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When I was a child, we used to move a lot because of my mom. I hated it. By the time I had learnt my classmates’ names, she would take the suitcases out from the closet and announce: I sold a new book! We need to move.

Father had no trouble with it. He stays home, cooks and cleans and then goes to bars and starts fights. Moving was a good deal for him since that way, he didn’t have to worry about his beer tab or meeting anyone he had broken their teeth before… Yet my mother wouldn’t have had any problem paying for his alcohol bills. And I don’t mean with it, that he was just her gigolo. She didn’t care him fighting so long he took care of me. Which he did.

Editors and interviewers are always asking her how did she manage to portray such a realistic and filled of detail plot. Without realizing they were talking to the same woman they had discussed covers with, three to four years in the past. Maybe it was that she changed her hair’s colour or that she would wear a total makeover clothes. But she never failed to have them excited over a sequel that would not happen. Ever.

The truth was, whenever they came home to discuss covers or the changes they wanted made to the plot to spice up; they would take a good look at them. The secret ingredients of her novels were in two red ceramic containers on the living’s coffee table. Sometimes, such containers made their way to the dining’s.

Can’t you guess the labels the containers had? Just so you know, I’ll describe the last time she used them with our neighbour of the 344.

It was late in the afternoon. My father had gone grocery shopping and I was practicing my guitar playing in my room. The bell rings and rings and rings. Mom is «busy» switching scene cards, trying to get out of her «swamp». The truth is, she never has a story ready until it presents itself to our door.

Quite annoyed (my room has a light that turns on every time the bell rings for it is sound proof). I went and checked. It was mistress Elckered. Her eyes were red and she looked quite desperate. I swallowed. Bye, bye to prom ball…

I open the door and invite her in. Then I fill the kettle with water and put it on the stove. Afterwards, I go and enter my mother’s room. She raises her carrot eye brows a little irked.
— Your next novel is here. The water’s already on the stove— I announce.
— Thanks? — Her ironical tone makes no dent on my resolve. It is quite annoying she can’t write a shit unless like this.
She follows me outside of the room.

—Mrs Elckered, what happened to you dear?

Mom gives her voice such a caring quality, you would believe she is talking to a cancer dying patient. She hugs Mrs Elckered and sits aside her on our lavender cotton couch. It sinks a little too much for her slim figure. Mrs Elckered tries to speak but she starts crying instead. The kettle whistles and while my mother offers the sad lady a Kleenex, she signals me to go and get the water.

— Everything is going to be fine. Why don’t we have some coffee and then you tell me what’s in your heart. Everything that is in it

And Mrs Fern Elckered literally pours her heart out, after a couple of sips of coffee. It will all become a new novel in my mother’s list of best sellers. Including the obituary section. Her plots never resist the shame of seeing themselves published.

Today I woke up to the ranting of mistres Nuren downstairs, like every single morning. What was a little bit different was that her child, sounded really alarmed about his new pet running away.
I won’t bother you with the details of my toilette nor with the detailed account of the dull breakfast I had. Mrs. Nuren isn’t exactly what you would call the best cook of the apartment block… Her child, a strangely malnourished creature with black under his eyes, looked a little paler (if white can become paler) than usual when I glimpsed at him, quietly eating the same breakfast I was.
As Mrs Nuren hates the sound of my machine, I park it a block away with Mr. Mehmet. Mr. Mehmet loves to take care of my purring girl keeping her groomed and fed. He was already waiting for me at his gate door.

—Morning miss Sonia — he squirmishes looking at the sky before letting go of advice and grabbing my shoulder — You shouldn’t go out today. There’s a foot loose in the city — I stare at him perplexed until I blink, unable to digest the information. Then I look at the hand ony shoulder. Mr. Mehmet let’s go of his hold —Just saying miss Sonia. Sometimes strange things happen.

I shake off the strange feeling that the human ability to connect dots and create conspiracy theories should be used this time and I don the beautiful red dragon custom drawn on my helmet. Then I ride my Ducati. The machine purrs like a kitty (a very big one) and off we go.

The speed! It is great to feel the power to get ahead of cars and lorries in short sections of the highway. Tough, of course, I don’t break any speed limit… I’m Queen of the world for a minute. The sun warms, the wind sings around my meteor of a person and world stays behind in fast motion.

Crack. That’s quite a loud sound at my left. So strange… Crack. Another loud sound to my right. Is it a stupid lorry driver? Usually they give me space to run along them since they like looking at my legs but… There’s always someone too stuck up… I almost crash against the guard rail.

Crack and the yellow lorry behind me has become a big hole on the asphalt. Again, there’s a breaking sound of the ground and a red lorry makes another hole directly behind.

I need to up the speed. As crazy as it sounds, there’s a big lone foot running along the highway towards downtown. I glance back to try to guess which way it is jumping onto next every time it falls on the bridge.

This, this is unbelievable. That foot has a collar around its ankle with a plate. The plate has a telephone number: 55 XX XX xx xx. No way! That’s the telephone number of the house! Martell needs to know where his pet is!

I turned around and stared at him. Usually my boyfriend will complain a lot about my drinking. He doesn’t complain because I drink per se, but because he has to remain sober since he has work next day (He is a writer so he can’t actually take a day off like everybody else).

This time, he didn’t say a thing. He took the tequila bottle from my hand and took a large drink. Then, he took my hand and took me to the karaoke stage. My favourite song (the one my boyfriend hates)!

We sang. It was just amazing! He sings very well… Wait. I must be dreaming. But no. I’m not. He is singing-drinking with me. No more tequila. We ask for beer, a large one for each.

I need to tell this to Parsley. Patrick Slay is my best friend from college and we all three hang out to drink once a month. We all graduated from the same place but only Konrad did the English literature track thing. Parsley and I did electric engineering.

There he is! In a table a little far from us. He looks slightly out. No way he is already wasted! Green as a Christmas girdle, he jumps on to his heels and goes out running to the bathroom. I follow him out of concern. I have never seen him that green after two caballitos. I listen to him puking from the other side of the door. I lean my back on the door and think. My gut tells me it is better if I go back to my man. He is being everything I’ve dreamt.

The bathroom’s door is very close to the kitchen. I have to wait for a waiter to pass… Was that? No. But I haven’t drunk that much, have I? There was a scratch of removed make up. And under it, skin so gray it looks dead. I shudder… Can it take a picture of it?

Hiding behind the columns, I make my way to the kitchen and hide right besides a shelf that holds white ceramic dishes. The waiter gets closer to the chef. A strangely red and tentacle moustached guy in a black uniform .

—Has any other table ordered it?
—Only the idiot of the red hair did. We swapped his brain with the tall guy of the goatee.
—I can’t collect data like this! — he leaned on the table on his hands — You need to promote better that beverage or the queen will try it with ourselves

So that’s it… I think I like my BOYFRIEND even better now.

No one else noticed. I and my colleagues were in the reserved seat for the press, making bets on who would take the gold home; looking at the contestants parading and taking stances. Failing or succeeding. The people cheered and waved flags. Blues and reds were the colours that danced the most on the first rows.

I was kin on the Rumanian. He was bigger than the favourite: some Chinese defector from the Mao regime. Now lifting weights for the stars and bars flag, instead of training with rice sacks. Or so I had been told by the blond on my left. A bonbon from France I’d for sure want to eat with my Caesar’s. All that meat in the right places. I could almost feel the wind his thick lashes made every time he blinked… Bummer, he is straight.

Yeah, right. I was kin on the Rumanian because my penis was the one thinking. The Chinese defector had more probabilities given his stats. He had won two golds as a young athlete before coming to the big ones. But the Rumanian looked big and dangerous.

I can see the black shorts and the white t-shirt slightly soiled with something that isn’t sweat neither the dirt from dusty benches. This is an American bear of black eyes and black hair. Someone whose ancestors flet the Nazi trials by pretending to be normal citizens… Betting on his name: Heydreich.

Most people do not remember individual smells. What they remember is the feeling. I might not be as good as a sommelier but I can distinguish a few. At home, my mother would ask me to investigate if the contents of some pot or jar had gone bad by using my nose. I’m quite good at knowing if meat has started rotting before it even smells to others.

This guy smelled. He had that off and slightly fungish… Ticklish feeling on the back of my nose of rotting meat. He did his stance, pushed up his weight and held the weight. One, two, ten seconds more of what they are supposed to. We (the Americans tough I’m technically Canadian) wave and stomp and cheer.

Next, it was the usual American. A bit red and a bit slightly too dark haired to be blond. The smell stuck to his soles like an unfed dog. When he stared at us, his eyes were white. Halle (my somehow Russian female version), commented the guy looked stoned. She wished it for the Russians to win a medal. I simply wished it was that way for the sake of our lives. The people watching seem to be about to pour over the rows of seats.

Here he comes. The ex Chinese. He is the worst of them all. His eyes are already white. He takes the powder and grabs the referee. His hands go to the lower of his pants. Up goes the guy like a dumbbell. The whole audience quiet. You could listen to an egg crack and sizzle in here. We watch how the athlete lifts the man. We listen to the crack of his back. Saliva oozes from the lifting dead. He lifts the dead human and cracks the skull with his knee. We should be running but we don’t. We are glued to our seats. Watching and waiting.

Across a lawn with a lining of Winterling and Mohn, lives my neighbour. I don’t really like her. We almost crossed paths going into town.

I can really see her mumbling to herself.  Her lace curtains allow me to see that she is waiting for Sackemeier, the neighbours down hill. My mother says she must be one of those… I guess I’m calling this afternoon. With luck they will come soon and drag her to the train. There, all the teachers from the black lagoon might stop rotting this country from the insides. 

I can’t see a damned thing. Ruben, the waiter, comes and asks if I want to drink an aperitif wine while he takes my hand and handles a wine glass. I allow myself to take it and try drinking it without spilling any. The waiter leaves with a funny dragging noise.

Then the first dish arrives and it smells like fish. It is tender and covered in small grains that seem to be glued to each other with a soft substance. It might be something like cream or cheese. My girlfriend convinced me of coming here to have dinner to convince me her ugly food is good enough to eat.

Maybe she is right. Up to now, things have been quite good. The darkness is a total assault and I can’t really make sense on how to use my cutlery. I just don’t seem to catch on these Brussel sprouts. Question, are these really Brussels? They could be anything else. And this is when my phone starts ringing. I was supposed to turn it off but I made clear to everyone around I’m really expecting this call from the lab. I mean, they don’t need me there since the DNA results won’t come out faster by me waiting by the lab. So I came to eat… Instead.

Nonetheless, the call comes and I answer it. The dim light coming from my phone shines for a moment over my plate… Nah. It can’t be. That something round is a Brussel. I focus on my call. It seems the DNA matches and the murderer is really the husband. I tell Celeste and she congratulates me by calling my name in her seductive voice: «April».

All right. This is bothering me. I have to look so I use the phone’s torch. This thing… Well this isn’t a Brussel sprout. I call Ruben, the blind waiter to tell him discreetly but still using my phone’s light:
—Ruben, there’s an eye in my soup! — I whisper worried.
To my surprise, he just takes the eye and tucks it in his empty left eye socket to leave the table limping. I don’t want to look around but I do. Everybody at the table is missing an eye. Some of them are missing chunks of flesh too. My scream resonates in my ears for a long, long time.

Round and round, down.
Orange heads, everywhere.
With swords en garde, they smile.
Scary eyes,
Empty nosed.
Dancing, dancing, prancing.
Those the kids, autumn feeds.
Silly ghosts,
Scholarships.
Candle souls behind the ghouls.
They jump, they hop.
A garden for pump kinder.
October tolls,
Frost is not.
Midnight snack,
Pumpkin pie.
Jack is king.
Hurray for pumpkin.

«It can’t be» «No, no, no, no» . Thought the werewolf Raymond. This was fundamentally wrong. This time travel was so horribly stuck he had to do something. Anything.

He was, again, reliving the exact moment his transformation had scared his girl… Now ex? How could he know if they were still an item, if he wasn’t able to move forward… or backwards! To brim the cup, the transformation had happened with him elbows immersed into the dish washing of Fridays. Fridays were his washing plates day. Ha hadn’t been able to use his time travel ability until he had fully transformed.

And again, his forearms hair was growing, covering his arms and going up his chest and face. Kanie glanced his direction when he sneezed, one hair had found its way inside his nose. She let go of the pot she was putting in the fridge. The pot, an orange ceramic beauty, crashed against the floor. His nose grew and Kanie went running away through the front door…

The hair of his forearms grew, it soon covered his chest and face. The orange pot broke and Kanie ran away…

Something was horribly wrong with this time travel trip!

<<Following tradition, someone decorated a box with money inside, as a cake and took it with them to the court. It was nothing more than a traffic fine but the girl had been arrested before …

As usual, John was starting the first day of summer camp in his owm traditional way. A ghost story that he had spent the whole winter concocting while coordinating a whole team of aeronautical engineers on the metaphorical drawing board of the simulators.

Oh, I’m Suzzane Baskerville and I’ve never been married out of my own volition by the way, officer Snider. So, this was my fifth summer camp and John’s fourth as professional staff and as I was telling you… We were around the fire, listening to John’s…>>

The detective Snider lifted a brow. He already knew she was Suzanne Baskerville. This was one of those women who like telling you everything you don’t need to know and forget the most important stuff or don’t tell you the important stuff because «it is private». After telling you who suffered hemorroids and who was being cuckolded. He looked at her short sleeves and Bermuda’s with envy. The weather out there was of 37°C… In the station, he didn’t even want to imagine because of the broken A/C whilst his blue trousers would get themselves stuck to the chair with his sweat.

He nodded and smiled, waiting for the woman to get to the strange corpse they had found on the canoes’ cabin. A green mass of a melted person (it had the rests of a human face) . He had wanted to call the CDC the moment he entered the cabin, but his superior refused since the person who had found it seemed all right. No coughing, no fever, no vomit. In a words, Ji-Hoon Yoo didn’t seem to be infected with anything.

Rock Snider took a subrepticious look at his watch…He froze in the spot. His wrist was green… He tried to speak but found the inside of his throat felt like chocolate syrup inside the skin. He looked up to the woman and his damned round glasses, her round body that looked a little bit green now.

—I pass the doom judgement on the crime of not listening, young man

She reached the interrogation room and went out, leaving a trail of green slime behind her.