Firewood

Chop.

The wood splits evenly, and to my satisfaction. Each swing results in a log fit for a king’s hearth.

Chop.

Which is a silly thought. It isn’t like a king cares about what logs go into his fireplace, only that it burns.

Chop.

But if he did, he’d be pretty damned pleased with my work.

Chop.

And if he isn’t then I have a whole forest to get more from.

Chop.

“Screw that king, anyway,” I mutter. “Who says my wood isn’t good enough? Has he ever chopped wood, anyway? What does he know?”

Chop.

That’s enough.

I set the axe down and gather up the freshly cut wood into neat piles, placing some underneath a tarp for storage and taking the others with me. My wood might be good enough for a king, but my house sure isn’t. I like it though. Its cozy. Its quiet. Its lonely.

God. It’s so lonely.

“Honey, I’m home,” I call as I step inside. My Doberman, Lady, trots to greet me with a dopey smile on her face and tail wagging, showing off how safe she’s kept the place in my brief absence. I smile down at her and nudge her out of my path to the stove. Its brand new, and the pride of my home (but I’d never tell Lady that.) No gas, no needless connection to a phone app, just a simple woodburning stove for one.

“Aaaaand its missing its chicken,” I say aloud, casting a withering look at Lady. She cocks her head to the side, confused. “Don’t give me that. I thought a Lady would have better manners.” She licks her chops, adding insult to injury. As much as I’d like to be, I can’t be too mad. I was an idiot for forgetting that I was out of wood, and even more of an idiot for leaving my chicken on the pan where Lady could get to it.

I sigh, set the wood down, and walk to the fridge. It’s the only electric thing in the house besides my work computer and phone, and just like both I realize that it’s been greatly depleted when I open it. Which means that I must either kill another one of my chickens, dig into my stockpile, or go into town.

A long, frustrated groan escapes me. Sensing my displeasure, Lady approaches from behind and nudges me with her head. “Get off,” I grumble, unable to help myself. The stockpile was for the winter and emergencies, and I’ve already killed too many chickens. That left town.

I hate going into town.

I tell myself that I would have needed to by the end of the week regardless but it doesn’t help. Rubbing my knuckles against my forehead, I sigh and look down at my dog. “Go get your leash.”

She does on command and I take her to the car. Moments later we’re on the dirt road leading to town.

There’s more like me out here where the internet is bad and the cell-reception spotty. We don’t talk much to each other. You’d think we would, but our modern lives did a great job in teaching us fear and aversion of others. Living in the woods only heightens that feeling, and not a night goes by where I don’t sleep with my gun in easy reach. Besides, Lady is all the companionship I need. I dare anyone to find a human with a smile better than hers.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway. It’s not like I can tell anyone else.

Upon curling around the mountain, the city rises up to meet me. Its buildings are taller than they were fifty years ago, and it’s grown to much that it only takes twenty minutes to reach its outskirts. Advertisements blink to life in the corners of my car’s windows the moment I reach the scanzone, and warnings blink to life across my windshield telling me to hand control over to the satellite. I grumble but do so, settling back with an arm around Lady as the car drives us to our destination. One day I’ll be able to afford a commless car. One day.

The car pulls to a stop outside of the market and powers down in a space. I take Lady’s leash, and with bags in hand, walk the long trek to get my groceries.

Monitors strung along the walls, each showing the newest, hottest online talent shows are there to greet me with their volumes turned all the way up. I put in my earplugs but it doesn’t help.

“Welcome to our latest episode of The Stream, the game show where we pit the hottest new content creators against each other to find the greatest streamer online of all time!”

I pick up a basket and tug lightly on Lady’s leash, urging her forward with me, seeking solace from the screens amongst the orderly shelves, but their noise only follows me.

“Last week had a host of fresh new talent, but as we all know, there can be only one who makes it to the top. Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Chop Week.”

“Chicken breasts,” I mumble to myself, grabbing them from the freezer. Lady sniffs at and lunges for it, but I quickly nudge her away with my body, reprimanding her firmly. I gather the rest of my items as fast as I can, avoiding eye-contact with all who pass by. They make it easy for me.

“Before we begin, I’d like to introduce our panel of judges. Joining us as always is Bobbomberman, Zelduh, and Azulla Fey.” The audience cheers. “Now, let’s meet our contestants!”

I glance at the closest monitor. The camera has focused on a group of people, each dressed with various takes on the “streamer” aesthetic. The announcer goes down their list of names one by one before looking into the camera again. “Now to find out who survived last week’s challenge!”

I begin humming to myself loud enough to block out some of the noise. No one appears to hear me. Most have headphones on, anyway. I’m able to get through my list like that, and when I’m done I approach the only cash register at the front of the store. There isn’t a line. There hasn’t been for some time, as most elect to scan either their handchips or their phones as they leave.

The cashier almost looks affronted as I drag her attention away from her computer. She’s young, and wearing a good amount of makeup. Nodding awkwardly to her, I begin placing my items on the conveyor built, turning my attention back to the screens as I do.

A young woman has been placed under a spotlight. She has big, blocky glasses and a pair of branded headphones around her neck. Her clothing, though torn, is so immaculate otherwise that the tears can only be curated. She’s crying.

“I’m sorry, Clefayblez,” Azulla Fey says without a trace of sorrow in her voice, “but your video was, I'm sorry to say, rather bland and overdone. I can't call it quality content. I'm not even sure if I can call you content at this level. Your gimmick is just that: a gimmick, lacking substance.”

That gets a rise out of Clefayblez, who begins angrily shouting at the judges before her mic is cut off. Azulla Fey shakes her head with an unamused look. “You'll never be content at the level our viewers expect when your attitude is as bad as your work. Go home and try to do better next year.”

The screen washes red with big X’s flashing across the screen. Clefayblez walks angrily off the stage, leaving the other contestants waiting to be judged.

A hand waves in front of my face. I snap back to the cashier and take the earplugs out. She’s looking at me with barely-concealed irritation. “Will you be paying with card or cash?”

“Cash,” I say, bringing out my wallet.

“Of course, you are,” she grumbles. “You know you’re not allowed to have dogs in here, right?”

“But I always bring Lady with me.”

“Is she, like, your support dog?”

“Kinda.”

She shakes her head at me but drops the issue. As I hand over the bills I say, “Are you new here?”

“Mhm.”

“Summer job?”

She looks at me like I’m crazy. “I’m the store’s influencer.”

“Oh.”

“Did you think I was a cashier?”

“I…”

She shakes her head again and holds out her hand. “Here’s your change.”

I close my fingers over the money, shifting from foot to foot. “Do you…like influencing?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Last week my stream pulled in over three hundred people. Soon it’ll be thousands. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Oh. Wow. Congratulations! That sounds like fun.”

She shrugs. “Sometimes. Chat can suck. Too many comments on my boobs.”

I flush. “Um…”

She laughs at my expression and brings out her phone. “You should tune in sometime. I give away promos every week.”

“Sure…”

“Have a nice day.”

I stiffly stuff my money into my pocket and walk away with my bags. On a whim, I turn back to look at her just in time to catch her snapping a picture of me and begin furiously typing something into her phone. In seconds she’s grinning from whatever replies she’s getting. Her register still doesn’t have a line.

Unable to help myself, I stare at the rest of the store from my vantage point at the front, taking in all of its loud monitors and quiet people. Lady, having remembered her manners, sits on her haunches and stares with me. Neither of us make a sound. When the moment passes, it only takes a nudge to get her moving to the car with me.

I hate going into town.