill yourself, that’s forbidden, so they let themselves waste away. I’m not sure if they still hear me but they’re breathing and it’s encouraging just to look at their peaceful expressions.

I am not afraid of death. My contact with the humans taught me a great deal about life and I think I’ve done and seen more than most people my age. I went and saw the great lakes, for instance, and the busted wall that once held millions of gallons of water in place. I could only imagine how grand it must’ve been back then, the lakes are still called Great and are still quite big. The wall kept the sea monsters at bay and they flooded into the ocean when the wall broke and from then they grew even larger. Smaller ones still swim in the lakes. I planned on traversing the ocean, going recklessly like humans do and sail on a boat made of wood… I wonder what my grandparents would’ve said about that.

Well, those are dreams that I won’t see to fruition. I believe being with humans I caught their vulnerability. I can see now why they rely so much on the gods and they pray for fortune so they might not die. Had I known this I’d prayed to the gods too, but now it’s too late. My death is certain. Yet I don’t regret it. Because of my disgrace I’ll live once more, reborn perhaps to the same parents? It’s not unheard of.

War is a big part of the human world, more than in ours, I think the last one ended a millenia ago and I’ve seen how the humans fight! They are merciless and brutal to their opponents because the enemy is in the way of their fortune. It was jarring. They are so sure they won’t die, that they will be the lucky ones. They are reckless and fascinating. It’s their fate to be at the whims of the gods, my kind has a different relationship with the gods. They say we were their first creation but they became bored with us and created humans; other’s say we were gods ourselves in the past but were cursed somehow, tricked into mortality. It makes us special. I don’t see it that way, we still die in the flesh like humans do. We don’t create or destroy, no more than humans are capable of. We simply don’t do it and in death we just disappear like a breath in the wind. Forgotten. We leave the world neither better nor worse.

In our country we have what we need and doesn’t seek more. The opposite is true for humans, they start with nothing and can’t have enough of anything. I’m not sure which fate is worse. My kind have all the time in the world but does nothing with it while the humans time is limited but they want so much. I thought I was special and could do great things for a long time. Perhaps next time, if the world will have me.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

The Faceless – Very Short Story

Sometime in the night, I heard a distant yowl. It sounded like a woman. I could’ve pretended that I didn’t hear it, pretend that it was something else, but I went out anyway. I’m sure a lot of other people heard it too, it’s not like I live in a small neighbourhood, but they don’t care.

Why did I care?

The night was dark and damp and wet even though it wasn’t raining. My clothes were plastered onto my skin, completely drenched, after just a few minutes. It usually didn’t get this wet in the city. The air somehow got dry because of the cars and factories and electronics and everything else that made the air slightly warmer than in the country, but not today. The stone walls were practically oozing with algae and it was slimy to the touch. I changed my mind about checking the noise and wanted to go back but I continued on anyway for stupid reasons. Bad things happen for stupid reasons, sometimes good things happen too but today they were bad.

There was the sound again, closer. This time it sounded like cawing rather than a woman. I don’t know how I thought it was a woman in the first place, maybe I wished it would be? Or maybe it was a different noise. I looked around the corner, nothing. “Is anyone there?” I called out. Nothing. Every ounce of my body wanted me to go back but I’ve come this far… I was starting to get cold and all I could think about was that whoever made the sound needed my help. She must also be cold… I’m a nice guy like that. Perhaps she’ll let me strip her…

That thought kept me searching. I really wished I had a flashlight. I do, but I didn’t have sense enough to bring it. The street lights get busted quickly around here and the city doesn’t care to fix them anymore unless it’s within a five miles radius of the Town Hall. I went deeper down the alley, too far, I figured, as I didn’t hear the sound again. I kicked the garbage by my feet. I hope I didn’t destroy a hobo’s shelter or woke up a cat by doing so. I guess I would’ve noticed if I did… By this point I was looking for a body. She must’ve passed out, the poor thing…

After an hour, I thought, ‘god, did I really just spend an hour in the dark just for the possibility of some poontang?’ I’m going out of my mind and I started heading back. Then I heard the sound again, not the cawing, but the one that was like a woman, soft and shrill at the same time. The sound didn’t have an urgency to it, it was more like a wail or ‘woe is me’ kind of sound and she wanted everyone to know that she wasn’t particularly happy. Maybe I can make her happy?

I heard her clearly now, somewhere in the dark. I didn’t see anything but I could feel she was there. “Hey, baby?” I said. “I hear you, it’s pretty miserable out here, why don’t you come with me? This is not a nice place to be. My place is warm and I got beer, and a couple cigarette. I can share you one. What do you say?”

She didn’t say a thing but I heard her breathing. Maybe she passed out? It worked for me. I wasn’t going to rape her or anything, I just don’t mind carrying an unconscious woman, is all.

I went closer. The moon suddenly had the decency to show through the smog and mist and everything else that made the weather shitty today. I was knee deep in garbage, but that’s all right, I lost my sense of smell a long time ago because of this shitty town.

While searching in the dark, I felt the smoothness of her skin and I think it was her arm. What kind of a lunatic walks around without a shirt in this weather? Maybe she got raped. That would make it more difficult to take her into my apartment willingly, I would imagine… Some people are real shitty and they only think about themselves, not about poor sods like me.

If only I knew how deep in the shit I was.

Suddenly she stood, three feet tall, her pale skin almost glowing in the moonlight, her black her covered her face. I slowly backed away. Backing up on the garbage bags I stumbled and fell. The contents of one of the bags poured out and the smell washed up my nose. It was the first time I’ve smelt anything in five years. I couldn’t describe the smell except maybe that it was rotten and gooey to the touch.

She looked down at me, at least her head was tilted in a way that indicated she was staring. I crawled over the garbage bags and broke a few more. Strangely, she wasn’t chasing me, she just slunk back into her pile of whatever and left me with my pants full of shit. Good god, I could feel it in my shoe!

I made it back all right, I was just lucky she wasn’t hungry. I guess she was bored, because I heard her snigger for several nights after that. I didn’t play the hero again ever… well, at least not for a long time.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

The Eternal Battle – Very Short Story

Kane knew that he fucked when he entered the kitchen that morning. The room was hot and his innards were boiling on his way down the stairs – his stomach was telling him to stay in bed. Kane didn’t listen when his stomach told him stuff like that and most people don’t. His wife had a cold expression as she glanced over her shoulder, not mad but plenty miffed. He felt a growing nausea as he stepped beside her and poured hot tea into his cup. “Morning,” he said, trying to sound as casual as he could.

He didn’t add ‘sweetie’ or a ‘honey’ to that sentence like he usually did. It was dangerous; though, since when did he start listening to his stomach? It must be really bad, his survival instincts were kicking in.

She didn’t answer him and kept looking into the pot of porridge she was stirring with a wooden spoon. “Are you ready for today?” he said, sounding slightly more nervous than before. The tea in his hands trembled and he sat down at the kitchen table and put the cup away. Vapour came out from the cup and she finally turned and looked at him. She brandished a really creepy smile but he couldn’t put his finger on what made it creepy. Perhaps it was her eyes. They didn’t fit. “It’s going to be fun,” she said and sat down. She didn’t look up from her porridge.

He smiled back and took a sip. The tea was heated perfectly. He decided to take it as a good sign. They had breakfast in quiet and they got ready and stepped into the car without a fuss. “Got everything?” he asked.

“Sure did,” she said, almost cheerfully. She was clutching her bag that was resting on her lap.

“Alright then,” he started the car and drove away. They hit the highway but they weren’t going very far. It wasn’t really a big deal and he didn’t know why his wife made it out to be. They had argued a lot last night; he remembered that he’d been shouting a lot while his wife was mostly quietly pointing out the flaws of his plan. Sometimes he wished she would scream at him, become a little more passionate! The way she looked at him and shook her head, it made him feel like a child – your mother is always right, kind of thing, which pissed him off, but not today. He would get his way this time. She always got her way, otherwise. It would be good for her, he thought, and tried to bury the worry deep into his stomach but it kept bubbling up again. He wasn’t always sure what he stomach was telling him…

The building came into view and they parked the car and stepped inside. “The doctor will see you shortly,” a nurse said and they sat down and waited in the waiting room. The TV was on playing a movie silently. There were three other men waiting, both of them looking rather nervous. After an extended period of silence, he looked at his wife. “Look, honey–,” her neck snapped round and she stared back at him like a cat that regarded a black spot on the ceiling and is trying to figure out if it’s blotch or a prey worth pursuing.

His mistake was calling her ‘honey.’ “Th– this will be good for us,” he stammered.

She regarded him for a second, expressionlessly, then she smiled. “You’re right, honey, you deserve this.” He didn’t like how she put emphasis on the ‘honey,’ part.

“Mr. Johnsson,” he heard and stood. “This way please,” the nurse said. He followed her into the hallway. He didn’t have the courage to look back back at his wife. They went into a very white room. “The doctor will be here shortly,” the nurse said and left him. He sat down on a hospital bed and swung his legs like a kid. He felt good, now that it was just him and the room. He never could’ve imagined life would be this difficult, all these little concessions to other people… no wonder he couldn’t read his stomach, it was long time he listened to it!

No matter, things would be different from now on, he’d taken a stand and won, at least he felt like he was winning. The doctor came in. He was wearing the usual white coat but he wore jeans and sneakers underneath. The doctor offered his hand. “Mr. Johnsson, you want to fix your lazy eye, is that correct?”

“That’s right, doctor.”

“And why do you want to do that?”

Kane paused. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business… Is it dangerous?”

“Oh no, it’s as simple as can be.”

“Then I’d like to get on with the procedure right away.”

“Of course,” the doctor hesitated.

Kane looked visibly annoyed. “What is it?”

“It’s just that, we don’t usually do those kinds of procedures here.”

What do you mean?”

“Well, you see, your wife–.”

As soon as the doctor mentioned his wife he stood and rushed back to the waiting room. She wasn’t there. “Where’s my wife?” Kane asked the doctor.

“She’s in room 27A– sir! You can’t go in there.”

“Bite me!” Kane hurried to the door. It was locked. “I demand you open it.”

“Fine,” the doctor said. “It’s too late anyway, she’s ascending.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

The doctor grinned. “She’s becoming a new type a woman, a modern woman that can do anything.”

Kane looked at him in disbelief. They stared at each other, then the doctor laughed. “HAHAHAHA, sorry, sorry, I was just being silly,” he sniggered.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing, nothing,” the doctor said and wrapped his arm around Kane’s neck. “Enjoy your wife’s new tits!” He laughed and left. Kane Decided not to step into the room.

She came out after the procedure and they didn’t talk until he started the car and hit the road. His eyes kept slipping away from the road and down at his wife’s new chest. They were sticking out like two footballs, perhaps slightly smaller… She was grinning from ear to ear. “Are you happy?” she said.

“I can’t believe you did that behind my back!”

“Come on,” she said dismissively. “Is it any worse than what you did? Looks good, by the way.”

He looked at himself in the side view mirror. I do look good, he thought. Still, it was still a loss for him. She got what she wanted but he got what he wanted too. He suppose that’s what marriage is, a bunch of little concessions…

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

The Dust People – Very Short Story

At the first day of spring, three strangers wandered up the mountain from the dust filled plains of the east and came down into the valley. They Valley people welcomed them with open arms, gave them food and a place to stay; this is what they have always done. The Dust people are a shy breed and they hide their faces behind masks and cloaks and only dark slits for their eyes could be seen. Many of the Valley people wondered what they looked like but they were too polite to ask. Some speculated that the Dust people didn’t even have eyes but that was too disturbing to talk about.

The dust people usually stayed for a couple of days before moving on deeper into the valley and over to the neighbouring town at the river. The people there welcomed them as well because having the dust people around made life easier, somehow, things didn’t seem as hard and life became a little silly and people laughed and were merry.

The Dust people wandered from village to village until everybody had had a taste, then the dust people headed back after sampling the Valley Peoples hospitality at the end of spring. Nobody knew why they did this. The Valley People were famed for their good food and suppose the Dust People didn’t have very good food where they came from. But it was strange that they came in spring, everybody knows the best food was in autumn during the harvest, it was so much richer and tastier then. They argued that the Dust People didn’t know about farming or the seasons, but still, it was strange.

None of the Valley People had gone over the mountain to look what’s on the other side, not since Geremy and his brother never came back. I always thought it was unfair that we remember the name of the one brother but not the other. Once in a while, dust storms carried sand across the mountain and rained down on the valley, turning the landscape pale until it was washed away by the rains. This was a happy occasion because the next harvest would be great, the greens grew larger and tasted sweeter, even the milk the cows produced was sweet. Everything that came from the desert was good as far as the valley people were concerned.

But still, people wondered, how could such a dead place bring life and how could such shady characters as the Dust People bring joy? They were questions the people were afraid to get answers to for they feared it must be sinister and would rather not know. As such, they kept wondering, never straying far from their valley, never learning about the world around them as everything was good in their little paradise and they were happy to share it with the strangers as long as they weren’t too many and as long as they left at the end of spring.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

When people don’t ride bicycles no-more – Very Short Story

The sky was red and bright. The paint had come off on all of the buildings and the city was brown and grey. The trees were just sticks but a few leaves still clung at the tips as if struggling but the trees were definitely dead, or so they said. Perhaps they’re just waiting for better times?

Long ago Jom remembered when there was a lot of green and the rivers were full and a lot of birds back then. The only bird he saw these days was his mother’s parrot and it wasn’t even green. All and all, he didn’t mind the change. He liked the red sky, the wind of course made his lips dry up, but other than that, not so bad. You could still breathe the air but you get quickly winded so everyone carries around Breathers, just in case, and goggles in case of a dust storm. Goggles were very popular, fashion-wise and there were many different colors, even green.

He looked at his belt and the number on the Breather was flashing purple and he started walking towards one of the many air stations. There was a line but he wasn’t worried, purple just meant he had an hour left, not that he’d suffocate if it turned red. The line got shorter as the others filled up their tanks. There was a bicycle leaning against the building, it was rusty without a chain or wheels. Long ago they filled tires with air to get where they wanted which sounded fantastical to him even though he could recall using one, once. Nowadays the wheels doesn’t touch the ground.

As he stepped out of the way for the next one, someone cut in line. The woman’s eyes were wide and it looked like she was in a lot of pain. People stepped away and let her fill her tank. She slowly calmed down and got color on his cheeks. Some people use their Breather too much and now she could not live without it. Jom shook his head and put on his goggles, his were green. Some people sure are irresponsible even in this day and age when nothing was wasted and everything was valued.

It was so much better this new way, he thought, breathing was just one more thing to think about.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

Once upon a bar

he looked glumly into his mug

there’s music playing

and a skimpy dressed maid 

– whose breasts popped out of her cleavage –

hands him a beverage.  

Lit candles rests on every table

and men scurry outside.

Their armour clattered as they ran

and their weapons bonked on the the armour.

There were calls from the wall and

a projectile whined across the sky

exploding nearby.

Fire erupted and people rush out with buckets.

He pours the ale down his throat

in spirit of their struggle.

The bar is fine.

Another explosion

not far from the first

people died.

He drinks

and the maid looks awfully

worried.

The church tower crumbled

and people are crying.

the colored windows shattered

and the fire spreads to the buildings nearby.

The fire reaches the bar

and his nose get scorched

and the glass he was holding blackened

as they put out the fire

across the table

other than that,

he was fine.

by Stamphers

The Perfect Painting – Very Short Story

He didn’t like the paintings that they put out in the gallery but the critics loved them so he supposed it was all right with him. It entitled him to be smug, even though he kept chasing that perfect painting. Of course, the pursuit is the only thing that mattered; it kept him up at night. ‘Why are you so stupid? Just make me already!’ The painting would say.

It was probably for the best that the gallery had his paintings because he tended to burn them when they took up too much room in his small apartment. The past doesn’t matter. Only the next painting is. So all in all, he didn’t really have a reason to be as upset with the woman:

“This painting is awful,” she said. “It’s decadent.”  

“What is decadent is your tits!” the painter cried out.

The woman put her hand over her chest.

“Put on something decent or I’ll coat that painting with your makeup.”

The woman and her husband took flight and the painter glared after them. The proprietor of the gallery shook his head. “That was unnecessary.”

“People are unnecessary,” the painter growled.

He had another glass of wine then left. He lived in a free country, supposedly, but it was borderline fascist to him. “Their morals make me puke,” he muttered. He went home and bolted the door behind him and stared at a white canvas, trying to picture the perfect painting, at least the beginning of it.

The gallery kept asking for his paintings and he kept sending them, going to their events less and less. The only thing that drew him was the free drinks and the opportunity to yell at his fans. Other than that, he could do without it. A few more outbursts like that and they might stop asking for his paintings altogether, he thought.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

The Waving Willow

There are giant bees, you know. They sound like buzzsaws and whenever someone hears one they run into their homes because they never know what bees will do, except looking for giant flowers.

There are giant flowers, of course, otherwise there wouldn’t be giant bees!

There are other strange creatures too, but none of them giant, for some reason. Scholars think the bees and the flowers were the only species that survived the Giants Period.

There’s this tree that’s called the Waving Willow: it’s a tree that has leaves that look like hands, and when the wind touches it (oh so lightly), the leaves start rattling, making it look like the tree is waving at you, beckoning you forward.

Some fairy tales say that the trees are born from kind spirits who warn travellers not to come closer, and when the danger is gone, the tree goes away. Others say the tree lures you (mostly unsuspecting travellers that have never seen the tree before) to something dreadful, to a swamp where you’ll drown or get eaten by some wild beast or some such.

I don’t know why anyone would approach a tree thinking it was beckoning them to begin with but I suppose the stories were concocted a long time ago and people thought differently back then. Whether it happened or not, there’s nothing good or dangerous under the Waving Willow trees anymore, it’s simply a funny looking tree, waving you good morning or afternoon or whatever time of the day you happen to see it.

by Stamphers

The Pit – Very Short Story

Sometimes we die, we do that quite often in fact. Some people believe life and death is just a cycle, that death isn’t really the end, but I’m getting ahead of myself:

Let me introduce you to the Melburns. They are a wealthy family, not only in money but in children as well. They have seventeen of them – eight Mrs Melburn doesn’t even know about. The thing about Mr Melburn is that he isn’t a good person, not in most circles, but at least he takes care of his family. He feeds them, clothes them, and that’s about it. There’s only one he pays any attention to and that’s his eldest daughter.

She died, recently, at the tender age of twelve of mysterious reasons. She was found with a mouth full of sweets and several of them were lodged in her throat. Mr Melburn always said gluttony is a problem, I guess she disagreed. As you can see, being wealthy doesn’t protect you from death, not entirely anyway. Life cannot be bought or exchanged, but that didn’t stop Mr Melburn from trying.

He contacted the local Necromancer – every small and big town has one. Necromancy is the cure against dying, according to their words, and they have many theories on how to bring back the dead; the most common one involves an exchange. The Melburns weren’t willing to give up one of their own children so they went and looked for another. A local eleven year old boy disappeared soon after. The whole incident was hushed up later when the right amount of money appeared in the right people’s pockets. It was a freak accident how the child gut himself before walking across the country and breaking into a total stranger’s basement.

I’m not saying necromancy is complete bogus, but it’s a lost art. I find it ironic how the people who are afraid to die are the most avid practitioners these days. With the Melburn’s left with no other option they decided to buy her a fancy new home to sleep her eternal rest in. It’s common in most places to have a fancy little crypt for their loved ones; to tell the world that somebody important was buried here. You better pay attention to her. If the Melburns are lucky, their dear daughter will be happy with her new accommodation and stay quiet for all eternity.

Now, let me turn your attention to the Shillies. They are not a wealthy family. Indeed, they’re so poor that the father often doesn’t eat, like, at all. He’s the definition of a saint. He also died recently and his death was not a mystery. Mrs Shillies would like nothing more than to give him a nice home to rest in, but they cannot afford to, and most likely, Mr Shillie won’t expect one either. He’ll sleep quietly in whatever grave they end up burying him in.

But, the funny thing about dying is that it’s a lot like living. People change. If Mr Shillie had any unfulfilled hopes and dreams that we didn’t know about, he might wake up and try and fulfill them. His chances are pretty good too without those pesky responsibilities of being alive or morals that comes with it. In fact, there’s a saying that most kings never lived. But one thing’s for sure, Mr Shillies won’t be able to rest easy knowing his family will most likely die of starvation without him. The city knows this, that’s why he’s going into the pit.

The pit is not just a hole in the ground, it’s deeper than anyone knows. Some say it’s bottomless, while some scholars claim it’s exactly 3000 kms deep. Nobody is sure how they came to this conclusion, most people don’t understand what those weird scientists are saying, anyway. But it doesn’t really matter in the end, because anything that is thrown in doesn’t come up!

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

The Joker – Very Short Story

“Yes, yes! Let’s party!” a man with clown makeup cried while dancing around a larger, bulkier, man with a shaved head and a mean expression. Jason, on any other night, would have punched anyone who dared annoy him, but he found the clown strangely captivating. Jason was proud of his ability to remember anyone he ever met and he was pretty sure he could recognize them even with makeup on, but somehow, he couldn’t put a finger who this man was; but he looked familiar.

Intrigued, he let the clown do his thing, while the small entourage of men followed closely behind. Suddenly, the clown grabbed his hands and swung him in a circle without letting go. Jason tried to stop him but the clown only swirled faster and faster until Jason lost his grip (or did the clown drop him?) and fell on his ass. His cheeks flushed red.

“Ooof, need to work on your balance there, my friend,” the clown said.

Jason bared his teeth. I’ll mess you up, he thought and accepted the clowns helping hand. The hand popped out of its socket and left a hole around the clowns sleeve. Jason fell again. The light from the streetlamps shaded the faces on the group behind them but they were no doubt trying their hardest to suppress a smile. “Weehehee,” the clown laughed.

All right, tonight I kill a clown, Jason thought as he got back on his legs.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” the clown said. “Everyone needs a good laugh every once in a while. Tell you what. I’ll buy you a drink at–,” he paused, looking around. “That bar,” he said and grabbed Jason’s arm.

If there had been a convenient alley that he could force the clown into at that moment, he would’ve, but yet again, the clown was lucky as he dragged him into the bar. People stopped and stared at the clown, however, they cowered as soon as they saw who the clown was with. The bar stools emptied for the new guests and the barkeep handed out the drinks promptly and without taking pay, which negated the clowns promise.

“Cheers,” he said, apparently willing to conveniently forget about it.

Jason ignored the clown and drank with a frown.

“You’re not still mad at me, are you? I’m the Joker, I joke!” He cried happily and fooled the man next to him with a fake flower that wet his nose.

Jason finished his drink. “Another one,” he growled.

Jason still couldn’t put his finger on who the clown was. He was far too comfortable around him, and he started to worry that he might be somebody he should know. The clown dies tonight either way, he thought to himself. “A joker, eh? Then let’s go kill somebody,” he said. “You and me. The greatest joke there is, right?” He chuckled, imagining the clown’s eyes to hide in his skull out of fear because he couldn’t get any paler than he already was.

But the clown didn’t seem uncomfortable at all, in fact, there was a glee in his face and he became misty-eyed as if from joy. “I thought you’d never ask,” the clown said and ushered Jason out from the bar and danced down the street again, singing. “Kill, kill, kill, let’s kill!”

Jason was mystified by this reaction. Even though he was THE thug of the street, the clown didn’t seem afraid of him. Perhaps he was mad. “Will you shut up!” He said. “This is not how it works.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just so excited to kill with my new best friend,” he said while walking. Then he stopped abruptly. Gasp. “Should we kill him, or maybe him? There’s so many to choose from!” He said and grabbed a random stranger and pushed him close to Jason’s face.

The stranger looked bewildered and scared as he met Jason’s eyes. “Is he good enough?!” The clown said.

“Are you crazy?” Jason said and threw the stranger to the side who was promptly picked up by his entourage.

“Hmm, you’re right. He didn’t feel right…” he said and started looking for another.

Jason had had just about enough of this clown and he pushed him close to his face. “Are you trying to get me into trouble? Who the fuck are you?!”

The clown smiled; he never stopped smiling. “Worried they’ll recognise you? You should’ve had makeup on, like me!” He smiled. “But don’t you worry, they’ll never notice you once I fix your nose!” A machete emerged from the clown’s pants and with one sweep, Jason’s didn’t have a nose anymore.

Jason staggered and touched his face that was wet and full of blood. He didn’t feel anything, though. Not yet. “In fact,” the clown said. “I should fix a few other things while I’m at it!”

Jason’s left ear came off cleanly and he didn’t feel the pain immediately that time either, but as he realised what was happening, he felt the pain and he crumbled to his knees. “Stop, please!” he cried.

“Please? Too nice a word coming out of you!”

The clown planted the blade deep into Jason’s skull and he collapsed, pathetically, onto the street. The clown looked at the entourage who remained frozen a few feet away. The man they’d caught slipped out of their grip. Somehow, the clown thought that was very funny. “Weheehee! I am the Joker. I’m the one who jokes!”

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers