Instalment One Hundred and Thirty Nine

Godzilla vs. The Toxic Silence
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Godzilla bumbled around the kitchen of wherever it was Godzilla went to in-between destroying cities.

“Where’s the frypan?” he yelled towards the bedroom. No answer came.

“That’s alright, I’ve found it!”

Godzilla could fry Tokyo in a breath but was lost in the kitchen.

“Sure you’re not hungry?” he yelled again, his voice all too cheery. Nothing.

He cracked two Mothra eggs for himself and unsuccessfully tried to remove fragments of shell.

She was waiting in the doorway as he turned searching for a spatula. Godzilla flinched.

“Why?” Godzilla asked.

The mood on her face hardened faster than the chocolate shell of the soft-serve ice cream Godzilla had bought on their first date. He knew it too would fracture with the slightest slip of his tongue. He pawed the happy memory like a faded a postcard. But Godzilla couldn’t tiptoe around anything. There was green-eye monster that Godzilla would never defeat, jealously.

“He’s just a friend.” The lie woke something dormant within the King of the Monsters.

He roared. She left the room.

Godzilla banged the pan in the sink and sat down to his burnt eggs in silence.

That silence between them grew and turning toxic, consumed their lives.

Instalment One Hundred and Thirty Eight

The session between the Pigeons and the Rats was nearing close and the mediator had made little headway.

“So,” the pigeon’s Spokesbird cooed, “We’ve had complaints from our regional branches, I’ve got a lot of unhappy birds.”

“What seems to be the issue?” the Chairat sniffed.

“I find it hard to believe you haven’t heard to be honest… rats with wings.”

Rats with wings?” the Chairat squeaked in unconvincing surprise. “Whatever does that mean?”

“Look mate, we know you lot started it and frankly we’re riled. Don’t think we are going to let it fly.”

“What do you propose?” the mediator prompted the pigeon.

“That it stops! How’d you like us calling you Gutter Birds?”

“Let’s not resort to name calling,” the mediator pleaded.

“Good with us, still an improvement on rats. It’s a branding thing, Rats are lower than mice or cockroaches, but with wings we can soar, everything’s up when you live in the sewer!”

The mediator looked at her run sheet, the Night Owls and Early Birds matter of fair and equal worm supply was waiting. She rubbed her temples and did her job.

“The public dislikes you both equally, perhaps teaming up is your strongest course.”

Instalment One Hundred and Thirty Seven

She was not, nor had she ever been, extraordinary. She was, much to her own mild and never expressed disappointment, extra ordinary. Not so extra ordinary that she would catch your eye and force you to take notice, which would have meant that she was extraordinarily extra ordinary and worth paying attention to. She was extra ordinary in a way that willed your eyes to glide over her without registering a presence, your attention would slip from her like a child down a slide. You would never notice that you could never notice her.

The day she received a present from her aunt, something extraordinary, she thought her middling luck had turned. “It has been passed down through the women in our family,” her aunt told her, presenting the heirloom psychic gift.

She toyed with her new gift for years but her ingrained extra ordinariness was a tough force to be reckoned with. When the power of the paranormal butted heads with her propensity to the very normal, the result was a tie. She never turned a profit from her gift of prophet. Her clumsy clairvoyance made the psychic un-chic, the occult paled to common.

She was an average medium.

Instalment One Hundred and Thirty Six

You are born into the tunnel. You hear there’s a light at the end that can be reached if you are brave enough to do what you love. This is what the Stars say. What they don’t know is not every tunnel has a light. Some tunnels have dead ends and others continue deeper into darkness. A crack of light is more often a warning of cave-in than a way out.  The Stars will shout at you, “Keep going and have faith in yourself, I did!” As if that is an answer. They forget that they were frightened once and most of all they have forgotten they were lucky. They say those who live small lives die small deaths. They are wrong. There are no small lives, just big headed Stars looking down on you. Keep digging! They will yell this until you or the tunnel collapse. They will not pick you up or dig you out. The tunnel is where you will live and die, make it your home. Scrap out a space of your own, find someone to dig with. Someone who will dig you out from collapse. You will have found a light greater than the Stars.

Instalment One Hundred and Thirty Five

A Poisoned Life 
Tales of the high sea were the boy’s favourite escape. Pirate captains, he read, ingested small doses of poison each day to build up immunity should double-crossing crew members attempt a coward's mutiny. As he believed all pirates were double-crossing types, this seemed sound advice.

The boy did not fear poison, he sought inoculation against grief. To begin, his portions were small. A dram of anguish here, a tot of heartache there. He did not search for lost dogs, he found their owners. He quizzed teachers for childhood disappointments. He visited a sideshow alley and heard “The Saddest Woman in the World” moan. It was hard, not the sorrow but the supply. People did not want to answer his questions, they said it was for his own good but in truth, they could not confront their own fears.

He grew up to haunt corridors of nursing homes, becoming callused to misery. His answer lay in deathbeds. It’s with trust that poison is fed by spoon, and so it’s the love of family that feeds the venom of grief. Sitting close as his mother passed, the boy found a life spent wallowing in sorrow was a wasted one, grief found him.