Christopher Tjaart McLea

A man came to sit besides a stranger on a bench. They nodded in unison as they both noticed each other's presence. On the one side of the bench sat a smartly dresses man in a suit and trench coat clutching a paper bag probably containing some kind of wrapped sandwich. The man was probably in his late forties or early fifties. Graying on the sides, his dark blonde hair wafted in the light breeze. He stared ahead over the rippling waters of the lake towards the ducks playing in the autumn light. His eyes seemed to gloss over as he stared away in the distance, not moving a muscle, not a hint of an expression. Beside him sat another gloomy figure. This old frail figure has submitted to the shear weight of time. Everything about him seemed crushed and battered, bruised and put back together too many times. He was cleanly kept, well shaven but a lifetime of tattooed narratives were bellowing up from his chest and cleaving their way up his neck and towards his throat. His hair was shaven ...

The night was twisting its way past the fluorescent lights of a corridor situated in a nondescript building. The motel manager was doing his round checking to see all was in order when he abruptly stopped at the door at the end of the passage. He tilted his head slightly towards the door, like a dog does to get a certain acoustic advantage. He could hear a commotion coming from inside the room. It sounded like a woman's voice shouting, squealing and a rather loud thumping sound. At first he passed it off as just the usual sound that might erupt from the vintage orange and avocado clad rooms on a regular old Saturday night. But this was different. There was something quite desperate and disturbing about the woman's voice and the thumping was sound was surprisingly loud and erratic. The motel manager crept a bit closer, tentatively placing his eyeball over the keyhole of the door. His hunch seemed correct. There was definitely something strange going on inside the room. He could ...