《Slice of a Life.》


 Pearson in Prison

    "The three horsemen of my apocalypse." Pearson mocked as he blew a ring of smoke.


    "We''ve come to kill you." The Sheriff said


    "To save your soul, help you get born again." The Chaplain commiserated


    "As a vampire? As one of you?" Pearson asked


    "Normal." The Governor smiled.


    "What if I don''t want to be Normal?" The words were panicked and doused with the awareness of his hopelessness.


    "You don''t know what you want." The Chaplain was a kindly old man, he had two tattoos on the back of his hands, on one side Mercy, on the other Truth.


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    "Or what you need." The Governor stated firmly "Ambition, Obedience, Morality, you lack all this."


    " And that makes you a danger; to yourself and to the Society." The Sheriff continued smoothly.


    "I don''t have any weapons. I''m harmless" Pearson protested


    "You''re a weapon, a weapon without sheath." The Sheriff pounced, grabbing Pearson''s neck between his hands.


    "I don''t give a shit, Why should I be Norman! Why should I be like my brothers! They''re all Normans!" Pearson struggled with the heavy set Sheriff.


    "And you think you''re too good for Normalcy?" The Governor stood on Pearson''s legs, his lithe form belying monstrous strength "Don''t be childish."


    "We''re here to help you." The Chaplain reassured the struggling man, his hands held down his chest, seemingly useless "you won''t hate it so much when we''re done."


    "You''ll die and be reborn. As one of us, with Value." The Governor confirmed


    Pearson could feel his head swelling, the lack of oxygen making him dizzy as a bitter taste crawled up his throat, spots taking over his vision.


    "Not ¡­ last," he coughed "Never the¡­last."

 The Biography of Atoms

    ¡°Welcome to the Biography, please wait patiently, your processing will commence soon.¡± The Secretary¡¯s voice was cool and melodious, Pearson grabbed his neck frantically. A panicked spin showed him that he was now in what looked like a large and well-filled library.


    A wooden desk occupied his immediate focus, the lady behind it was a secretary She was The Secretary. Pearson, like many, had lived life without a handbook and had learned to rely on his instinct. His instinct wasn¡¯t screaming, that would be too undignified for a place like this, a place with rafters so high up they might as well have not been there.


    His instincts were proclaiming loudly, that this lady, dressed in a tight blue shirt, and black skirt, was not just a secretary but the sheer quintessence of secretaris, she was a dozen secretaries distilled into one. She was in fact the inheritor of the schoolboy¡¯s lust for his teacher that men claimed to have left somewhere between their teenage years.


    ¡°We will begin processing immediately, all experiences of heat first.¡± The Secretary stared at him expectantly, he stared back.


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    ¡°You want my memories?¡± he asked confusedly


    ¡°This is the Biography, we see to the dismantling and archiving of souls, separating all the experiences take a long while so we appreciate when intakes do the preliminary sorting.¡±


    Pearson was confused, ¡°what happens to me then?¡±


    ¡°Nothing.¡±


    ¡°Nothing?¡±


    ¡°There won¡¯t be a you, we are quite efficient at sorting and compiling, regardless of our shortstaffedness.¡±


    Pearson made to run, back foot pushing hard against the floor and finding no resistance. There was nothing, neither sinking nor falling, he was simply left standing.


    ¡°Would you like a tour? I find that it puts some collections at peace.¡± The Secretary seemed to breathe the words directly into his ear, warm breath wetting his ear.


    He followed her, reluctantly at first, and then with more purpose. Midway through the stacks the came to his last collection, he was little more than a wisp now, his humour seemed to come back for a moment, like the memory of a spicy meal, he viewed the experiences of doubt, countless of them, bitter scepticism reinforcing them, then he fulfilled his purpose.