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Fireworks lit the sky on New Years Eve, 1988 when Franklin Goodman said the words, “this is my year!” Franklin had said the words after seeing Timothy, his best friend kiss Eve at the stroke of midnight and say, “Happy New Year Eve.” A joke they had done for the past 4 years since their meeting at New Year’s Eve in 1984. Franklin couldn’t help but feel a slight envy towards Timothy in that given moment. It was not as if Franklin had never been with a woman, he had a few girlfriends in the past, but he was never really with them for the right reason. Sandy Chalmers, his first at age 14 was the first girl to ever give him attention. Serena Casey came along at a bar one night 7 years later and in Franklin's bed the next morning. Franklin admittedly loved their dog more than Serena herself, so when he came home one day to a note that read; Changed my mind, took the dog, left you some Chinese in the fridge. Sorry, enjoy. He was not that upset, except for missing the dog of course. The third and only true serious relationship he had was when 26 came about and Franklin met Stephanie Coombes at Timothy’s birthday party. She was the first girl to say “I love you” to Franklin, and out of politeness, he returned the favour void of any belief in his words. 2 years, 3 months and 14 days later, she was the first girl to say, “I hate you.” Just like the others, she had gone too. While he was never in love with these women, that did not mean he did not love them. He loved Sandy’s handwriting, he loved Serena’s dog, and he loved Stephanie’s laugh. But none of those things made him want to be with them forever and ever. Looking now at Timothy and Eve, he felt a pang of something somewhere in his chest saying, ‘that would be nice’. “What’d you say?” Timothy responded, his hand now cupping his ear as a gesture for Franklin to speak louder. “This is my year; I can feel it!” “Yeah, that’s my man!” Timothy responded excitedly, “This is your year!” The very next day, Franklin was fired from his job. His boss had rung him on his orange corded phone that sat on the wall next to the door in his kitchen and told him that he had been made redundant. “So maybe not my year,” Franklin whispered to himself after hanging up the phone. Franklin’s main goal now was to find another job. The issue was, though he did not like to admit it, that he did not really excel at anything. He was a master of none and a jack of no trades. He just simply was. Franklin was lucky, not that he had ever thought it himself, that once he graduated, his father’s friend’s something-or-other had offered him a job at a barbecue his dad held in the summer of ‘78. Franklin would admit that he can’t remember quite how Mr Jenkins, his now ex-employer, knew his father. It seemed that Mr Jenkins did not care either. Franklin had worked at the company for 10 years and was not even offered a severance package. Perhaps if his father were still alive, things would be different right now. Franklin took the rest of the day to himself. The next morning, he woke, walked to the nearby cafe, ordered a coffee and croissant and brought the newspaper home. He opened it to the listings page at the back and, with pen in hand, scoured the grey and black page for his next job. He first eliminated the jobs that required a specific degree, then those that required a specialised skill he did not possess. Next were those that were too far away, too cheap or too gross. After his perhaps too picky eliminations, he was left with a grand total of 5 jobs to consider. Hotdog stand worker, park keeper, telemarketer, butcher and a post office worker. The first two did not appeal to him, as he hated the outdoors, he also hated touching raw meat, which drew interest away from the abattoir. He didn’t mind talking on the phone but was not sure he could handle the rejection of people hanging up on him. Which left one job he had some level, albeit small, of interest in. The advert read: HELP WANTED Parcel organiser If interested visit level -42, 222 Main East Road Between 9:34 and 9:43 am Thursdays only. F.I.F.S The advert itself was far more interesting than all the others on the page, it was not interesting in a visual sense, it was still in black and grey, in the same type of font and size, but it was appealing in a literary sense. How preposterous, Franklin thought. Only holding an interview for 9 minutes on a Thursday, not to mention the typo of a minus on the level. It was the preposterousness that had Franklin a little excited about it all. If he didn’t get the job, it would at least make for a good story. Continue reading: https://amzn.asia/d/9VQg6Ik

The thunder was deafening and the rain hit hard. The only sound between the monstrous thunder was that of the droplets clanging against the metal of my armour. My feet pushed through the slush and the mud came halfway up my legs, yet they did not grow tired. I pressed on through the raging storm, through the mud, through the voice that told me to turn back. Far in the distance stood a leviathan. A colossal mountain struck out of the ground, a gargantuan beast jumping somewhere high above the clouds. The mountain had shadowed over the lands since before the first king ruled. As lightning and thunder danced around the sky, like the jester in a court, their flashes were a candle being lit and snuffed out at the same moment. As the candle lit, the peak of the mountain could be seen through the dark clouds that shrouded it. I had heard stories of the mountain. It was insurmountable. No man could climb it and return home to claim the glory. The ancient king had sent three of his best knights, those who had slain dragons and taken kingdoms, to stand on that great height, and speak the king’s name with glory and honour. That mountain was my destination, my end. It had plagued my memory, and had whispered in my dreams. I had no orders from the king, no hand of a maiden to win, no desire for riches or glory or boons. I only had a desire to ascend. I waded across the flooded farmlands, the howling winds sent a freeze through my armour, but it did not halt me. The drenching rain poured over me like a waterfall, yet I did not cease. The sun had set many hours prior, and the moon was hidden behind angry clouds. Its light trying to push through like a child opening castle doors, powerless. Darkness like this, I had only experienced once before, on the battlefield. Darkness like this, I had only experienced after I had lost what was mine. I looked down at my left arm, wrapped in cloth that was now soaked from ceaseless raindrops, as it ended just after the elbow. Once or twice, some had called me the spawn of the devil. Every time I had picked up my spoon to eat, or drew my blade, all with my left hand, they spat foulness at me, called me sinister. I had learnt, over time, that the spears they threw from their mouths could not pierce me. I had nourished a sense of pride in myself about my uniqueness. Like a garden, I had nurtured and grown a sense of importance in it. A garden that was burnt, wilted, plagued - When I had lost my arm, I had lost myself. Continue reading now: https://amzn.asia/d/dkNW7lz