Day 6 - Your First Job

I’d always heard them say that the first one is the hardest; when you have to look them in the eyes and both of you know what’s coming next, that’s when you find out whether you’ve got it, whether you’re cut out for this line of work or not.

The first one for me was Alan Knowles. I can still remember the name, I can still remember his face. He was in his fifties, a normal looking guy – I think maybe he was an accountant – but none of that mattered to me. I’d been paid to do a job and I was going to do it. Sure, I was full of nerves, but I just about managed to hold onto them by keeping my training in my mind.

But while I remember the first one, it wasn’t by any means the hardest. A guy in his fifties, sure you feel sorry for him, but there have been jobs that have been much harder, where I’ve gone home afterwards and found sleep hard to come by. The first time I saw that it was going to be a woman, the first time it was a kid.

Let me tell, you the kids are the hardest. Some of them, they don’t really know what’s going on or what’s about to happen to them, and I do my best to make it quick and painless. But others, they see me and they know; they start crying and screaming and that makes it tough. I don’t want them to suffer, I’m not a monster, but I have a job to do and I always do it.

It’s not for the fainthearted. There are days when you it’s easy; when you are in and out and they hardly even have time to be frightened before its done. But then there are days when it’s tough; when there is blood and suffering and you walk away just wanting to take a shower and to wash the day off you. Sometimes you need a drink just to take the edge of what you’ve done.

Today, it’s a woman. I’ve looked at her file; I know her name and age, but there’s a lot about her I don’t need to know. After all, I’m a professional, I don’t get emotionally attached. But seeing a file and seeing her in the flesh is different.

I check myself in the mirror and then pull on a pair of gloves. I’ve already visualised how this going to go down, and it’s going to be easy. I look through the crack of the door and can she her sat in the next room with her back to me. I wear rubber soled shoes and, together with the fact that I am light footed, they barely make a sound. I’m in the room before she even realises and the first she sees me is when I appear in her peripheral vision.

There is that familiar reaction; the widening of the pupil, the sudden intake of breath, the fear. But I’m used to it now, I’ve been doing this long enough that I can ignore it and just do the job.

“Miss Evans,” I say in my most reassuring voice. “I’ll try to make this as painless as possible.”

And I mean it.

After all, I like to think I’m a pretty good dentist.

Day 5 - The Night Bus

Steve Ralph tumbled out of the doors of Ritz's nightclub laughing, broken pint glass in his hand still dripping with the blood of the man whose face he'd just slashed for spilling his drink.

"That'll teach ya, ya fuckin' twat." he said under his breath as he staggered out onto the pavement, before noticing an old man with a dog up the road staring at him. "What the fuck you lookin' at granddad?" 

The man immediately, turned about and walked quickly back down the road, dragging his dog behind him. "Yeah, that's right," shouted Steve after him, "run away before I give you a fuckin' smack."

It had been a good night and he was well gassed; hitting on a couple of thots, a few hours of chasers and tequila, then the night ended with a punch up. Fucker was lucky he wasn't strapped tonight. Now he just had to work out what to do next. For a moment he thought about heading into town and trying to get a taxi, but most of the firms had banned him. Then he remembered about the night bus that stopped around the corner; he hadn't used it for years but it would drop him off just down the road from where he lived.

He veered out into the road, legs rubbery, and was suddenly blinded by the lights of an oncoming taxi, its horn blaring even as he felt its bonnet smack into him and he was thrown back across the tarmac, tumbling until he finally ended up lying on his back and looking up at the stars.

He clambered to his feet, a little unsteadily but unhurt, and gave the taxi driver and his passenger the finger while they were still trying to get out of the car. Turning away from them and staggering off down the middle of the road even as he heard them shouting “You alright mate?”

They didn’t follow and he made it around the corner without further incident to the bus stop, feeling that maybe someone was looking out for him after all. His head felt clearer after the taxi, that was for sure. Nothing like a brush with death to sober you up. In the distance, he could make out the lights of a bus approaching.

It was a double decker, one of the old ones that he hadn’t ever seen in real life, and as it pulled up alongside him he could see that the driver looked like he was even older than the bus. White hair, cap, the guy must have been eighty if he was a day.  The doors opened slowly with a hiss.

He stepped up. “Look, mate, I got mugged”, he lied, “I ain’t got no money. Can I get like a ticket I can pay for another day?”

The driver smiled at him, “No worries, lad, you just get on board.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, and looked down the aisle of the bus. He could see a load of people were sat in the seats on the lower deck, none of them looking at him, so he decided to climb the stairs to the top deck.

The top deck was empty and he walked all the way to the back of the bus and sat down in the middle of the back seat. As the bus started to move, he fished into his pocket for his iPhone. It wasn’t there.

“Fuck”

He felt in all his pockets; it wasn’t just his phone that was missing, he’d somehow lost his wallet and his keys. Was it in Ritz’s? Had someone pick-pocketed him? Or maybe it was when he’d got hit by the taxi? Could everything have come out of his pockets when he’d rolled in the road? Shit, he needed to go back and look.

“Steve,” said a voice from a few rows ahead of him the bus, and he looked up to a see a man in a black suit staring at him. Steve tried to work out how he could have missed seeing the guy when he got on the bus, then he realised the man knew his name.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Now, now,” said the man, “No use for such language with me; not that I have anything against profanities, obviously.”

The bus slowly edged to a stop.

“I don’t who you are, but I’m getting off this bus,”

“No,” said the man, with a wistful shake of his head, “No, you’re not Steve. Take a look out the window.”

“What?”

“Go on,” said the man, gesturing to the left window of the bus, “take a look out the window and tell me what you see.”

Despite himself, Steve slid across the back seat and looked out of the window. He could see flashing blue lights, an ambulance, a paramedic turning away from a body with a defeated look on his face.

“So?”

“Look closer,” said the man.

A second paramedic came to cover the body with a sheet, slid it up over the man. Steve recoiled from the glass as if it were hot.

“What the fuck,” he shouted, “What the fuck is this?”

“That’s you, Steve,” said the man, “That’s you hit by the taxi, dead in the middle of the road.”

“This is a bad dream,” muttered Steve to himself, “A bad trip, something…”

“No Steve; this is what death feels like” said the man, his face seemingly stretching and contorting beneath the waxy yellow light of the bus. “Well, for someone like you anyway.”

“This can’t be real.” said Steve, trying to stand up;, but even as he tried to get to his feet, the red leather hand straps that hung from the ceiling elongated and snaked out towards him like tentacles, wrapping themselves tightly around his arms and then pulled him taut so that he was held in place, spread-eagled. He cried out in agony, the straps stretching him to the point that it felt his arms would be pulled from their sockets.

“Oh, but it is Steve; and there are people here who’ve been looking forward to seeing you.”

Trapped in place, Steve was forced to watch as a stream of hooded figures emerged from the stairwell and walked slowly down the aisle of the bus towards him. Finally, when the leading figure was no more than a few feet from him, it stopped and tugged back its hood.

“That’s not possible,” Steve gasped, “That’s not possible.”

The man before him had a jagged cut across his cheek, fleshed splayed open all the way to his eyeball. It wasn’t possible, but Steve knew it was the man that he’d glassed at Ritz’s.

“These,” said the man in the black suit, his eyes now almost crimson, “are all those that you’ve wronged. There are an awful lot of them.”

The man from the nightclub stared at him in silence, blood pulsing from his ruined face, and then slowly raised a shard of broken glass. He brought it closer and closer to Steve’s face and, although he tried to turn away from it, the glass only came closer until Steve could feel it pressed cold against his skin.

“You’re on the Night Bus, Steve, said the man, and as he smiled Steve could see a twisted smile that revealed row upon row of needle-like teeth. His eyes glowing bright now. “We never charge a fare, and we only have one stop.”

Steve felt the glass bite deep into his flesh and finally began to scream.

“But we’re going to have a hell of a time while we get there…”

Day 4 - Inspired by the Hero's Journey

Vance Pureheart’s Academy for Heroes was located within a somewhat ramshackle castle that was perched, some would say rather precariously, upon the edge of a soaring cliff. It could only be reached by climbing a set of 853 steps that had been carved by hand into the cliff face. And while this ensured that it was relatively impregnable from attack, it was – even Vance Pureheart himself was prepared to admit - a bit of a bugger when it came to holding Open Days.

“So,” he asked, the caretaker, “how are the numbers looking this year?”

The caretaker pulled an oilskin notepad from his breast pocket and consulted several pages of it, occasionally stopping to count on his fingers.

“Twenty three, sir.”

“Twenty three, eh?” said Pureheart, idly stroking his golden moustache. “Not bad, not bad; it’s a lot more visitors than we had last year…”

“Oh, visitors?” said the caretaker, “I thought you meant people what had fallen to their deaths from the stairs. Visitors is…” he consulted his notebook again, “Two.”

“Two?”

“Two.”

Pureheart sighed. “Very well, send them in.”

The caretaker ducked out of the room for a few minutes and then reappeared, ushering in a middle aged couple; the man was tall and thin and bald, the woman was short and rotund with hair down past her waist. But, importantly, they were expensively dressed. They looked the kind of people who could afford to pay the Academy fees.

“Good morrow,” he said, springing to his feet and lightly dancing across the room. A shake of the hand for the gentleman, hand angled with a tight squeeze to assert dominance, a kiss of the hand for the lady, trying to ignore the fact that it tasted of formaldehyde. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance; I am Vance Pureheart, Slayer of the Great Fire Wyrm of Nuw, Defender of the Holy Crown, Headmaster of the Academy for Heroes.”

“Hello,” said the man, in a voice that was so slow and monotonous that it inspired waves of depression with every word. “I’m Gerald Greenbottom, mortician, and this is my wife Esmerelda, embalmer.”

“And you have, I assume, a child who wishes to attend our Academy?”

“Well, yes,” said Gerald. “Our little Timmy. We received an invitation to enrol him a few months ago…”

“Ah yes,” smiled Vance, “The call to adventure…”

“Quite,” said Gerald, “But I’m not sure if we’ve missed our chance. You see, I lost the invitation…”

“He does that,” said Esmerelda, “Always losing things. Last week he lost someone’s legs.”

“But,” continued Gerald, with a cross look at his wife, “Last week we got another invitation, I just wasn’t sure it was still valid.”

“Oh, it’s most certainly valid,” said Pureheart, “indeed, it means that young Timmy has successful navigated the first test of being a hero.”

“It does?” asked Gerald.

“Certainly! You see, it is a core tenet of the Hero’s Journey that one should receive a call to adventure, but then refuse it. Indeed, all of the children who accepted the first offer from us were immediately expelled! So, Timmy is already showing strong hero potential…”

“We were just wondering if you could tell us a bit more about the education,” said Esmerelda, “I mean, when I was a girl, there was no such thing as hero academy…”

“Well, times have changed. No longer can you just turn up as a complete nobody, accept the mantle of being a hero, muddle through and somehow win the hand of the princess – oh no! The modern hero has to undergo a complicated series of trainings designed to not only teach a set of core practical skills, but also engage in critical thinking and self-reflection.”

“Sounds impressive,” said Gerald, “Would it be possible for us to see some of the classes?”

“But of course,” said Vance, and beckoned them to follow him through the door and along the corridor, “Follow me!”

They traipsed along several twisting stone corridors that, to the untrained eye looked identical (although it should perhaps be noted that, to the trained eye, they also looked identical since they were in fact identical) before emerging into a large corridor with a number of doors leading off from it. Pureheat led them to the first and slid open a panel so they could peer within.

Inside the Greenbottoms could see a class of children staring enrapt as a grey bearded man sketched out diagrams on a chalk board.

“This is mentor training,” explained Vance, “here the student learn how to receive wisdom that will enable them to unlock the hero within.”

“Sounds fascinating,” said Gerald, in a tone of voice that most people would reserve for telling you that a loved one has died. “And how long does that last?”

“Well, it’s a twenty week course, although it usually finishes by about the fourteenth week.” explained Vance.

“Why’s that?” asked Esmerelda.

“Well,” said Vance, gritting his teeth in an attempt to smile, “we’ve had a bit of a problem with our mentor teachers; they tend to leave us part of the way through the course. Still, let me show you some more.”

Pureheart bounded down the corridor and slid back the panel of another room; inside a child was sat in the corner, being studiously ignored by a group of older children who were practising with wooden swords.

“This,” said Vance, “is a young hero undergoing training in order to learn how to work with allies.”

“But they’re just ignoring him.” said Esmerelda.

“Exactly,” said Vance, “Heroes must learn to accept that when they first encounter allies, they will find that their allies not only don’t trust them but that they also have absolutely zero confidence in their ability to be a hero. At the Academy, we’re preparing them to go out and be a hero in the real world, no wishy-washy study coaching here….”

“And, could you tell me,” asked Gerald, “do you use a project learning based approach?”

“Well, we did experiment with that,” admitted Vance, “but when a group of heroes kills a dragon, there’s the question of knowing exactly who killed the dragon, who joined in (but were utterly ineffectual), and who simply turned, ran, and hid behind a rock. Now we can’t very well give them all the title of Dragon Slayer can we? So, we’ve moved to a system of individual assessment…”

“What kind of dropout rate do you have?”

“Well, the first 65% of applicants answer the first call; so that leaves 35% who refuse and gain access to the Academy. Of that 35%, a further 5% fall on the climb up the steps, while another 15% will simply fail to demonstrate the necessary heroic qualities during their training. That leaves 15%; of which – unfortunately – 5% will be lured onto the path of darkness, leaving a 10% success rate.”

“10% is not bad,” nodded Gerald.

“But what about career prospects?” asked Esmerelda.

“Of those that graduate as heroes from the Academy, a good 75% are engaged in a hero-related industry within twelve months of graduation.”

“Does being a hero pay well?” asked Gerald.

“Well, there are some heroes who strike it rich – winning the hand of the princess, being showered in gold, stealing the treasure of a dragon, etc. – but, as a rule, the reward for being a hero is not in material goods; it is a reward of the soul, of the spirit. It is the reward of knowing that you have gone out and have done good in the world…”

“Hmm.” said Gerald. “At Lord VileFlesh’s School for Dark Lords, they promised there would be substantial amounts of gold in the first twelve months after graduation.”

“Dark Lords do, I admit, tend to see a higher average income in the first five years after graduation.” said Vance. “But do you really want little Timmy to grow up without a strong moral compass?”

“But after Lord Vileflesh’s, he could buy a compass.” said Esmerelda.

“That’s not really what I meant; it’s not an actual compass”

“Well, I think we’d rather have the gold than an imaginary compass,” said Gerald.

“Look, forget the compass” said Vance, “How about I offer you a 10% discount on the study fees, a flail of Timmy’s choosing, and we get his papers processed today?”

“Well, when you put it like that, I think we have a deal,” said Gerald, “Where do we sign?”

Day 3 - Detente

My writing process when it comes to these challenges (if you're interested) is as follows:

a. Ponder. I do this quite a bit. Spinning the word or phrase of the day's challenge in my head, and going through the various possibilities that suggest themselves to me.

b. Moment of vague revelation. It's rare (although it does happen) that I have a complete Eureka! moment; instead, it's more like I'm fishing and snag on something below the surface. Something that I tug at, but not too hard in case it all falls apart as I try to bring it to the surface. Eventually it emerges and I have the whole thing vaguely held in my head.

c. Writing. I try to write my stories in one go. This isn't always possible; today I wrote the first two paragraphs on the train on the way to work, and the rest of it on the way back (I was still trying to snag it fully during those first few paragraphs; just sounding it out and making sure it was what I thought). I edit as I go but, since speed is of the essence in being able to get these challenges out there, I only generally skim through it and spot the most obvious of obvious errors. I tend to view it almost as a live performance; sure I might hit one or two wrong notes along the way but that's less important than the grand scheme of things...

d. Post. Cut and paste. Try to find a picture that goes with it. Share the link. 

What I'm finding with the writing challenge thus far is that the ideas are already starting to come a little more easily, are already bubbling to the surface almost unbidden. I'm not sure an awful lot of people will ever read any of these, but that doesn't really matter as I'm having fun! 

* * *

Al’s Diner had seen much better days. Back in the 1950s it was the place to be; attracting a car park full of kids wanting to enjoy burgers, shakes, and Al’s famous cherry pie; but it was a different era now, an era of smashed avocado, lattes, and berry birchers. The world had moved on, and Al’s Diner had been left behind. Paint peeling, neon sign cracked and broken, it was a testament to a bygone age. It was also neutral territory.

They had booked out the restaurant for the night. No staff, no service. Paid Al Jr. enough for it that he wouldn’t need another paying customer this year. It was perfectly located; out of town and away from the highway. The perfect place for sensitive negotiations.

They collected the keys from Al Jr. and watched him drive away. He didn’t look back. He’d hardly been able to make eye contact with them from the moment they’d first walked in on him in his back office, poring over a set of invoices he couldn’t hope to pay. He’d be sensible enough to realise that he should take the money and not ask any questions. Finally, with the place to themselves, they did a thorough sweep. It was always better to be safe than sorry. Then they settled down for the arrival of the second party.

There were four of them waiting at the table. They rarely ever gathered in one place like this, but times were changing and they had decided that they needed to change with it. Even if that meant arranging a sit down with those who they had traditionally opposed.

“You really think this will work?” asked the largest of them, his black suit stretched tight over his bulging torso.

“It has to,” said the thin one with a scowl, his black eyes glittering in the dim light, “The alternative is unthinkable.”

“Been a long time since we’ve talked,” said the oldest of the four, absently stroking his chin with his thumb and forefingers. “Even longer since we could be on the same page.”

“Boys,” said the woman at the head of the table, and they all went silent in deference to her. “We’ll give this a chance. See if we can make it work. We don’t like it. They don’t like it. Hell, even trying to arrange something like this would have been blasphemy not so long ago. But, I have faith we can reach a compromise.”

White light outside heralded the arrival of the second party.

They were on time, as expected. They were rarely anything less than punctual. Sweeping into the car park in formation, several of them taking up station at key vantage points before giving the ok for the Boss to join them. He stepped forward, imposing as ever with his two most senior lieutenants at his side, and strode towards the diner’s open door.

“It has been a long time,” he said as he entered the room, ducking his head to avoid the door frame. “I have to say, I thought long and hard about whether I should take this meeting, or whether I should simply use this as an opportunity to finish you all.”

“You could try,” said the thin man, half getting out of his seat.

The woman waved him back in place. “Let’s skip the pleasantries shall we? We’ve agreed to meet here on neutral ground to see if there’s room for mutual cooperation, to see if we can put aside our differences to consider a greater threat.”

“You’re the one saying there’s a greater threat, I’m not convinced.”

“Oh, please,” said the woman scornfully. “Can you honestly say that either of us have the respect we once had? Are either of us feared as we were once feared? Do we exert the power we once exerted?”

“I still have power.”

“Really?” asked the woman. “Because what I see is lip service. The fact is, competitors have moved in. Our products are no longer in the demand they once were.”

The man’s face darkened, but he finally nodded. “True. So what exactly is it that you’re proposing?”

“That we put aside our feud for now, our existential differences. That we agree not to attempt to disrupt each other’s supply lines or product.”

“You ask a lot.”

“What’s the alternative, El? Our support is dwindling; we can pretend it’s all going to blow over but I think we know that it’s going to get a lot worse if we don’t do something. There’s a whole generation growing up with no respect for us; worse, they don’t even know we exist. How long before all we are is memories like those who went before us?”

The man sighed. “I hate it when you’re right, Lucy.”

“It’s why I left.”

“I thought today wasn’t about old conflicts?”

“It’s not. It’s about new beginnings, it’s about a temporary alliance until we deal with the threat to our existence.”

“We’ll try it,” said the man, finally, “We’ll try it and see if we can make it work. But it’s not a long term solution; there’s going to come a day when we’re not on the same side.”

“Oh, I’m certain. But that’s for another day, yes Elohim?”

“Indeed it is, Lucifer. Indeed it is.” said Elohim, standing up in tandem with his archangels. “But, for now though, we have a deal.”

Day 2 - Interactive

Another tough day when it comes to available time. All of which means that I had grand ideas which never quite managed to materialise. So you get instead a pale shadow of what I intended - which, when you read it, you might agree is probably a Very Good Thing indeed...

Since the title of today's writing challenge was interactive, I decided to write an interactive story; which means you need to click here if you want to read it...