THE WAITING ROOM

For the first time Jenna was doing something important.  She looked around the waiting room, taking note of names on badges and made eye contact with an older woman, Sarah, sitting opposite; “It’s so cool here,” she said.  There were cosy couches, a buffet and a bar they could help themselves from, while they waited.  Jenna was already clutching a glass of wine.
“A taste of things to come,” Sarah answered, biting into her chocolate cake.
“I guess we’ll get to know each other well,” Jenna scanned the room again to be met by smiles, “being chosen for the Over Populated Earth programme has been the best thing,” she gushed, “I haven’t had a job since leaving school, but they say there’s no shortage of employment on Mars.”
“The working conditions are fantastic,” Sarah stated, “I want to work, but employers have never understood my illness, that I have good and bad days.  The OPE Programme says I can choose my hours.”
“It’s great,” Colin spoke up, “I had a shaky start, I was a bad lad, but it’s behind me now.  People here don’t wanna know when you’ve got a record.  OPE didn’t even ask about my past.”
“We’ve been given a chance,” added Robert, “being older, I thought I was past it, but they’re still sending me.  I’ve heard there are greenhouses, I can still do my gardening.”
“My interest is art.  I’m finally going to be working in an industry I wanted to get a job in,” Carol asserted, “you don’t see job opportunities for artists and poets here, but no books or literature are going to Mars, so they want people to write, paint and sculpt.  We can build a whole new culture.”
“Are any of us scientists?” Alice enquired, sipping on a double whisky.
Everyone shook their heads.
“I thought it would be useful to have a scientist among us.”
“The scientists went before, to set everything up,” Jenna said helpfully, “I’m going to be working in the zoo.”
“Are there animals?” asked Sarah.
“I’ve been allowed to take my pet cat,” Carol confirmed.
Alice frowned; “We’re the second group.  Has anyone heard from the first group?”
“Only that they arrived safely.  They’re still sorting out a satellite link for everyone to use to call their families.” Sarah said.
“Does anyone know anyone from the first group?” Alice pressed, “I understand they were very much like us, people who struggled to find employment.”
“People being given a chance to help Over Populated Earth,” said Jenna.
“Art, gardens, zoos ... I remember theatres and libraries when I was younger, but they got shut down.”
“What are you trying to say?” Colin asked Alice.
“I’m amazed they can afford the billions it’s costing to send us and maintain a facility on a far away planet.”
“Mars isn’t that far,” Jenna protested.
"The Government has been putting money into this programme for years.  It had to close down everything unnecessary to support it,” Carol said firmly.
Robert fidgeted uneasily, like Colin, he was wondering what point Alice was trying to make. 

“Attention, would the Pioneers make their way to departure gate,” came the announcement.

“This is it!” Jenna cried.
“I thought you needed training before you went up into space and they’ve given us alcohol, is that wise?” Alice downed her whisky.  She followed the rest to where a uniformed member of staff waited to direct them.  One by one they passed through the gate, Jenna, Sarah and Carol wreathed in smiles, the men exchanging doubtful glances.  Alice was the last to go.

DOPPELGANGER

I’ve been waiting for you to come back.  I’ve waited in other houses, for a car to pull up outside, for a man to return for his dinner.  I’m used to it.  I will wait and hope your death is not permanent and that the other who has taken your place leaves soon, because I don’t like him as much.

Who knows where you went.  You were there for a season - a genius, an artist and a mystery.  You made me so happy.  I saw your death beginning and I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t be told.  The blackness swallowed you up little by little and all those things I loved about you disappeared.  I am left with the other now; I tiptoe around his growing irritation at my questioning presence, obsequiously fulfilling his needs, in the hope that I might entice you back.  Occasionally there are glimpses and I have the comfort of hope.

If I could take my love tinted glasses off, I would be clear sighted enough to see that the transformation is complete.  You are dead and gone.  I have made a commitment to an illusion and it has slipped away, leaving me with what is real and forever.  I am left with the memories, last year’s journal and the stories you once wrote.  I read them in these early hours of January.  I deny disappointment.  Life will go on, a new beginning based on what never was.

PEACE ON EARTH

I don’t mind the Slackers getting away with stuff, as long as they are polite and helpful towards the Customers.  The ones causing me anxiety are the Workers.  They’re so grateful to have a job they forget to take breaks, to switch off by walkin’ in a winter wonderland ...

I patrol the aisles, ensuring no-one is feeling the effects of the conditions because even the Slackers know it’s Christmas time at all ... and are getting involved, decking the aisles with bows of holly tra la la la la ... I mean, they’re working hard for once too.

“Mr Fulton,” Jenny rushes to me, “it’s happening again, aisle ten.”
Emma is staring at the shelves swaying side to side; “Ring ding ding ding ding ding-a-ling ...” she moans, surrounded by anxious colleagues.
“Take her outside.  Let her sit in her car,” I order.
They lead Emma away, past bemused Customers.  I smile reassuringly thinking longingly of outside where it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with ...

I continue my rounds.  When I reach the mistletoe and wine aisle, I can take my break.  Several customer queries and the incident with Emma have caused me to run behind.  My name is called over the tannoy, summoning me to aisle eight.  Jenny intercepts me; “There’s loads coming down with it, Mr Fulton.  You’re going to have to change the ...”

“Not now!” We’ve reached aisle eight.
All my life the Customer has come first, not the staff, not the Corporation that pays my wages.  I take pride in looking after their every need, in making sure they have a happy holiday, that their experience shopping with us is ... is oh I wish it could be Christm ... Oh God, I didn’t take my break, I can’t think!  There is a Customer down in aisle eight, standing over him is his wife, a frozen turkey in her hand, she’s weaving slightly and mumbling under her breath; “In the meadow we can build a snow man ... he’ll say are you married, we’ll say no man ...”  She starts to laugh.  I’ve seen staff this bad, but they spend hours in the store.  Could this over-exposure be due to the Corporation’s insistence we change things round regularly so that no matter how they write out their list, Customers will never get the order right and spend ages doubling back?
“What happened?” I ask.
“He told her to cook the turkey upside down so it wasn’t dry like last year, that’s all he said ...” Sandra reported as she moved the Customer into the recovery position.
“Give me the turkey,” I said gently to the woman, “I know how to make things right.  But you have to be quick, I didn’t take my break and ...”
“But baby it’s cold outside,” the woman whispered clutching the turkey.
“The weather outside is frightful ...” I begin to agree, then remember it’s not.
“Mr Fulton,” Jenny sounds edgy.  They can’t take me outside, not in front of the staring Customers.
I do the unthinkable, I snatch the turkey from the woman.  I have to save them, the Slackers, the Workers, my beloved Customers.  I sprint heading for the mistletoe and wine ... the booze aisle where the door leads out back.  Jenny is right, but I’m not going to change the playlist, we’re going to have a complete change from this constant sleigh-bell infested loop, we’re going to have silence!
“Mr Fulton!  What are you doing?” cries Gary in the warehouse, but Jenny has followed me and she holds Gary back.
“Go Mr Fulton!” she urges me as I bash the frozen turkey into the sound system again and again.
Finally we have what we crave, no sleigh-bells, no cheesy singing, no mention of enforced joy, presents or snow.  We have silence, we have ... peace on earth ... Oh God no.

FESTIVE FAYRE

Gabrielle and Katrina arrived at Madeline’s front door simultaneously.

“Hope she’s OK,” Gabrielle murmured.
“She really liked him,” Katrina whispered.
“What was he this time?  A stockbroker?  A venture capitalist?”
“An investment banker.”
The door opened and both women chorused; “Merry Christmas!”
Madeline looked lovely in her dress; “Dinner’s nearly ready!” she grinned, as if forcing herself into the spirit of it all.
“Dinner first, then presents, like last year,” Katrina suggested.
“Champagne first!” they all said together.

The women gathered in the kitchen and champagne was poured.

“Who wants to carve?” asked Madeline.
Katrina and Gabrielle looked at her imploringly.
“I’ve just had my nails done,” Gabrielle said.
“You cut meat so beautifully,” Katrina gushed.

Madeline sighed and took the meat from the oven.  A scent similar to pork filled the room.  Katrina and Gabrielle made appreciative noises.  While Madeline cut and divided the meat onto plates, they put vegetables into bowls, carried them through to the elaborately laid table and made sure glasses were refilled.

In the dining room, the women toasted the year that had been, then Gabrielle asked; “Do you miss him?”

Katrina shot her a look.
“Course I do,” Madeline replied, “it’s one of those things, isn’t it?  I met him in the New Year, he was new and love was new; but we all know that can’t last.” she sighed, putting a forkful of meat in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
“They go off don’t they?”  Katrina stated.
“Start neglecting their bodies,” Gabrielle said, “nice and fit when you meet them, then the gym visits stop and they sit in front of the TV, drink beer and eat doner kebabs ...”
“They start wearing jogging bottoms.  Then they fart on the upholstery and belch.” Katrina wrinkled her nose.
“They expect us to keep our figures,” Gabrielle continued, cutting meat off bone and skewering it on her fork.
“And they get irritable with you just for being alive.”
"You forget what you saw in them.”  They stopped, realising that Madeline hadn’t said anything.  She was staring nostalgically at her plate.
She looked up; “It’s better this way.  Why not feed them up?  Accelerate the inevitable decline?”
Gabrielle’s face softened, “You did seem to like him ...”
“He’d have turned out like the others,” Madeline’s eyes narrowed, “got mean, taken me for granted, spent all his time at work, forgotten my birthday.  Little by little with these City men the love ebbs away.  No, let it stay new forever and then we three get something out of it, this lovely party, this delicious meat.”
“They don’t all taste the same,” Gabrielle said, “this one is the best so far.”
“Yes, he was,” Madeline said sadly.
“We can’t wait to give you your present,” Gabrielle handed Madeline a parcel, “go on!”
Madeline opened it.
“Careful!” Katrina giggled.
Madeline stared at the sharp, bejewlled dagger in her hand; “Thanks ladies, you shouldn’t have!”
Katrina grinned, raising her glass; “Here’s to January ...”
“And hunting in Canary Wharf!” cried Madeline and Gabrielle.

FEEDING THE THING DOWNSTAIRS

“Any questions?” Mr Lyre asked.
Joseph and Marcia exchanged glances; “We didn’t see behind that door,” Marcia said.
“That’s the basement where the Thing lives,” Mr Lyre replied, “you’ve just got to feed it.”

Later, Joseph and Marcia sipped Chateauneuf Du Pape; “I know lots of houses have them,” Joseph said, “but it’s stretching us to buy the place as it is.”

“It’s our dream house and Mr Lyre said it eats anything.  We’re moving in.”

 “FEED ME!” the scream from below was deafening.  Maria and Joseph sat upright in bed, heads thick with champagne.

“What the f ...?”
“FEED ME!”
“There’s no decent food, the noise’ll wake the neighbours.  This was a bad idea!” Joseph stumbled round the bedroom, pulling on clothes.
“Just throw it some bread,” Marcia sighed.

It wasn’t happy with bread, chips, steak or chocolate.  It had developed a taste for luxury food and wanted five percent more than Mr Lyre had fed it.  Joseph and Marcia spent the week trying to keep up, stopping at the supermarket on the way back from work to buy food.  Anything to stop the neighbours hearing that they couldn’t keep their Thing fed.

The credit card bill arrived.

Marcia gulped on Jacob’s Creek; “We’ll starve it.”
They went to bed wearing ear plugs to block the screams.  They didn’t hear crashing or slithering movements as the Thing crawled up the stairs.  Joseph heard Marcia scream and saw the twin red eyes hovering over the bed; “I want seven percent more.  Feed me, now!”  It tore the duvet off them with its teeth and retreated into the basement.  Marcia went straight to the supermarket.

The demands of the Thing were constant.  Joseph got a second job at the supermarket.  Marcia became ruthless in her sales job, selling carbon credits to older people who didn’t know what they were buying.

“I can’t go on,” Joseph said, pouring the Value Red Wine.
“Stop whining!”  Marcia threw her glass over him and stormed out of the room.
“FEED ME!” screamed the Thing.
Joseph opened the door, down in the basement, the twin sets of red eyes stared at him.
“I want more,” it whispered sibilantly, “eleven percent.”
“It wants eleven percent more!” Joseph yelled at Marcia.
She came downstairs; “I remember you used to call me darling, we used to spend time together,” she muttered and left for the supermarket.

Marcia called in sick, but Joseph went to work as usual.  Driving back he saw a red glow at the top of the hill, when he got closer he saw fire.  Marcia and their neighbours stood in the garden, watching the inferno, listening to the screams of the Thing downstairs.

“I barricaded it in,” Marcia whispered.
Joseph watched all he owned go up in flames; “You’ve destroyed everything.”
“We don’t have to feed the Thing anymore,” Marcia said loudly.  The neighbours stared at her, while sirens wailed.  That night they slept in the car, Marcia’s head on Joseph’s shoulder.  They woke in the early hours to a deeper red glow and the smell of smoke.  All around them were flames and the sound of the monsters screaming.  The British were burning their castles.

THE CONVENTIONALS

You lead such a colourful life and have an open, trusting nature which causes you to share it with everyone.  That’s why you’re an easy target.  It’s blatantly obvious you’re having personal problems, so we’ve made sure the rumours have been spread and that you have been portrayed in the most unflattering light.

We’d been nice to you previously, so it must come as a shock that there’s no more small talk or lunch invitations.  We are letting you feel our unspoken disapproval for the choices you have made outside work, but it’s nothing you can put your finger on.  You’d be able to stand up for yourself if it was in the open, but this is a subtle push towards your complete isolation.

Your personal problems are bound to affect your work.  We noticed the report typed in the wrong font and the empty water bottle you left on your desk, making the office look untidy.  We took you aside and admonished you for those things.  You looked confused for a moment; then behaved as though you thought we were joking.  We were quickly able to assure you we weren’t and then you couldn’t apologise fast enough.

You’re losing confidence rapidly, the more we focus on your work and pick up those errors in style and wording, the more mistakes you make.  Now you’re too nervous to write a basic report.  We’ve noticed your hands shake as you send work to us; we think it’s because of the bottle of wine we’ve told everyone you’re drinking every night.  We keep telling you to see your GP, that we care, that we want to help ...

Heaven forbid our work came under such scrutiny, with my sickness record and Donna’s blatant incompetence, my God, we’d never bear up under the strain.  That’s why it’s so lovely to have a scapegoat like you – your misdemeanour outside the office makes us look whiter than white.  It’s open season now.  We will pick up your every mistake and amplify it and the noise we create will make it look like we’re doing our jobs.  We are the Conventionals and you have upset us.  Give it time and we can make things far worse for you.  We’ve done this before.  Once our target is destroyed we move on.

SMOKE SCREEN

In the winter we hid in the safety of our smoke screen.  We used to stand in the cold of your porch, watching the fag smoke curl upwards into the starlit dark.  We avoided the subject.

We talked about everything else instead – put the world to rights, laughed at my stupid jokes and your acerbic wit and criticised the digital obsessed world.  During pauses in our conversation, when it might have been right and proper to raise the subject, we played music and critiqued that.  To distract ourselves further one night, we went dancing and our antics made you believe that people thought we were crazy.  I just didn’t care, but then I never did care enough, did I?  We were safe in our bubble, we avoided the subject.

It turns out that all through last winter, you were waiting for your moment to raise it, to end things between us, to recede and disappear like our fag smoke disintegrating into night air.  Me, toking on my cig, laughing at your humour, all happy and secure, I had no idea.  I thought we could avoid the subject forever.

 Well, the Spring came, didn’t it?  The light revealed a fraudulent friendship and there was no hiding anymore ... You picked your moment then and I?  Finding myself unable to watch smoke curling upwards, I gave up cigarettes and got myself through the summer.  Now that the nights are drawing in again, I find myself wanting to stand on your porch and share a cigarette with you.