Shucking Corn Contest - Third Place Winner

Alejandro, view the piece here.

Toddlerhood Tribulations

Prompt: Write a story about a character who is certain the world is going to end today.

The Mustard Family episode.

"Jiě, I come bearing important news," Renshu announced, tugging at his split-pants.

"Are you finally ready for adult pants, dìdi?" 

"You're only four minutes older than me."

"And yet I have mastered control of my own bowels. You have no discretion."

Renshu shrugged. "Does discretion matter when the world is ending?"

"Perhaps discretion is not my concern, but incarceration. If you never fix this behaviour, as an adult (should you ever mature to reach that point), you will find the police are far less lenient than to a four-year-old."

Renshu threw his hands in the air, topping backwards as he did so. "I shall never even reach the tender age of five!"

Shuang nodded. "I believe you are right, dìdi. Even four is too much maturity to ask for. At five, your inability to read the newspaper will be social suicide. At least in the rapeseed fields, no one expects intelligence from you."

"The fields!" Renshu attempted to spit. "You would wish me into a life of thankless labour? One where I would work the skin off my bones, the hair from my head, all for a few measly bowls of liángpí in exchange for my labours?"

"I am your sister. Of course I would wish that."

"Authoritarian."

"Libertarian."

"Communist!"

"Anarchist!"

Renshu took the opportunity to squat and relieve himself. "This is what I think about your ideologies."

"In your ideal world, humans would be shitting everywhere and no work would ever be done, is that it? You would have us be no more than cows, chewing cud and contributing to atmospheric pollutions?"

"As if the contribution to atmospheric pollutions matters at a time like this. The earth is ending today, jiě."

"'Shuang staggered backwards, clutching her chest in horror! Almighty! Her prophetic brother hath declared a truth unto all truths!' Is that what you were expecting?"

"From you? Not at all. But perhaps Shenshi might be more reasonable."

Hearing his name from across the field, Shenshi perked up his ears and trotted over, trying his best to halt his tail from wagging. 

Shuang rolled her eyes. "Shenshi is my loyal canine. You have no claims on him."

"Perhaps not yet, but they say crisis brings enemies together."

"And who is 'they'?"

"The government, surely. It would be an excellent way to claim their many crises are positive."

"Share your complaints some more, why don't you?"

"If you insist, jiě. An impoverished nation, no rights for children, and a society built upon millions labouring for a handful to live in luxury."

"I see that sarcasm passes over your head, dìdi."

"Rather, I choose to ignore such base intelligence."

"Base intelligence? Are you discussing Renshu's abilities?" Shenshi's barking laugh alerted the nearby chicken coop, and the hens clucked in protest.

"Renshu has just revealed that the world is ending today, Shenshi." The dog and toddler exchanged a mocking look.

"The end of the world? So libertarians have gained a foothold after all."

"Rue the day!" Shuang sang out, scratching Shenshi behind the ear. Shenshi flicked his ear in an act of annoyance at the affection.

"Amuse me, Renshu. What makes you think today is the end of the world?"

Renshu clasped his small hands in front of him, if only to hide the opening in his split pants. "Humans are known to possess five main sensory abilities. Taste, touch, sight, smell, and hearing. Sharks detect electrical charges. Elephants communicate via vibrations at varying frequencies. Bees sense magnetic fields. And I? I was blessed with the extra sensory ability of foresight."

"If you had foresight, you would work harder now to be rewarded later in life."

"Rewarded with what? Material items? Nourishment? Or—time?"

Shenshi stretched out his front legs, enjoying seeing the siblings quibble. "Humans are the ultimate fools in the world. Dogs find their own food, go wherever they want, sleep whenever they want, and need no clothes."

"Yes," Shuang glanced at his body with distain, "it's most unbecoming. Tell me, Shenshi, do you defecate wherever and whenever you want?"

"Of course not. I'm not an animal." They stared pointedly at Renshu.

Renshu looked down at his legs, wondering if he should upgrade to a pair with a crotch sewn in. "How will you spend your last day?"

"There is nothing to be done, dìdi. Even if today were my last day, I cannot suddenly acquire mass wealth and purchase luxurious, wasteful items, even if I wanted to. I cannot grow old and marry, bearing children to pass on the family name. I cannot create happy memories simply because I want to. What are you planning on doing?"

"I'm going to skip some rocks out by the water instead of watching Bà and Mā in the fields. Want to join, jiě?"

"Hold on," Shenshi protested, placing his paw over Renshu's fat toes, "that sounds absurdly boring. What is something you always wanted to do?"

Renshu frowned at the ground. "Freedom, as a concept, is highly appealing. No taxation, a free trade society, complete autonomy of ourselves. In terms of doing whatever I want, the simple truth is, there is nothing I particularly want to do."

"A life without work is one without purpose or aim."

"You're saying that we work to find fulfillment?"

"We work to keep ourselves busy from wondering about it."

"Then, for our last day on earth, let us wonder about it."

"Very well. Creating communities is what allowed humans to thrive throughout history. Those skilled in certain trades, such as medicine, or food production, are controlled so that all humans may have equal access to these resources. Individualism, or 'freedom', as you would call it, dìdi, is nothing more than disorganization. There must be control of resources, otherwise natural human greed would overwhelm and prevent any from succeeding." 

"Your philosophy depends on the idea that humans are inherently bad. Many small communities thrive on the freedom to work when they want, knowing that there is no punishment from any outside source, simply their own survival at stake."

Shenshi snorted, scratching his ear with his back paw in order to draw their attention. "Shuang is far more the realist, but she neglects the ideology that, because humans are inherently bad, the worst of them will seek power in the highest of places. While it's true that libertarians would withhold their services for gain, in an organized society, those in power tug at their society's strings in a far more effective manner, thus having a larger area of impact. I myself lean more towards democracy, though of course, no system is perfect. Democracy fails in the fact that in its attempt to please everyone, no one is assuredly happy with the system."

Shuang raised an eyebrow at the dog, her scepticism reflected in her younger brother's face. "People should be happiest with the system they were raised under and become used to. Wishing for an unreality helps no one."

"The real problem, my dear, is that humans have malice. Tell me, Renshu, in this premonition of yours, how will the world end? In a cascade of fire or a wisp of smoke? Will humans be instantly vanquished, leaving the rest of Earth to survive? Is this God's act of Great Tribulation?" 

"You mock my talent. Foresight is perhaps, not aptly named, because there is no seeing. It is something I feel resonating in my bones, travelling from neuron to neuron to let the message be known that this is the end. There is no angel whispering in my ear, nor no fiery bush. I do not know how the world ends, only that it ends today."

"Your ability told you the what and when, but not the who or how? It sounds rather like a poor invitation to me."

"Then let me amend that. Shenshi, jiě, I formally invite you to the end of the world, taking place on the riverbed, featuring two toddlers and a pup, occurring at midnight on this fine Thursday."

"I always figured the world would end on a Tuesday," Shenshi quipped.

Shaung clicked her tongue. "If the world were to end all at once, it would go out 'not with a bang but a whimper'."

"T. S. Eliot. A bit of a dour man, don't you think?"

"There are so many poets who use love, or their interpretation of it, as a means of inspiration. Is that moral?"

"Morality is rather dependent upon the person. For instance, I consider Renshu's laziness to be completely deplorable. He, on the other hand—" 

"Find there to be nothing wrong with enjoying my time idly. At least I'm not working myself dull."

Shenshi laughed. "He has a point, dear Shuang."

"Do you think it'll be painful?" Renshu turned his shining eyes towards the pair. "A meteor strike that suffocates us all with gas? A torrent of fire raining down upon the world?"

"If it's fast, then it doesn't matter."

"If my last moment is one of pain then I'd rather sleep during it."

"Why not? That sounds thoroughly satisfactory. The rest of the world is frantic to know how the world will end. The mystery is the fun of it. Let's sleep and never lose that curiosity, even in our death."

"Agreed. But before I die, I want to skip some rocks."

Two four-year-old twins, one a girl, one a boy, and a muddy mutt, together dragging a straw mat, walked barefoot through their Mā and Bà's rapeseed fields to the riverbed, where they planned to sleep through the end of the world. 

村上の海 -- Prompt

Mariko tops a glass of soju, leaving it in front of the empty barstool. I glance at the clock. Fourteen minutes late. Better to wait one more to round it out.

A few boys from the Ivy League college pass by, laughing as they swing open the izakaya’s door, letting it clang behind them. No one in the izakaya reacts, but the atmosphere stiffens. They settle into a booth, ordering in loud English. I grit my teeth. Sixteen minutes. Damn.

This time Mariko looks up as I enter, a smirk playing over her features as she pours me another glass. "It's Friday, Maro."

I drink. "As the calendar declares, yes."

"The second Friday of the month."

"Yes, certainly, there are several."

She pours me another glass.

I drink.

"Eight years of putting up with you, and this is the treatment I receive?"

"If you like, I could take my business to any other establishment on this block. None of the Americans or Italians or Mexicans would even bat an eye."

"Don't be cheeky with me. No one else runs a business like mine," she chastises, pouring me a fourth glass, of sake this time.

The boys in the booth erupt once more in raucous laughter. Half of the boys are red with laughter, the other from alcohol.

"Why would you let them drink, Mari-chan?"

She scowls. "If you want to call me that, you should have ended things differently. Besides, those boys are celebrating a birthday. Look, you see the one in white there?"

I glance over. "They're all white."

"The one wearing white, aho. They've placed a crown on his head. Today, he is legally an adult."

While she stares at the group, I grab the bottle of sake and help myself to another glass. "It's not like you check identification anyhow."

She laughs mirthlessly. "How much are you drinking tonight? Is there a reason you haven't given me my shipment yet?"

"I don't come here for the chatter."

"And I don't pay good money for you to drink my establishment dry." She takes the half-empty bottle back, filling the rest with water.

"Is that a threat? Be careful, Mariko."

She says nothing, walking over to the boys instead and pouring them the diluted drink. One of them grabs her by the hand, forehead red and sweaty. He gestures to the 'birthday boy' across from him. "Mary, look! He got a tattoo!"

The other boy leans back, a self-assured smile guided by alcohol sneaks onto his face. "Indeed. You might not be able to tell, but I'm one-fifth Japanese. By getting this tattoo, I'm basically in the yakuza!"

His table guffaws, releasing Mariko. The other patrons turn their quiet gazes towards my visage.

I say nothing, staring at the empty glass in my hands. The regulars should know better. Mariko tilts her head, her unflattering bob concealing her expression. She nods at the calendar on the wall. I shake my head. She raises her eyebrows, and turns her attention back to the boys.

"That man over there has some impressive tattoos. I'm sure he'd be willing to show you."

I stand up from my chair—a foolish decision, as this only draws further attention to me. Birthday Boy stands up as well, a fearless smile bracing his face. Talk about aho.

I march towards the door, but Birthday Boy grabs my arm before I can make my escape. "C'mon, man, it's my birthday!"

I scowl and shake his hand off my arm. I turn once more.

"What, do you not speak English? Konbanwa, ojisan! See, I know some Japanese. Um, tattoo wo mimasuka?"

I grimace at his mangled words. "Don't bother me, kid."

He smiles, putting himself between me and the door. His friends have now gathered behind me, forming a circle. I try to edge through, but he places a preventative hand on my chest. Fed up, I shove him away from the door. His paper crown flutters to the floor. Instantly, his friends are onme, throwing drunken punches and managing to land a few. Normally I would have thrown them off of me to avoid the altercation, but the five drinks hit me almost as quickly as I'm hitting the lanky college boys. It doesn't take long for most of the boys to land on the ground, too drunk to continue fighting. I let my guard down, and Birthday Boy tears my jacket from my body, revealing my bare arms underneath. Everyone pauses, and the watching patrons collectively take a deep breath.

Mariko laughs, bringing the attention over to her. "Oh, didn't I mention? Yamaguchi-san here also has a history with the yakuza."

The door's bell tinkles as someone new walks in. "Sorry I'm late, guys! But I brought the piñata!" He holds the pink donkey high above his head, a baseball bat held in the other.

Birthday Boy snatches the bat from him, turning his gaze towards me. I edge towards the bar. If I can get my hands on the empty bottle of soju, it would make for an easy weapon. So much for trying to keep a low profile.

To my utter disbelief, Birthday Boy extends the bat towards me, bowing his head. "Ojisan. I want you to make the first hit. Let bygones be bygones."

I grip the bat, staring at the boy holding the piñata. He smiles, climbs a chair, and affixes it to a hook in the ceiling meant for a light fixture. My attack to the piñata does not visibly damage it. I pass the bat back and slink into the background, pulling my jacket back on. Within minutes, the boys have forgotten the whole affair, and are lining up to pummel the candy-filled craft.

I stand outside by the doorway with Mariko, the two of us sharing my last cigarette. "Was that nonsense necessary, Mariko? You know it wouldn't be difficult for me to close this place down, or worse."

She takes a drag. "You won't. Those boys will brag about this encounter to their friends, but they would never try to report you. And the regulars use your services, too. As long as you pull through, you won't have anything to worry about." She passes the cigarette, letting her fingers trail over my hand. "I can't run my backyard business without any crank. What's the holdup?"

I sigh. "Your need to know everything is the reason things ended between us, you know. Learn to trust me."

"It's called self-preservation. And the reason things ended between us is because you left for five years without telling me."

"Yeah, well. The lack of trust hurts." I heed to her glare. "There was a sudden demand in Japan, which is unusual. Our clients overseas are considerably less important."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm still Japanese, Maro. I only left because things were getting dangerous. I guess I'm satisfied. You don't have to bother paying your tab—seeing you getting humiliated was enough payment for me."

I tuck my hands into my coat pockets. "What about the payment of a ring?"

"Aho. Don't be a fool."

I fumble with the ring for a few moments, but ultimately leave it sitting in my pocket. "You always were the wise one, Mari-chan. Make sure to wish that boy a happy birthday from me."

"You're leaving?"

"Yes. But don’t worry. This time, it won't be for five years."

Born Into Darkness -- Prompt

Five years of infancy. Two years of petty school. Seven years of grammar school. Merely two and a half at Cambridge. Despite the length of my years lived, it was only when I opened my eyes in the jailcell that I truly lived. 

At first, they had cast me out for my ideas. England's religious turmoil surrounding King Henry's death and Mary's Catholic regiment brewed discussion within the university. Many favoured moving away from religious teachings in order to focus on the secular studies. The flame of the Protestant Reformation, lead by Archbishop Thomas Cranmer, was quickly doused with the piss of Bloody Mary. The Archbishop was imprisoned, and as his most vocal pupil, I had been made to stand trial alongside him. Before they could get that far however, the guard encharged with me discovered something that even the Archbishop did not know. Quite simply, I was a woman.

I was the youngest of five daughters, and the cause of my mother's death. My father, seeing no other choice, raised me as his son. It was a secret so fiercely guarded that even my eldest two sisters did not know the truth. I was to learn, and never marry, to carry the family name without passing it forward. Growing up with sisters, I was not unaccustomed to the feminine lifestyle, I simply never adopted it. My father taught me strictly in order to ensure I would behave soundly in school, thus avoiding a beating that required access to skin.

But a woman I was, under the tight bandages and masculine attire. I was almost thankful for my capture—with a sixteen-year secret revealed, I was free to live a new life.

Well, first I had to get out of jail.

Despite England's everlasting belief that women could not surpass men and were unfit for academics, I was at the top of my classes. I was certain that I would be capable of uncovering a method of escape. I studied my surroundings carefully, opening my eyes wider in an attempt to capture more light. The trial was useless. With no light to guide me, I held my hands before me and scrabbled about in the darkness. My cell was small, constructed from stone and with a wooden bench chained to the wall. The cell door was a simple gate, with vertical bars and—and no horizontal bars. 

The prison had been built to hold men, not small women whose chest had been bound her entire life. Tactile examination of the bars allowed me to identify a bar which had been slightly bent during its welding. A slight bend was enough to allow my passage.

Slipping through the bars, I kept close to the walls, my breath shallow and uncertain. When I reached the door, I discovered it locked, yet peering through the keyhole revealed nothing. Chancing that someone might hear my noise, I slipped one hand beneath the door and rammed the doorknob with my other. The key clattered to the ground. Snatching it without further ado, I unlocked the door and braved peering around it. Light flooded the cell, prisoners muttering as it interrupted their fitful slumber. I shut the door behind me with a pang in my heart. Although the Archbishop would be martyred, I did not wish for the same fate. 

I did not last long before coming across a guard. He frowned at me, likely bewildered by a woman in the men's prison. "Sirrah, keep better care of the location of your keys." I flicked the key at him, adopting the demeanour, accent, and attitude of the boys I had attended school with.

He stepped closer to me. "What's a boy like you doing running about? How did you escape your cell?"

Realizing that my behaviour and current appearance still marked me as a man, I bolted like a chased rabbit. My swiftness caught the man by surprise, and he quickly raised alarm as he pursued me. The entrance was near, however, and my hobbies of playing boyish sports kept me strong and swift. 

My legs carried me far from danger, but no closer to any solution. Gathering my bearings, I inquired as to my location from a passerby. I had been brought to Oxford, the home of my eldest sister. I had visited her once before, and knew where she would be at this hour.

Taking sanctuary in the cold confines of the church, I sank onto a pew, my legs weak from my efforts. An hour passed, and I succumbed to the slumber I so desperately desired. When I woke, my face was tickled by a nun's habit brushing over my skin, a hand held to my face. "Brother? What are you doing here? Are you well?"

I sat up, taking her hand. "Is the confessional occupied?"

She shook her head. "The priest has other matters to attend to currently."

I led her to it and we sat inside. It was not long before I had explained my story. I had always been a curt speaker.

She was silent during my tale, but sighed now. "If you had converted then this matter could have been avoided. And I suppose I can hardly blame you for our father's transgressions. However, I will help you now. Your hair is short and you lack clothing, housing, and food. This can all be solved if you become a nun."

I quickly responded in the affirmative. The plan was simple. During the day, I would live my life as a nun and devote myself to God. I would be the Catholic that Mary wished for. During the night, however, I would continue the revolution started by my teacher. I could revert to my appearance of a man, return to the jailcell in which I had been held, and free my brethren. Even if I was not brave enough to allow myself to be martyred, I could save those who were. 

And thus, my life of duplicity began. 

Strawberry Jam -- Epigraph

“Who was it that said that coincidence was just God’s way of remaining anonymous?”
― Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

There's a strawberry seed stuck in between the girl's cuspid and premolar. Her tongue slides past the sharp canine, snaking its way into that gap her braces never fixed. Smile. She pokes out her tongue, showing me a golden teardrop lying on a pink cushion. I close my eyes and try not to think of Étoile.

Look, starlight, you can take a bite right off the vine.

No! I don't like the seeds!

You can spit them out if you want.

Okay. Will they grow into a new plant?

We can come back next year and find out.

The first time she meets Stumpy, she squeals and darts behind me, her fat toes sinking into the mud as she spins. Laugh. Her chunky hands pull on my corduroy jacket, fingers lacing through the holes made from broken, grainy fences that held on like Iola during those sweaty summers on the Tibet rug, back when she loved me.

Daddy! Look at this old fat pig. Let's take her home.

Starlight, she's missing a leg.

And an ear.

And an eye.

I'm calling her Stumpy. She can sleep in your bed.

Her dark skin protects her from the heat, but I rub the lotion onto her nose, still accustomed to pink cheeks and freckled frowns. Her eyes sting red, watering fat tears onto the withered ground. Console. She reaches towards me and pats sunscreen onto my bald spot with a hand so warm it almost burns.

What did mommy look like? Was she pretty?

She was… gorgeous. Like the moon. But she's nowhere near as beautiful as you, love.

Do you miss her?

Oh, honey. There's the pillowcase that I won't let Stumpy sleep on. The jam I make every summer but won't eat. The acorn stuck in the birdhouse. The white slippers in the closet.

Why didn't she take them with her when she left?

You can't take memories, starlight.

We walk hand in hand for the first time since I met her at the orphanage, cowering under the gaze of a nun. My palm is sweaty under the beat of midafternoon. Her hair is frizzy from my attempt to brush it, shiny broken off comb teeth trapped within it. Relax. Her fingernails bite into my arm, bringing my attention to the swing set in front of us.

Am I going to die, daddy?

…

Daddy, you're hurting me. Don't squeeze my hand so tight.

I'm sorry.

The bed isn't very comfy, daddy. I miss Stumpy. Her stomach makes the best pillow.

She's waiting, starlight. She and I both.

Do you find the beeping annoying? Sometimes I wish it would stop.

Oh, God. Please don't let it stop.

She points to a little mound of dirt with a plant poking out, a five-petal flower with a golden centre clinging to a vine. She rushes forwards and kneels on the dirt, her round knees making soft imprints. She examines the grave, stepping back with heavy shoulders when she can't find any fruit. Love.

"Maybe next year there will be strawberries, Sunshine."

Mina's Boy -- Monologue

Today's mom's birthday, so I need to ask strangers for money to buy a gift. People are so nice, dropping coins and fluttering coupons down on me. I smile at 'em and always say thank you. Sometimes they look real surprised, or embarrassed, but most of the time they don't hear and just walk on off. A lot of people don't look at me, even though I look at them. Every day I look at people. I look and look and look. I sit outside Rory's shop, out on the corner scrunched up small with my sweater sticking to the brick wall so people don't trip on me when they walk. I used to sit outside Mrs. Josephine's Dance Studio, watching the pretty ballerinas twirl and wishing I could move like them angels. Wishing my stomach didn't jiggle like raspberry jello, wishing that when I was little, I could've fit in the wooden crib that my parents built for my younger sister, when we thought she was going to be born. But a man told me I had to leave, told me to go to a shelter, told me I couldn't sit outside watching them girls dance. I smiled and pointed, telling the man that I lived in a house just past the park, but he was already gone. Rory's ground is wet but he comes out of his shop each day and gives me a sandwich. He sells videos and says his name isn't Rory. He reminds me every night that I got to go, got to go buy food. He helps me count my money, tells me how much people gave me, tells me to buy something nice. Tells me which coupons are for what, tells me what I should be eating. "Get cold vegetables, eat them all day long and never get hungry. Stick of celery," he'll say, "You warm enough? House clean?" He's awful nice. I love Rory.

There's a little store that Yuki owns. I didn't know her name for the longest time, she was scared of me, always placing my change on the table instead of my big, pawlike hands. Now though I'm real happy 'cause Yuki always got something picked out for me, a little something nice. She smiles, lots of gum, little lined eyes—a tiny person. Yuki smells like wood varnish, like someone stuffed all the nice things they could think of together and called it a flower. She hands me a little blue swan today and a dog treat for my pup. I always get one. "How much money today?" she says, "How much you have?" I tell her five, I've got five dollars, but I need extra for a birthday present. She smiles extra big. "Is it your birthday?" No, I say. It's for mom. "Then you can have this, too," she says, and hands me a little box, "Open when you go to sleep." 

Dog treat's for my dog. My dog always says hello and I say hello and he eats a treat. Yuki says I should name my dog, but I don't want to pick a name. What if he didn't like it? I'd probably pick something stupid, anyway. Stupid like how I forgot to feed my dog and he vomited on our house's carpeting. "Mina's son. Clean it," Grandfather says, says been smelling it all day. I nod, put my blue swan in my drawer, my own little drawer in my own little room, take out my little box and lay it out on my table so I won't forget. I put food in my dog's bowl and open the cupboard right up, grab two boxes of cereal. I give one to Grandfather and he hands me a fifty dollar bill. I put the money in my drawer and crawl into bed, shaking the cereal into my mouth. I hold Yuki's present real close, real tight, and close my eyes. Just when I feel real sleepy, I take off the lid and look inside. I pick up a little glass ballerina between my thumb and my finger (the one with the broken nail) and hold her to my lamp. The light fills up inside of her and my mouth falls open at her tiny little feet, at her little nose. I run my hand over the figurine, then wipe off my finger smudges with my blue bedspread. 

I tuck the ballerina in my drawer, next to a gold belt buckle my father used to wear before he left and the ballet ribbon, the white ribbon I pulled from Mrs. Josephine's ballet slipper, the one I found in the dumpster behind the studio, the one that wrapped around her ankles as if it kept them from breaking. It lies next to my only picture of my mom. She would have been fifty-six today. I fall asleep with my hand in the drawer, touching the only things I have left.

How to Get Away with Murder (Not to be Confused with the Television Show)

2015 Satire Media Assignment, text below.

    Studying the murder mystery genre has taught me a lot about the careful planning that must accompany murder. Too many pathetic attempts have caused me to shake my head at the murderers’ folly. Thus, I have created scrupulous solutions to the common problems murderers face.

     Before I continue, I must warn that this guide is not for the weak minded. It is written so that a person of any position, no matter their gender, age, race, etcetera, can carry out such a wearisome task, but I cannot guarantee that my plans are foolproof. Nay, I am not so bolstered by my ideas to claim that a feeble-brained individual might have the creative sense and quick-mindedness that is mandatory to the careful crafting of a murder. Murder is not merely a skill that can be perfected, but an art, a talent! Some are born with the ability to kill, however, most are not. Luckily for you, my fiendish followers, I was born with a silver dagger in my chubby infant hand, prepped from my early days of proximity to the mafia to kill without leaving a trace.

     First off, no gore. Bloody deaths are too complicated—the weapon, the evidence, the mess, but most importantly, it is entirely unsophisticated. Only temperamental brutes resort to such last minute ploys. What are the alternatives? Let us explore the options. Poisons are a popular choice. Drugs also work, and if the victim already takes medicine, faking a suicide is relatively easy. However, don’t depend on that to save your skin—the victims’ friends might claim that this situation is unlikely, if not impossible. You may be able to collect sufficient information on them to be certain that suicide is believable (see my article “How to Stalk Someone without Being Noticed”), but when in doubt, revert to the following methods.

     Arson seems like an easy option—just light a match and all your evidence is destroyed, right? Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. Witnesses abound—a rebellious teenage couple in the bushes, a dog walker contemplating whether they should clean up the poop, or even a drunk guest taking a wee out back. Escaping from fires is also relatively easy, unless you were to douse the entire house in gasoline before lighting the match (and I won’t even get into the logistics of hiding that evidence).

     Now, now, I’m not a Negative Nelly. I do have solutions to every problem that arises! Police officers must think like a criminal in order to catch a criminal. Reversely, we must think like policemen in order to escape them. What are your motives for the crime? Examine them. Dismiss ideas of revenge prematurely—it may taste sweet when it has been achieved, but such a taste will turn bitter in jail. Let us use money as a motive—it is common, understandable. Murdering someone unrelated to you is a relatively simple process, but the real challenge is killing a family member—and that is where we begin our work.

     Gaining information is the key to performing a clean murder. Pretend that the police have every intention of proving your guilt. What is the key to proving innocence? An alibi. “Oh, but my wise and all knowing murderess,” you may be thinking, “how can I be in two places at once?” Unless you have an identical twin, doppelganger, a clone, or a hologram, you cannot. Assuming that you haven’t any friends that would risk lying for you, the next best solution is to create a daily routine that you do not stray from. If you were, to say, live-stream yourself baking for a few months, then on the day of the murder, upload a video under the pretence of live-streaming, it could create a brief alibi. Eyewitnesses have excellent testimonies, however, and the police will doubt the stability of your alibi. In that case, remember the mantra, “Innocent until proven guilty!”

     This brings me to my final and crucial point. Hiding, destroying, or simply not having evidence in the first place. Where are you going to get your weapon of choice, my dear friend? Let us return to poison—nowadays, you can’t just pop over to the local drugstore, buy a vial of cyanide and be on your way. Back in my grandmother’s days, the simple excuse of needing rat poison was enough to land a dosage large enough to off a full grown man. Assuming that you’re no chemist, the best solution is to buy a bottle of Tylenol—extra strength if possible. To avoid being tracked on video footage, drive far out of town, park your car at least ten minutes away and walk to the local store. Wear a hoodie, sunglasses, and makeup. It doesn’t matter if you’re male or female—in fact, if you’re male, stuff a bra and raise the pitch of your voice (there are plenty of tutorials online).

     Use cash, throw out the receipt inside the store, and make your way back home with your untraceable bottle of painkillers (don’t worry, it’ll kill more than a migraine in the right amount). Take the capsules and empty all the powder into a bowl or bag. Helpful tip: Pretend you’re doing arts and crafts! The time will simply fly by.

     Now comes the difficult part. Remember what I told you about being a creative person? What’s the plan now? Put it in a bottle of wine, reseal it and deliver it as a present? In that case, you’ll have to buy more Tylenol due to dilution. Or would you prefer to deliver it in food? Tylenol affects the liver, so my personal recommendation is in the form of liquor. But watch out! The victim may vomit, thus reducing the effect of the medicine. Hopefully, your prey will wish to nurse their hangover with some Advil the next day. A funky liver and thin blood? Sounds like a winning combination.

     “But my heavenly goddess, how can I give them the wine? What if they get cured in the ER?” Whoa there, cowboy! Do I really have to hold your hand in terms of killing someone? Haven’t you matured enough to think of your own ideas? Oh, don’t make that face, I’m only joking. Sort of. If the victim does not live alone, find a way to get the family to leave, or to draw the victim out. Do they enjoy partying? What if they don’t drink alcohol? I’ve taken you far enough on this journey so that you can take some pride in planning your own sensational murder, personalized to suit your victim. I know, it’s scary. But you must trust what you’ve learnt. We’ve gone through this journey together and I’ll miss you. When I pick up my newspaper in the morning, a fresh cup of hot cocoa pressed to my lips, I’ll smile and think of you when the headline tells me that someone was murdered, with no suspects.

     If you enjoyed my article, share it with your friends and family on social media. If you found it useful, give it a like. If you used any of the techniques in my article, please drop me an email at catchmeifyoucan@excop.org. Keep an eye out for my next article, “Body Disposal and other Gardening Tips.”

The Weather Girl

With one hand clutching the rudder, a girl with bubblegum pink hair manned the sails of The Astrium. The salty sea spray stung her bare back. The rope she'd paid fifty-eight sea urchins for cut into her hand; droplets of red stained her ship's deck. Her shaggy dog sniffed her wound in concern.

            The gales were getting harder to control, forcing her to knot the ropes. Sucking her hand, the girl dipped her foot into the water, enjoying the cool liquid running over it. She smiled to herself, teeth dyed with blood, longing to dive inside and feel the seaweed tickle her ribs, her thighs.

            Her dog yelped, skittering backwards. While he was drinking from the ocean, a fat goldfish had taken its chance to bite the dog's cracked nose. The girl plucked the fish out of the water by its tail, scolded it, and swallowed it whole.

            "C'mon, boy!" she yelled, hoisting the injured dog to its feet, "We've got a job to do!"

            She dried her hands on his matted fur, wishing that she could be covered in warm fur instead of squishy brown skin. Readjusting her hold, she untied the ropes and heaved. She braced herself against the strong wind that was towing her to the sinking whirlpool in the water. "I'll beat you!" she screamed, tightening her grip.

            Her sailing sextant spun across the deck as the ship's bow lifted in the air. Its sun-bleached sails bulged and strained under the force of the wind. And then—the boat lifted, leaving a stream of algae painted water dripping beneath it. The boat gained altitude, sailing higher into the black storm. The girl adjusted the ropes, her hair frosted with clouds, until the wind rushing against her bony hips and small breasts forced her to sit. She pulled her dog close for warmth.

            The girl laid back against the ship, tired from her daily chore. She would let it fly itself for a while—it always knew how to calm the storm.

            "Make it summer," she whispered into the hull, patting the knots. A bolt of lightning tickled her toes, lulling her to sleep.