Hole Punch by Simmons, Garth (the dot read aloud TXT) 📕

outside my neighbour's house! Instead of knocking on the door to let them know they've arrived, they beep their horn! BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEP!!!!"

"I am deeply sympathetic towards your issue," said the operator. "I will forward your concern to today's Environmental Protection Officer."

"You said that last week!" shouted Mr HW Soil. "This is everyday! Once a day! BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEEP!!!!"

* * *

Somewhere else, a pregnant woman was tied to a tree and stabbed in the womb with a machete. Her and her husband were then shot in the head, but they had given up on life anyway.

* * *

"BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEEP!!!!" shouted Mr HW Soil. “Once a day! Everyday!"

BARRIER

Maggots hatch discreetly from his carpet: an implausible result from a lack of insects. They must live somewhere underneath the surface: the barrier of between spaces.

He pours a pan of boiling water on the carpet but none of it reaches the floorboards. It absorbs into the upper layer of stains.

The larvae blisters into a squelching stench.

In the kitchen he turns off the oven.

It looks empty but it isn't.

INVERSIAX

No one believes Inversiax exists but everyone has been there.

Inversiax is behind all closed doors.

Inversiax disappears when closed doors open.

Inversiax is in every stammer and pause.

Inversiax is in all of your misunderstandings.

Misunderstanding tall and short.

Can you see It?

It's not hidden.

Except where it is.

I've been here for a long time.

Here in Inversiax.

Your reflection bent in glass.

Thoughts you never admit.

How is it for me when I walk the inversions?

Sometimes a straight line.

A measured perfection in contrast to illogic.

Predictability will intrude in Inversiax.

Inversiax will intrude on you.

FOOTBALL MEN

Garry Lavender, in his floral shirt and flamingo-pink suit, sat on the quiet, evening train. He was glad that the train was quiet as he was very nervous around people. It was dark outside now so he couldn't watch the landscape. That was okay because it gave him some time to write in his notebook.

“Today in Buxton the flower show was…”

He paused in his writing, thinking for the right word.

“...resplendent.”

It had truly been a resplendent flower show.

Garry's solitude was interrupted, when the train stopped at Manchester Piccadilly and a group of football men boarded the train. They all wore football shirts. This was the uniform of the football man.

Garry couldn't help but notice that the colour of their football shirts was the same blue as the feathers on forty-three of his pet budgies. The same phosphorescent glow.

The men noticed Garry's staring and walked towards him with their cans of lager and bumpy scowls.

“WHAT the FUCK are YOU!” said the one with the bumpiest scowl.

Despite its structure this was not a question. Garry was familiar with this sort of human. Less than an animal. Garry would never forgive them for that evening fifteen years ago. The screaming death of pastel shades.

“Think we found ourselves a queer!” laughed a football man as he sat next to Garry.

Garry flinched backwards and looked out of the window to ignore the football men. Garry could see the reflections of the football men in the glass. Garry closed his eyes and murmured a long drawn out tone.

“Have you seen what he's wearing?” laughed one of the football men.

Garry hunched up his legs and wrapped his arms around himself.

“Self-expression is vital,” said Garry with his eyes shut. “In order to reach new levels of understanding, and sitting.”

“He's mental,” said the football man next to Garry as he fumbled through Garry's notebook. “This is full of fucking pigeons.”

“BUDGIES!” shouted Garry, eyes flapping open, he snatched the notebook from the football man.

“THEY. ARE. BUDGIES!”

The conductor appeared in the carriage and asked what all the shouting was about? The football men left Garry alone and found a table at the other end of the carriage. One of the football men muttered something about Garry being “tapped.”

Garry returned his attention to his pen and notebook.

“The unascended man is not evil, only primitive, he needs a shepherd.”

A CASTLE

The teacher leads me to the room between class rooms. Mark is there, on a large table he is constructing a castle out of little pieces of cardboard.

The teacher explains to Mark that I have no friends and that no one will play with me. The teacher asks Mark if I could help him with his castle.

“No he can't!” replies Mark. “Don't let HIM touch MY castle. It's MINE and I don't want HIM ruining it! HE would ruin it if HE touched MY castle!”

I don't want to touch his castle, but I can't stop looking at it.

“Stop HIM from looking at MY castle! I don't want HIM looking at MY castle! Why have you brought HIM here? HE can't touch MY castle! HE can't see MY castle! Get HIM away from MY castle! Only COOL people can see MY castle!”

Mark is crying now, I feel guilty, I ruin everything.

ANIMATIONS

The skeleton is chained to a tree with dead scorpions stuffed in her eyes.

“I miss you and I’m sorry,” said the man in dungarees.

The angry, black moons look down at the desert as the sun says goodbye.

Foxes sniff at the door of an underground bunker. There is something meaty inside. They run away as the door opens.

The man in dungarees steps out of the bunker with a burlap sack over his shoulder, the sack drips with blood.

He looks at the moons and he starts to slap the back of his head repeatedly.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

His slaps become punches.

“I! CAN’T! KILL! HER! A! GAIN! I! AL! READ! Y! KILLED! HER! I! DON’T! WANT! TO! KILL! AN! Y! ONE! ELSE!”

He falls to his knees, his head aching, dropping the burlap sack. He looks at the moons and he cries.

“I am not a bad boy! I am a good boy because I did like you said!”

He stands up, panting and sweating, he straightens the shoulder