Free Sin by Shaun Allan

would
have had to, that I could use my new found talents of spaceshifting
(as opposed to shapeshifting which, to my knowledge, was beyond my
abilities) to get myself somewhere else. The problem was, of
course, that I might well end up back in the mental home. Or on a
beach in Outer Mongolia, if they have any beaches. Or even sitting
in a furnace with a great walloping flame up my backside. Right now
even my original plan of action had become a plan of inaction.
Suddenly death, my own anyway, was something I didn't fancy trying
out. Death was a bright spangly pair of purple trousers that I
wouldn't be seen... dead... in. I didn't want anyone else to die
because of me, but I wasn't keen anymore on biting the big apple
myself.
    Call me selfish if you like, I
don't mind, but not shellfish. Well, maybe a bit crabby.
    As such, with my possible
destination being either the inside of a white dwarf star or
sitting on Dr. Connors knee while he ate his supper, I decided to
keep on walking, exhausted or not. Thunder rumbled, fairly closely.
The clouds were chanting their song of attack and I was right in
the firing line. Maybe walking would do in preference to getting
wet.
    Off to my left, to the side of a
freshly ploughed field, was a small copse of trees. They were
obviously an artificial planting, the trunks marching in even ranks
across neatly trimmed grass. All were of the same make, model and
serial number, but not being a botanist I wasn't sure which. Maybe
willows or something. They weren't oaks or elms, I knew that much.
They could have been baby redwoods, waiting to become fully grown
so a car could drive through their bases, but I doubted it. It
didn't matter anyway, though I did briefly think I should take
better notice of the world I seemed hell bent on destroying.
Whether willow, redwood or bonsai, they were enough to offer me
shelter from the coming storm, and if they didn't want to offer,
I'd certainly take. The sky had turned angry and I didn't want its
temper taken out on little old me, thank you very much.
    The first spatterings of rain
were throwing themselves at me as I left the road and, by the time
I had reached the cover of the first branches, the spatterings had
become an onslaught as each drop did its very best to hit me. They
weren't bothered which part of me they made a target, any would do,
but I felt like John Cleese accidentally saying Jehovah in the Life
of Brian. A good stoning had taken place, albeit with water instead
of rock, and I was battered and served up with chips and mushy
peas.
    So much for not getting wet.
    Wiping the rain from my face
with my sleeve I looked around for a nice comfy tree to sit
against. It looked like I was going to be here for a while, so I
figured I may as well get myself settled. The branches and leaves
above me served their purpose in protecting me from the rain well
enough for me to remain soaked and not to progress to drenched, not
passing go and not collecting £200 - which was a bit of a pain
because I could have done with the money. Vodkas don’t buy
themselves. One tree looked to be not quite as knotty and knobbly
as its neighbours so that's where I parked my behind. It wasn't
exactly the most comfortable place I'd ever rested, but it would
have to do. I contemplated removing my wet clothing, but without a
radiator handy to dry them on I decided my own body heat was the
nearest I'd get. Besides, I wasn't sure whether I'd be colder with
them on or off, so I chose wet and clothed rather than cold and
nude.
    I looked at the forest around
me. It was nice. Now nice is a word I don't like to use too much -
thanks, pretty much, to my old English teacher. I remember he
banned us from using it in essays once because it was so insipid
and overused. This is nice, that's nice, they're nice, I'm nice,
you're nice, mice are twice as nice. Using it in conjunction with
other words was fine and double dandy, but on it's own, it wasn't
nice at all. The forest, however, was nice. It was