Ben Daggers
I beckon towards the oak flask’s ornate aperture. “Fernando, please get in. The truck’s waiting outside.”
I knew moving out would be stressful, but never imagined it would be this bad. Then again, I never imagined I’d be best friends with the ghost of a 16th-century Spanish pirate.
Fernando whooshes past me towards the foldout table in the middle of what used to be our living room. The ashtray resting on top begins sliding towards the edge.
“Don’t you dare—”
Glass and ash litter the floor.
“For fuck’s sake, Fernando, that was antique! Ok, fine, I’ll leave you here for the next occupant to deal with.”
A trail of dust flies up as Fernando slinks to the corner.
“Sorry I lost my temper, buddy.” I kneel beside him. “This job in Seattle’s a big deal. You want me to be happy, right?”
The ash on the ground swirls until it forms the word SÍ.
“You don’t want to go?”
The ash dances again. NO.
“Or stay here alone?”
NO.
“You’re…scared?”
SÍ.
I pat the air tenderly. “You’ve battled armadas and sea beasts. This move’s nothing by comparison. You’ll have new neighbors to scare the shit out of, new cats to terrorize, plus your favorite telenovelas will still be on TV.”
Fernando musses up my hair before sweeping the glass and ash into a neat pile. The flask wobbles as he flies inside.
“Alright Capitán, time to…set sail!”
Even from inside the flask, I can feel him rolling his good eye.
Ben Daggers is a close-up magician, escape room creator and light sleeper based in Osaka, Japan.
The last thing Laurent Laureaux remembered from the annual Mime Association Gala was a chalky taste in his virgin piña colada. He awoke from the blackout in full costume and makeup with a pounding headache, a sweat-soaked pillow, and a dead stripper in his hotel room.
Now, an hour later, a homicide detective towered above him in the interrogation room.
“You killed her, didn’t you?”
Laurent shook his head.
“Not much of a talker, eh?” The cop glared at the outline of a teardrop on Laurent’s cheek. “And that sob story isn’t fooling anyone, sicko. Tell me what happened.”
Pierre Petit was behind this, no doubt. Laurent would’ve gladly grassed up his jealous mime nemesis, but artistic integrity wouldn’t allow him to make so much as a peep. Trapped, Laurent instinctively pushed his palms against the side of the invisible box.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The detective cracked his knuckles on the desk. “Are you saying you were trying to cop a feel?”
Laurent leaned against an imaginary pillar while he considered his next move. This Philistine was clearly ignorant of the subtleties of the Decroux school of miming. Laurent descended a non-existent staircase as he prepared to stoop to a more literal level.
The policeman pounced on him. “Trying to make a run for it, are we? This looks like an open and shut case. You’re under arrest for murder.”
The cop paused for dramatic effect. “You have the right to remain silent.”
“Last one to the monkey bars is a rotten tomato!” shouts Pete, flinging his bag to the ground.
The fateful words have been spoken, and 4th graders splinter like shards from a broken tamagotchi screen.
They probably think that they’re safe. That I, Sandra Sodwall, last pick for every sport, will be the rotten tomato.
They couldn’t be more wrong.
While my unsuspecting classmates were picking their noses in geography, I was in the playground setting a devilish series of boobytraps, pitfalls and snares. They’ll be like flies, tangled in my dastardly web.
I stroll towards the swings. Calm. Collected. Carefree. Bobby F dashes by, towards the rake I’ve buried beneath a pile of leaves. He leaps clear of it. Drat.
Felix is at the foot of the slide. I jump onto the seesaw, sending a barrage of pebbles catapulting his way. That’ll teach you for pouring pencil sharpenings down my back in biology. The pebbles snag on a kink in the chute and fall harmlessly to the ground. Double drat.
Meanwhile, Amy and Lisa have evaded the super glue puddle on the hopscotch squares, and have reached the sacred safety of the monkey bars. Drat times infinity.
I pick up my pace, but the last stragglers are already home and dry. My race is run. I’ve been foiled. Outsmarted. Defeated.
My skin softens and bloats. A vine-green stem sprouts from my head. A putrid odor erupts from my seed-ridden innards.
The prophecy has claimed me as its victim.