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

He twisted his imaginary woman into a stranglehold. His hands tightened on her neck as he pushed her onto the bed. Squeezing.

“And there's nothing I can do, a total eclipse of the heart.”

Why did she always allow this? Why did she do this to him? Why did he do this to her?

He grunted as his hands groped over her rubbery skin. Junior unzipped his jeans. He reached inside his boxer shorts. He closed his eyes. Junior could still hear his father, outside, splashing in the hot tub with his duck.

* * *

The summer flowers bloom in the controlled gardens. The gardens are clean. The soil is clean. It's night-time and the stars are clean and the stars are shiny.

DYSTOPIA

"The problem with dystopia fiction," said the man reading his book. "Is that we already live in a dystopia."

"Break time is over," said the soldier with a gun. "Get back to work."

The man put down his book and resumed editing camera footage of public executions.

JOB

“It’s a job though ain't it?” said Old Tony Barclay as he pressed the hot, iron brand against the flank of Sarah, the cow, who reeled her head back and mooed in pain.

He passed the branding iron to his very young apprentice, Jeremy, who was looking forward to the experience of branding the animals.

“Can I mark that stoopid cat?” asked Jeremy, who pointed his five-year old finger at Percy, the tortoiseshell kitten, sleeping on a pile of hay.

“No lad,” said Old Tony Barclay, pulling up his loose, belt-less trousers. “You can only brand something with meat you can eat.”

Jeremy looked at Old Tony Barclay and his fat, red cheeks. Jeremy stabbed the iron at Old Tony Barclay's face.

Jeremy laughed.

CLUTCH

The Mistake sits on an uncomfortable rock and weeps into small, useless hands.

“You shouldn't be crying,” said the voice inside the Mistake's over-sized head. “You deserved that beating. You deserve every beating.”

The Mistake's brothers are up the slope. They are smashing open a tunnel in the mountain with their big, shovel hands. They are hard at work, as if the beating had never happened. It was the worst beating of all, the Mistake had never been beaten harder. It felt important.

“The beating was not important because you are not important.”

The Mistake's brothers smash deeper into the mountain, they are singing now. Happy and together.

“Dig the tunnels of the Clutch! Dig the tunnels of the Clutch! We love Mother! We are Mother! We are Mother and Mother is Clutch and Mother is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us! Is us!”

The Mistake's small hands are not good for digging.

“Your hands are not good for anything! Not like your strong and useful brothers.”

The Mistake looks down at small, useless hands.

The digging stops. The Mistake tenses, is it time for another beating?

The Mistake's brothers are gathered inside the tunnel. The rock above them is fragile and rumbling.

“We're leaving you,” said the voice. “I would rather we live under this mountain than spend anymore time with you. We will be together, safe and happy!”

The Mistake's brothers laugh as the mountain falls on them.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.”

The laughter stopped and the Mistake is all alone.

No more beatings anymore.

No more anything.

What would the Mistake do now?

WINTER

Bert is shivering next to the deckchair stack. It was a bleak day at Southport Pier for Bert the deckchair assistant.

No one is coming out today, thought Bert.

"Don't you be thinking about going home Bert," said Albert, the deckchair manager, snug in his tiny wooden hut. He was reading the local newspaper.

“SNOWSTORMS COME TO SOUTHPORT THIS WEEKEND,” said the newspaper.

Bloody weather, thought Bert.

"Don't you be thinking about going home Bert," said Albert, the deckchair manager, snug in his tiny wooden hut.

RETIREMENT

It's the last day of our Payroll Administrator.

The last day of her permanent job in this shit stack. She's been here thirty-five years and she's all ready to retire. Stupid cow. She even has a little speech prepared:

"I am so sorry to leave," she said, "I have very much enjoyed working in this office and I will miss you all. I have been here my entire adult life and it has meant a lot to me."

I scoff through a face stuffed with goodbye cake.

“I won't be staying here,” I tell them all. “I'm a temp!”

Emmett Corcoran turns his business head round to face me.

"Shhhhh!" shushed Emmett Corcoran.

"You can't shush the truth!” I declare.

I spit the cake to the floor. I step through the crowd and I leap on the Payroll Officer's desk, blocking all view of her.

It's time I made a speech of my own:

"Thirty-five years, her entire adult life! A slave to your faceless, financial farce! Just like the rest of you! Slaves!”

I kick the payroll folder from the desk.

“So where is she going next? Have any of her 'colleagues' bothered asking?!"

I point out the window at the Southern Cemetery.

"That's where! That’s what waits for her in the outside world!"

I grab the bouquet of flowers they had all donated wages towards.

"Flowers for her grave!"

I rip the flowers apart and scatter them into the air: a cascade of colour upon their grey gravestone faces.

Sheep.

* * *

Ten minutes later, I’m escorted outside by security, I walk home down Nell Lane.

Sometimes on my lunch break I walk through the cemetery. It’s like taking a walk through a very quiet park. I like to eat my sandwiches whilst looking at the human content on the stones; the numbers, the names and