This place was perfect. Not too big to have cameras all over it, big enough that they must be rich. Far enough from the road to be quiet and dark. Not so far as to have guard dogs or flood lights.

He’d watched it for a few days, it was a quiet place and he knew everyone was in bed. He threw his hood up and slipped over the wall. Landing gently under a large oak that would help him get out if all went to plan. If the plan failed, he would get out the front gate at full sprint.

Mary’s voice was in his head. Had to get rid of it. No distractions.

He stole over the large lawn. His eyes on the windows on the top floor, zero movement, it was good. A quick try on the lock of the sliding glass door let him straight in to the kitchen. The door left slightly open behind him. He immediately crouched behind a large dining table and surveyed the scene, letting his eyes adjust. A gentle breeze stirred the net curtain to show him the exit.

He got to work. Silently sliding open drawers and doors in the dining room. Looking for anything small but valuable. His back pack filled slowly with the usual items. Satnav, mobile phone, a man’s wristwatch, all dropped softly into the towel and half wrapped, noiseless. A locked gun cabinet in the study opened to reveal a selection of handguns and rifles. He selected the two nicest looking handguns and closed it again. After 10 minutes the whole downstairs was gently ransacked. Time to go.

Back now through the large hallway to the kitchen and past the tall staircase. A light came on. He froze. It was upstairs. Tiny footsteps. He didn’t breathe. A large solid steel baby gate covered the top of the steps. A small boy walked past into the bathroom, another light on, an extractor fan hummed. Long thin bars of light leapt from the gate down the stairs to where he crouched. Time to go.

Slowly through the living room again towards the kitchen. The white net still waving him to the way out, to the night. He listened for the light clicking off, footsteps led back to the child’s room.  The fan stopped humming. Another sound was there. The front door. A key scraping? An explosion of splintering wood. Two black clad men like returning warlords, dark masks and shotguns. He dove to the floor beside the long couch. Heavy boots trooped straight up the stairs. Thundering into a bedroom. Two loud blasts shook the house. The neighbourhood would be awake. A woman’s scream. Another blast. The scream just stopped. Time to go!

Onto his feet and ducking from no one’s eyes he crouched and ran to the kitchen. The white net curtain ripped to one side and through. The large oak like a living ladder ahead of him. He was up in one two steps and onto the wall. Astride it he paused, risking a glance back. From here he could see a black four-wheel drive in the road, could hear the engine idling, a driver waiting. The pause led to thought. Dropping from the wall into the road would mean being seen. Staying on the wall would risk being seen. Going back in the garden would mean back towards the men but the cover of the trees… Details of such importance should not be agonised over such short seconds. His eyes never left the driver in the vehicle. Movement at the house. The little boy. He was standing on the inside of an upstairs window. No lights were on. The boy fumbled with the handle of the window. The thief slid back onto the ground.

Directly below one of the masked men stepped through the sliding door. The white net wrapping over his black mask turning him ghost grey. Shotgun by his side. The boy opened the window, stepping out onto the ledge. The murderer looked up. Stepped out onto the patio raising his gun. The thief dipped his hand into the bag, his fingers curled around the handle of a gun. The boy looked down, eyes widening.

They paused.

The thief watched, gripping the tree that was protecting him from being part of the scene.

“No.”  Hardly a whisper.

The murderer swung, looking directly at him. Their eyes locked. The boy looked too, leaning too far forward and slipping on the ledge, falling, falling.

The boy hit the concrete with barely a sound. The gunman ripped his mask off and fell to his knees cradling the boy. Sirens in the distance getting louder. The second masked man appeared at the door. Staring at the unmoving boy. Noticing the thief, barely acknowledging him by raising the gun so slowly.

The thief bounced up the tree, the murdering man picked up the unmoving boy and carefully carried him around the house. Holding him close. The other walked behind, watching the thief in the tree, he watched back.

He landed on the pavement as the car sped off.  Flashing blue lights exploded into the trees and he melted into the night. Mary was going to be pissed.







Nun-ra 2 – God Speed

Sister Mary Joseph pulled the club out of Father O Malley’s neck. Blood was everywhere. His body slumped on top of his old acquaintance, they often “worked” together, now there were dead together. Still she felt nothing, no joy no relief, nothing.

She stood still, surveying the gentle carnage. The red stained the brilliant white of the alter cloths and the cold grey of the granite steps as it poured endlessly down. There were 10 pints of blood in a human and it covered an incredible surface area. These two were barely human though, undeserving of the word, monsters was more suitable, and they deserved death.

Pulling a cigarette from her sleeve she lit it up and drew a long slow pull of the sweet smoke. Her eyes moving as she did, her mind calculating her next move. It had to be fast. She didn’t have long. She exhaled through her nose and dropped the cigarette casually to the floor, half-finished after one puff, she crushed it out under her black hobnailed boot.

Her club was still dripping with globs of blood. She dipped it into the pool that was growing at the bottom of the altar steps. Swung it around and started writing on the large white pillar that was by the side of the aisle. Drips and drops of blood went everywhere; it was a blood spatter experts dream, she thought, or nightmare, depends how close to the edge they are. Maybe that was what the difference was, between the bad people that do bad things and the bad people that just think about it. The ones that do the bad things, they are concerned about how they see the world. The ones that just think about it, they are more concerned about how the world sees them. That fear of being judged or caught or punished is what keeps them in line, stops them doing the things that lurk in the darkness of their minds.

Some people, she thought, as she looked again at the piles of flesh that were once men, some people couldn’t hold it down though, couldn’t suppress that darkness. These were the people that made nightmares for the rest of us. She suppressed the urge to spit on the vile bodies of the pair as she dipped the end of her club again into the puddle of blood. It was already starting to congeal around the edges and was stickier now. She dragged the club across the pillar again. She felt like a Japanese calligraphy artist, using all the strength in her wrist to steady the club as she wrote with a flourish.

In the still and quiet of the lifeless church she always felt her peace. When she was alone in the house of God she could truly believe. It was a rare feeling and a welcome one. She knew a higher power was controlling her. Her actions and her thoughts were her own but she was doing God’s work.

She finished writing and stood leaning on her club for a moment while she surveyed her work. It should have been satisfying, like a labourer after a hard day looking back and feeling proud of what was achieved while simultaneously glad it was over. Instead she felt nothing. She removed another cigarette from the recesses of her sleeve and lit it up. Calmly cleaning her club with a perfect white handkerchief that she found somewhere about her person. She seemed to have an endless supply of them. Quietly polishing the nails and barbs that protruded from her club she again looked over what she had done today. Still no joy or guilt, no feelings at all, feelings had been taken away from her a long time ago.

Suddenly sirens.

In the distance, but certainly heading this way, Sister Mary Joseph didn’t doubt that at all, she had called them. She finished polishing the club, took a final drag of the cigarette and pinged it behind the altar towards the anteroom, where the cans of petrol she had brought and poured around for the very purpose quickly caught. The majority of the old stone building would be unharmed. But the small wooden anteroom would definitely go up. She glanced at it again. Watching the handle as it shook violently. He would start screaming any second.

“Sister Mary! Please! Have Mercy!” The voice shouted.

“Only God can give you mercy now.” She said quietly, maybe to herself.

The screaming started. The flames climbed higher and harder. The door shook as boots on the other side kicked. There was no point. That was the first thing she had checked. The door would hold.

The sirens grew louder.

She dropped the white handkerchief into the coagulated puddle by her feet as she swung the club over her shoulder and strode out the side door.

One word was painted red on the pillar.


The End.

Thursday – The ongoing adventures of Call Centre Man

Thursday, last bastion of hope. Make it past today and the weekend is yours.

Mose walked into the call centre and found his chair. Not his own chair of course. A good chair was like gold dust in here and the night shift were notorious chair stealers and head set swappers. Why wouldn’t they be? They have nothing else to do all night. Sitting there on their takeaway-getting-backsides with their mighty uplift and minimal workload, God, how he envied them.

So Mose danced the dance of the Crappy Office Chair. Seeking out a good one without looking too much like he was a chair stealer, finding one that was suitable, he sat down and started going through the motions.

Yesterday had been quiet, normally a good thing in a place like this but it seemed empty. Quiet was good when there was a lot going on elsewhere in your life. Sometimes action was to be preferred, even if that action led to the unknown, maybe especially when it did.

He hadn’t drawn a thing yesterday. All day he had sat and looked at his pad. He had managed a few little scribbles but nothing really. No eyes, no hands. No characters, certainly no monsters.

As he plugged himself into the machine and took out his pad and pencil he, again, came to a realisation. Do I want to spend every day repeating the same mundane actions and spewing out the same boring words as the day before? Was it time for a change? What if Today wasn’t like yesterday. What if Today I insist on something new happening, no matter what?

Mose decided in that instant that he wasn’t going to settle for repetition any more. He cracked open his pad and began to draw. Nothing in particular, just anything his hand wanted to do. He hit the GO READY button on his computer and started taking the phone calls that paid his bills. As he talked to the customers and listened to their pointless complaints his hand drew on his pad. Animals and insects and people and forests and mountains, he flipped page after page and just kept on drawing. It didn’t really matter what he was drawing, he knew what he wanted to happen. He took call after call waiting for the voice, the voice that had called him on Tuesday and shaken his world and stopped him being able to think of anything else since then, the voice that sounded like it was from another world.

He drew furiously, scribbling sometimes and paying more attention to detail other times but constantly drawing something. His workmates around him didn’t pay him any attention, or if they did he didn’t see it. He sat there through his break, through his lunch, not eating anything, sipping from his water bottle now and then when the endless chatter and insincere platitudes that he spouted at the customers got stuck in his throat. He drew ferociously, beasts of all shapes and sizes. Hunters and warriors and gods he drew. He drew from his memory and he drew from his imagination. He drew planets and space ships and solar systems and galaxies and they all blurred on his page they all drifted into one image that never ceased moving in front of him.

The clock must have moved that day but if it did he didn’t notice it. There was a pile of pencil shavings on his desk next to him and page after page of his pad was filled from end to end with images. He drew until his hand ached and he never felt the pain. All he could think about was that voice. He pressed harder, leaning in as he shaded his latest creation and felt the top of his pencil snap. He looked down at it. Reached for his sharpener as he glanced at the clock, 5 minutes to go, he had been drawing all day.

The voice hadn’t called.

He sharpened his pencil again. The tenth time today.

The phone didn’t beep. It had been a nonstop day. Call after call but now, finally, with a few minutes left to go some respite, time to actually think.

Mose looked at all he had drawn, flipping through the pages. There must have been hundreds of them. Some crude, some more detailed but each with something on them, every page covered in something. Are these alive now? Did these creatures and people and objects he had drawn exist somewhere? Or was he just going more quickly mad than everyone else.

All he had wanted all day was that call.

There was one page left in the pad. He folded it over and smoothed it down.

It had to be worth a try.

He blew the dust off his pencil and started to doodle, a large old fashioned telephone, and next to it, in large chunky letters across the last page in the pad.

CALL ME 268587

Silence. The phone still didn’t beep. The clock ticked around. The second hand sweeping towards its destination, the place Mose usually sat and prayed for it to reach without a call coming through. This time he wanted nothing more than the call. All he wanted in the world was for the phone to ring right now and the voice to be on the end of the line and an adventure to begin. Surely there had to be something out there. He ripped off the paper and held it up close to his face, closed his eyes.

The phone beeped.

“Mose? Is it you?” The voice wavered.

He could hardly believe it. Had it actually happened? Had it actually worked?

“It’s me. Its Mose.”

“Mose, we…”

The line went dead.

His eyes shot open.
Philanthropia was standing there, the paper was in her hand, and she was smiling at Mose.

“Hmm maybe, let’s see what tomorrow brings.” She smiled again, turned and walked away.

Wednesday – The ever continuing adventures of call centre man.

Yesterday had been weird. Mose knew well what a normal day was supposed to be like and yesterday wasn’t it. For a start he had forgotten to take his borocca in the morning and then there was the thing with the beings from another dimension coming to life and him having to kill a rampaging monster with his pencil. All in all it had been a weird one.

He decided that the best way was to put it behind him. Forget it had ever happened and focus on today.

Wednesday, hump day. Get over Wednesday and the weekend is almost here. It was a funny way to live he reflected, always just trying to get through another day, just trying to survive until tomorrow. Until you reach whatever tomorrow you are waiting for then start the whole process again. It didn’t occur to Mose that there was maybe a better way. There probably wasn’t. Someone would have noticed it by now. Maybe they would discover one tomorrow.

So he sat at his desk and jacked himself into his computer, put his headset on and got ready for action, going through the same robotic routines that he went through every day.

A few of his colleagues gave him a sideways look or two. It was something he was pretty used to. He had never been a normal person. It was something he was vaguely proud of. Normal was far from interesting wasn’t it, although not too abnormal of course. Stand out from the crowd by all means but don’t stand out too far, someone might notice you.

Mose smiled awkwardly at his workmates. There was little chit chat in a call centre – ironic probably. A room full of people that were paid to speak but they hardly ever spoke to each other. By the time break came it was more desirable to have silence, sitting and waiting for whatever little tomorrow got you through the next spell.

Mose picked up his pencil and pad. He always kept them next to him. Drawing kept him sane. However after yesterday’s…events… he wasn’t sure if drawing was a good idea. He put them away in his drawer.

Philanthropia walked past.


She was one of the best things about this job. Mose looked forward to seeing her every day. Not talking to her of course, talking to girls was for normal people and Americans. He could just admire her from afar in a non-stalky way and hope she talks to him eventually. The long game, not as assured of success as other techniques but it had always not worked for him in the past.

“Not drawing today?” Philanthropia said.

This was a new thing. Say something! Say something intelligent or at least well thought out. Pretend to have banter and be using it now. Pretty much any words would do as long as they are actual words. Just an acknowledgement of what she has said. Perhaps start with a little nod. Nothing too strenuous. The important part was to reply.

Mose nodded and pointed at his drawer where his paper and pad were now stowed.

“Gonna draw now.” He managed.

It was one up from “Mose draw now.” at least.

Sadly Philanthropia was nowhere near to hear it and by this time had already walked away. Dejected but not defeated Mose pulled out his pad and pen again. Maybe he could keep on drawing. Maybe yesterday had been a figment of his imagination. He hadn’t been sleeping so well. It could have been a dream or a reaction to over tiredness, which is kind of the same thing.

One thing was for certain. It’s impossible for scribbly drawings on a piece of paper to come alive. That was basic stuff. It was so understood that it couldn’t happen that no one even bothered to tell you it couldn’t happen it was just known automatically. It didn’t need saying out loud. It would be like saying, “hey did you know fish can’t fly?” it would be stupid.

Mose eyed his pad of paper warily. Every day for years he had come in and sat down and started drawing and working, the two had always gone hand in hand for him. He wasn’t about to stop now just because some nonsense figment of his imagination had come to life. That would be like letting the terrorists win.

He picked up his pen. Clicked the GO READY button on his computer screen and opened his pad.

It was a blank page.

Which, he reminded himself is exactly what he was expecting to see. Also he wasn’t disappointed to see the page blank. Not disappointed at all.

He sighed anyway.

The phone beeped. He started working.

As usual.

Tuesday – The continued adventures of Call Centre Man.

The phone beeped, another call came through. This one would be just like the last one. Just like the next one. Mose slipped into auto mode as he eyed the clock suspiciously. It definitely seemed to be going slower today than normal.
He doodled almost constantly on a pad of paper next to his keyboard – anything to take his mind off the job. He folded the page and put the pad to the side while holding the pencil between his fingers and spinning it round and round. He loved the feeling of balance like it was about to spin out of control but he was always able to keep it going.
As he was about to launch into his usual pre-recorded chatter his world began to shatter. Before he could get his company approved greeting out of his mouth the caller spoke.
“Mose is that you? Thank god you answered! Help us!” it said. The voice was raspy and distorted like it was coming from far away.
“I, will try to help you?” Mose said, unsure what to make of it.
“Help us Mose! We are trapped! It is coming, hurry!” The voice drifted in and out, down to a whisper and so loud it was like it was screaming.
It sounded like a prank call, Mose could usually spot them but something genuine about the panic in the voice made him wonder.
“Help us Mose!” It said again.
“How do you know my name? Who is this?”
“I have always known your name. You know mine, you gave it to me.”
He decided this was nonsense and reached his hand out to press the disconnect button on his phone turret.
“Don’t hang up! Mose, I know this must sound crazy to you but I know you are the only one who can help us.”
Mose looked around him; his colleagues were lost in their own little worlds, wherever they escaped to in order to get through a shift. No one was paying him any attention. No one ever did. Mose knew there and then that he had been in training for this moment for all his working life. That he, above anyone else would be qualified to do the right thing right now. He knew exactly what to say.
“My name is Mose, how can I help?”
“You created something, something so terrible that it is causing havoc. It is threatening everything you have built.” The distorted voice wailed again.
“I haven’t done anything! I have never created anything in my life.”
“You have, you have created suns and moons and stars and worlds and creatures to inhabit those worlds. You have created us.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I have been sitting on my ass in a call centre for the last 10 years!”
As he said this he looked at the pad of paper that sat next to his keyboard, where his doodles were. The drawings that entertained him and kept him sane, could this voice really mean…
He reached his hand out, unfolding the paper to see the drawing he had been working on before. A hideous monster with claws and fangs and evil in its eyes, he had spent all afternoon drawing it and even if he did have to admit it himself, it was pretty damn good. It was also gone.
He looked on both sides of the page, where had it gone? Had it blown off the desk? Surely not.
“Did you name it Mose? Did you name the monster?”
“How on earth do you know about this? I just drew it today!”
“What was its name? The voice persisted.
“I don’t know I haven’t chosen one yet, it wasn’t really finished it was a work in progress. Does it matter? Where is it?”
“It is here, it’s in your world and you created it and it is destroying us all. It came today and cannot be stopped. It cannot be tamed.”
Mose flicked through his pad of doodles. Each page showed the same scene of carnage. His drawings, all of them savaged and ravaged. Blood and torn flesh punctuated each page and showed what violence had come before. He hadn’t drawn this! He hadn’t drawn such terrible pictures. He couldn’t even have imagined anything this hideous.
“We know you didn’t do this Mose, we know you didn’t mean to create this chaos but you are the only one who can stop it. You have to catch this monster. You have to tame the beast.”
Mose flicked through page after page of his beloved sketches and drawings, his prized possessions, the only things that meant anything to him in this world. A world outside of here that he could control but now it was falling out of control. Everything was falling out of control and a mystery voice was telling him how to fix it.
Suddenly it was there, in front of him on the page. Not as he had drawn it but bigger, fiercer. Blood stained its skin and teeth and it snarled at him. Wild and out of control, it seemed to come out of the page toward him. Looming larger, it growled inaudibly and its mouth grew wider. Its teeth glinted as it reached out for Mose with its razor sharp claws.
He clamped the pad shut and felt it jolt under his hands on the desk.
“How do I stop it? Tell me what to do!” He said.
“You have to name it, in order to kill it it must have a name.”
“Name it Mose! Name it and it can be killed!”
Mose opened the pad again. Rifling through the pages of destruction and death till he reached the page with the beast on it again. It was ripping at some other poor soul, some other creation that he had somehow given life to and now inadvertently was also giving death.
He tapped it on the back with his pencil, it turned and looked at him, dropped the corpse it had been destroying and bared its teeth and lurched toward him. As it faced him he knew its name.
“Kahu.” Mose said it out loud as he quickly scribbled the word on the corner of the page. The beast paused. Life filtered through it, it seemed to sparkle for a second as it breathed deeply and became more animated, more real. It stared into Mose’s eyes and Mose knew it. Knew its fears and wants, its anger and its hope. It was part of him and he a part of it. He felt connected and real for the first time in so long. Here was something that mattered, something that had life and purpose and something that was his and a part of him. He felt alive.
“Kahu.” He said again softer this time. The beast looked up at him, there was a softness and a sadness in its eyes as it stood there blinking and breathing calmly. Then suddenly snarled and lunged toward him. Mose brought his pencil down with all the force he could muster. Plunging it straight through the throat of the monster. It writhed and screamed again. He could hear it this time through his headset. It was so loud the whole world could hear it. He could feel its pain. Its suffering, and the end of its suffering.
The pencil snapped in his hand. The line went dead. His colleagues were looking at him. It had been an interesting Tuesday.

Call Centre

Any. Minute. Now.

Watching the second hand of the clock ticking round for the last time each day was always bittersweet. A sense of relief, almost euphoric, knowing that the shift was over for another day. The continuing realisation that he had become just another clock-watcher in a  soulless building chock full of like minded machine men.

It swung around the clock in the bottom corner of his screen, seeming to go slower now than it had all day. It always teased every millisecond out of this last minute. Like it knew it was being watched, this was its chance to shine.

A silent prayer began, the inner mantra. Please don’t get a call please don’t get a call please don’t get a call. Like he could somehow, by the force of will alone ask the universe to spare him that most dreaded of call centre calamity’s, the last second beeeeep.

Dammit, every single time.

He launched into his intro. It was all autopilot now. Without thinking the necessary words would fall out of his mouth hole and into the lugs of whatever mug it was that had decided calling 1 minute before the end of his shift was a good idea. It wasn’t. He hurried through the spiel with what perhaps to the untrained ear would sound like gusto but was in fact mere haste.

Omitting possibly important information and with only one goal in mind, ending this call, he barrelled through the necessary procedures and said the bare minimum that would avoid him getting fired if anyone ever listened back to this if some customer service got thrown in along the way it would be coincidence.

As he watched his colleagues unplug themselves from the desks and filter out the doors chatting and smiling at each other there was no envy. It was acrid hatred for those that had made it out.

“Why do I feel like this?” he quizzed himself.

Like a soldier that loathes to see his comrades reach the other side of the battlefield unscathed? Why am I begrudging others their liberty? He smiled and waved and did the obligatory, yeah I know, I’m stuck on a call shrug.

“Lucky bastards.”

The customer was prattling on about something, something they had already said but it didn’t land right for them the first time. Said but he had failed to acknowledge properly or give enough verbal nods for them to put it down. So instead like a dog with a bone they just kept on chewing over it.

“That’s right sir, repeat yourself again. Maybe I will care this time round.” His brained offered him a sarcastic little respite as his mouth churned out more platitudes. Nod and smile nod and smile, but without the nodding, or the smiling.

The door swung shut and with that he was the last one in there. The last man standing, or rather sitting.

“This isn’t what I signed up for surely. This wasn’t in the brochure.”

They say call centres are modern day factories. But you can’t throw a stick without hitting a sociology degree in this place and aren’t you able to chat to the person next to you in a factory rather than to some muppet down a phone who signed up for something they didn’t understand and definitely didn’t read the terms and conditions for?

Then it hit him.

No one reads the terms and conditions. You buy into something based on the pretty glossy pictures on the front cover and you just hope it does what you want it to do when you need it to. Growing up he had always been told you can be anything you want to be, be a bin man or a space man. It doesn’t matter, as long as you are happy.

No one ever thought to say, but if you end up working in a call centre it will nibble away at your soul until you are an empty husk of a man. Probably doesn’t look as good on the front cover though.

The customer finally seemed content enough to wrap the call up and finally. After 8 hours of robotic script reading, he unplug from the machine. Untethered himself and sighed.

Well that’s Monday out the way.


Big botanist will be watching you

Visitors to a Chelsea Flower Show exhibit will be scanned with facial recognition software. TV gardener David Domoney aims to monitor reactions to individual plants to see which makes us feel happiest. Domoney said: It’s amazing how much sense of well-being and happiness the sight of a plant can bring. The show starts on May 19………

Domoney stalked the length of the overgrown greenhouse, eyes fixed on the floor as he waited for the sign, he was close now, he could feel it. Sweat gathered on his brow and cascaded down his neck and his back. The heat had long since ceased to bother him though, it felt like days since he had had a drink. He scooped up a large jug of water and poured it over his open mouth. Spilling as much over his body as down his throat. His toes wriggled as the water pooled around his bare feet.

He breathed deeply and approached the large bank of monitors that ran down one wall of the humid glass house. Data streamed across the screens. Figures and numbers, most of it meaningless even to him. Domoney knew what he was looking for though, or rather he would know it when he saw it. He brushed a few errant leaves from one of the screens and made some notes on a clipboard.  A jumble of cables sprouted from the back of the monitors and ran in all directions, some going through the walls, most into the planters that flanked the work station, they crowded round the pots and up the trunks like jungle vines seeking the life giving light of the canopy.

There wasn’t much light getting through this far now though. Various shades of green covered almost every inch of glass. When the sun shone outside a green hue engulfed the workstation and the already stifling temperature shot up to the high 90’s. Not that he minded  the heat, he reminded himself as he bathed in the warm green fog.

He stood in front of a keyboard and entered the numbers that appeared on one screen into another. The leaves crept around the monitors again and he absent mindedly moved them. The creaking was pretty much constant now. For the past few hours the glass panes of his house had been making strange noises as they strained more and more against the ever growing greenery. Domoney hoped they would be able to hold up a little while longer. It could only be a matter of hours now.

The large fern that took the majority of the space in the cramped hot house waved gently as he read and typed up the data. He looked up at it and smiled.

“Not long now.” He said out loud.

The greenhouse creaked its response. The windows strained. It couldn’t be long.

As Domoney smiled at the plant, a digital display showed a straight horizontal line graph dipping in the middle to resemble a smile.

Another monitor beeped loudly, demanding Domoney’s attention. It was ready. All the people were inside now. He picked up another keyboard, sweat dropped from his nose onto the keys. He ignored it and began typing furiously.

Outside at the main gates the thousands of people that had been swarming into the gardens for the past few hours had finally stopped.

The long creeping plants that grew along and above the gates slowly loosened their grip on the frames that held them and the gates began to swing shut as they tightened around the wrought iron. Tying themselves together. None of the humans saw it. They were all too busy smiling into the cameras. Smiling at the pretty pink and yellow flowers that they loved so much.

“It’s time.”

Domoney looked up at the fern again.  Roots crept from the floor and from under the bank of monitors. Intertwining with the cables and wires that were everywhere now. Domoney stood in the middle of It all. The ceiling creaked again. He was showered in glass and green light.

Everything was green.