Day 271: You’re having lunch with a friend. Your friend gets a call in the middle of the meal. Write just your friend’s part of the conversation.

Mexican Monday’s are the best. Joan and I head out, get burritos and a couple of pints and just chill out for a few hours, setting the world to rights. Can’t beat it.

“So, Phillip, Phillondo, Phill… Anderer. Who’s the newest conquest?” She asks me this around a mouthful of burrito, barbecue sauce running down her left cheek. “Everybody knows you’ve been getting some. So, who’s the lucky chick?”

“Nobody you know. It’ll stay that way until I’m sure this one’s going to be a thing. That she can handle you.”

“I’m not that bad!”

“Remember Carly?” I certainly did. We’d seen each other a couple of times, hit it off, then Jerry Budeski had a party. I figured it would be safe to invite Carly to come with me, she could meet my friends and then we could get away. Well, that’s not how it happened at all.

We got through the front door and Joan had come bounding over. She’d sunk a few by this point, but even so. She shook Carly’s hand like a mad thing, then grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to play beer pong. I didn’t see Carly for the rest of the night, then by the time I found her again she’d decided we were done.

“Which is why I should meet her! She clearly won’t be any good for you if she can’t handle me. Oh, crap.” She plucked her phone off the table, where it had just started buzzing insistently. “I’ve got to take this.”

“Fine, but you know the rules. Rest of the drinks are on you.”

“Fineeee.” She stuck her tongue out at me, then went to stand outside the window. It was open, letting her words flow back in on the cool breeze. “Hello?”

I paused, wondering if I should make myself scarce. I mean, she’d gone outside so that I wouldn’t listen in. I figured I could just nip to the toilet, wait there for a couple of minutes then come back out. That was the plan, at least, until I heard my name amongst the murmurs. “Claude doesn’t know anything.”

I almost fell of my chair to be perfectly honest. “What the…”

“No, he should stay out of it. I don’t even know why you want me to bring him in. He’s just a normal guy.”

Rude. I’m something special, I’d like to point that out.

“I’m serious. I’m not going to do this. If you want him that bad, send somebody else. But no amateurs like Carly this time.” She hung up the phone then marched back inside. I could tell she was worked up, but she was wearing her brave face.

If Joan’s got her brave face on, sit the fuck down and strap in. Once you’ve done that, pray that you’re not the reason.

“Right, I’ve got to head. Work emergency. Is it my turn to pay or…?” She fluttered her eyelashes at me, so I just nodded. I figured I’d process whatever had just happened when I got to the flat.

A shame really, that I didn’t make it back to my flat for a long time.

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 270: You realise you have inadvertently become a stalker

I’m not a stalker. Not really. I just like to know about people.

Are you honestly telling me that you don’t? You don’t meet someone and want to know everything about them, every little detail because they fascinate you so much? I mean, you can get the boring stuff when you first meet them. Their eyes are blue. Their hair is blonde. They live with their parents, seeing as Mum phones while she was on the train and she responded that she didn’t know what time she was going to be home for dinner.

That’s the easy part. But surely nobody is satisfied with that kind of thing. So, yeah. I got off a couple of stops early. She called up her friend while she was walking back, Tracy (who lives in Dagenham, easy enough to find after the girl had said her full name in astonishment, probably referring to the party Tracy Brackwell had attended the night before. It’s implied she went home with a stranger, known only as Ali G on his Facebook page.)

So after this, the object of my attention is still walking home. Tracy has clearly had a good night and through her profile I’ve found my affection’s name. Elise. Elise Warner, who has the sense to make her profile private at least. Always an attractive aspect of a woman, someone who knows their privacy settings.

So, I kept following her. I found out where she lived after a couple of days. Her parents names after a week. She’s got a brother in Australia and a sister in law that she gets on better with in Cardiff following their messy divorce. She works at Clifford’s Home for Dogs and has a poodle called Scruff. I’d praise her for originality, but I can only use so many sarcasm circuits at once.

But I’m not a stalker. I just wanted to know about her. The way I see it, that’s the easiest way for me to make a move. It means I won’t slip up!

Shame she ended up dead really. She was on her way home from work, I was following her when she heard a noise. She turned around, saw me, clearly thought I was going to attack her so she bolted. I ran to try and explain, she rounded a corner, I lost sight of her for ten seconds, maybe twelve.

I came round the corner and promptly threw up. It wasn’t my fault she was just… Scared. Somebody killed her.

But it wasn’t me.

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 269: Write a story from the point of view of a homeless man or woman who falls asleep on the bus and accidentally ends up “on the other side of the tracks”, in a quiet neighborhood late at night.

Daniel Harker is coming to the end of his shift. It’s late at night and his back’s playing up again. He hates the late shift and only took it so that Jerry could go to his daughter’s play. He shifts in his seat, clicking and cracking his bones.

He pulls into the depot, out in Deerport. He’s supposed to do proper checks at the end of every evening, checking for litter and drunks passed out on the seats. But after the mess with all of the traffic lights in town getting stuck on red, he just wants to get back. He checks his mirror and all of the seats seem empty. He checks his watch, the hands waving at him as he sees the wrong side of two in the morning. “Fuck this.” He says, then gets off the bus, leaving the doors open as is company policy. It allows the buses to air, or some nonsense. That’s where his part in this story ends.

An hour later, Frankie wakes with a start. “I’ll goddamn kill you!” He shouts into the empty air, wild eyes raging as he swings a fist. Frankie, whose last name has been lost for years in a sea of booze, eventually stops his swearing and fighting with nobody. He stops for a second, eyes squinting and his head lolling from side to side. “Where in fuck am I? It’s so bloody dark.”

He makes his way down the aisle of the bus, feeling his way through the cracked leather and discarded cans. He finds his way to the open door and promptly falls through. He doesn’t even make a pretense of walking, he simply makes the move from vertical to horizontal solely with gravity’s assistance. He manages to spit out the first part of an expletive before he starts eating tarmac.

He starts crawling, making his way towards a light source across the way that he can see. It’s got the familiar sodium glow of a street light, but Frankie’s head is buzzing. There’s something missing but he just can’t place it at the moment.

He stumbles through an opening, wide enough for a couple of buses to enter the depot at the same time. He holds up a hand against the light and looks up and down the quaint, idyllic street. Picket fences, check. The occasional doghouse, check. The pieces come together in a horrifying rush.

“Oh shit,” he says, “I’m in Suburbia.”

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 268: You can keep only one memory from your entire life. What will it be?

I knelt before the Splendour and awaited my judgement.

“You know that those who come before me must pay a price, do you not?” It asked me, a voice like church bells ringing next to my ear.

“Aye, that I do.” I replied, my eyes firmly focused on the floor. I could feel the heat radiating from this being, this raw power that if I looked would strip me away and leave nothing behind but an husk, an empty shell that once was me. “I’ll pay it, but you must keep them safe.”

“Upon whom would you confer the honour of my protection? Nina, perhaps?” Nina’s face, red hair framing a multitude of freckles on her alabaster skin, appeared before my screwed shut eyes. She stared into me, through me, past me with that piercing stare of hers, a feeble pretense at the Splendour’s power, her lips moving to repeat the moment I had seen in my dreams so many times over, her admission and her promised departure. “Or perhaps your father?”

This time, it was my father’s hands that swam through the darkness. Strong hands, with wide knuckles. Hands made for working, as he had every day until his mind had escaped him and left him confused. They reached out towards me, old scars peppering the surface of the veined skin, before turning the palms upwards to reveal the deep crevasses, so ingrained with dirt, begging for my help, before vanishing into the darkness.

“Yes. But there’s more.”

“Really? You would do such a thing? For your mother?”

Long red painted nails flashed through the darkness and caught a memory on the cheek, leaving three blood red lines raised on the skin. “Your sister?”

A hand lets go of mine and a shadowy figure walks into a distant sunset. “Is there anybody I’ve missed?”

I say nothing, feeling my emotions surge within me like a tidal wave, my fear, my anger, my hatred all fighting for control of my weary body. My lips were trying to move, trying to force out words saying that I’d changed my mind, that I wouldn’t go through with it. Then a calm rang out, like a bell echoing through a still night. I found my control again.

“So tell me. Who would you have me save?” I heard a whisper as the Splendour knelt beside me. “I who am known by many names. What would you ask of me who has been at the forefront of civilisation since mankind realised that fire burns and water is wet, that the sun brings light and predators are bad? Me, who has received all of their prayers and wishes? Ra, Zeus, Odin, God… It doesn’t matter what name I had. Sometimes I was a multitude, sometimes I was alone.” His breath brushed past my ear, an intimacy I had been unprepared for. “They always ask and they always refuse when they find out the cost. So, what is it, Henry Miles? Son of a blacksmith, general waste of space? What would you have me do?”

“Leave.” I replied. “Leave and never return. Spare them all.” I was struggling with the words again, thick like treacle as they oozed from my brain. “Let us make our own mistakes.”

The Splendour sighed and stood up, its robes rustling. I eased an eye open, taking care to keep my stare on the cold, hard ground. “The cost is high. I will take everything that is you. All of your memories, every experience. Your highest points, your lowest points, I will leave nothing behind. You will never have existed. There will be no songs, no stories about Henry Miles, the Saviour. There will be naught of you that exists, has ever existed or will ever exist. You will…” It paused, as if struggling for words. “Poof. There will be nothing.”

“I know,” I said beneath my breath, “But it’s a price worth paying.”

“For everyone? What about the evil people? The truly evil, those that would hurt another, squander wealth and opportunity while others died in a slum?”

“Everyone deserves their chance.” I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what was about to happen. “I will do it. I will sacrifice to save.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder, then beneath my chin. My eyes followed the flow of the robes to the burning pits of gold that were set into the Splendour’s face. “Child, you are the bravest who has ever found me. You will be remembered by none but me, but I will leave you with one thing. One memory to accompany you through oblivion. Choose quickly, for you don’t have much time.”

I didn’t need any time. I talked for a few moments and the Splendour stroked its chin thoughtfully, before it agreed. My eyes remained locked on the burning gold and I felt my soul, my spirit diminishing in the light. I was being reduced to nothing.

 

I was awoken by a knocking at my door. My eyes took their time to adjust to the harsh sunlight streaming through the windows. My father has just walked in and pulled me from my bed, placing me over his shoulder as I yell in delight, before he carries me downstairs to where my mother and my sister are waiting. “Happy birthday, Henry!” They say, smiling wide as they gesture towards the table. Before me is a spread fit for a king that must have taken months to save for. I pull my family into a hug, but before we can begin to eat a bell sounds. I throw the front door open wide to find Nina looking at me, shy but piercing eyes peering out of a freckled face. I take her hand and pull her inside.

 

I was awoken by a knocking at my door…

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 267: Your most transcendent ice cream experience.

From the moment that cold dessert hit my lips, I knew that my life would never be the same. Have you ever had that? The one moment that you just know is going to change your life forever? For me, it was the day in The Iceman Cometh, the greatest ice cream shop in town.

Mr Dowling always smiled at me as I pressed my face against the glass, watching my breath fog it up before handing me a cone with the most perfect swirl of raspberry ripple ice cream that you had ever seen perched atop it. Then he’d take that squeezy bottle of strawberry sauce and go to town with it, I’m talking practically drowning the thing in strawberry sauce. You needed a napkin when he served you one of these bad boys.

Anyway, that was what it took. I looked around one day and saw how happy that ice cream made people. How all it took was a personally made dessert to bring a smile to people’s lives.

“So that’s why I’m an ice cream man. Sure, it doesn’t pay great and you don’t get many job opportunities in the winter, but it’s all good fun.”

“That’s all well and good, Mister Woodrow, but we want to know why you attacked the ladies in Cooper’s park on Thursday. ”

“Oooohhh, right… Sorry, must have got sidetracked. Where was I?”

“You’d parked your truck…”

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 266: You have just swallowed your pride and done something you didn’t want to do. Your friend wants to know why. The two of you are driving around an almost-full parking garage looking for a space for the friend’s oversize pickup truck. Write the scene.

“Look, just drop me anywhere. I can walk the rest of the way.” I said to Jay, tired of circling the grey underground world of parked cars and litter. “It’s really nothing for me to get back from here.”

“Allan, shut it. You’re gonna stay in this truck until we find a space that isn’t taken up by another fucking BMW!” He yelled out the window at the double parked, electric blue Beemer, “Then we’re gonna work out exactly what the fuck just happened. I thought you were never going back?”

I chewed on my lip as I thought about my response. I hadn’t even told Jay the full story yet and he was pissed at me. “Well, I wasn’t going to. You know he sent me that text a… There’s a car pulling out. Jay!” He yanked the wheel to the side so that we swerved around the Micra that was pulling out. Jay, being the cautious and pleasant driver that he is stuck an arm out and extended a middle finger as he rounded the bend to the ramp for the third time. “Look, can’t we just wait until tomorrow? I’m really not in the mood right now.”

“Got one!” He yelled in triumph, either having not heard or deliberately ignored me. “Do you want to talk, then get food or get food first?”

“I was just gonna go home, mate.”

“Food it is. Come on.” We jumped out of his stupid, red truck. He’d found it for a grand near Worcester and had spent almost as much just trying to keep the thing running. I slammed my door in with a groan. “Hey! Be careful. You know the window pops out if you don’t treat her gently.”

He’d always had a habit of naming his cars after ex-girlfriends. Almost poetic, as he tended to crash them all. The truck, he’d decided, was “Shauna, you know, after the big girl I spent the week with in Marbella?” I had no idea what he was talking about, but I just nodded so he’d stop.

We fought our way through the crowds of Saturday shoppers, all clamouring for the bargains with the January sales having started up. “Why did we come here?” I asked him as a family of four walked straight through the middle of us. “Surely you could have, excuse me,” I just avoided the lady who stopped in front of me, “Picked somewhere quieter?”

“Yeah, but this was the nearest place with a Burger King.” We were silent until we’d ordered food and got to the table in the corner.

“Look, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Try the reason you went down there in the first place?”

“Keira phoned me. Told me she wanted to see me. So I went down to her place and she was out of it. Apparently she’d called everyone she knew and I was the only one who went. She looked like she was on her way out, Jay. I had to do something.”

“So…”

“So, I went to a place where somebody could help me. Where I knew somebody who could help me. Keira means that much.”

“You went to…”

“Yeah. I went to see Dad.”

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 265: Alfred Hitchcock said mystery is not knowing what will happen to a bunch of guys playing poker; suspense is when only you know there’s a bomb underneath the poker table. Write about a banal event, but start by introducing something that will change everything and only the reader knows is coming.

The sleeper moves beneath the surface, slowly but surely limbering up its joints and focusing its lidless eyes on the place it knows its target to be. The source of all of its troubles. It can feel the rush as the other sleeping spirits stir, the pilot fish to its presence, spinning in freedom. With a thought, it sends them onwards to its destination. 

“Bedlam, Ms Harker.” Mr Waits, a fat man in a pinstripe suit held his bowler hat awkwardly, turning it and flipping it as if it had to keep moving or it would explode. “Welcome to Bedlam. Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll give you the tour.”

Janet Harker took a step forward to follow, then paused. This was the first turning point. Did she cling to a remnant of her old life, or did she make the break completely? The choice was finally up to her, not an order sent from higher up the chain of command. “Sorry, Mr Waits, but it’s Captain. Captain Harker.”

“Of course, Captain. I apologise for my momentary slip. Shall we proceed?” Waits placed the bowler hat atop his balding head, then began a march down the hallway. They emerged, after the customary small talk, into a cavernous chamber housing an eighteen foot statue of Knoxwood, “Now, this is the main atrium or as we like to call it, the Heart. Now, from the Heart you can access any of our main facilities. Either through the Eyes and Ears, our telecommunications centre in the east corner over there,” he said, gesturing towards one of the largest banks of screens Harker had ever seen. It was decked out like a mission control centre, with people swarming between desks like ants across the ground, shouting into headsets. “From there, we can access all of our facilities remotely. For actual travel, we have the Arteries. You have a question, Miss… Sorry, Captain?”

“You really take this body metaphor all the way, don’t you?” Harker asked, still boggling at the gleaming statue. Knoxwood cut an imposing figure, holding aloft the Sword of Mercy and the Staff of Vengeance. She couldn’t help but feel that it shouldn’t be here.

“But of course. Why would you not? There’s the Legs, our transport division, the Brain, for research and development, Mouth for broadcasting.” As Waits went through the list, he pointed towards the gateways for each one. “Arteries, as I mentioned, is our internal travel. Then of course,” he said with a smile, “We come to the Arms. Private contracting for military operations throughout the world.”

The sleeper howls silently, thrashing against the chains that keep it in place. It can sense a weakness in the links, the smallest fracture that will be its jailer’s undoing. It strains and pulls and eventually, the sleeper shifts. A grin passes across its mouth, impossibly full of teeth as a soundless howl races through the earth. The pilot fish howl in return, transferring just one thought. One goal. 

“Bedlam, as you can imagine, can be quite confusing to the newcomer.” Waits had removed his bowler as they stepped into his office, hanging it up on a hatstand by the door. “After the events of HESSIAN, I would understand if you were to take a step back from the military world.”

Harker’s eyes narrowed. “HESSIAN was supposed to be above Top Secret. How do you…?”

Waits just chuckled. “Captain, what we don’t know about anything would be barely enough to fill the first page of that notebook in your pocket. But that’s what we offer here. Knowledge. Plus the capabilities to use that knowledge. We have everything you could want.”

“I want Castor.”

“I thought you might say that. He’s currently waiting in Bloodstream. That’s our…”

“I’m assuming that’s your medical division.”

“You’re as quick as they say, Captain. Yes, the Sergeant has been with us for a few weeks undergoing retrofit prostheses. The border campaign certainly took its toll on him.”

“That’s enough now, Mr Waits.” Harker leaned against the polished mahogany, very deliberately not sitting in the offered chair. “When would I start?”

Waits took a calendar from the wall and flicked through a few pages. “Well, we don’t appear to have any disasters scheduled for at least six months, so if you’d like to join us… Today?”

“What about all my things?”

“They’re already here. We set you up with a room in Epithelium.”

“Living in the skin. Wonderful. How did you know I’d take the job?”

“Miss Harker, if we didn’t believe with 99.999… I could go on for a while there. But if I were more than a shade from certain that you’d accept the position, you’d never have received the offer. Now, would you care to meet your strike team?”

The sleeper was no more. In its place was a creature that remembered once being a man. It, no longer able to believe in itself as a he, breathed deep and focused on its vengeance. It remember one thing for certain. The cause of all of its troubles. The Brain. But not just that. It was going to tear down the whole thing.  

Bedlam would fall. 

The Idiot in Tin Foil

 

 

Day 264: A storm destroys your uncle’s shed and kills his six-year-old son. Describe the color of the sky right before the storm hits.

Nathan,

This is the note found in the lodgings of Mr Harold Harvey. It seems perfectly normal and yet… Have a read.

Clear skies are simply a canvas awaiting dark clouds. That’s what Uncle Aloysius always said to us. He never was the same after Frederick died.

I was thirteen years old, the day the storm came. Freddie and I had been playing out on the beach, playing catch with a tennis ball. Freddie was a good kid, always scrambling to explore and to learn and living by the beach gave him everything he wanted. Every time we went to visit, he’d rush back from the beach, blue eyes glittering with a smile and whatever new treasure he’d found clasped in his hands.

His smile gleamed in the sunlight. The world got a little bit darker after the storm.

We came back in, Freddie covered in mud and scrapes from the rock pools we’d had a look at and me in my strange combination of shorts and wellingtons. We must have looked a right pair.

By this point, I was about twice the size of Freddie, all arms and legs and the beginnings of teenage angst. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be at Aloysius’ beach house, but Freddie could still pull me into being a child again. He could make anybody feel that way, like his energy was a virus that infected you and made you think like him. I loved that kid.

His mum, Auntie Suzanne, sent him out to the shed to put his clothes in the washer. I always wondered why they kept it out there, but hadn’t bothered asking before. Of course, there was never really a right time for it afterwards.

He did his best to wheedle out of it, but you can only argue with Auntie Suzanne’s stern face for about three minutes, then he stuck out his bottom lip and said “Fine.” He rushed out to the shed.

That’s when I heard the argument. Aloysius and Dad, just raised voices to start with, but it quickly devolved into shouting. I snuck through the house towards the lounge, where they had a few empty bottles kicking around.

“Your son needs an education! He needs a strategy! You can’t just abandon him to the wilds because you don’t know how to deal with him!” That’s Dad. A man who looks as though a brisk wind would send him flying away, but if you got him riled, you had to be on the lookout. He’d use words like a lumberjack used an axe; swift, effective and you’d be the one falling over at the end.

“He’s my son and I’ll do what I damn well please. You get that? Just because your boy is a waste of space.”

“Say another word about my son, you piece of shit.”

The blue sky outside was descending into a grey haze and a wind began to swirl around the house. The beams of the old cabin rattled as their argument raged on. My heart was beating as if it were trying to shatter my ribs, something I firmly believed it would accomplish if I didn’t do something. I pushed the door to the lounge open, only to have it pushed right back by a gust of wind, screeching through the house like the breath of a vengeful god. People hurled themselves from the walls to the relative safety of the floor as the grey haze outside faded into black, ominous clouds.

I looked up, directly out of the back door towards the shed. I saw Freddie curled inside, eyes wide with terror. I knew that once again, I had to do something. My heart was striving to escape now, hammering away as my breath came faster and faster. I crawled towards the door and his eyes met mine.

He nodded at me, then bolted from the door towards the house. There was a wet thud, then where Freddie had been, there was nothing but a long scrape in the ground. I closed my eyes, tears rolling uncontrollably down my face as I curled into a ball on the hardwood floor.

I don’t know how long I lay there crying, but by the time I stopped the skies had cleared again. Uncle Aloysius had found his son, down by the rock pools he’d been searching earlier that day. Or at least, he’d found what was left of him. A sign, proclaiming Freddie’s favourite beach to be the most beautiful spot on Marie Le Noon had been torn from its foundations and flown through the air like a kite.

Freddie would have gone instantly.That, and the fact that the shed had come completely apart as well, were the only small comforts I had. That freak storm, as the media called it, tore our family apart. My grades hit the floor, Aloysius and Suzanne broke up, Mum and Dad even moved to Russia. It wasn’t far enough though.

That freak storm wasn’t the only one I came across in my lifetime. They followed me, everywhere I went. Every time I got scared, or angry, or upset, the skies would darken and the storm would rise. Which always put me into a downwards spiral as I would remember what happened to Freddie and the vicious cycle would continue.

So today, I close the circle. I’m sorry, everyone. But I can’t hurt anybody else. By the time you find this, I’ll be dead. There are no storms in Heaven.

I’ll see you soon, kid.

Harold Harvey, 12th December 1990

Beside it was located a diver’s knife, a bottle of prescription painkillers and a noose, very neatly laid out on a small stool. The confusing matter is the fact that the knife was clean, the bottle still full and the noose untouched and of course the fact that there was no bloody body at the scene either. The story of Harold Harvey requires some digging. Are you up to the challenge, brother? 

Meet me at the Docker’s cafe, three o’clock on Monday. I’m sure we can come to some arrangement. 

Victor

In my head, I have this as a mystery story. A puzzle to be solved by my protagonist, Nathan. Of course, this also means I can bring in either a supernatural element by saying that Harvey’s has weather controlling abilities, or I could make him the victim of an attack by somebody else who can. It could be science, it could be magic. Either way, this is one I intend to check in on again. 

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 263: Find a world map or globe, close your eyes, pick a spot. Write about a person arriving there for the first time.

The awkward moment when you’ve been writing posts between two computers… Then accidentally restore an older draft without having backups. Still, take two. 

I told Francesca that searching for the Fountain of Youth was a fool’s errand, but she insisted on following the stories. Alexander crossed the Land of Darkness in his search for the Waters of Life. All those capitalisations and yet nothing concrete about its location. Just vague ideas and stories.

We followed the Alexander story as far as we could. His of course, had he found it prior to his death in 323 BC, well, he wouldn’t have died. So that ruled out most of Asia. But the legend states that he crossed the Land of Darkness to find it. What Francesca and I took this to mean is that it wasn’t a physical crossing.

The Land of Darkness refers to his death. The Waters lie in the lands he was working to conquer and explore, Arabia and Africa.

“So that’s where we go. Should we start with circumnavigating Africa or exploring Arabia?” She’d asked me. We’d had an argument about it. I figured that the reference to the Land of Darkness had a double meaning, that it was also talking about Africa. The Dark Continent.

Of course, Francesca being Francesca decided I was wrong. That it was too obvious to be referring to Africa. So we started by searching old Arabia.

You want to know what that came up with? Diddly squat, that’s what. We blew most of our savings on that disastrous trip that had us run out of Baghdad, shot at in Sana’a and nearly drowned on Failaka island. All without the slightest hint of the Fountain.

So we turned our eyes to Africa. With our limited funds, we managed to get passage into Egypt, but that’s where we ran out of cash. That’s when we needed to make things work.

That’s where this story really gets going. Cairo, in the summer of 2025.

The one and only thing that got to me as we got off the plane was how goddamn hot it was. Mercy was meeting us inside the airport, but I had no idea how I was going to be able to see through the sweat in my eyes.

Still, Mercy said she’d found something. An old scroll with a reference to Living Waters. So at least we had a start.

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 262: You’re in the interview stage of the Miss America pageant. Apart from your desire for world peace, what will you tell the judges?

More world peace.

I’m joking! Me, I want to be taken seriously. I want people to realise I’ve got two doctorates. To understand that I’m a leading researcher in my field that just happens to be an attractive young woman.

I’m serious. Were I an elderly man, nobody would bat an eyelid as I wandered the corridors at the Institute. But instead, I am subject to catcalls and hollers. I leave a trail of slack jaws in my wake, which is empowering to say the least, but it comes with an association of guilt. That I am betraying my gender.

So no, what I want is to be taken seriously, no matter how I look. It shouldn’t matter if I’m a pageant queen, or if I only had one leg and a lazy eye. I deserve the same as everybody else and everybody else deserves that same chance.

But also more world peace. Everybody needs some more of that.

The Idiot in Tin Foil