Instalment One Hundred and Forty One

“It’s mine. Give it to me,” she begged.

“I’m sorry madam but as I told you, without a bankbook I can’t authorise withdrawals, it’s policy.”

“It’s my wedding anniversary, I need that withdrawal.”

“You’ll have to talk to the manager.”

“OH I WILL.” She marched to the manager’s office.

“Mr... ahhhh... what’s your name again?”

“Having trouble with withdrawals again I see?”

“I’ve misplaced my bankbook.”

“Of course, of course. I’m going to need to ask you two security questions like yesterday.”


“I’ll just need to know your mother’s maiden name and the name of your first pet?”

“How can I tell you that! I’ve given it to you for safe keeping so I don’t have to carry around all that baggage. Why do you think I use the Memory Bank?”

“As I explained yesterday, we are here to safeguard precious memories for our clients but we do find older customers, like yourself, sometimes have trouble accessing them. You don’t want to lose your memories do you? If you can’t be trusted with a bankbook, can you be trusted with the golden memory of your wedding to your late husband? Your security prompt is Memento mori. Ring any bells?”  

Instalment One Hundred and Forty

“Your death is one day closer.” He hit the Snooze button, silencing the alarm. The Clock slept for five more minutes. So did he.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ the ticked-off Clock tocked when it woke. “Stop alarming me,” he replied.

“I’d stop time if you asked,” said the Clock.

“The things I’d do if time stood still…” the man whispered. “Okay Clock. Stop.”

The Clock stopped at 7:15. His watch froze too. “Amazing,” he said and went back to sleep. He woke with no alarm, the clock still said 7:15. He stretched and walked outside completely naked, to explore his frozen world.

Cars honked his streaking form, schoolchildren pointed as parents failed to shield their views.

He ran inside. “Time isn’t frozen!”

“It is,” the Clock replied, “”It’s been 7.15 going three hours now.”

“Everyone’s still moving.”

“I never said the world would stop, only time.”

“What good is that?” he raged and punched the Clock, shattering it’s face.

“Time should be spent with care, cherished as gold. I gave you all the time in the world and you slept. You live to work, a clock-puncher damned in perpetual morning.”

The stopped Clock was right twice that day.

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.