《Dogs - Fictional Short Stories》 Dogs The thing that Corporal Jones hated the most about the North was how silent the world became when the snows fell. She found that her thoughts would mingle with the snow and drift away until she was at one with the cold, numbing whiteness of her surroundings, which stripped away all her little outer thoughts until she could only think one inner thought over and over and over again. I wish I were home. Home. She could taste it on her parched lips. She would walk through the doorway and there would be Jon, bent over the stove and straightening up suddenly to sweep her into an engulfing embrace with a roaring laugh. There would be little Tina and Wendy with their inquisitive faces, looking delighted to see their mother, shrieking with joy and tugging on her sleeves. And there would be food¡ªhot, sizzling meat dripping in fats, and bread, and soup... Around her, the wind howled, as though it was responding to her hunger. ¡°There¡¯s no other way,¡± said the Lieutenant coldly. ¡°The last dogs are gone. A decision has to be made.¡± ¡°There has to be another way,¡± said Private Lasker with desperation. She was the youngest out of all of them, and hadn''t yet bowed to the cynicism of reality like the Lieutenant. ¡°It¡¯s not that I¡¯m scared. I¡¯m not scared. But it¡¯s not right. There needs to be another way.¡± ¡°We have to live.¡± ¡°Yes, but¡ª¡± Corporal Jones closed her eyes. ¡°I¡¯ve got children,¡± she said faintly. ¡°So have I,¡± said the Lieutenant. ¡°Well¡ª¡± Private Lasker floundered. ¡°That doesn¡¯t make it right!¡± This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. ¡°None of this is right.¡± The Lieutenant sounded bitter. ¡°They knew it would be a death sentence, deploying us out here. ¡®Last hope for our country¡¯, ha!¡± The sneer distended the Lieutenant¡¯s lips into ugly, jagged things. ¡°They knew exactly what they were doing. But we have to make it back. At least one of us needs to tell the world how it happened.¡± Corporal Jones swallowed. ¡°My leg,¡± she said. The Lieutenant looked down with some sympathy at her mangled limb, which the dogs had nearly torn clean off in their attack. ¡°I¡¯m afraid it¡¯s lost.¡± Though Private Lasker had just started to cry, her tears were already leaving icy tracks across her cheeks. ¡°You¡¯re serious, aren¡¯t you? You¡¯re going to do it.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± The Lieutenant remained motionless. ¡°I¡¯m¡­ never going to be able to make it back,¡± Corporal Jones said, the realisation finally settling in. ¡°I¡¯m never going to see my family again.¡± The snow continued to fall in silence. The Lieutenant put a hand on her shoulder. ¡°I promise that I will be there for your family, Corporal.¡± Corporal Jones was suddenly filled with a blazing, furious heat which burned in every part of her except the cool metal pressed against her forehead. ¡°I want to be there for my family,¡± she shouted into the swirling cold, her breath wisping away. ¡°It¡¯s not fair.¡± ¡°It¡¯s never fair,¡± the Lieutenant said quietly, pulling the trigger. In the silence, the gunshot shattered the world. Corporal Jones swayed backwards, and red blossomed out behind her as she hit the snow. The Lieutenant remained locked in place for a moment more, gun raised, and then Private Lasker shrieked and the world snapped back into motion. ¡°Oh God,¡± Private Lasker whimpered from behind the Lieutenant. ¡°Oh God.¡± She covered her eyes. The Lieutenant wordlessly produced a knife and began hacking into the lifeless Corporal¡¯s arms and legs. Around them, the bones of their sled dogs, which had been meticulously picked clean of meat, gleamed under the faint light. The Nightmare Chamber You are in a white hallway. Doors run down either side of the hall, stretching on and on, each just as plain and unremarkable as the rest. In your stomach, there are the remnants of a feeling that you just dropped down, down, down from far, far away, and you landed, here, in the middle of this hallway. You don¡¯t remember what came before this. You reach for it, instinctively, stretching out a hand¡ªbut whatever happened before, whoever you were before, is gone. There is only a hallway. The hallway. You turn and look behind you. More doors. Which way, then? You turn again, and stare. There is a door at the end of the hallway which you don¡¯t remember being there before. Carefully, you make your way step-by-step towards it. Disconcertingly, the hallway seems to be following you. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the doors passing by, but when you turn to stare at them head-on, the doors are the same as they were a moment ago. You are a flipbook of a person¡ªyour legs move ceaselessly, but your background never changes. And you are at the door. Your hand reaches out; clasps the doorknob. It turns at your touch and the door swings open soundlessly. You step into a pristine white room. A man is sitting at a small round table in the centre of it. He wears a crisp, pressed three-piece suit. It is a dark, navy blue with faint pinstripes running over it, and a deep purple handkerchief has been delicately folded into his breast pocket. He has a toothy smile made out of 24-carat diamonds and lips like paintbrush tips. ¡°Ladies and gentlemen,¡± he is saying. He is not looking at you. He is looking just past you. His hands are clasped in the manner of a news reporter around a phantom microphone. His eyes do not blink. ¡°I am delighted to announce the opening of a new downtown football stadium. Our home team, the Nine Foxes, has expressed thanks to its generous sponsor, the Arctic Chalet, and would like to remind viewers that entering the code ARCTICSTADIUM gets you half-price on tickets, so take advantage of this offer now¡­¡± If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. You slowly circle him. Is he an enemy? A threat? He does not notice you¡ªor at least, he does not acknowledge you. His lips keep moving in strange ways as he discusses the weather, finance, and traffic conditions. You cannot read his lips. They move like inchworms. You are seeing him from the back when you pause. This is a well-lit room by any standards. The signature wash of white LED lights has bathed this room in uniformity and neutrality, and the polished tabletop is gleaming with small reflected highlights. The man does not have a shadow. You watch the back of his head. He still has not moved from his position. You can hear his bland voice, nattering on soothingly still. ¡°...witnesses are reporting that the attack did not seem to have a racial motive. Rather, it seemed to be a complete coincidence¡­¡± Slowly, you inch back around to his front. Is that¡­ a tear? His left eye is watering with a milky white substance. As you watch, the substance gathers and gathers and gathers, and it falls. However, it does not fall as a droplet. It keeps falling, drawing out the rest of his eye sclera, melting his iris, and emptying his eye socket as it drops like a puddle of liquid cheese onto the table. Splat. ¡°...Catherine Sykes, 26, said that ¡®she can¡¯t remember a time when the Wahlbergs weren¡¯t around¡¯.¡± His one hollowed, oozing eye socket stares at you, a gaping ghoulish sore. His other eye does not twitch. It is perfect, round, and devoid of anything. ¡°She said, ¡®This town is suffering from gentrification. It¡¯s not what it used to be.¡¯¡± You slowly back away, never taking your eyes from the man¡¯s face. He does not move. The only parts of his body in motion are his lips, moving up and down like two inchworms in tandem. His voice is a distant thing now. Your steps take you to the doorway, your breath hitching as you fumble for the doorknob, and you pull the door shut behind you as you exit with the last image of his emotionless face burned into your mind. There is a faint click from the other side of the door¡ªthe sound of a switch, turning off the lights. Silence. Your breathing slows and your trembling stops. You look at the door. Safe. You are safe. ¡°And now, back to the studio,¡± says the man from behind you, and he lunges. The Old Man Still Wants It The old man stared at the wall. ¡°Sad, really,¡± said the voice of a nurse, from somewhere over his head. ¡°He used to be so brilliant. My mum says she saw him on stage when she was a kid.¡± ¡°They all used to be so brilliant,¡± murmured the other nurse. ¡°It¡¯s horrible what forgetting does to a person.¡± The old man was not listening. Well, he was, but he wasn¡¯t processing any of it. There¡¯s something I¡¯ve forgotten. His brow was faintly furrowed. Yes, something, something just beyond his grasp¡­ ¡°Mr. Alton?¡± The friendly, well-meaning face of the nurse entered his field of vision. ¡°Mr. Alton, would you like lunch?¡± The old man shifted in his wheelchair. Lunch, yes. But that was an abstract thing in comparison to the mammoth obstacle shutting away the recesses of his mind. ¡°Lunch sounds nice,¡± he agreed. There¡¯s something I¡¯ve forgotten. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. There was a clinking of spoons and a tray was set down before him. Absentmindedly, he began to drink the soup, with the nurse dabbing at his chin when it was needed. ¡°You¡¯ve got visitors this afternoon,¡± the nurse said brightly. ¡°Your grandchildren.¡± The old man searched the depths of his memory, and found shallow waters. ¡°Yes,¡± he said. The constant, passive distress in him quaked gently. I have grandchildren. I know their faces, I know I do, but names¡­ names are so tricky. I must love them, I know I must. He looked up at the nurse. ¡°Have they visited before?¡± The nurse¡¯s smile wavered. ¡°Yes, Mr. Alton. Just last week.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± He ventured a feeble attempt at a joke. ¡°I must be getting old.¡± The nurse gave a short laugh. ¡°It happens to everyone,¡± he said with false joviality. ¡°Don¡¯t worry.¡± The old man tried to smile back. He felt himself scrabbling after a hazy trail of memory which was already fading. ¡°Thank you for the lunch.¡± ¡°Anytime, Mr. Alton.¡± The old man stared at the wall. There¡¯s something I¡¯ve forgotten. The Thief He sees the faces looking at him, then past him. The people around him are startled deer who shrink when confronted with his unswerving stare, the kind of stare that says, where am I who are you why are you looking at me? He keeps his hands in his pockets, takes them out, puts them back in. Sighs, lets out a long breath. Occasionally he looks around the corner, just to check that nobody is there. It is time. With that funny walk of his, the one that is all heels and toes, he slips through the crowd and around the winding streets, to the little apartment balconies with the hanging flowers in the alleyways. He feels an excitement that builds inside until his walk becomes a hopping skip and his hands start to shake. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. And it¡¯s there. He halts before the balcony at the end of the alley, looking up. The little old lady who lives there is out watering her potted flowers. Her slow, tottering gait takes her back to the screen door and she disappears back into her home. He shimmies his way up the stunted street tree growing beneath her window and grabs the rail of the balcony. He¡¯s been waiting all week to do this. Carefully, as though approaching a holy totem, he slithers over the rail and kneels before the the potted prairie flowers, and almost reverentially, with a delicate motion as practised as a magician¡¯s sleight-of-hand, he plucks a pebble from the terracotta. In a blink, he has hopped back over the balcony, landing hard on the pavement, scrabbling hard to get away, one fist clenched tightly with the little pebble burning a hole in his palm. The smile cutting its way across his face does not belong on Earth. It does not belong anywhere. The triumph of his accomplishment follows him all the way home to his dingy apartment and stays with him in his stolen dreams.