Sonny
by
Gerald Arthur Winter


On the drive from New Jersey Anna told her boys they’d be making a brief stop
at friends’ on the way to their Aunt Jean’s for Easter dinner in Queens. In the backseat
of their ’54 Chevy, with that news, Bobby turned to Gerry with a roll of his big brown
eyes. Gerry concurred with a grimace and snorting smirk. Anna’s sons had already
learned to endure her need to keep both friends and family close. Though only nine
and six respectively, Bobby and Gerry had heard their mother’s tale of woe many times.
Anna was only three when her mother and baby brother had died in the Flu Epidemic.
Despite their first reaction to the planned detour, the boys followed their father’s
example by honoring their mother’s need to hold onto relationships, especially for
special holiday festivities like Easter. The boys had already made the family and friends
rounds for Thanksgiving and Christmas last year. Regardless, certain barriers had been
established when Anna was no more than Bobby’s age, lines not crossed, bridges left
burnt behind, and words forever unsaid.
Anna, was a practical woman, always making the best use of her time. She’d
dragged her sons to Sunday school earlier that morning for an Easter egg hunt hoping
to drain some mischief out of them by satisfying their urge to romp before visiting an
elderly couple who were long-time friends of their father’s mother from Germany.
Like their dad, the boys were already dressed in their new Easter suits which,
thanks to Ovaltine consumption, they would grow out of within six months. At least
Gerry would get to wear Bobby’s hand-me-down Easter outfit next year.
That morning their dad, Bruno, had taught both boys how to tie Windsor
knots in their neckties worn proudly with brass tie-clasps. Since the boys sparkled
in their Easter attire to see their grandparents, aunts and uncles, and three younger
cousins, Anna had suggested to Bruno, “The Britt’s live in Forest Hills near Jean and
Artie, so let’s call them and see if we can stop by on our way to my family’s Easter
dinner. The Britts will be amazed to see how much the boys have grown?”
“Sure, Honey,” Bruno replied with a nod. “I guess they haven’t seen our boys
since Gerry’s christening.”
“With all these streets, avenues, and roads with the same number, I get so
confused,” Anna said. “Do you remember how to get to the Britt’s apartment?”
“Of course,” Bruno said, firmly believing German men never get lost.
“Who are the Britts?” Gerry asked his mom.
“They’re Mimi’s friends from the old country.”
Bruno’s mother preferred to be called “Mimi” because tags like “Grandma”
or “Nana” made her feel old. Easter dinner was not with Bruno’s side of the family
because another aspect of Anna’s perspective was balance. They would visit Bruno’s
side of the family on alternate years, an unbroken system which Anna adhered to
judiciously as if established by The World Court. This year was Anna’s family’s turn
on Easter, but that didn’t keep her from squeezing in another stop with friends of
Bruno’s mother to save on gas consumption and check off another name on her list
of overdue visits.
Bobby and Gerry were impatient because they enjoyed visiting their Aunt
Jean, the setting for Easter dinner later that afternoon. Without children of her own,
Aunt Jean was much like a kid herself, telling the boys enchanting tales from her British
background about pixies who lived in the Gnarly Wood. Stopping to visit people they’d
never met, or were too young to remember, was a bore for the boys. They could hardly
wait to get it over with and get to the fun part of the day. Aunt Jean played the piano
and had taught her young nephews profane British shipping songs she’d heard on the
docks from her youth in Liverpool.
“You must never sing these songs when your mum’s around. She’d have my
bloody head if she knew I’d taught them to you.”
“What does friggin’ mean?” Gerry had asked her once, but she didn’t correct
Bobby when he told his ignorant little brother, “It means cold. You know like in a
refrigerator.”
The boys had their minds set on Uncle Artie’s basement with several tropical
fish tanks filled with Angel fish, black and orange mollies, and kissing gouramis. They
enjoyed watching a catfish with its mouth sucking the side of the fish tank.






Uncle Artie often let the boys feed the fish and play ping pong in the basement.
“Can’t we just go straight to Jean and Artie’s?” Bobby whined in the back seat.
“I don’t know these Britt people. Why are they so important to visit?”
“Yeah,” Gerry followed Bobby’s complaint with, “We wanna play ping pong.”
“Do as your mother asks!” Bruno scolded with his eyes squinting at them from
the rearview mirror. “Stop complaining or I’ll give you both a lickin’!”
The boys knew this wasn’t an idle threat. Both had been spanked with their
dad’s leather belt at the same time. The dual corporal punishment was part of their
mom’s perspective of balance—“Neither of you are innocent. You each had a part
in that broken window. Wait till you father come homes. You’re both gonna get it.”
“The Britts are a lovely old German couple,” Anna told her boys as Bruno
drove with his head cocked towards her. “They were friends who came from
Germany at the same time as Daddy’s parents in 1910. They had a son, Rudolph,
a baby born just before they left Berlin to come to America.”
“Is Rudolph old enough to play with us?” Gerry asked.
“If he were alive, he would be almost ten years older than your father.”
“What happened to him?” Bobby asked, always needing to know all the grim
details of any issue.
“He died from an accident when he was twenty-nine years old.”
“You mean like in a car crash on the Belt Parkway. We saw one last year,” Bobby
reminded Gerry.
“Not like that.” Anna said. “We’ll talk about that another time. Here we are.”
The boys got out of the car and squinted from the bright noon sun as they stared
up at the twelve-story, brick apartment complex on Queens Boulevard.
“Wow! That’s a tall apartment building,” Bobby said.
“I hope the Britts live on the top floor. Maybe we can see the Whitestone Bridge in
Flushing,” Gerry said. “That’s a neat bridge, Daddy. Can we cross it going home?”
“We’ll see,” Bruno said with a noncommittal shrug.
Anna carried a small package gift-wrapped in Easter mode for the Britts. The festive
paper was adorned with bunnies and baby chicks. Bruno carried a bottle of Liebfraumilch.
Anna taught her boys that they should never visit someone’s home without bringing something
for them, but in turn, they should never ask for anything from those they were visiting and
always say “No thank you” to anything offered—at least at first. But if their host insisted then
that would be OK.
The boys were thrilled to take the elevator as high as the eighth floor. There were
several stops on the way up with people getting on and off the elevator. At each stop the
boys deeply inhaled as the aromas from various apartments emitted into the hallways from
tenants preparing their Easter dinners. In the 1950s this was mostly a German-American
area of Queens.
“Mm,” Bruno made a yummy sound. “I smell Sauerbraten.”






Anna stroked Bruno’s arm and promised, “I’ll make that for you next weekend with red cabbage and Kartoffelklöße.”
Familiar with the potato dumplings their mom had learned how to make from
Mimi, the boys exchanged pained expressions of mutual hunger pangs.
When they stopped on the sixth floor, the elevator door opened, but no one
got on, and all the other passengers had already gotten off.
“Ugh! What’s that smell?” Bobby said holding his nose.
Anna turned around and frowned at the boys.
Gerry shrugged. “Sorry, Mom . . . excuse me.”
“See that you don’t do that in the Britt’s apartment, Gerry,” Anna warned.
Stop smirking, Bobby! Don’t you stop up the Britt’s toilet like you did at Aunt Lottie’s
last Christmas.”
Bobby tweaked Gerry’s ear and both boys began to giggle and squirm.
Bruno’s response was like pushing the button on a wind-up toy: “You boys want
a lickin’?”
Anna grabbed Bobby’s hand and Bruno grabbed Gerry’s, marching them down
the corridor to a door still decorated with a palm leaf from the previous Sunday. The
doorbell had a cheerful chime. The door opened abruptly before the last chime stopped
resounding in the boys’ ears. The fresh-baked aroma that wafted from the Britts’ apartment
made the boys grin with delight as their tummies growled.
The elderly couple belonged in a 19th Century Bavarian painting, perhaps Hansel
and Gretel’s grandparents. The Britts’ voices chimed even more musically than the
doorbell as they pinched the boys’ cheeks and warbled with soft German accents.
Stately, Mr. Britt stood erect for an old man and had the cheerful twinkle in his eyes
of a toymaker. He wore a bowtie and suspenders. Mrs. Britt, with white hair, had a
radiant face that reflected an ageless beauty. The boys found it difficult not to look
directly into her kind, limpid eyes as if she were about to cry joyfully over just seeing
them.
“I’ve baked a special treat for your boys.” With a hissing roll of her tongue on
the “r” she said, “Shtrrrooodel.”
“I haven’t learned to make strudel yet,” Anna said. “But it’s on my list.”
Bruno smiled because Anna always had a list of recipes she knew would please
him. She also had a long list of work she expected Bruno to do inside and outside their
home. Anna’s life was ruled by a balance sheet, quid quo pro.
“Come. We must sit at the table,” Mr. Britt said, gesturing for them to follow him
to a long dining room table with china closets all around the room. Antique German
figurines and Hummel plates from twenty years ago in the ‘30s filled the shelves. The
table was covered with fine white lace. So the boys could reach the food on the table,
each sat on a stack of pillows in two big dining room chairs with wooden arms. At the
end of each arm was a carved lion’s head, which the boys fiddled with as their eyes lit
up at the sight and aromas of the home-baked sweets including brownies, strawberry
short cake, Bavarian chocolate cake, and both apple and cherry strudel.
Overcome by the sweets, the boys barely noticed the photos on the walls and in
the china closets of a boy at various ages in progression to becoming a handsome young
man whose eyes beamed just as kindly as Mrs. Britt’s.
“What will it be for you, Gerard,” Mrs. Britt asked. “Apple or cherry shtr-r-o-o-o-del?”






Gerry scrunched up his nose, not over the food, but for being called “Gerard.”
Only his first-grade teacher called him that when Gerry was sent to the principal’s
office for some misdemeanor or in a note to his mother that said: “Your impetuous
son, Gerard, has no self-control.”
Gerry looked to his mom for approval and got the nod. “Cherry, please.”
“How about you, Robert?” Mrs. Britt asked.
Bobby seemed to like the formality of “Robert,” but was even more pleased
that Mrs. Britt called his little brother “Gerard.” Ever since they saw a boy by that
name with an affliction that didn’t allow him to keep his tongue from hanging out of
his mouth and drooling, Bobby often hung out his tongue and teased Gerry with,
“U-u-u-gh, Ge-RARD!”
“Strawberry shortcake, please,” Bobby said, turning his head aside to Gerry and
sticking out his tongue. “U-u-u-gh, Ger-RARD.”
Anna frowned at Bobby, but Bruno was enjoying his coffee and apple strudel
too much to notice. The Britts paid no attention to the mischievous boys’ asides as if
their own conversation was on script, performed so often on a stage that it flowed
naturally with little variation. Bruno seemed oblivious to the Britts’ behavior as if it
were a play he’d often seen. Anna was newer to the Britts’ cosplay since her marriage,
but Bruno had been a teenager when his mother had taken him to visit the Britts soon
after the untimely death of their son.
“Excuse me,” Mrs. Britt said, reacting to Bobby’s aside to Gerry. “Vat dit you say,
R-r-robert?”
Bobby blushed then recovered with, “That was Gerard, not me.”
Mrs. Britt looked from one brother to the other then took a deep breath and
smiled. “It’s been so long since Sonny was their age. I’d nearly forgotten the fun of our
boy’s mischief underfoot.”
“I’m sorry,” Anna said. “They’ve been cooped up in the car for over an hour so
they’re restless.”
Mr. Britt nodded with a smile and looked fondly at the boys. “More coffee,
Bruno?”
“Just a half-cup, thanks. Maybe another small slice of strudel. Make it cherry
this time.” Bruno winked at Gerry.
“Have you boys hunted for Easter eggs this morning?” Mr. Britt asked.
“Yes. At Sunday school in the field behind our church,” Bobby said.
“Well, you know the Easter Bunny comes here, too,” Mrs. Britt said. “There
could be colored eggs anywhere in this room. I’m sure Gerard and Robert can find
them if they search hard enough.”
The boys looked at each other with excitement, not just because they loved
egg hunting on Easter as much as getting Christmas gifts from Santa, but their sugar
highs from the sweets made them ready to burst. The boys looked high and low but
found nothing until they came to the first china closet. Bobby nodded to Mrs. Britt
for permission to open the china closet where he saw through the glass a bright
lemon-yellow egg sparkling with glitter.
The old German woman nodded her approval. Bobby put the egg in the palm
of his hand and stroked the glitter’s rough texture with his thumb. From beneath the
table, Mrs. Britt pulled out a wicker Easter basket for him to put the egg into.
“I see a blue one over here,” Gerry said, waiting for permission to open
another china closet.
Getting the nod from Mrs. Britt was good, but he still waited for his mom’s
approval, and got it before proudly placing his egg next to Bobby’s nestled in the
green cellophane grass inside the basket.
“Oh, but you must keep looking,” Mrs. Britt chortled. “There are ten more to
be found, a dozen in all.”
Bobby gave his mom a nod towards a framed photo in another china closet, a
sepia print of a young boy in a park holding a soccer ball and smiling. His cheeks were
tinted rosy against the brownish tone of the sepia, a common tinted effect applied to
photographs at the time it had been taken.
The bottom of the gilded frame said: “Sonny - 1919.”
The pink egg rested behind the photo, so Bobby hesitated. “I don’t want to
break anything,” he said, being as tender as his younger brother was rambunctious.
“Ah! You’ve found the hardest one already,” Mr. Britt said, standing up to
hold the china closest door open with one hand and removing the egg with the other.
He handed the pink egg to Bobby then Mrs. Britt held out the basket for him to put
it with the yellow egg and the blue one.
Gerry stared at his mom as if he were about to jump out of his skin. He saw a
purple egg, his favorite color, but it was inside a glass globe with a ballerina standing
on one foot in a pirouette with her arms held in a heart shape above her head.
Mr. Britt chortled as he came to Gerry and patted him gently on the head and
opened the china closet. He took the music box in two hands then removed the glass
globe and handed Gerry the purple egg. He set the music box on the dining room table
and wound it with a key at its base. In a white tutu, the ballerina spun in a circle to the
music mesmerizing the boys while the adults swayed to the rhythm.
An inscription on the base of the music box read:
I will love you forever, Stefania
Happy 21st Birthday – Sonny
September 1, 1939
Gerry was already a good reader in first grade so he blurted, “Who is Stef-an-i-a?”
The room seemed to freeze in a still-life painting, but the music box continued its
plunking rhythm for almost a minute as Mr. Britt seemed to be holding his breath.
Anna broke the pained silence. “We should be going now,” Anna said softly,
gathering up the boys as Bruno shook Mr. Britt’s hand with a tight grip the way he’d
taught his sons. Anna put her gentle palm on top of Mrs. Britt’s surprisingly youthful
hand, void of typical wrinkles or liver spots of the elderly. “Thank you for having us and
being so generous to the boys. Happy Easter!”
Glassy-eyed, Mrs. Britt said, “Sonny always found the purple Easter egg no matter
where it was hidden. It was his favorite.”
As if in a trance, she remained seated at the table. Mr. Britt led their guests to
the door and handed Anna the Easter basket with the four dyed eggs the boys had
found. There were also two chocolate rabbits, many varicolored jelly beans scattered
throughout the basket, and two yellow chicks made of marshmallow. It had been well
worth the stop for the boys’ appetites before heading to Aunt Jean’s for Easter dinner,
no doubt lamb, the only meat, the boys heard Anna tell Bruno, her British sister-in-law
couldn’t possibly overcook.
They waved to Mr. Britt from the elevator door and descended to their car.
They rode toward Jewel Avenue for ten minutes without a word before Gerry broke
the silence.
“I’m sorry I upset Mrs.
ckin’ when we get home tonight?”
Bobby grinned at the thought, knowing he, at least, had been on his best behavior.
“No lickin’s,” Bruno said with authority and a smile aside to Anna. “It’s Easter.”
That was good enough for Gerry, pardoned by the Easter Bunny. But unlike his
little brother who seemed to relish being a child, Bobby longed to be an adult, to know
what his parents were talking about and all the dark, grownup details that always
seemed to be buzzing over his head.
Bobby blurted, “When will I be old enough to know how Sonny died?”
“Yeah, Mom, me too,” Gerry said.
“It’s too sad a story to tell children,” Anna said with certainty, having never learned
the grim details of her own mother’s passing. “You’ll have to wait until you’re grownups.”
And so they did . . .

When Women Search for Safety

By Angela Camack




Massachusetts in the 1880’s had its share of strange and gory legends. Salem, of course, and the ghosts of the men lost in the terrible Housac Tunnel mine explosion. Locals said they haunted the area near the tunnel. People carried tales of the Gloucester Harbor sea serpent and the Dogtown ghost town. The Boston Lighthouse in Cohasset had a history of drowned lighthouse keepers, said to be the work of the Hobomack Demon.
A small town near Boston had its own history of unexplained deaths. Sometimes separated by years, bodies were found in different places around the town, usually on summer mornings when people started on their daily paths early. They found torn bodies left on lurid display for the unfortunate to find, bodies so badly torn it was difficult to piece them together for identification. Each discovery sent the town into terror and shock. The town constables never made any progress finding the killers. Mothers kept children in their yards all day and people refused to leave their houses after dark. Eventually the fear abated, leaving an under base of uneasiness, late night stories and tales to scare children.
Sarah Crane came to the small town when she was 14. Her drunken parents had died when they ran their cart off the road after a night at the local tavern. As she had no other family, the town pastor notified her long estranged relatives, her Uncle Josiah, a banker, and Aunt Harriet Crane. The Cranes children were grown, and they had extra rooms in their house. They reluctantly took her in.
On her second day of residence, she sat on a stool in the house’s well-appointed parlor. The Cranes sat on the sofa across from her. Like many long-married couples, they had come to resemble each other; slender, pale, silver-haired, blue eyes. Rosy-cheeked Sarah, with her dark brown eyes and hair, felt like another species.
“Your father was a rotten apple from a good tree,” said Uncle Josiah. “It is our duty to take you in, but mark my words, we expect better from you. Our funds aren’t unlimited.” (Sarah tried not to look at the mahogany furniture, the flowing curtains and oriental carpet). You will get one new dress a year. You will maintain your clothing. You will have chores.
“Of course,” said Sarah. “I always had chores at home. (If she wanted regular meals or clean clothing,)
“You will go to church and be responsible,” Uncle Josiah continued. “You will remember your station. Don’t expect full membership in this family. Do you have any questions?”
“Where do I go to school?” Sarah asked.
“School for you,” snorted Aunt Harriet. “Better you learn practical things. You will go when you have time.”
The books Sarah carried from her old home had already earned her aunt’s derision, but her precious books, bought third hand or obtained through the village school, had been her companions and her comfort.
Sarah settled into her “chores,” meaning she was part of the household staff, helping the cook, housekeeper and laundress. The cook mentioned that a maid left a month ago. She was never replaced.
School was hit-or-miss, and Sarah had no time for friends. But she had always walked alone. People had a low opinion of the disreputable Cranes’ child.
Growing and working hard, she was always hungry. Sarah saw Aunt Harriet’s eyes travel from Sarah’s fork to her mouth with every bite she took, so she never asked for more than what her aunt put on her plate. Had Sarah a moment, she would have noticed that the weight loss had narrowed her waist and made her eyes look enormous in her small face. She would be a lovely woman.
When Sarah was 15 the murder struck again. The town minister found a farmer’s body across from the church, arms and legs horribly splayed, body hollowed, blood pooling. The fear returned. Townspeople locked their doors after supper and restricted their children to their yards again.
Talk buzzed around the town. People noticed that the dead had something in common. The townspeople were horrified by the murders, but the dead were not mourned. They were scoundrels, like the man who battered his wife and children. One was an “investor” who cheated elderly people of their savings, another was suspected of burning down a rival’s business and so on. Was the murderer an evil force or an avenging spirit?
And life went on again. Sarah kept on. Her aunt sometimes loaned her out to other housewives, and Sarah hoarded the money they gave her. She also saved the small birthday and Christmas gifts she received. She made a tiny slit in her mattress to hide her money, so even if the mattress was turned by the household staff it would not be discovered. She saved to get away, away from a loveless house and a town where she had no future.
Now she was 16. She noticed that her uncle’s behavior toward her was warming by degrees, inquiring after her health and her studies, giving her small sums to “buy something nice for yourself.” She was cheered at first but grew wary when he began to stroke her hand when he talked to her, to stand too close for comfort, to “accidentally” bump into her. His touches became more
overt. Sarah began hooking a chair under the doorknob in her room, just in time, as on the second night after placing the chair she heard the doorknob rattle. Aunt Harriet grew colder and looked at her with suspicion.
Sarah remembered half-heard conversations between the household staff. “Another one gone, not even a reference. It isn’t fair.” “Old as he is, you think he’d stay away from them.” “Doesn’t she know?” “She must not, taking in that young girl.” “Should we tell Sarah?” “Not if you want your job. Just let it be.” Of course. That’s why the maid left so suddenly. And there had been others.
One night Aunt Harriet sent Sarah to a sick neighbor with stew and a loaf of fresh bread. She dropped off the food and returned to the house though the dark and chilly evening, nearly running into a figure on the path in front of her. The figure, an eerie apparition, was heavily cloaked, tall and ashen pale. The face had black eyes, deep set in their sockets and a thin-lipped mouth. Sarah couldn’t tell if it was male or female.
“Hello, Ssarah.” the whispery voice reminded Sarah of snakes, and she felt colder.
“How do you know me?” Sarah asked.
“Everyone in the village knowss everyone. Of coursse I know of Ssarah. A lovely sstrong name for a lovely sstrong girl.”
“I have to get back to the house.”
“Back to the housse, not back home? I don’t think sso, girl. Do you have troublesss?
“All of us have troubles.” Sarah answered.
“Yess. A lovely sstrong girl. Good evening, Ssaarah.” The figure moved to the side, almost gliding, and Sarah moved past. She was shaken by the meeting. What had she just talked to? But she had more pressing problems.
Sarah wanted to leave, to go to Boston, but her savings were still small. What could she look forward to but another servant’s job, with no chance for anything different or better paying, especially without a reference?
She knew there would be trouble when Aunt Harriet left for a few days to visit an old friend. And there was. She found her uncle in her room when she came back from one of her school days. She smelled alcohol in the room.
“It’s time for you to pay me back, Sarah. You’ve had a roof over your head, and your keep.”
“I’ve worked. I’ve worked hard.”
“You’re not a girl anymore. It’s time.” He rushed toward her, grabbing her around the waist and pressing her lips to hers. Sarah fought hard, scratching and hitting.”
“Damn you, stop it!” he said. “You’re making it harder!”
Sarah screamed, and he put a hand over her mouth. This made it easier to move away, but he pushed her on her bed and put his thigh over her body. Sarah was sickened by fear, by the smell of liquor and sweat. She kept fighting. Finally, her knee connected with his groin.
“You little bitch!” he snarled. “I will get back at you, and it’s going to be harder for you the next time.” He limped out of the room.
Aunt Harriet returned the next day. What would her uncle tell her? Would he say anything? No matter what, something bad was coming.
She plead illness the next day, staying in bed. “Don’t indulge yourself too long, Sarah.” said her aunt from the door of her room. Her behavior showed no change, yet.
Sarah spent a fearful day, wondering what her next step would be, thinking furiously, staying in bed through lunch and dinner, until her aunt and uncle retired for the night. The inactivity and suspense became too much, so she dressed and left the house for fresh air.
She wasn’t far from the house when the apparition she had met once on the path was in front of her again. Where did it come from?
“Troubless, little Ssarah?”
“What do you want?” Sarah stammered
“What do you want? Do you want to be free of your uncle? Do you want to be away from danger?”
“How do you know?”
The apparition laughed. “I alwayss know. I’m quite good at finding evil. Forcing himself on the innocent. A horror. He sshould be halted dead, right? Evil musst be contained. There are people who do not merit life. Who go on doing evil. And the police here are a joke, not a real power.”
Sarah suddenly understood. “It’s you. You did those murders.” Shaken, she suddenly sank to the damp ground. “Leave me alone or I’ll go to the police.”
The apparition laughed again. “To them? And who would believe you? I got rid of evil men. Evil musst be contained, right? It musst be paid back. They got paid back, all right, paid in full by blood. By their wicked bodies. You want your uncle to sstop. You want him to pay.”
“Not like that. Not like that.” Sarah began to cry.
“You don’t have a lot of choice, girl.”
“No! Not like that!”
“Think of the otherss, girl.”
The maids. The ones in the past and the ones who would come after Sarah left. The apparition knew how to get to her.
“You don’t have a lot of time. Be here tomorrow night, thiss time, if you want my help.” The apparition glided away.
Sarah returned to the house. If the apparition helped her, she would be safe, as would any young woman who came after her. But at what price? But knowing this, how could she not act to help the other girls?
No, she decided. She’d heard what had happened to the bodies of the murdered people. Evil or not, they died horribly, in fear and pain. She remembered the apparition’s glee as it talked of payment in blood and flesh. Was it fighting evil or feeding an appetite of its own?
She went back to the house. It was still quiet. Packing took almost no time, even with her precious books. She removed her savings from her mattress. She crept quietly to the jar in the kitchen where Aunt Harriet kept household money and took ten dollars. An evil, she knew, smaller but still evil. But her aunt and uncle had worked her hard and saved the salary of a maid. She kept the ten dollars. Feeling reckless and seeing her uncle’s jacket draped over a chair, she took another ten.
Sarah would go to Boston. She would find a job. She knew there were charitable organizations that helped women in need that she could turn to. She could train for something. Women trained as nurses to work in hospitals or went to normal school to learn to teach. She would be good at that kind of work.
It wasn’t until she found her way to the train station and waited for it to open that she wondered what she was running to. To another servant’s job where the head of the household
might expect the same thing that her uncle expected of her? Should she stay with the devil she knew?
No, better to be a moving target. She would make something of herself and make herself safe. She could even try to find Aunt Harriet’s other betrayed maids and see if they could face the police together and stop Uncle Josiah. She tugged her coat more closely around her as the sky lightened and the time of the station’s opening neared.

The Hoochatassa Horror


🎃


by Gerald Arthur Winter


“Don’t yuz be up to no good, Tommy,” his mom warned. “Those two older boys get ideas could getcha in trouble. My life’s had ‘nough troubles without ya causin’ me more. You just go trick-o-treatin’ with them kids yer own age. Don’t let Andy and Ricky let ya disobey yer mama. Don’t forgit—I’m the one that feeds ya since Paw disappeared.”
“Sure, Ma. Maybe I’ll be a pirate this year.”
“That’s m’boy. Good choice.”
* * *
The three boys ranged from thirteen to fifteen, but all were in the same eighth grade class in south Florida. It was 1958 before any “No one Left Behind” or Civil Rights amendments were even considered and, if it took a village, that would be to hang a Nubian, the Klan’s coded “N” word, without the authorities knowing a thing about it.
No problem for the locals in the redneck swamp burg of Hoochatassa where Tommy, Andy, and Ricky spent that late October weekend camping and catfishing in The Glades.
Tommy was the youngest of the trio and said he wanted to go trick-o-treating, but Ricky, the fourteen-year-old, said, “That just for little kids. Were too old for that kids stuff.”
“Nothin’ scary about those silly store-bought costumes,” Andy said with slow drag on a Lucky Strike cigarette. He’d been left back twice and got his driver’s permit before high school.
“I was gonna be a Pirate,” Tommy admitted. “Just to scare those little kids.”
“You want to see something really scary?”
“Sure,” Tommy and Ricky said in harmony.
“Then we got a spend the night on Cottonmouth Island where The Hoochatassa
Horror drags its kill on Halloween night and eats it alive.”
“Kill?” Ricky gulped. “That’s just a rumor, right?”
“Uh-uh,” Tommy said with eyes wide as two poached eggs. “My mom said that
monster killed one of her classmates when she was a kid. Never found the body cause that Hoochatassa Horror ate her and tossed her bones into quicksand—no trace ever found.”
“Nah! She probably just told ya that so you wouldn’t go to Cottonmouth Island,”
Ricky said. “Kind a creepy for her to make that up though.”
“Come on,” Andy huffed. “We got the whole weekend to camp and fish and Halloween’s tomorrow night. Let’s do it. Double-dog dare yuzz!”
The challenge was on. Not accepting the dare meant admitting you were still a scared little kid, but if they survived Halloween night on Cottonmouth Island, the monster’s lair, they’d be envied by every classmate and the girls might even offer them a kiss. They could wear that badge of honor starting high school next year.
“OK, I’m in,” Ricky offered.
Hesitant, Tommy said, “My Mom wouldn’t kid me about some girl in her class being eaten by the monster. I can’t let her know I’m going with you. You both gotta cover for me. If she asks, tell her I went trick-o-treating with some other kids you don’t know ”
“We gotcha covered,” Andy said and Ricky nodded as the threesome joined hands to seal their pact.
* * *
The full moon reflected on the swamp that Halloween night and the red glow of gator eyes surrounded their little boat. Tommy turned the outboard motor off as Andy rowed, Ricky kept a lookout for gators, and Tommy watched for a safe landing on Cottonmouth Island.
It was the first chill night of Autumn with a breeze coming off the Gulf. They hoped the cooler night air would send the gators to the muddy bottom till sunrise and keep the snakes calm and sluggish in their dens.
“I shoulda brought a windbreaker,” Tommy said standing at the bow. “At least the chill cuts down the skeeter bites.”
“We’ll find a dry campsite and start a fire that will last till daybreak,” Andy said.
“Are monsters afraid of fire?” Ricky asked.
Tommy offered, “Probably not afraid of anything, least of all three boys in a boat looking for trouble.”
“I ain’t lookin’ for no trouble,” Ricky said. “I’m just along for the ride.”
Andy grumbled under his breath, “Jeez. What pussies.”
* * *
After their quick, uneventful landing they set camp and gathered in their sleeping bags around the crackling campfire giving their spooky faces an orange glow.
“This sure beats trick-o-treating,” Ricky said. “Only thing missin’ is the candy.”
“I thought a that,” Andy said, sitting up in his sleeping bag. “You guys owe me.”
He tossed Hersey bars to Ricky and Tommy and opened his own. They spent the next few minutes chomping and slurping their treats. Then they thought they heard a boat rowing towards the nearby shore.
“Wha wuzzat?” Ricky said with panic.
“Maybe a gator,” Andy offered.
“A big one for sure,” Tommy said with his eyes aglow. “Better put more wood on the fire.”
“What if it’s the monster?” Ricky said with a tremor. “He’ll see it. Maybe we should put it out.”
“Stop freakin’ out, Ricky!” Andy cautioned. “I’m bettin’ this Hoochatassa Horror don’t like flames, just like Frankenstein.”
“Seems logical,” Tommy shrugged.
Then they heard rustling through the nearby mangroves.
“That ain’t no gator,” Andy whispered.
“Jeez, someone docked a boat like us,” Ricky said.
“Competition,” Tommy surmised. “Maybe some other boys want to steal our prize, diminish our claim. We gotta scare ’em off.”
The three boys nodded and got out of their sleeping bags. Crawling through the island foliage in single file they stopped when a hooded cloaked figure in black shown a flashlight and carried a burlap sack over one shoulder.
Andy whispered, “Ain’t the Klan. They wear white.”
“Looks like a bury-a-body kind of outfit, so no one can see him in the dark,”
Ricky offered what seemed obvious to Andy and Tommy.
“Think it’s that Hoochatassa Horror?” Tommy asked nervously.
“Let’s see where he’s goin’ with that sack,” Andy said. “Maybe it’s a body.”
“That’s it. I’m goin’ home,” Ricky stammered.
“You can’t row worth shit,” Andy hissed. “Besides, we agreed to stick together till dawn before goin’ home. No time to quit now.”
Grumbling, Ricky and Tommy agreed.
“If we see where the body gets buried, we can tell the sheriff. Maybe there will be a reward,” Andy offered.
The other two agreed and, like Andy, followed him on hands and knees. The flashlight’s glow was just ten yards ahead and easy to see and follow in the dark, though the boys were cautious about snakes. They figured someone must have named the island “Cottonmouth” for a good reason.
The beam ahead came to a stop then the cloaked figure hoisted the sack off its shoulder onto the ground with a heavy clump followed by a moan from inside the sack.
“Jeez,” Ricky blurted, which made the cloaked figure turn the flashlight on them,
just like three deer in the headlights.
“Up with the three of yuzz!” a hoarse hiss came from the head concealed within the black hood.
Shaking, they stood, feeling naked in the light surrounded by so much darkness in the swamp.
“Please don’t hurt us,” Andy pleaded. “We won’t tell anyone we saw ya. We promise. Right, fellas?”
Their knees quivered as they nodded their heads like bobble-head dolls.
“Too late for that,” the voice rasped. “You two can dig a hole for me. Not the younger one, just you two older boys cause yer bigger and stronger than the runt. Make it deep and wide enough for three.”
“Three?” Andy and Ricky chimed in duo while Tommy remained silent with his head hung so low his chin touched his chest.
“Ya gonna kill us?” Ricky asked with a shudder.
“Shut up and dig!” the voice commanded.
* * *
Almost an hour later it was midnight and the boys were exhausted from their digging. Looking up to the night sky they saw black clouds cutting across the full moon and the night breeze made them shiver.
“You three will make a nice midnight snack to celebrate Halloween,” the voice said. “First, I’m gonna give my fresh kill to the youngin’,” Ricky and Andy leaned on their spades and turned to Tommy, still with his head bent down.
The cloaked figure tossed the sack landing at Tommy’s feet. Ricky and Andy heard Tommy sniffling, the crybaby they assumed he was. But the sniffling turned to snorting, then growling, and into a sudden roar as Tommy lifted his head with bared fangs with a black canine nose, wet and glistening in the moonlight. His eyes glowed green like a thousand fireflies caught in a jar.
“Tommy takes after me, not his Paw who’s buried yonder.” With a jerk of the hood, the massive head of an alpha she-wolf emerged with incisors five inches long. The voice that had sounded faint, almost brittle before, now made the earth shake beneath Ricky’s and Andy’s feet.
The sound of tearing flesh and bloodcurdling screams echoed across The Glades sending the gators even deeper to the muddy bottom in fear of

The Hoochatassa Horror.

The Consubstantial Man

By Edward Ahern
 
Frankie Witt crawled out of a stupor and into a hangover. The crust inside his mouth crumpled like a wasp's nest as he puckered.
Aghh. Again. Head feels like it's oozing pus.  You stumble bum, just die and be done with it.   
Frankie shambled into the bathroom, drank a glass of off-color water and weaved into the kitchen area of his one-wide trailer. The sink and counter top were overgrown with dirty dishes and food remnants. Eat or drink? His churning stomach kept time with the agony in his head. Both.
 Where's the blender? Frankie's eyes crawled over the mess. Aha! He grabbed the blender, and sloshed water into it, brightening the Margarita scabs inside it.
Put the vodka in last. He tossed in a vintage pizza slice, two dried-out hot dogs, and mildewed strawberries, topping up with a slug of the brownish water and a half pint of vodka.
The blender complained, sparking, but ground out a dung-colored mix. Frankie ignored the bubbles forming in the slush and swallowed a mouthful from the blender. Ouph! Damn that's nasty. Alum and mold.
His sinuses reflated like they'd been stented, and Frankie felt snot slithering down toward his throat. He was blowing his nose on a stained paper towel when his guts and muscles cramped and he dropped to the floor.

Frank Witt Dossier, NSA interim report: The well water is contaminated with animal fecal matter, microorganisms and lead from the piping. Unfortunately none of the biological contents of the blender remain for analysis, the blender having baked inside the uncooled trailer. Analysis of the residue revealed traces of arsenic, gold and mercury in addition to the expected levels of lead, iron, and calcium. Twenty seven unclassified microorganisms were discovered on the food remains in the trailer kitchen, as well as two previously unknown species of fly.

Frankie came to three hours later. He winced out of habit, then realized that nothing hurt. Why do I feel so good? My mind, it's like I hadn't had a drink in days. He stood up without staggering, walked to the sink and drank from the faucet. I'm starving, Wait, take care of the concoction first.
He began rinsing out a tequila bottle. The back of his right hand swung into a rusty steak knife, the blade penetrating almost through his palm. Frankie cursed at the pain, pulled his hand away, and stared as the wound stopped bleeding and closed back up. In three seconds there was nothing on his hand but a faint pink mark. Sweet Jesus Murphy! Must be DT's.
Frankie pulled the steak knife out from the dish pile and stared at it. The blade showed smears of his blood. I wonder. He took the knife by its handle and jabbed it into and out of his left palm. Blood welled out for a second and then the skin healed over. It hurt, I must be awake.
He poured the contents of the blender into the tequila bottle and recapped it. Then he put on pants, tee shirt and shoes, and walked through the trailer park and across the road to Bernice's Oasis, a bar masquerading as a diner.
Two all-day drinkers perched at the far end of the bar. Bernice Stanton stood at the other end, shifting her attention between her cell phone and a shopping channel on the television. "I didn't think you'd make it this time, Frankie."
"Bernice, I'm starving. Please, a burger and fries?"
"And you don't have any money."
"Please, Bernice."
"You already owe me two hundred." She sighed. "Hell, all right. Better food than booze. Save your liver from the freak show."
Frankie set the tequila bottle on the bar, the gelatinous contents quivering. "Okay, I do owe you. I'll give you a shot of this stuff. It's incredible what it'll do for you. Once you see how good you feel you'll wipe out the two hundred."
"Two-o-five counting the burger.  Get that slimy looking filth off my bar, I'm not drinking it."
Frankie looked her over fondly. Bernice was zaftig, hard to budge in body or opinion.  But she's wrong. This stuff is the water of life. I should be charging $2,000 a pop, not $200.
"Okay, Bernice, you win. But I want to show you something before you cook up that burger."
Frankie took a folding knife out of his pocket and, without hesitating, sliced a line down his right forearm.
"You rotted-out alkie! You've lost it."
He said nothing, holding the arm over the bar so Bernice could watch the wound close.
"Well, jack up my sagging tits!"
Frankie glanced at the day drunks and pushed the bottle toward her. "Please, Bernice, you'll feel better than you have for a long time. Better sit down first, though."
"Not a chance, Frankie. You'll probably be running form both ends in a couple minutes."
Ten minutes later, Bernice delivered a burger, fries and beer to his table and sat quietly with him, working things out. "That brown slime does seem to work on your shakes, Frankie."
"Yeah. I've been thinking. There's maybe three quarters of a quart in the bottle. If I'm stingy, that's twenty shots. I should be able to get five, maybe ten grand a shot, easy. Problem is, I don't know people who've got that kind of spending money."
She patted his arm, avoiding the mark left by the knife. "You know I do, from before, but consider, Frankie. If that stuff works, your golden goose will squat out twenty eggs and then you're got no income."
Frankie could sense relays clicking in his mind, amazed that he could again think more than two steps ahead. "Yeah, and if I get the government to believe me, they'll confiscate the bottle, lock me up as a lab rat, and bleed me every so often." He exhaled slowly, calculating.
Bernice went behind the bar, poured a triple shot of cheap scotch, and brought it back. "Here, your hangover must be pushing your eyes out onto your cheeks."
"Thanks. It's weird, but this is the first morning in months that I haven't felt like a bad death." Frankie downed the drink in four swigs and frowned. "There's no pop, no jolt. It's like the stuff is neutralized as it's running down my gullet."
"You want another?"
"Don't think it'll do any good. Look, Bernice, I need someone like you to front for me, to be a cutout from the buyer. Here's the deal. You become like my agent, ten percent for helping set things up."
Her smile stretched almost to her jaw line. "Crap. Fifty percent or no deal."
"Sugar, don't rely on our two-backed beast act, this is business."
"Look, Frankie, I've got almost no money and you've got none. You're going to need cash to get rolling, that means selling a shot or two cheap. But the people I know, first thing, they see this works, they'll want to muscle in, maybe take the bottle. You've got to be smart to play on their turf. Got to sell this stuff like a street drug. You only know booze."
"Okay, fifteen percent."
"Twenty five."
"Twenty, and you'll still have the option to get a shot."
"Done."
They didn't bother to shake the hands that'd previously explored each other.
"Run my tab up a little further?"
"What the hell."
"Bottle of Cuervo to take home. And a mini bottle of anything. Need to figure out how to stash the mixture."
Bernice pulled the bottles from behind the bar and handed them to Frankie, then watched him walk away. Two Cuervo bottles. Is he smart enough to work a switch? Not Frankie. Oops, not the old Frankie. This guy knows when to change his underwear.
Frankie surprised himself by setting the real tequila bottle down unopened. Don't think I can get smashed anymore, and that's all I know how to do. Think, you drunk, how are you going to handle this stuff?
He went into the bathroom and knelt on the floor next to the toilet. Opening his knife, he pried up a floor tile. The tile had been glued to a same-sized section of cut-out plywood flooring underneath it. Below the opening the toilet drain pipe ran down through two feet of air and into the ground. Next to it was the length of PVC piping Frankie had stuck in the ground.
He pressed his cheek against the base of the toilet bowl and reached down through the hole, knife in hand. He scraped off an inch of dirt and animal droppings, then pulled his arm back out of the hole and dropped the knife. He stuck his arm back down and grabbed the screw cap of the five inch diameter tube. Frankie wiggled the tube back and forth to enlarge its hole, then pulled the tube up through the floor hole.
Sweat dripped down his body, moisturizing a five-day accumulation of drinker's funk. He unscrewed the PVC cap, dropped the Cuervo bottle into the tube, and screwed the cap back on. Frankie shoved the PVC tube back into its hole, and scraped debris back over the tube cap. He looked pensively at the result, then grabbed a paper cup, scooped water from the toilet, and sprinkled water over the disturbed dirt until he couldn't tell any difference from its moldy surroundings. Time to celebrate. He took a small nip from the remaining bottle. I thought so, doesn't have any more kick.
Frankie found some soap and showered and shaved. The rusty razor blade nicked him several times before he was done. He chuckled as the cuts snapped shut.
His clothes were all soiled. He wrapped everything in a sheet and walked outside and over to the laundry room trailer, then paced back and forth naked until the machines were finished and he could put on clean pants and shirt.
Once back in his trailer Frankie's body commanded him to take a nap. It's like the install needs to be completed, he thought, drifting off. The banging on his door woke him up. "Frankie, get your skinny ass out of bed."
Frankie opened the door to see Bernice, sweating in the desert heat. "Jesus, Frankie, its eleven in the morning. I got news. Come over to the diner."
The diner's air conditioning whacked Frankie as he entered. Goose bumps started popping, but within two seconds they disappeared and he felt comfortable. Man, I got a professional grade thermostat now.
"Talk to me, Bernice."
"Okay, I made some calls while you were passed out. Nobody believed me, but one guy, Harry Crispen, owes me a favor and says we can seem him at three. Then I fired up the lap top and put in some search words. Frankie, you wouldn't believe how many thousands of flaky web sites there are. But I asked some questions on a couple sites that looked sane."
"You didn't tell them where we are did you?"
"Come on, I'm the smart one, remember? I just lurked. Well, maybe a hint or two. We gotta go if we're going to make the meeting on time."
"Where'd you set it up?"
"A little restaurant I know. Crispen should be there."
Frank Witt Dossier, DEA excerpt: None of the interrogated adult males reputed to be part of Mr. Harry Crispen's crime organization admitted to knowing Ms. Stanton and Mr. Witt, nor of any involvement in drug trafficking. In sum, they admitted nothing at all.
 
The restaurant was little, with only nine tables. At three p.m. the only people in the restaurant were a waiter and two large, seated men. Frankie focused in on them. Late thirties, fat packed on muscle. Shirts hanging out over their pot bellies. Careless, they're not checking to see if anybody else is around.
Bernice and Frankie sat down wordlessly.
"You Bernice?"
"Yeah. Where's Harry?"
The talker of the pair tapped back half a glassful."Harry sent us, says you gotta convince us before  he'll talk to you. Where's the weird drink? And who's the drunk?"
"He's Frankie. And it's real. We got a drink makes you feel like you're screwing a seventeen year old cheerleader. And not only that. Show em Frankie."
"Hello." Frankie said. "Watch this." He reached in his pants pocket and pulled out the folding knife. Both men moved their right hands under their drooping shirts and belly flab.
Bernice let out a strained laugh. "No, no, relax. This is a demonstration."
Frankie slowly opened the knife and sliced a one inch cut in his forearm. He turned the forearm so both men had a good view. They watched as, in less than three seconds, the bleeding stopped and the wound closed. "We think it's permanent," Bernice said. "One drink and you're set. I knew Harry would doubt me, so I told him he could down the shot and pay me five large when he sees that it works."
Two burly necks twisted as they glanced at each other. The talker answered. "Harry says different. He says you give us the shot of this stuff for free. He likes it, he talks to you about how much you get when you give him the rest."
Bernice kept his eyes on the two men, but she could feel Frankie's smoldering presence. "That's not what he said. I'll call Harry again and explain things. Don't take it the wrong way, but no deal."
The talker leaned forward and backhanded Bernice across the face, splitting her lip. "Look bitch, we're doing it our way, or you're going to take a beating you won't be able to heal from."
Frankie leaned forward, taking the mini bottle out of his pocket and showing it. "Look guys, let's just talk." As he was saying this, he grabbed a plate from the table top and slammed it into the talker's mouth. The plate snapped in half and Frankie swung the jagged edge across the mute's throat.
"Holy frig!" Bernice yelled, jumping backwards.
The two obese men fell out of their chairs and hit the floor. Frankie grabbed his own chair and bounced it off the two men's heads. "This didn't work out so well, Bernice." He unscrewed the mini and drank it. "Not for you, suckers."
The waiter had run back into the kitchen. The two fat men on the floor weren't moving. Bernice's eyes swung back and forth "Are they dead? Harry's gonna kill us both."
"Don't think they are. We've got a few minutes before the cops come. Go through their pockets."
"Huh?"
"Chances are they brought the money just in case."
 
Bernice dropped to her knees, rolled the fat mute guy over and found his back-pocket wallet. "Must be three, four large here."
"Great. What about our other buddy?"
She crawled over to the other man, trying to ignore his splintered teeth, and reached down into his front pockets. "Got it. Exactly five grand. And they're both breathing."
"Check the back pockets too. He'll have money on his ass."
She found the wallet. "Yeah, another couple thousand. Here's all the money."
"Peel two grand off the top. That's for you. Okay, we gotta go." He took the rest of the money, then helped Bernice up, taking her arm as they walked to the car. "I'll drive."
Ten minutes into the drive Frankie glanced over at her. "Harry's people will be at your diner in a few hours. Repack your trousseau into the hope chest, we need to leave before they get there."
"They'll trash the place."
"You insured?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."
As Frankie began to crest the last hill before the diner and trailer park he spotted two SUVs parked in front of the closed diner, and three men in suits standing near the door. "You expecting anybody?"
"Nope."
"Suits in the desert. It's looking like Uncle Sam wants me. You must have gone True Confession on the web sites. I'll stay hid up here and watch you walk down like a beauty contestant."
"You abandoning me?"
"No way. But you can find out what they want. Go ahead and tell them the truth, except for the part about robbing Crispen's men. I’ll figure some way to get the car back to you."
The four suits circled Bernice as she approached her diner.
"Bernice Stanton?"
"Yeah?"
"We need to ask you some questions about your web search last night. The product you described falls under national security guidelines."
"And who the hell are you?"
The three men flashed identity cards.
"They look different from each other."
"Joint task force, NSA, FBI, DEA, agents Withersi, Haunchez and Greune. How did you get here?"
"My chauffeur just quit."
The men exchanged glances, but knew they had no real chance of finding a driver in an unknown car. The shortest guy spoke. "Shall we talk inside?"
Twenty minutes after the questioning had begun, the diner's wall phone rang."
"Okay if I answer that? Might be important."
"Okay."
Bernice got up, walked behind the bar, and picked up the phone. It was Frankie.
"Hi sweetie. Put one of them on, please."
"She turned to them."It's for you."
The FBI man in the middle got up, walked over, and took the phone from her. "Hello?"
"I'm the guy who drank the stuff. I'll do something for you, but you've got to do something for me."
"Keep talking."
"In maybe a half hour, a car full of large men will pull in and begin to threaten Bernice. If you hide in the kitchen with no lights on you'll be able to see and hear their threats, so you can arrest them for assault. They work for Harry Crispen. I'll give you what you want, but you make very sure that Harry knows to lay off. She gets hurt, you get nothing."
"And you're jerking me around. Come back here so we can talk."
"You looked sweet in that dark suit, but I don't think you're my type."
"Where's the substance? What's your name?"
"I'll call back in a couple hours. If Bernice tells me you took care of the posse, I'll tell her where you should look.  Put Bernice back on, please."
"Frankie?"
"Sweetie listen. Tell these guys everything you know. Everything. Chances are they'll eventually drug you and get the answers anyway. They're supposed to take care of Crispen's goons for you. I'll call back in a couple hours and make sure they did. Then I'll tell you where I put the Cuervo bottle.  I called a TV station and tipped them that federal agents were arresting perps at your bar. They'll maybe get there before I call. Busy, busy, gotta run. Later."
"Frankie? Frankie?" She dropped the phone back onto its hook.
"Okay," she said, "here's the whole story, no crap."
Forty five minutes later a silver gray Escalade pulled into the lot. Four men got out and walked into the diner. Twenty minutes later the four same men were escorted out in handcuffs and put, two apiece, into back seats. The TV crew had just arrived, and, with no access to the diner and no real idea was going on, began filming the squirming men in handcuffs.
When the phone rang the DEA agent picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Is this Hello of Hello and Company? Aren't you  supposed to announce yourself as Agent Sterling of the Incorruptible Agency?"
"Don't try and goad me, we've still got your girlfriend."
"Oh, yeah, her. Put Bernice on, please."
The agent balked. "Where is it?"
"Ah, so something's checked out for you. In good time, once I've talked with her. It won't take long."
The agent waved Bernice over and held the phone away from her ear so he could listen in.
"Frankie?"
"Are Crispen's thugs taken care of?"
"Yeah."
"Is agent man breathing heavily on your cheek?"
"Yeah, but he's an Altoids addict."
"Good, a conference call. Okay Mr. Fed, the TV lice have been given Bernice's name, and warned that you'll try and kidnap her. I've retained a lawyer who'll be calling Ms. Stanton shortly to make sure that her civil rights aren't being violated.
"Really, Frankie?"
"Yeah, Johnny Beckdahl, that the bail bondsmen use. Okay, a deal's a deal. You guys agree with the lawyer that Bernice is free to resume her normal activities. He tells me you've agreed, in writing, Bernice will tell you where the slimy salvation is."
"Look, Mr. Witt, don't make it hard. Turn yourself in, it'll go easier on you and her."
"Do they still teach you guys to say that? I don't think I've committed a crime. Thank you for your help with the heavies, now please back away from the phone.
"Bernice, is he out of ear shot?"
She pressed the phone more tightly to her ear. "Yeah."
"I buried the Cuervo bottle in a tube next to the drain pipe under my trailer. The lawyer will hopefully keep you from being drugged. Keep 'em dancing for a couple weeks if you can."
"Sure. The young guy reeks of stud, should be pleasant."
Bernice hung up, smiling, and turned to the agents. "I'm going to go talk to the TV crew now. If you stop me I'll scream—thin walls, they'll hear me fine. Don't worry, I'm just going to praise you for collaring the four guys. If the phone rings it'll be my lawyer. Just ask him to hang on a minute till I get back in."

Frank Witt Dossier, FBI excerpt: On day three of the investigation Mr. Witt's trailer and its contents were deconstructed into small pieces. The ground underneath was excavated to a depth of five feet. A full bottle was discovered next to the drain pipe, but was revealed to contain only alcohol.

Four months later, Bernice was briefing her bartender and wait staff when the bar phone rang. The bartender made a move for the phone, but Bernice waved him off.
"Bernice's."
"Are you just as nicely packed as ever?"
"You son of a bitch! Abandoning me like that!"
"I hear the diner cash register wore out."
"Yeah, we've been full ever since the arrest, mob groupies and weirdos, and they pay, not like you."
"Sweetie, listen. The Feds will have this line tapped, so I'm not going to tell them anything they don't already know. Did you ever get it on with the young stud?"
"Nah, he was too married. You owe me a shot of the good stuff."
"Something else I'm going to have to welsh on. They'll pinch me if I try and see you, so we'll have to have phone sex." Frankie cleared his throat.
"I thought it out, Bernice. You were right. Giving away the tonic would have not only amputated my future income, it would've created competition. I drank it all. It's done—things—to me, mostly good, some not."
"You okay, you liar?"
"Yeah, thanks. I've got to finish under their trace time, so listen up. I found a corporate protector that treats me like a medical superhero, uses my flesh and fluids for research and treatment. I'm a self-healing golden goose, providing the company with heaps of money. They also sell bits of me to the government, which keeps the feds less unhappy."
"So you guzzled down my shot."
"Yeah, sorry. But look under the rubber mat for serving drinks. There's an envelope for you."
"Wait a sec…. Damn, Frankie, that's really my account?"
"It's twenty percent, like we said. Deposits every month from an offshore account." His voice changed. "And if you Feds dick with it I'll cut off your supply of me." His voice softened. "I miss you sweetie, but some of the weirdos post pictures of you on line, so I can see you're doing okay."
"Frankie?"
"I know."

Frank Witt Dossier, Joint Task Force excerpt: Bernice Stanton had been kept under tight surveillance for seven months when she eluded operatives and disappeared for two weeks. She returned with a deep total body tan and a cheerful demeanor but no explanation to friends, staff or federal informers as to where she had been. No trace of the liquid or Mr. Witt has thus far been found.

Good Company

By Ed Ahern



Frank retreated from the house into the back yard, his eyes wet. I should’ve told her, “Ashley, I’m not lazy or weak, quit picking at me. It only hurts me, and doesn’t help you.” But instead, I backed off. She’s carving pieces off me every time we argue.
He bagged up hedge cuttings and grass clippings and stuffed the bags into the back of their vintage SUV. The drive to the town dump took fifteen minutes, most of which Frank spent staring towards a visualized Ashley. She’d been slender when they married, but with the hint of coming fullness. Instead, she’d puckered and soured into a caricature.
He dumped off the clippings, being careful to remove every trace of plant and dirt. Ashley would inspect the car later that day.
The access road to the dump went past the town dog pound, which in over thirty visits Frank had barely noticed. But this day he pulled into the small parking lot and went in. The man behind the desk was comfortably frumpy. “Looking for a pet?”
Ashley hated the idea of an animal making a mess of her house, and had refused to consider getting one. “Yeah, maybe. Could I look at the dogs?”
The attendant opened a counter-weighted metal door, pointing Frank onto a gangway with ten cages on each side. The yapping and howling made talking impossible, and the man just waved for him to go down the line of cages.
The dog in cage eleven didn’t bark, just padded slowly toward Frank and stared at him. The dark brown eyes were calm, the body posture loose. They studied each other as if it were a first date. He walked back out through intensified barking and baying.
“What can you tell me about cage eleven?”
“Which one is that?”
“Wolfy-looking black and gray shepherd.”
He went to a card file. The desk top computer apparently was there for show. “Yeah, we’d been trying to trap that one for months. Wily devil, kept eluding the guys. Unaltered male, maybe 85 pounds, maybe three years old. Nobody has gone for him, and he’s scheduled to be put down at the end of the week. You want him, you have to sign that you’ll get him his shots and remove his testicles, plus pay us twenty-three dollars.”
“Let me think about it.”
Frank knew he couldn’t get a dog; he already had too many problems. Big dog, big food bill, die by the time he’s ten or eleven. Looks like a shedder. No collar or tags when they trapped him, could be wild. Ashley will rip me up. Bad idea, Frank.
He broached the possibility that evening. “Honey, I’m thinking about our getting a dog.”
Ashley flipped open her verbal knives. “You’re an idiot. We don’t have the money to repair my car and you want to get a dog. And who would take care of it- me, probably, because you don’t take care of anything on a regular basis, not the yard, not fixing things around the house, for sure not me. Once you get a job and make enough money to feed us you can talk to me about getting a dog.”
Her cuts stung and Frank shut up. But the next day he drove back to the dog pound. “Can I go in his cage and see how the dog and I get along?”
“No, but I’ll put a choke leash on him and you can walk him around the exercise cage.”
The animal was densely furred, with a thick mane. It moved with feral grace and not a dog’s self-consciousness. It neither recoiled from Frank nor fawned on him, but took his pats and stroking calmly, as if its due, as if it knew that Frank gained as much as it did.
The dog held eye contact with Frank like few people had done in his life, his father perhaps a few times, a boyhood friend now gone away. Frank slipped the leash off its neck and the dog held its position at his side. “When is it being put down?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
Bad idea, walk away. “I’ll take it.”
Ashley was at work when Frank brought the dog home. He expected it to sniff through every open room, but it held its position next to him, pacing with him from living room to kitchen to Frank’s cubbyhole office, where it lay at his feet.
Both man and dog were watching television when Ashley returned home. Frank noticed clumps of gray fur on the egg shell carpeting, and hoped Ashley wouldn’t.
“Frank! How could you? Get that goddamn dog out of my house!”
Frank had jumped, but the shepherd merely raised its head. “He’s a good dog, Ashley, he’ll protect us.”
“Bullshit. I told you not to get it. Take it back. If you don’t, I’ll call the police and have them take it back.”
Frank felt like he’d waded into an ebbing surf, with the sand running out from under his feet. He glanced over at the shepherd and felt the bottom firm. “I don’t think so, Ashley. The neighbors would see the cops come and I’d make sure to tell them all about it.” He started speaking faster, forcing his ideas to be heard before Ashley shredded them.
“Let’s give it a couple weeks before we decide, it’ll be companionship for me while you’re at work, look at it, it’ll make a good watch dog…”
“No pets! We agreed. Keep to your word for a change. You’ll just get to love it and it’ll die. You take it back first thing tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, stick it in the basement.” She stood breathing heavily, arms still waving, as if she’d semaphored her orders.
Frank realized that his shoulders slumped and straightened up. “I’m not going to argue with you, Ashley, but I want to keep it. I’ll sleep in the living room tonight, along with the dog.”
The skin was stretched tautly over Ashley’s facial bones. “You soft-dicked little parasite, you can’t even afford the dog food. If it wasn’t so much trouble I’d of dumped you years ago. But it’s not too late.”
The dog had remained crouched next to Frank, its hackles unraised. Apparently arguments between humans were of no concern. Ashley prepared her own supper, as did Frank after she’d left the kitchen. Without speaking again, it was understood that the upstairs was hers, and Frank could only briefly visit to retrieve clean clothing and brush his teeth.
Frank sat back down and pointed his eyes at the television. The words were drowned by the roar in his ears, and the images flickered without comprehension.
Shortly before midnight he realized that the dog needed to go out. The dog sensed Frank’s purpose almost before he reached for the leash, and put its head next to his leg. The night was overcast and dark, the dog a well camouflaged blur at the end of the line.
It held close to Frank, putting no strain at all on the leash, following his lead like a dance partner. Maybe Ashley is right. I can’t even buy this dog a bed. It was wild before, maybe I could just let it go, and say the collar was too loose. It’ll probably run away, but if it stays it’s meant to be.
He stepped over to the dog, reached down and unsnapped the collar. “Your call, buddy. You stay with me, I keep you. You run off, we’re both back where we were.”
The dog looked intently at Frank, but didn’t move. Then it loped off to sniff a neighbor’s yard. That’s that, it’s gone. But as Frank turned to walk away it bounded back over to him, and paced with him down the sidewalk.
The animal strode with a grace that stumpy-legged humans lack, and ran like God or nature meant running to be, the paws invisible, the muscles beautifully flexed. Frank realized that he’d brought the dog back into its element, into the night when it hunted. He realized that while the dog was with him, he need fear nothing, for it would frighten away any coyote or robber.
They moved together for two hours, the animal disappearing into darkness and reappearing like a second shadow. That’s it, I’ll call you Shadow. “Time to go back, Shadow” He repeated the name all the way back to the house, but the dog had seemed to recognize its title from the first utterance.
Frank set an alarm early enough to make peace-offering coffee for Ashley, but she came downstairs already dressed for the office, and blew through the living room and out the front door while slinging barbs. “That animal stinks. You take it back or get out of my house, both of you. You’re actually gone beyond useless to harmful…”
He walked the dog in the post-dawn sunshine on a leash so it wouldn’t frighten the neighbors. He drank three cups of coffee, his increasingly caffeinated nerves clamoring that he prepare for what seemed inevitable, that Ashley would throw him out. Frank made a telephone call.
“Collin? Frank. Yeah, listen, things aren’t going so good here, and I need to get some work. Are you still looking for people for your landscaping crews?.. I know it’s minimum wage, but I’ve got to earn some cash… Thanks Collin. Oh, and I’m going to need a cheap place to stay, one that takes pets…. That much, huh? What do you know about the shelter at Operation Hope?.. No pets?…. Thanks Collin, it would only be until I got on my feet, and I’d be glad to pay you something.”
Frank was scared but focused, like a parachutist must feel right after he’d jumped from a plane. He carried his clean clothes downstairs and stacked them in unusually neat piles, then stuffed his dirty clothes into a plastic trash bag. He made a few more phone calls, and then took Shadow into wooded acreage near their house.
Frank slipped the leash, and Shadow immediately caught the scent of something and loped off. It glided without a snag through the brambled underbrush and disappeared. Frank stood still in awe. How wasted its grace is on flat lawns and sidewalks.
He waited ten minutes before beginning to worry, and was about to call the dog when the underbrush rustled to his left, the opposite direction from which Shadow had disappeared. A spike horn deer burst out of the thicket, almost running into Frank in its panicked flight. Shadow streamed behind it, blurred and almost soundless, and was gone again. The two animals had transited past him in under three seconds.
Frank waited five more minutes and started calling Shadow. He’d yelled the name a dozen times before Shadow loped back into sight, panting almost uncontrollably. There was no blood on his muzzle, so presumably the deer had escaped. But Shadow seemed content. He’d
committed every muscle fiber, every nerve twitch possible to the chase, and had lost his prey. But there seemed to be no disappointment, no chagrin, only an exhausted satisfaction with the effort. Frank snapped the leash back on and they walked slowly home.
Ashley burst into the house at five thirty, glaring at them both. Shadow made no move toward her, seeming to sense that anything it did would be misinterpreted. Just like me, Frank thought.
Her voice was ominously calm. “I talked to a lawyer today. You’ve finally broken my patience. You’ve moving out, right now. This is my house, my car, I make the payments on both of them. You get nothing, and good riddance.
Frank surprised himself. He was resigned to the probable doom of his marriage, emotionally distancing himself far enough that Ashley’s knives could barely touch him. “Ashley, I’ve checked with some guys who’ve gotten divorced. This is a community property state. Fifty-fifty. Plus you’ll have to provide support while I find a job. I won’t even have to argue much about it.”
Shadow sidled nearer to him as he spoke. Ashley stared at the two males, then the piles of clothes. She began to silently cry, then angrily wiped off the tears. Frank couldn’t recall ever having seen her cry.
“Get out of my house or I’ll call the police!”
Frank squeezed his lips together in a hard smile. “Good luck with that. I haven’t abused you and am not a drunk. The cops will be men with a few marital issues of their own. I’ll have their sympathy.”
Ashley’s arms flailed while she searched for the words that would rebind Frank to her. None came. “Don’t come near me, you or that insect-riddled beast. If you can’t behave like my husband, I want you out of my house, my life.”
For just a second Frank saw Ashley as he’d hoped for when they got married. But the vision withered back into caricature. Frank glanced at the laying dog and with a jolt realized that Ashley was staring at caricatures as well, of an ineffectual and parasitic mate and a dangerous looking animal that violated the purity of her house. His voice softened.
“Ashley, there’s no point anymore in hurting each other. Let’s just kill the marriage and divide up the carcass. I won’t be gluttonous. I’ll move out as soon as I can.”
They stood three feet apart, sparring distance. It’d been three months since Frank had touched Ashley with suggestive affection. He’d been rebuffed then, and was sure she would reject him again.
They cohabitated for another two weeks as the marital glue slowly leaked out of the house. Frank moved out when Ashley was at work, leaving a note- ‘I’ll Call If I’ve Forgotten Anything. F.’
Collin was already divorced and sympathetic, although he’d been ditched because of serial philandering. “Frank, I know a couple of divorced women I can put you in touch with.”
Frank realized that he was being offered Collin’s culls. “No thanks, Coll, I’m not ready for dating, besides, I’m still married.”
“Who’s talking about dating? You really are out of touch. Take an example from that dog of yours- he’d hump any bitch in heat.”
Collin had that part wrong. Despite the vet’s encouragement and his signed commtment, Frank had left Shadow unaltered. But even though genitally intact, Shadow hadn’t expressed sexual interest in other dogs, male or female. Two celibates abstaining without understanding why. Or maybe I understand too well.
The landscaping work suited Frank, who had an eye for garden layouts. He began taking side jobs, and then started up his own business, buying a used truck and equipment in installment payments.
Shadow usually came with him on a job. He would lay unleashed next to Frank and move back and forth with him. The dog made human and animal friends easily, and Frank was convinced that he was given at least some of his work because customers trusted a man that a dog trusted.
Ashley called one evening. It was the last married conversation they had without lawyers present. “Frank, you’re being crazy. All this expense and work. Just get rid of the dog and we can try to put thing back the way they were.”
The way things were. When did the absence of pain become a pleasure? “Ashley, I wish, I wish we’d done thing differently. But we contorted ourselves into something unsustainable. Let’s just let the process grind.”



After the divorce, Frank moved from Collin’s house to a rooming house that accepted pets, then to a larger apartment that he furnished mostly with customer cast offs. Five years slid past without seeing Ashley.
Until the post-funeral luncheon for a former neighbor. They came face to face in the swirling body surge of the reception.
“Hello, Frank. I see you still fit into the same suit. How’s the landscaping business?”
“Ashley. You look good, a little more filled out than when we were together.”
“It’s because I don’t worry as much.”
“I heard you got remarried. Did he come?”
Ashley waved her arm. “He’s over there, trying to sell insurance.”
Frank could see former neighbors watching them, waiting for the fireworks. “I, I think you did the right thing to divorce me.”
“Cost me enough.”
“I wonder sometimes if we’d had survived by having a honeymoon yelling and screaming argument and then wrestling down onto the couch. Or if you’d have just had me arrested.”
Ashley was silent for a few seconds. “I still get mad at you sometimes. I assumed you sat around without a job just to piss me off. I hear you live together with that dog better than you did with me. How is the hair ball?”


“You were right, he died young. Lung cancer. I had him put down a month ago.” His lips pursed in a sad smile. “I wouldn’t let them handle Shadow after he was injected. Picked him up and carried him out to the truck myself. Then drove it into the woods and buried him in a hidden grave. He would have liked that.”
“So what now, another dog? A trophy wife? Guess you can afford her now.”
“Don’t think so. One wife, one dog. Figure that’s enough bittersweet leavening. Nice seeing you, Ashley.”

Rothschild's Fiddle

By Anton Chekhov

It was a tiny town, worse than a village, inhabited chiefly by old people who so seldom died that it was really vexatious. Very few coffins were needed for the hospital and the jail; in a word, business was bad. If Yakov Ivanov had been a maker of coffins in the county town, he would probably have owned a house of his own by now, and would have been called Mr. Ivanov, but here in this little place he was simply called Yakov, and for some reason his nickname was Bronze. He lived as poorly as any common peasant in a little old hut of one room, in which he and Martha, and the stove, and a double bed, and the coffins, and his joiner's bench, and all the necessities of housekeeping were stowed away.
The coffins made by Yakov were serviceable and strong. For the peasants and townsfolk he made them to fit himself and never went wrong, for, although he was seventy years old, there was no man, not even in the prison, any taller or stouter than he was. For the gentry and for women he made them to measure, using an iron yardstick for the purpose. He was always very reluctant to take orders for children's coffins, and made them contemptuously without taking any measurements at all, always saying when he was paid for them:
"The fact is, I don't like to be bothered with trifles."
Beside what he received for his work as a joiner, he added a little to his income by playing the violin. There was a Jewish orchestra in the town that played for weddings, led by the tinsmith Moses Shakess, who took more than half of its earnings for himself. As Yakov played the fiddle extremely well, especially Russian songs, Shakess used sometimes to invite him to play in his orchestra for the sum of fifty kopeks a day, not including the presents he might receive from the guests. Whenever Bronze took his seat in the orchestra, the first thing that happened to him was that his face grew red, and the perspiration streamed from it, for the air was always hot, and reeking of garlic to the point of suffocation. Then his fiddle would begin to moan, and a double bass would croak hoarsely into his right ear, and a flute would weep into his left. This flute was played by a gaunt, red-bearded Jew with a network of red and blue veins on his face, who bore the name of a famous rich man, Rothschild. This confounded Jew always contrived to play even the merriest tunes sadly. For no obvious reason Yakov little by little began to conceive a feeling of hatred and contempt for all Jews, and especially for Rothschild. He quarrelled with him and abused him in ugly language, and once even tried to beat him, but Rothschild took offense at this, and cried with a fierce look:
"If I had not always respected you for your music, I should have thrown you out of the window long ago!"
Then he burst into tears. So after that Bronze was not often invited to play in the orchestra, and was only called upon in cases of dire necessity, when one of the Jews was missing.
Yakov was never in a good humor, because he always had to endure the most terrible losses. For instance, it was a sin to work on a Sunday or a holiday, and Monday was always a bad day, so in that way there were about two hundred days a year in which he was compelled to sit with his hands folded in his lap. That was a great loss to him. If any one in town had a wedding without music, or if Shakess did not ask him to play, there was another loss. The police inspector had lain ill with consumption for two years while Yakov impatiently waited for him to die, and then had gone to take a cure in the city and had died there, which of course had meant another loss of at least ten rubles, as the coffin would have been an expensive one lined with brocade.
The thought of his losses worried Yakov at night more than at any other time, so he used to lay his fiddle at his side on the bed, and when those worries came trooping into his brain he would touch the strings, and the fiddle would give out a sound in the darkness, and Yakov's heart would feel lighter.
Last year on the sixth of May, Martha suddenly fell ill. The old woman breathed with difficulty, staggered in her walk, and felt terribly thirsty. Nevertheless, she got up that morning, lit the stove, and even went for the water. When evening came she went to bed. Yakov played his fiddle all day. When it grew quite dark, because he had nothing better to do, he took the book in which he kept an account of his losses, and began adding up the total for the year. They amounted to more than a thousand rubles. He was so shaken by this discovery that he threw the counting board on the floor and trampled in under foot. Then he picked it up again and rattled it once more for a long time, heaving as he did so sighs both deep and long. His face grew purple, and perspiration dripped from his brow. He was thinking that if those thousand rubles he had lost had been in the bank then, he would have had at least forty rubles interest by the end of the year. So those forty rubles were still another loss! In a word, wherever he turned he found losses and nothing but losses.
"Yakov!" cried Martha unexpectedly, "I am dying!"
He looked round at his wife. Her face was flushed with fever and looked unusually joyful and bright. Bronze was troubled, for he had been accustomed to seeing her pale and timid and unhappy. It seemed to him that she was actually dead, and glad to have left this hut, and the coffins, and Yakov at last. She was staring at the ceiling, with her lips moving as if she saw her deliverer Death approaching and were whispering with him.
The dawn was just breaking and the eastern sky was glowing with a faint radiance. As he stared at the old woman it somehow seemed to Yakov that he had never once spoken a tender word to her or pitied her; that he had never thought of buying her a kerchief or of bringing her back some sweets from a wedding. On the contrary, he had shouted at her and abused her for his losses, and had shaken his fist at her. It was true he had never beaten her, but he had frightened her no less, and she had been paralyzed with fear every time he had scolded her. Yes, and he had not allowed her to drink tea because his losses were heavy enough as it was, so she had had to be content with hot water. Now he understood why her face looked so strangely happy, and horror overwhelmed him.
As soon as it was light he borrowed a horse from a neighbor and took Martha to the hospital. As there were not many patients, he had not to wait very long--only about three hours. To his great satisfaction it was not the doctor who was receiving the sick that day, but his assistant, Maxim Nikolaich, an old man of whom it was said that although he quarreled and drank, he knew more than the doctor did.
"Good morning, Your Honor," said Yakov leading his old woman into the office. "Excuse us for intruding upon you with our trifling affairs. As you see, this subject has fallen ill. My life's friend, if you will allow me to use the expression----"
Knitting his gray eyebrows and stroking his whiskers, the doctor's assistant fixed his eyes on the old woman. She was sitting all in a heap on a low stool, and with her thin, long-nosed face and her open mouth, she looked like a thirsty bird.
"Well, well-yes--" said the doctor slowly, heaving a sigh. "This is a case of influenza and possibly fever; there is typhoid in town. What's to be done? The old woman has lived her span of years, thank God. How old is she?"
"She lacks one year of being seventy, Your Honor."
"Well, well, she has lived long. There must come an end to everything."
"You are certainly right, Your Honor," said Yakov, smiling out of politeness. "And we thank you sincerely for your kindness, but allow me to suggest to you that even an insect dislikes to die!"
"Never mind if it does!" answered the doctor, as if the life or death of the old woman lay in his hands. "I'll tell you what you must do, my good man. Put a cold bandage around her head, and give her two of these powders a day. Now then, good-bye! Bonjour!"
Yakov saw by the expression on the doctor's face that it was too late now for powders. He realized clearly that Martha must die very soon, if not today, then tomorrow. He touched the doctor's elbow gently, blinked, and whispered:
"She ought to be cupped, doctor!"
"I haven't time, I haven't time, my good man. Take your old woman and go, in God's name. Good-bye."
"Please, please, cup her, doctor!" begged Yakov. "You know yourself that if she had a pain in her stomach, powders and drops would do her good, but she has a cold! The first thing to do when one catches cold is to let some blood, doctor!"
But the doctor had already sent for the next patient, and a woman leading a little boy came into the room.


"Go along, go along!" he cried to Yakov, frowning. "It's no use making a fuss!"
"Then at least put some leeches on her! Let me pray to God for you for the rest of my life!"
The doctor's temper flared up and he shouted:
"Don't say another word to me, blockhead!"
Yakov lost his temper, too, and flushed hotly, but he said nothing and, silently taking Martha's arm, led her out of the office. Only when they were once more seated in their wagon did he look fiercely and mockingly at the hospital and say:
"They're a pretty lot in there, they are! That doctor would have cupped a rich man, but he even begrudged a poor one a leech. The pig!"
When they returned to the hut, Martha stood for nearly ten minutes supporting herself by the stove. She felt that if she lay down Yakov would begin to talk to her about his losses, and would scold her for lying down and not wanting to work. Yakov contemplated her sadly, thinking that tomorrow was St. John the Baptist's day, and day after tomorrow was St. Nicholas the Wonder-Worker's day, and that the following day would be Sunday, and the day after that would be Monday, a bad day for work. So he would not be able to work for four days, and as Martha would probably die on one of these days, the coffin would have to be made at once. He took his iron yardstick in hand, went up to the old woman, and measured her. Then she lay down, and he crossed himself and went to work on the coffin.
When the task was completed Bronze put on his spectacles and wrote in his book:
"For 1 coffin for Martha Ivanov--2 rubles, 40 kopeks."
He sighed. All day the old woman lay silent with closed eyes, but toward evening, when the daylight began to fade, she suddenly called the old man to her side.
"Do you remember, Yakov?" she asked. "Do you remember how fifty years ago God gave us a little baby with curly golden hair? Do you remember how you and I used to sit on the bank of the river and sing songs under the willow tree?" Then with a bitter smile she added: "The baby died."
Yakov racked his brains, but for the life of him he could not recall the child or the willow tree.
"You are dreaming," he said.
The priest came and administered the Sacrament and Extreme Unction. Then Martha began muttering unintelligibly, and toward morning she died.
The neighboring old women washed her and dressed her, and laid her in her coffin. To avoid paying the deacon, Yakov read the psalms over her himself, and her grave cost him nothing as the watchman of the cemetery was his cousin. Four peasants carried the coffin to the grave, not for money but for love. The old women, the beggars, and two village idiots followed the body, and the people whom they passed on the way crossed themselves devoutly. Yakov was very glad that everything had passed off so nicely and decently and cheaply, without giving offense to any one. As he said farewell to Martha for the last time he touched the coffin with his hand and thought:
"That's a fine job!"
But walking homeward from the cemetery he was seized with great distress. He felt ill, his breath was burning hot, his legs grew weak, and he longed for a drink. Beside this, a thousand thoughts came crowding into his head. He remembered again that he had never once pitied Martha or said a tender word to her. The fifty years of their life together lay stretched far, far behind him, and somehow, during all that time, he had never once thought about her at all or noticed her more than if she had been a dog or a cat. And vet she had lit the stove every day, and had cooked and baked and fetched water and chopped wood, and when he had come home drunk from a wedding she had hung his fiddle reverently on a nail each time, and had silently put him to bed with a timid, anxious look on her face.
But here came Rothschild toward him, bowing and scraping and smiling.
"I have been looking for you, uncle!" he said. "Moses Shakess presents his compliments and wants you to go to him at once."
Yakov did not feel in a mood to do anything. He wanted to crv.
"Leave me alone!" he exclaimed, and walked on.
"Oh, how can you say that?" cried Rothschild, running beside him in alarm. "Moses will be very angry. He wants you to come at once!"
Yakov was disgusted by the panting of the Jew, by his blinking eves, and by the quantities of reddish freckles on his face. He looked with aversion at his long green coat and at the whole of his frail, delicate figure.
"What do you mean by pestering me, garlic?" he shouted. "Get away!"
The Jew grew angry and shouted back:
"Don't yell at me like that or I'll send you flying over that fence!"
"Get out of my sight!" bellowed Yakov, shaking his fist at him. "There's no living in the same town with mangy curs like you!"
Rothschild was petrified with terror. He sank to the ground and waved his hands over his head as if to protect himself from falling blows; then he jumped up and ran away as fast as his legs could carry him. As he ran he leaped and waved his arms, and his long, gaunt back could be seen quivering. The little boys were delighted at what had happened, and ran after him screaming: "Jew, Jew!" The dogs also joined barking in the chase. Somebody laughed and then whistled, at which the dogs barked louder and more vigorously than ever.
Then one of them must have bitten Rothschild, for a piteous, despairing scream rent the air.
Yakov walked across the common to the edge of the town without knowing where he was going, and the little boys shouted after him. "There goes old man Bronze! There goes old man Bronze!" He found himself by the river where the snipe were darting about with shrill cries, and the ducks were quacking and swimming to and fro. The sun was shining fiercely and the water was sparkling so brightly that it was painful to look at. Yakov struck into a path that led along the riverbank. lIe came to a stout, red-checked woman just leaving a bath-house. "Aha, you otter, you!" he thought. Not far from the bath-house some little boys were fishing for crabs with pieces of meat. When they saw Yakov they shouted mischievously: "Old man Bronze! Old man Bronze!" But there before him stood an ancient, spreading willow tree with a massive trunk, and a crow's nest among its branches. Suddenly there flashed across Yakov's memory with all the vividness of life a little child with golden curls, and the willow of which Martha had spoken. Yes, this was the same tree, so green and peaceful and sad. How old it had grown, poor thing!
He sat down at its foot and thought of the past. On the opposite shore, where that meadow now was, there had stood in those days a wood of tall birch-trees, and that bare hill on the horizon yonder had been covered with the blue bloom of an ancient pine forest. And sailboats had plied the river then, but now all lay smooth and still, and only one little birch-tree was left on the opposite bank, a graceful young thing, like a girl, while on the river there swam only ducks and geese. It was hard to believe that boats had once sailed there. It even seemed to him that there were fewer geese now than there had been. Yakov shut his eyes, and one by one white geese came flying toward him, an endless flock.
He was puzzled to know why he had never once been down to the river during the last forty or fifty years of his life, or, if he had been there, why he had never paid any attention to it. The stream was fine and large; he might have fished in it and sold the fish to the merchants and the government officials and the restaurant-keeper at the station, and put the money in the bank. He might have rowed in a boat from farm to farm and played on his fiddle. People of every rank would have paid him money to hear him. He might have tried to run a boat on the river, that would have been better than making coffins. Finally, he might have raised geese, and killed them, and sent them to Moscow in the winter. Why, the down alone would have brought him ten rubles a year! But he had missed all these chances and had done nothing. What losses were here! Ah, what terrible losses! And, oh, if he had only done all these things at the same time! If he had only fished, and played the fiddle, and sailed a boat, and raised geese, what capital he would have had by now! But he had not even dreamed of doing all this; his life had gone by without profit or pleasure. It had been lost for nothing, not even a trifle. Nothing was left ahead; behind lay only losses, and such terrible losses that he shuddered to think of them. But why shouldn't men live so as to avoid all this waste and these losses? Why, oh why, should those birch and pine forests have been felled? Why should those meadows be lying so deserted? Why did people always do exactly what they ought not to do? Why had Yakov scolded and growled and clenched his fists and hurt his wife's feelings all his life? Why, oh why, had he frightened and insulted that Jew just now? Why did people in general always interfere with one another? What losses resulted from this! What terrible losses! If it were not for envy and anger they would get great profit from one another.
All that evening and night Yakov dreamed of the child, of the willow tree, of the fish and the geese, of Martha with her profile like a thirsty bird, and of Rothschild's pale, piteous mien. Queer faces seemed to be moving toward him from all sides, muttering to him about his losses. He tossed from side to side, and got up five times during the night to play his fiddle.
He rose with difficulty next morning, and walked to the hospital. The same doctor's assistant ordered him to put cold bandages on his head, and gave him little powders to take; by his expression and the tone of his voice Yakov knew that the state of affairs was bad, and that no powders could save him now. As he walked home he reflected that one good thing would result from his death: he would no longer have to eat and drink and pay taxes, neither would he offend people anymore, and, as a man lies in his grave for hundreds of thousands of years, the sum of his profits would be immense. So, life to a man was a loss--death, a gain. Of course this reasoning was correct, but it was also distressingly sad. Why should the world be so strangely arranged that a man's life, which was only given to him once, must pass without profit?
He was not sorry then that he was going to die, but when he reached home, and saw his fiddle, his heart ached, and he regretted it deeply. He would not be able to take his fiddle with him into the grave, and now it would be left an orphan, and its fate would be that of the birch grove and the pine forest. Everything in the world had been lost, and would always be lost for ever. Yakov went out and sat on the threshold of his hut, clasping his fiddle to his breast. And as he thought of his life so full of waste and losses he began playing without knowing how piteous and touching his music was, and the tears streamed down his cheeks. And the more he thought the more sorrowfully sang his violin.
The latch clicked and Rothschild came in through the garden gate, and walked boldly halfway across the garden. Then he suddenly stopped, crouched down, and, probably from fear, began making signs with his hands as if he were trying to show on his fingers what time it was.
"Come on, don't be afraid!" said Yakov gently, beckoning him to advance. "Come on!"
With many mistrustful and fearful glances Rothschild went slowly up to Yakov, and stopped about two yards away.
"Please don't beat me!" he said with a ducking bow. "Moses Shakess has sent me to you again. 'Don't be afraid,' he said, 'go to Yakov,' says he, 'and say that we can't possibly manage without him.' There is a wedding next Thursday. Ye-es sir. Mr. Shapovalov is marrying his daughter to a very fine man. It will be an expensive wedding, ai, ai!" added the Jew with a wink.
"I can't go" said Yakov breathing hard. "I'm ill, brother."
And he began to play again, and the tears gushed out of his eyes over his fiddle. Rothschild listened intently with his head turned away and his arms folded on his breast. The startled, irresolute look on his face gradually gave way to one of suffering and grief. He cast up his eyes as if in an ecstasy of agony and murmured: "Okh-okh!" And the tears began to trickle slowly down his cheeks, and to drip over his green coat.
All day Yakov lay and suffered. When the priest came in the evening to administer the Sacrament he asked him if he could not think of any particular sin.
Struggling with his fading memories, Yakov recalled once more Martha's sad face, and the despairing cry of the Jew when the dog had bitten him. He murmured almost inaudibly:
"Give my fiddle to Rothschild."
''It shall be done," answered the priest.
So it happened that everyone in the little town began asking:
"Where did Rothschild get that good fiddle? Did he buy it or steal it or get it out of a pawnshop?"
Rothschild has long since abandoned his flute, and now only plays on the violin. The same mournful notes flow from under his bow that used to come from his flute, and when he tries to repeat what Yakov played as he sat on the threshold of his hut, the result is an air so plaintive and sad that everyone who hears him weeps, and he himself at last raises his eyes and murmurs: "Okh-okh!" And this new song has so delighted the town that the merchants and government officials vie with each other in getting Rothschild to come to their houses, and sometimes make him play it ten times in succession.

All I Want Is Kissing You and Music, Music, Music


by Gerald Arthur Winter




It was a rainy, windswept afternoon in Queens, just a hop, skip, and jump across the


Belt Parkway median to Idlewild Airport from the bar where Mack sipped his beer in a dark


corner. He planned to walk over for his flight, but hadn’t counted on such inclement weather.


It was four o’clock, so the bar was scarce of patrons, mostly a blue-collar lot who worked


locally. There were only a couple of airplane hangars at Idelwild back then. Commercial air


flight was a rare privilege only for the rich ‘n’ famous—whoever they were. Mack was neither.


Having come home unscathed after serving four years in World War Two he’d decided


to reenlist and join the fight in a faraway place called Korea. He didn’t know what the fight was


all about, only that President Truman—“Give’m Hell Harry”—said Mack was needed in another


American fight for freedom. Others called it merely “a police action.”


Truman said the buck stopped in an Asian city where American Troops, joined by


United Nations forces, had to protect the “Pusan Perimeter” against the Communist forces


of the North backed by Red China. The world had become a complicated place in the past


decade of the Forties, but at least most folks understood that the Germans, Italians, and


Japs had been the bad guys, dictatorships that had to be stopped. But in the Fifties it was


no longer about one nation against another. It was about something less tangible, which


Mack could only vaguely comprehend called an “ideology.”


With Hitler, Mussolini, and Hirohito out of the picture, the Chinese under Mao


Zedong and the Soviet’s under Stalin were advocating this dangerous ideology called


“Communism.” They were using their dictatorships to force simple folks like Mack all


over the world to become Communist whether they wanted to or not.


Though merely a concept written in a book a German named Karl Marx had written


called a “manifesto,” none of these Commies had ever attained the worker’s Utopian society


proclaimed by Marx. Instead, they’d convinced their own people that a dictatorship was the


best means to achieve that future end. The workers were promised their perfect society was


at hand in a matter of time. Only a dictator could truly make it happen.


Bull shit! Mack thought listening to the wind howl and sheets of rain pounding


against the front window of Barney’s Bar ‘n’ Grill next to the LIRR tracks. During rush hour


the LIRR express went from Penn Station out to Long Island, but only as far as Massapequa.


Beyond Levitt Town, was considered “the boonies.”


Mack wasn’t one for ideologies and he didn’t like the idea of war, but he no longer


a had place to call come home in America. Sally, the teenager he’d been engaged to in 1942,


had stopped waiting for him to come home from Europe. She married another man, a decent


guy, and they already had two young kids. They’d asked Mack to be their kids’ godfather.


What else could he do? He was always a swell guy in a pinch.


Mack had come home from France all in one piece in 1946—accept maybe for


his mind. He’d put his whole heart into the idea of coming home alive to marry Sally


Thorton and having a station wagon full of kids, girls as pretty as Sally and hardworking


boys like him. A sexist outlook by today’s standards, but that’s just the way it was seventy


years ago. Sally and their life together was all he’d thought about under German gunfire


and American bombs on German cities he’d helped take over for Uncle Sam.


After VE Day he stayed in Paris for over a year until his honorable discharge. Despite


the allure of les jeunes filles de Paris looking for GIs to marry their way into America, Mack had


remained true to Sally and to what he thought, all through life-threatening battles around him,


was their shared dream for the future.


He ordered under nickel beer, a cheap satisfying quench in small glass that took


only three swallows. Then the bar’s front door swung open with a crash against a hat rack,


knocking it to the floor. The wind and rain flushed a petite figure into the bar. Her umbrella


was blown inside out and her lemon-yellow raincoat created a spray toward Mack at the


bar. She spun all the way into his arms where he sat. Her floppy yellow rain hat was soaked.


Breathless, she removed her hat and shook her shoulder-length, auburn coif, spraying Mack’s


face and carrying to his flared nostrils an intriguing wildflower scent.


“Nice entrance,” Mack said with a shy nod, but the feel of her small figure within


his tight grasp embarrassed him as he released her to stand freely on her own, no more


than five-two in heels. Her auburn hair reminded him of Claudette Colbert in some of her


most vamping roles on screen. No vamp, this young woman seemed more shy than Mack.


“I’m sorry if I got you all wet,” she said through her turned-up freckled nose with


a mid-western twang.


“You got a towel back there?” Mack asked with a wave to the bartender, a bald,


burly man who glared at them with a nod to the sign posted near the front door:


No Unescorted Women May Enter This Establishment


“The weather must’ve delayed your bus . . . Sis. How’s Mom ‘n’ Dad?” Mike asked


her with a wink.


The bartender shook his head with displeasure and tossed him a towel that was


already damp and smelled yeasty like his beer—a slop rag to swab the bar top.


“This ain’t no joint for family reunions,” he warned them. “When my reg’lars


show up after five, I’ll want those bar stools empty. Got it, soldier boy?”


She took a deep breath and exhaled. “Whew! That’s a real derecho out there, just


like home.”


“Where’s home?”


“Toledo. Ya know, in A-high-ya.”


“O-hi-o?”


“That’s what I said—A-high-ya.”


“So you did. Are you taking shelter from the squall or is someone meeting you


here?” he asked.


“Both”


“Boyfriend?”


“Business.”


The bartender coughed at the end of the bar.


“What kind a business?” Mack asked, staring down the bartender and feeling sure


his instincts were right about this young woman, just an out-of-towner naïve about the


evil ways of big city life.


“Music.”


“No kiddin’! What do ya play.”


The bartender smacked down The Daily News he was reading, probably thinking


these two were speaking in some kind of code to hook up for the night. With his thumbs


tucked into his waistline, he ambled with his potbelly towards them.


“Is this young lady gonna order somethin’ or are you gonna order it for her?”


“My treat, Sis. What’ll it be.”


“You’re so kind, brother dear. Just a Coke please.”


“Hmm. Figures,” the bartender huffed and brought her a Coke and Mack another


beer.


“Thank you, brother,” she said as they clicked their glasses together. “Cheers. My


name is Teresa, but my friends call me Terri.”


“Here’s to you and your music, Terri. Call me, Mack.”


“Thank you, Mack. What can we give cheers to you for all dressed up in your


Army uniform? Are you coming home or going overseas?”


“I’ve been home a while since the end of the war, but there’s nothing to keep me


here anymore, so I’ve reenlisted and I’m flying out in a couple of hours from Idlewild.”


“Where to?”


“Coupla stops along the way, final destination is the place that’s been in the news


called Ko-re-a.”


“Oh, dear, Mack. Won’t that be dangerous?”


“I guess. Doesn’t matter. Soldiering is all I know. I thought I was comin’ home to


my high school sweetheart to get married as we’d planned and have a bunch a kids. She


married another guy while I was over there in Germany. Said she got tired of waitin’ for me.”


“I’m so sorry, Mack.”


“Thanks. But say, you didn’t tell me what you play. I’ve gotten rusty from carrying


my M-1 rifle instead of my geetar.”


“My instrument is my voice, Mack. I’m a singer.”


“No kiddin’. They pay ya money for that?”


“Not a whole lot yet. But I’m told I’ve got something special.”


“Wow! That’s swell, Terri. Ya carryin’ any sheet music in that pocket book?”


“Yeah, but that’s just for my accompaniment. I can’t read music. I just sing by ear.


Ya know, I just get a feel for it and let ’er rip.”


“Sounds like you’ve got style, Terri. Hey! There’s a jukebox over there in the corner.


If I pay for a record, would you sing along with it. I’d just love to hear ya let ‘er rip.”


“It’s busted!” the bartender shouted from the other end of the bar. “Hasn’t played


in over a year! Why don’t you two take it outside?”


“Aw, come on, barkeep! Give the girl a break.” Mack shouted back. “Can ya sing


a cappella?”


“In here?”


“Sure. I’ll buy ya another Coke, even a sandwich. Are ya hungry? Lemme hear ya


sing, Terri. I’ll carry your song in my heart all the way to Pusan.”


“What’s that?”


“Some city in Ko-re-a needs protectin.’”


“All right, Mack. Only because you’ve been such a kind gentleman.”


“Oh, brother!” the bartender groaned burying his face in the newspaper.


“Tap your foot along with me so I can keep the beat,” she said. “Ready? One-two-


three. Put another nickel in, in the Nickelodeon. All I want is having you and music, music,


music. I’d do anything for you, anything you’d want me to. All I want is kissing you and


music, music, music.”


Terri went on singing for several minutes, which brought the surly bartender to his


feet and with a boyish grin he danced towards them with the lithe footwork of a hoofer


that reminded Mack of ballerina hippos in Disney’s Fantasia. Mack grabbed a couple of


butter knives from the counter and started to drum on the bar top.


Mack and Terri quickly learned the bartender’s name was Al, and he danced with


Terri as she sang several more stanzas of the song she’d memorized for her meeting.


Out of breath, Al checked his watch and it was five o’clock.


“Gee, Terri. That was really swell. I sure hope your audition goes well,” Al said.


“I’ve already got the record deal, Al, but that song is only the B-side. No one


thinks that tune will go anywhere, but I just love singing it.”


“I can tell you do, Terri,” Mack said. “Thanks, for the send-off.”


“You stay safe over there, Mack. I’ll bet you’re gonna find a sweet girl to love


you real soon. I can feel it.”


“The rain’s finally stopped. I can walk over to Idlewild now. I hope your record


tops the charts, Terri!” Mack shouted from the doorway as he was leaving, but a short,


no-neck man bumped into him. “Sorry, Mister,” Mack said, always polite.


The man just nodded with his collar turned up and his fedora shielding his face,


but Mack heard a voice that would become so familiar to many for decades on TV:


“Hellooo, Miss Brewer. This Sunday we’re going to have a really, really big sheeew.”


Mack returned from the war four years later with his Korean wife. He told her


all about the last night he’d spent in America before arriving in Pusan. He introduced


Jung Soo to Al, and they reminisced about that rainy night in Queens.


“Wait’ll ya hear this, Mack,” Al said, going to the jukebox. “Finally got it fixed.


Here’s Terri’s latest.”


Mack looked into Jung Soo’s loving eyes as they swayed and tapped their feet to the


perky voice singing: “I don’t want a ricochet romance, I don’t want a ricochet love. No, no, not


me. If you’re cheatin’ with your kisses, find another turtle dove . . . “


rFile:Music Music Music - T.Brewer - 1950 London.ogg - Wikipedia *




*
Fair use rationale
Use of this audio sample in the article is fair use because: historical interest. Shows differences with other versions. Shows style and melody of verse properly. Quality is much reduced. It is not sufficient to threaten the full recording, but helps promote it as background for a fictional story




_________________

The Magic Blue of the Sapphire Hotel

By Kristin Neubauer
 
 
Six-year-old Sannie Johnson knew she wasn’t special. Her mother told her. Her sisters told her. Her uncle told her. The hundreds of people who streamed by the tattered “Homeless” signs she and her mother held everyday told her.
 
That’s why Sannie didn’t think she’d done anything special the day she noticed a dollar bill fall from the purse of a woman wearing a fur coat with a high collar outside the Sapphire Hotel. The woman swept through the hotel entrance, failing to notice the little girl who scurried from the shadows of the alley and plucked the bill from the murk of a sewer puddle. Her eyes widened as she studied the “1-0-0.”
 
Sannie darted through the entrance, so intent on returning the money that she didn’t hear the doorman behind her shouting, “Hey you! Come back here!”
 
But the instant she stepped into the lobby, she stopped. The murmur of jazz from a grand piano floated around her. Sprays of tropical flowers adorned the tables. Rings glinted off women’s fingers as they clinked glasses with men who sported silk ties and cufflinks. A grand staircase opened into the lobby. It was something else though that halted the child and left her staring, mouth agape.
 
Outside, it had been a cold winter day with a sky so blue and sun so bright that Sannie had to squint. But inside, all color had faded to a world of grey. Everything and everyone were bathed in flat, colorless hues that reminded Sannie of a black-and-white TV show she’d once watched through a store window.
 
Everything, that is, except for a chandelier dripping with thousands of sapphires, speckling the room with cobalt shimmer. Sannie stared up at it until her neck was sore. When she lowered her head, she caught other flashes of glimmering blue – a single rose, water flowing down a fountain, an antique frame surrounding a mirror.
 
Sannie couldn’t take her eyes off her reflection. In her world, mirrors were rare and she hadn’t seen herself - not like this - for years. She tried to pat down her braids like she’d seen her sister once do and scrubbed at a smudge on her forehead. Her hands disappeared inside the sleeves of her oversized coat – a man’s corduroy jacket a shelter volunteer had once given her.
 
She opened her mouth and stretched it with her fingers, giggling at the funny face reflected back. She waved her arms in the air and twirled around, staring at the mirror the whole time.
 
“Taxi!” she shouted to her reflection in a deep voice, imitating a man she’d seen leave the hotel earlier.
 
As she peered more closely, Sannie noticed other people in the mirror. She turned around and realized a crowd had gathered around her, whispering and staring.
 
“My dear, are you well?” a heavyset woman asked, squinting over her glasses.
 
“Someone dropped this money,” Sannie said, waving the $100 bill. Her voice faltered. The coat sleeve fell back as she raised her hand and her right arm sparkled with the same blue glimmering in the chandelier, the rose, the frame and the water. She pulled back the other sleeve and saw that her left arm, too, shimmered. Sannie looked at the pale faces around her and heard snatches: “Her face”…”those eyes”….”even her hair.”
 
She peeked at the mirror again but saw nothing unusual in her reflection. Just the same little girl with flyaway hair and a coat three sizes too big for her. As flat and grey as everyone else around her.
 
She held her hand in front of her face, looking directly at it and not at her reflection - sure enough, shimmering like a Caribbean Sea.
 
An elderly man leaning on a cane, broke through the crowd and tottered to Sannie. He was smiling so warmly, that she couldn’t help but smile back.

“My dear, dear child,” the man said. “I am the owner of this hotel. This truly is a most extraordinary day.”
 
“Why am I blue?” Sannie asked.
 
“My dear, this building holds a deep magic that people come from all over the world to see. It selects only the most beautiful and precious things to imbue with its divine blue. Never –“ He turned to the crowd. “Never has this hotel found a human being worthy. Until today.”
 
The crowd murmured. He turned back to Sannie, face solemn.
 
“Child, what’s your name?”
 
“Sannie Johnson.”
 
“An extraordinary name for an extraordinary child. This is truly an extraordinary day,” he repeated. He tilted his head upward, looking toward the chandelier, and spoke to no one Sannie could see.
 
“What do we do? She is but a child.”
 
A cloud of blue shimmer dropped from the chandelier and floated to the front desk.
 
The old man turned to Sannie.
 
“Come, there is something we must look at together.”
 
Sannie followed him to the front desk. He huffed as he reached below and struggled to lift the sapphire book, fiery blue against the lobby’s grey tones. Sannie stood on tiptoe to help steady the book which looked very nearly about to crash to the floor. With a final grunt, the elderly man heaved it onto the desk. Sannie climbed onto a stool he indicated with his cane and bent over pages that smelled of ocean breezes.
 
The hotelier muttered to himself as he turned pages. Finally, he stopped, and turned to
 
Sannie.
 
“Now, read that for yourself child.”
 
Sannie looked at the mass of lines and felt a rush of heat in her face.

“I can’t read,” she whispered.
 
“No matter,” the man said. “All in good time, all in good time, child. Listen carefully.” And he read:
 
“Article 72, Section III: The Sapphire Hotel possesses the right to judge all visitors who enter the lobby. The Sapphire Hotel has the sole authority to deem them extraordinary or ordinary. Those who qualify as extraordinary will be invited to enter the hotel’s training program which, upon completion, will secure them a lifetime position as a Sapphire agent among the 22 hotel realms (see Article 6, Section V). Those deemed ordinary will be required to pay their bill and exit the premises.”
 
The elderly man sighed and turned his face upwards, addressing the empty air. “But she’s so young. She has a family.”
 
A puff of blue sparkles erupted from the book and the hotelier nodded.
 
“Very well.”
 
He removed his glasses and turned to Sannie.
 
“Do you understand?”
 
Sannie was poking her forearm with her finger, transfixed by the blue hues that swirled and glittered on her skin.
 
The man cleared his throat.
 
“Sannie Johnson!”
 
She looked up.
 
“The Sapphire Hotel has deemed you extraordinary. As such, the hotel is asking you to join the corps of Sapphire Agents and lead missions throughout its universe.”
 
“Ex...tror….din -what?” Sannie stumbled as she tried to sound out the word she did not understand.

“Extraordinary. That means you are a special child - the most special to ever walk through these doors. Mission leaders have been discovered at other hotels, but never this one, and never – NEVER,” he looked to the chandelier, speaking loudly, “– so young.”
 
Sannie kept poking her arm as the hotelier continued.
 
“Now, these missions that you will lead are missions for Good. You will become like fire and like light. You will lead teams in this world and others to bring Light to Darkness, Good to Evil, and Hope to Despair.”
 
Sannie looked up at him.
 
“Will I fly?”
 
The man smiled.
 
“Why yes, you will. However, Sannie Johnson, you have to understand that once you come with us, you cannot return to this.”
 
He waved his arm around the room.
 
“This room?”
 
“No. No, child. This life. Your friends, your family. That is the sacrifice required of the Sapphire Hotel – a commitment to your missions, to move ever forward, no turning back. Forever.”
 
“Forever,” Sannie repeated. “Forever” was a word she understood.
 
“Forever” was the word her sister used when their father left. “Forever” was the word her mother sobbed the last time they were kicked out of a shelter. “Forever” was what the social worker said when Sannie threw the “Learn to Read” book at her. “Forever” meant always and never.
 
She jumped off the stool.
 
“Be right right back!” she shouted as she ran through the lobby and out the hotel’s entrance, blue sparkles streaking behind her.

 
She paused for a moment, blinking against the glare. After the greys of the hotel's interior, the colors of the city street hurt her eyes. She looked at her hands, and her shoulders sank as she saw the ordinary, everyday skin she had lived in for six years.
 
Sannie sprinted to the doorway of the abandoned theater next door, where her mother lay huddled under a grey blank.
 
“Mama!” She shook her shoulder. “Mama!”
 
Her mother forced open one bloodshot eye. “Eh?”
 
“Mama! I’m going on a trip!” Yet, even as she said it, Sannie felt a strange sensation in her stomach, as though it had turned upside down and then dropped through the ground. She felt tears in her eyes and threw her arms around her mother. Right then, she changed her mind. The magic blue and the elderly man felt strange and unfamiliar - far away. Too far away, like a dream.
 
Her mother squirmed and pushed her. “Go away, girl,” she mumbled, turning to face the building and pulling the blanket up tighter around her shoulders.
 
Sannie sat back on her heels, stared at the mound in front of her and stuck her thumb in her mouth.
 
She heard a noise behind her and turned to see the hotelier leaning on his cane, a cloud of the hotel’s blue sparkles shimmering and swirling around him.
 
“You will stay, then, Sannie Johnson?” he asked.
 
She removed her thumb and looked up at him. The funny feeling had left her stomach.
 
She looked directly into his eyes, shimmering with the sapphire blue.
 
“No. I want to go.”
 
He extended his hand and she grabbed it. In an instant, they were gone, leaving behind a wisp of blue that sparkled in the sun.

 Return
​
by K. A. Williams

based on characters created by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor


Introduction - In the "Red Dwarf" TV series, at the beginning of Season 6, the crew had been in suspended animation for two hundred years after their mothership Red Dwarf was stolen while they were exploring in Starbug. Chronologically, this story is set after the last episode of Season 6.

***

Rimmer had saved the day by destroying the time machine but since the timeline was altered no one remembered,
which was a shame because it was the only truly heroic thing he had ever done.
Rimmer, Lister, Kryten and the Cat were still aboard Starbug and still searching for Red Dwarf when the Cat's hands tightened on the controls.
"What is it, Cat?" Lister asked.
"My nostril hairs are tingling like bungee jumpers."
"I've got nothing on the scanners." Rimmer was now in his soft-light form because of the power drain on Starbug.
"Switching to long range scanners," said Kryten.
"It's big! Something big!" The Cat was excited.
"Could it be Red Dwarf?" Lister hardly dared to hope again, after so long.
"I'm getting a picture now." Kryten looked at the image forming on the screen. 
The Red Dwarf's computer appeared. "What took you so long?"

"Holly! Where you been?" Lister asked.
"Red Dwarf was hijacked. I tried to shut them out of the Drive Room but they cracked the door code." 
"Who stole the ship?" Rimmer wanted to know.
"You're not going to believe it."
"What I don't believe is how you let them do it.
There are supposed to be safeguards preventing unauthorized ships
from entering the landing bay," Rimmer said.
"Well, that's just it. There was no unauthorized entry. They were already here."
Holly switched the picture to the Drive Room where several strange beings sat around the console.
"What on Io are they?" Rimmer snapped his fingers in excitement. "Aliens!"
"No," Holly corrected. "Fleas."
"Come again." Rimmer frowned. "I thought you said fleas."
"I did. These fleas bred and evolved from the fleas which were on Lister's cat Frankenstein.
They lived on the bottom levels for three million years until a plague deleted their population.
Those they didn't die evolved into the higher life forms you see here."
"Higher life forms?!" exclaimed the Cat. "With those clothes?"
Holly continued. "Two hundred years ago after the plague, the survivors found their way up here and took over this ship while you were away on Starbug. Their descendants contracted a mutant virus last year and mostly all that's left now is the female population.
Red Dwarf is currently stationary and awaiting your return."
Starbug homed in on Red Dwarf's location, landed safely, and the crew disembarked.
"A representative of their people is supposed to meet us here," Kryten explained.
The squat humanoid hopped into the landing bay and said something that sounded like a combination of a cough and a sneeze together.
Kryten translated. "Come with us. We have prepared food for you." 
They followed the flea to the canteen where a dozen of the strange creatures stood around a table covered with plates of various food.
Holly appeared on the monitor when the Red Dwarf crew entered.
Rimmer assumed his most authoritative manner.
"Ask them if they know the penalty for stealing a Jupiter Mining Corporation ship.
Let's throw them all off into space."
"Rimmer, you're such a smeghead," Lister said.
"Sirs," Kryten interrupted. "The least you can do is enjoy the feast they've prepared."
"Do you think the food is safe?" the Cat asked.
Lister thought about it. "What would they gain from poisoning us?"
"Our clothes, for one thing. Look at what they're wearing. Everything is gray."
One of the creatures circled around Rimmer and cooed to another. "Kryten, what are they saying?"
"It seems she'd like to mate with you, Mr. Rimmer, sir."
"I'm glad to be a hologram, at the moment." The creature's hand passed through Rimmer and she looked startled.
Rimmer smiled and pointed at the Cat and Lister. "Try them. I'm sure they would love to help you repopulate."
Lister and the Cat backed slowly away from the fleas. Rimmer laughed, then turned to Kryten. "We can just set them off on the first planet we come to." 
"But sir, they seem to be perfectly harmless."
"They're unauthorized personnel, Kryten. Must I remind you of Space Corps directive 326."
"I didn't think you wanted to marry the Chief's daughter and be sacrificed in a volcano."
"I meant 325."
"But this isn't a luau and you're not wearing a grass skirt."
"Forget it," Rimmer said. He knew what he was talking about, but could never keep those numbers straight. 
The Cat and Lister still hung back from the table because of the female fleas. Rimmer beckoned.
"Come on, Listy. I'm sure your offspring couldn't look any worse than you do." 
"Shut up, Rimmer." Lister turned to the Cat. "I don't see any chicken vindaloo, do you?"
The Cat walked up to the table and sampled some food. "C'mon buddy, this is good."
He cringed when one of the female fleas patted him, then grabbed some food and ran from the room.
Lister took another look at the food. "I'm going to a vending machine and get a vindaloo." He headed toward the door.
"What should we do sir?" Kryten called after Lister.
"Maybe Rimmer's right this time. Let's find them a planet they can live on and leave them."

"So, you're finally admitting that I am the best man to be in charge. That I am a born leader, right up there with Napoleon and Caesar." 
"No, I just don't fancy making love to a flea."
Rimmer ignored Lister's last comment. "Holly, take Red Dwarf to the nearest planet that can sustain life.
Kryten, tell them that we have found them a new world. A world filled with prospective mates."
"Yes, Arnold," Holly said.
"But sir!" Kryten protested.
"Say another word, Kryten, and I'll set you off with them."
Then Rimmer told Holly about his hard-light drive and proceeded to the hologrammatic projection chamber while the flea population busily packed up its belongings. When Red Dwarf reached the destination, Kryten shuttled the fleas to the planet via Starbug.
Rimmer, now in his hard-light form, went along to supervise.
On the last trip, one of the female fleas asked a question.
"She wants to know if we are landing near the male population," Kryten translated.
Rimmer smiled. "Tell her to be patient and the males will come to them."
Kryten told Rimmer's lie to the creature.
When the last flea had departed from Starbug, Kryten asked, "Doesn't it bother you that they will wait and no one will come?"
"Nope." Rimmer gloated. "Serves them right for stealing the ship. Take us back, Kryten." He gazed fondly at Red Dwarf through the view screen.
"Home sweet home." 

The End

Previously published in Badlands in 1997.

Painting above: Willem Johannes Martens - Angel's Kiss


"AND MY MAMA CRIED..."
By Marcella S. Meeks


It was the end of the school year of 1962. Summer had just arrived and school was out. We lived in a small East Texas town way out in the boondocks. The nearest neighbor was seven or eight miles away.
Daddy worked at the post mill in town. He was known as the town drunk and he never came home till late in the evenings because he'd stop off at one of the bars with his buddies, if he came home at all. He wasn't a kind man in at all, but mama never complained. She always said, "Your Daddy is a hard worker, Clara May.".
She, on the other hand, was a quiet woman and stayed home to look after me, and my older brother Eddie Wayne and the seven-year-old twins Emmet and Alice Jane. Mama had her hands full taking care of the house and I had to tend
to the kids everyday when we weren't in school. She ironed clothes for several rich ladies from town to make extra money to make ends meet.
"Clara! Clara!" mama hollered out the back door one evening. "Bring the kids and y'all come eat supper. Hurry now, your daddy will be here soon."
What mama meant was 'hurry up, feed the kids, bathe them and get them out of the way before he comes in.' My daddy, well, he was a strange man. He hated us for some reason. When he was around, mama was a totally different person. Why did they have us kids anyway if they didn't really want us?
I gathered up the kids and we scrambled inside before mama started yellin' again. If I didn't, she'd come out the door with daddy's leather belt and whip me for not mindin'. Mama didn't tolerate sassy kids.
After we all had our baths and ate supper we had to hurry off to bed. Why couldn't we stay up late once in awhile? It didn't matter anyway. When Daddy came home we couldn't play or speak or anything or we'd get a beltin'.
One evening, I helped mama bathe the twins. Eddie Wayne was getting dressed. "Hurry up, Clara. You know daddy likes peace and quiet when he comes in," she said.
"Okay," I said. "Mama, why does Daddy hate us so much? Do you hate us, too?" She popped the twin on his backside and said, "Now run along to bed, Emmet."
She pushed back her hair, wiping the sweat off her brow and before I knew it, she slapped me as hard as she could up side my face. "Now don't you go talking
like that Clara May Dickerson. You're only fifteen. Be a good girl now and go to bed."
That night I cried, remembering the way mama hit me. I touched my cheek. Mama rarely ever spanked me or hit me hard but she'd make a fuss and threaten to whip me. But tonight was different. I knew she was upset over my words.
It was too hot to sleep, and as I lay there, I heard mama and daddy arguing in their room down the hall. I heard daddy hitting mama and I could hear her crying for a long time. Daddy was mean to her and she'd have bruises on her face and arms occasionally. Once she had a black eye but she'd never to talk to me about it. Mama tried to hard the bruises but I saw them. I knew my entire life that Daddy Dickerson was mean and hateful. I heard him hitting mama yet she'd never talked to me or tell me why.
One Friday evening daddy came in from work early and told mama to pack our clothes. He apparently had been drinking pretty heavy. He was taking us on a little vacation or so he said. Mama packed as many clothes as she could in several old suit cases she had brought down from the attic. "Clara May and Eddie Wayne, put these suit cases on the back of yur daddy's truck," she said. I saw her wiping tears out of her eyes as she turned to packing boxes of food.
"Mama, are you coming with us?" I asked.
"No, Clara May. I have tons of ironing. Your daddy knows what's best. Go along and look after the twins. Listen to your daddy now." She went back to filling the boxes so I knew the conversation was over. We climbed in the back of the truck and mama stood waving at us from the
porch. "Clara May, watch them twins." And that was the last time I saw mama for many years.
We rode for several hours. When we finally reached Shreveport, Louisiana, it was amazing to see tall buildings and people walking up and down the street. Being from the country you didn't get to see the city very often. A couple hours later, daddy turned off a country road and later onto an old dirt road. There was an old house at the end of the lane and we pulled up in front of it.
"Eddie Wayne, you and yur sister get that stuff unloaded," Daddy yelled at us.
"Who lives here?" asked Emmet.
"This was my granddaddy's old home place. No one has lived here for years. Clara May, you and the kids gonna be stayin' here for the summer. I reckon you better get to unpacking. There's some mattresses in the living room - that's all y'all gonna need to sleep on." Daddy took a drink of whiskey. "Clara May, you take care of them kids while y'all stay here. There is plenty of wood left in the wood shed to build a fire in the cook stove. And there's a well on the side of the house. I'm gonna leave you kids here now, and you better not go wandering off. Stay away from the farm house across the field. The neighbors don't have time for you yungins. I will be back on Friday to bring y'all another box of food. Enjoy your summer vacation."
I stood looking at him, afraid to say anything. The old house was run down, the porch was falling in and the screen door was hanging on one hinge.
"Daddy, are you leaving us?" Eddie Wayne asked.
"Yur mama needs a break from y'all kids," he muttered sluggishly.
"Daddy, you can't leave us here!" I wailed at him.
"Don't you go gettin' all sassy with me, Clara May or you'll get a beltin' before I leave."
He jumped in the truck, cranked it up, and just like that, he was driving down the dirt road and away, leaving me and my sister and brothers all alone. "Some vacation this turned out to be!" I screamed to the trail of dust. "I hate you, Daddy! I hate you!"
Eddie Wayne and I carried our suit cases inside the old house. There wasn't any furniture except a few broken pieces in the living room floor and a wood burning cook stove in the little kitchen off to the back of the house. Every other room was empty. The wood floors were dusty and cobwebs hung from the ceilings, evidence that no one had lived in this house in a long time.
"What we gonna do, Clara?" Eddie Wayne asked.
"We'll figure out something," I said, trying not to scare my little brother any more than he already was. "First, we'll clean up some."
The twins came running in the front door. "Look, Bubba. Look, Sissy. Look who lives here!" they exclaimed excitedly, carrying a big orange fluffy cat. "It's a kitty-cat," Alice Jane said, holding the cat out for everyone to see.
"Look twins, we don't need no ole' cat hangin' 'round," said Eddie Wayne. "If Daddy Dickerson comes back, you know he's gonna do nothing but kill the darn thang."
"We can hide it when he comes," said Alice Jane. "Please, Bubba, Sissy. Can we keep it?"
"He said he want be back 'fore Friday so I s'pose it wouldn't hurt to keep the cat," Eddie said, looking at me.
We hadn't eat since breakfast so I searched through the box of food and found a can of mackerel and crackers. "Eddie Wayne, go look in the kitchen and find something to open this can of fish with. A can opener or knife." I went around to the side of the house and found the well. I lowered the bucket and brought out fresh drinking water. "I can't believe mama let him bring us here and leave us like this," I muttered, wiping away angry tears. "This ain't no vacation at all! They dumped us is all!"
We had fish and crackers and drank the fresh water out of the dipper. Emmet
fed the cat scraps of canned fish. "Look Sissy, the cat likes the fish," Alice Jane said. "Can we name him Mr. Fisher?"
Later in the week, Mr. Fisher had four little baby kittens during the night on the bed we had made for him. The twins were excited and decided that Mr. Fisher was now Mrs. Fisher.
At night, the old house was dark and creepy. We were afraid at night being in the old house all alone, and it was dark and creepy with no electricity. I hugged the twins as close to me as I could and Eddie slept on the outside of the bed. I knew he was as afraid as we all were but he was eleven and wanted to act brave. He had found a big stick out back and brought it in and put it beside our bed.
Friday morning, I got up before the other kids and made a fire in the wood stove. I made powdered milk to drink and made a pot of oatmeal for us to eat. There wasn't much sugar but we eat what we had.
We weren't expecting daddy to come so early in the morning but I was out back getting wood for the stove when he pulled up. I heard the commotion inside and ran in the back door. The first thing he did when he walked in was see Mrs. Fisher and her kittens. He slung all four of her babies against the wall and hit her across her back with an old stick, as hard as he could. Screeching, and frightened she ran out the door and off into the woods. Her babies were dead. Emmet and Alice Jane was holding the dead kittens with tears in their eyes.
"Daddy, stop!' I screamed at him.
Eddie Wane looked at me and didn't say a word.
"Where'd you get that cat, Clara May? Answer me," he hollered in a drunken voice.
"It showed up, Daddy. We don't know where it came from," I said, hugging Alice Jane to me.
"Eddie Wayne, go get them boxes of food your mama sent. It's a good thing I brought y'all here. Your mama is expecting another baby soon and she can't handle taking care of y'all four yungins any more. That cat better be long gone when I come back next Friday or it will be a dead cat!"
Eddie unloaded the three boxes of food and daddy stumbled to the truck and drove off down the road leaving a trail of dust behind him a mile long.
Mrs. Fisher eventually came back that morning only to find that all her little babies were dead. Eddie and I dug four little graves out back and we had a little funeral for them. Emmet and Alice Jane cried off and on all that day. "I hate Daddy," Emmet cried.
One day before the summer ended, we were sitting out on the front porch when we saw several vehicles driving up. A sheriff's car pulled up almost to the front step. "Hi kids. Where's your mama and papa?" he asked.
"They don't live here," I said. "They live in Gilmer... you know, Gilmer, Texas," I answered as bravely as I could.
"Well then, I reckon you kids need to come with us beings there no grown ups living here with you."
"What about our cat, Mrs. Fisher?" Alice Jane asked.
"We'll send someone after her when we pick up your things," the sheriff said. "Don't worry sweet heart, we'll bring her to you as soon as we can." That was the last time we ever saw Mrs. Fisher. We never got our belongings from the old house either.
That was also the day we went to live with Mrs. Johnson, a real nice lady from foster care. She took good care of us and eventually adopted us. She helped us all with our schoolin' and I helped her with the twins, just like I did for mama.
Several years later, mama sent me a letter saying that daddy had died of a stroke that fall and she never wrote to me again. She never mentioned if she had another child or not and I really didn't care.


Many years have passed since then, and me, my brothers and sister grew up and went separate ways. Mrs. Johnson who we called Mama stayed in contact with us long after we each were married and she'd send cards and letters every chance she got. My brothers and sister and I kept in touch and they come to visit once or twice a year.
One evening Eddie Wayne called. "Hey, Clara, how you doing? Just called to tell you that Mama Dickerson is in the hospital and they said she was asking for you. She's in the hospital over in Shreveport. Just wanted to let you know she's asking for you."
Later that evening, I told my husband Peter about Mama Dickerson and he said, "You need to go see her, Clara. You need to forgive her and give it closure. It's time to forgive and forget."
After what seemed like hours, I decided to go see mama. Peter and I got off the elevator on the 3rd floor and went to the nurse's station. "We're looking for Erma Dickerson," I told the receptionist.
"Room 306 - down the hall on the right."
We walked slowly and I could hear Mama Dickerson calling my name. "Clara!" Clara!"
Our eyes met. Though she hadn't seen me in many years she knew who I was. "I am sorry, Clara May. Will you please forgive me for all the pain and suffering I put you through?"
Standing there with tears in my eyes, I looked at my husband and said, "This isn't my mama. This is the woman who abandoned us like we were nothing." And
I walked out of that room and never looked back just she did to us many years ago. Several days later, Eddie Wayne called and said Mama Dickerson died.


Even now, I can still hear the haunting of her voice calling my name. "Clara! Clara!"

Fortissimo

By Don Noel

Loud music filled the theater. Stentorian music, reverberating, with no bodies, suits or coats in the audience to absorb any of the sound. Standing in the back, waiting his turn to rehearse, Jonathan was afraid that his oboe would be swallowed up by a permanent maelstrom of sound: It seemed suddenly as puny as a tin whistle.
The orchestra’s sound — harmonic, gorgeous, but overwhelming — did more than fill the hall. It filled his head, driving out Richard Strauss.
Make it stop! Which was silly, he knew. If you were a 15-year-old woodwind prodigy invited to play with the state symphony orchestra, it was hard to imagine the din’s ceasing just for little old you.
There was a brief lull, and then the brass and timpani came thundering in, along with all three soloists and the full chorus: HALLELUJAH UNTO GOD’S ALMIGHTY SON— but in German, of course.
It was deafeningly Beethoven. The oratorio, “Christ on the Mount of Olives”, was one that Jonathan might never have known if he hadn’t been programmed to appear as a kind of warm-up act.
He scowled, furrowing his brow as he tried to hear in his head the Strauss oboe concerto he would soon be rehearsing with this orchestra.
His mind refused to summon up even the opening cadenza.
A humiliating lapse. He glanced at the glass door he’d just come through, wondering if Gretchen would arrive to witness his failure. There he was, mirrored in the door, a tall skinny kid with buzz-cut blond hair, horn rimmed glasses and a prominent Adam’s apple. She, on the other hand, was as pretty and well-built as one would expect of the school’s most popular cheerleader. He wondered what she saw in him.
Never mind that: He had to get the reverberating Gospels—DEM ERHAB’NEN GOTTESSOHN, the chorus was fairly shouting— out of his head. He tried to summon Strauss. Nothing came.
He should have brought the sheet music; foolish pride to think he had flawlessly and unforgettably memorized a 25-minute piece.
It wouldn’t be exactly silent out in the hallway, but he pushed the door and stepped out. Beethoven diminished ever so slightly as it swung shut. He opened the case to take out his gossamer instrument, slender black with silver keys. He tongued the reeds to moisten them, and played a scale in D-major, the key in which the concerto opened.
All right! The bright, scintillating notes of the oboe floated in the empty hallway, a delicate tessitura over the muffled oratorio.
He paused, waiting for Richard Strauss to come back.
It ought to be easy. Each movement had a pretty, almost filmy melody, with little of the dissonance of some Strauss works. In learning the piece, he had listened to a recording: The oboe was echoed by two flutes and two clarinets. He remembered imagining overripe dandelions being blown, the fluff exploding into bright sunshine, with a darker echo in bassoons and cellos and a low-voiced woodwind, a rarely-used cor anglais, whose notes seemed like the heavier dandelion seeds falling to the ground.
Beautiful — ethereal — which was why he had loved memorizing the work.
But he still couldn’t hear the tune; brawny Beethoven was blocking the way to his brain. The gauzy chiffon of Strauss’ melodies wasn’t coming through.
He felt cold sweat in his armpits. Great: Can’t remember the music, and, to boot, smell like a gym class locker room. He walked purposefully down the hall, the orchestral tumult diminishing behind him, and paused just inside the outer door, bringing his oboe to his lips again, trying to remember the opening notes.
And then, suddenly, here came Gretchen, escorting Mom and Dad. “Oh, Jonathan, you haven’t played your piece yet, I hope!” Mom gave him a hug, and Dad gave him a manly thump on the back.
“No, not yet. I was just going to practice a bit, and my mind has gone blank.”
“What do you mean, gone blank?” Mom asked.
“Can’t remember the score.”
“You see?” Gretchen said. “I told you we should bring the music, just in case!” She reached into the Go Central High canvas bag slung over one shoulder.
“You have it?”
She started to hand it to him, then instead opened up the first pages and held them up across her chest, hands at her shoulders.
“At last!” He brought the oboe to his lips again, peering at the music, and began. He hadn’t played two bars when it all came back; he closed his eyes and played on.
Played so intently, in fact, the notes tumbling into the air, that he didn’t notice when the now-distant Beethoven came to an end.
“That other music has stopped, son.” Dad’s voice broke into his consciousness. “Does that mean they’re ready for you?”
“Oh, dear Jonathan!” Gretchen said. “You didn’t really need the music. You’re a musical genius!” And right there, in front of Mom and Dad, she leaned over and planted a moist kiss right on his cheek.
It was almost enough to drive Richard Strauss right out of his head again. Feeling himself warm, he closed his eyes and made the notes appear again.
“Come on,” he said. “I feel a concerto coming on.”
Dad was reaching into his pocket. “Let me give you a Kleenex, son. You don’t want them to think you’re blushing.”

DANCING WITH GHOSTS

By

Bill Vernon


The first 90 minutes of dancing, Frank Hendricks didn't mind the evening's visitor.
She arrived late, just as the first song began playing, and was motioned into the line of dancers so there was none of the usually awkward chit-chat with her. Even better, that first dance showed that she was well versed in the art. Therefore, the program would not have to omit or simplify good dances so that she could participate.
Except for the way she was dressed, she fit in.
Frank relaxed and tried to lose himself in the dancing.
He did that pretty well, his mood shifting with the music from different cultures and ages. That is until Dolores Jones who was playing the music announced on the loudspeaker, "'Royal Empress Tango' is next so grab a partner." That's when this woman said loudly, as if her feelings were everyone's business, "Oh, I love to tango!" She looked around at the club members on the floor, caught Frank's eye and said, "Shall we? Want to do it with me?"
Frank jabbed his chest with a thumb. "Me?"
She smiled, marched over to him, extended her right hand, and said, making it rhyme, "Hello, I'm Marcia SUE, and yes I asked YOU."
True, women boldly asking men to dance, to date, or do whatever was not unusual in the world today, and that reality he accepted, but a stranger like this one, singling him out like that, had never happened before in his life. Her looks made him suspicious. He'd never ever met a woman as attractive as she was.
He shook her hand by habit and croaked, "I'm Frank."
When she dropped his hand—hers had been hot and moist—she kept her eyes glued to his and said, "Don't worry. Folk dancing's new to me, but I do a mean tango."
Frank was briefly incapable of understanding. "A mean tango?"
She laughed. "I mean I'll be able to follow your lead. You do know the dance, don't you?"
"Sure. It's not a hard dance." Knowing dances was a matter of pride to Frank.
"Good," she said. "That makes it easier for both of us."
His attention slid off her eyes. Up close like this, a few inches higher than her eyes, his naturally focused down onto the ample swelling at her cleavage.
"Let's get into position," she said, her right hand rising again, demanding attention.
He took it in his left and cautiously let his right touch her waist in back just above her hip.
She said, "Shouldn't we be closer together?" and stepped forward so they bumped.
He pulled away awkwardly, saw her eyebrows twitch in surprise, and said, "Oh, sorry. This dance is done in a circle and starts with the man facing counterclockwise and the lady facing clockwise so I was just trying to swing us around into proper position."
"Just tell me what you want, Frank, and I'll do it."


*****

Because it wouldn't last long, Frank could live with being up against her though no other couples would be dancing so close together. The closed ballroom position would quickly transition into open ballroom position and remain there until the dance ended. He spoke down toward her right ear just below his mouth and ignored the sweet aroma of perfume rising from it. “Let's practice the start. I'll step forward on my left foot so you start back on your right. Then your left back. Now come forward right-left. Then going backwards, zig-zag to your right, then left, stepping right-together-right, left-together-left and face center. Now go into the circle right, left, quick-quick-slow, turn, face back and do opposite footwork back to the line of dance.”
Without the music she did the whole start perfectly. "Very good, Marcia. You got it. That's about a third of the dance."
She leaned forward with a tiny hug. "You're a good teacher, Frank."
Her touch almost made him miss the beginning as the music's intro began. "Oops, here we go. Ready and—step, step, come back, back."
The music was dramatic and slow enough to call each movement before doing it, and she was so smart, she understood what he said as well as the guidance he exerted on their joined hands and on her waist, his little pushes and pulls. She was also good at matching the slightest turn of his body and steps. At the end, coming back into the start's closed ballroom position, he said, "That's the whole dance. Now we repeat it three more times."
She leaned so close he felt her warm breath on his neck. "That was fun, Frank."
He grinned and said, "If you know all the steps, we can work on finesse."
And they did. To be precise, though he started the stiffening at the end of each phrase, she took charge after that particularly at turns, and he mimicked her. Thus they both abruptly paused, stretched the moment assuming straight backs, hands, arms, neck, legs, feet and head, turning, then moving on. Frank had never done that so dramatically, never so stylized. Posing was the word for it. They resembled models posing for an artist to snap a picture or paint their embrace. Frank sensed other members of the club watching them, yet he didn't feel self-conscious because Marcia did it so well. Her behavior let him, a mediocre dancer, create what he thought of as a sophisticated, sensual look he'd never had before. He almost felt as pretty as she was.
In the silence following the last amplified note of the song, she said, “Thank you.”
And Frank bowed, a habit he'd picked up from the 17th and 18th century English country dances they sometimes did. “Thank YOU! You are a very good dancer.”
She smiled. “Frank, when I’m good I’m not bad. But when I’m bad I’m very good.”
“Really!?” He regretted this response immediately.
“It's a line from Mae West. I saw her in a movie last night on cable.”
Frank thought he'd sounded like a stuffy old fart whose brain had atrophied.


*****


From a distance the rest of the evening, Frank admired how she stood out among the others, adding color and movement to a gray background. If she returned to future dance sessions, the other women would advise her how to dress. None of them wore tight clingy things with cleavage like she had on. Some of them even refused to do the "Royal Empress Tango" because it was too suggestive. Frank liked the group. The members had standards of behavior. They had become his friends by joking around, dancing together, touching hands, shoulders, or waists as dances required, but intrusions into the privacy of others seldom happened. They grew to know each other from passing remarks that accumulated gradually, over time. He thought she'd make an ideal member once she learned the ropes.
Frank was sweeping the dance floor when, buttoning a black leather, fur-fringed coat, she said, “Excuse me,” passing him.
He said, “Come back and dance with us again, Marcia.”
“Thanks, Frank,” she said.
Cold air swirled inside past her through the front door as she went out.
A few minutes later, she came rushing back inside shivering. “My car won’t start!”
She seemed about to sob.
“Is it the battery. The forecast calls for below zero tonight.”
Tears were glistening in her eyes.
“It’s not a disaster,” Frank said. “You’ll be all right.”
She shook her head. “My life is jinxed. I get one hassle after another!”
He couldn't just abandon her. As a gentleman, he'd help the little lady. “Let me turn off the lights and close up. Then I’ll check your car. Okay?”
Only their two cars remained in the lifeless parking lot, where plowed-up snow hid the curbs. Turning the key in her ignition stimulated nothing. Frank said, “It’s dead all right.”
She sighed. “If it won't get towed, I'll leave it here overnight, then get it fixed tomorrow."
"It'd be all right here," he said.
She dug in her purse. "I'll phone for a taxi.”
“Let’s get into my car first where there’s heat. You can wait for the cab there. Come on.”
Maybe the sweetness of her perfume filling his car inspired him. Maybe a simple desire to help. He'd have to wait there with her for a cab anyway. When she mentioned where she lived to the cab company, he offered her a ride home.
"Just a minute," she said to her cell. "Oh, Frank, I can't let you go to all that trouble."
He said. "I know Buckhorn Street. It's not very far away. It won't take long."
"Isn't someone expecting you now?"
"Oh, no. I'm alone. I lost my wife eight years ago."
"Well I'm sorry to hear that, Frank. I hope she didn't suffer." And she cancelled her taxi.
Frank shifted out of park. "No, Karen didn't suffer, and by now I'm used to her absence."
All the way to Marcia's address, he controlled the old impulse to complain about Karen, about how she'd divorced him and run off with a man he'd known and trusted his entire life. His shrink had helped him stop those excursions into denial, guilt, hatred, and anger. Part of the helpful therapy was joining the folk dancing group. "Mixing with other people is a breakthrough," Jason had said when he did it.
Frank did mention to Marcia Sue that losing Karen had happened when he'd retired from his accounting work. "Two big hurdles to get over at the same time," he said. "Two big adjustments, but that's water under the bridge by now."
He didn't ask about her family life, but she said, "I understand. I'm all alone myself now."


*****
​
​
As Frank parked in the slot assigned to her apartment, Marcia said, “Come in. I'll make you some hot cocoa. It'll warm us up and let me thank you." She touched his forearm." Please.”
The dashboard clock said 11:17. Well, he was in no hurry and he was curious about her accommodations. This new horseshoe-shaped complex had replaced Holy Angels church and school, which he'd attended. He'd not recognized the address when Marcia mentioned it on the phone. He'd not known that the church and school were now not only defunct but also gone.
He washed up in her bathroom while she heated their drinks. He sat where she directed, on the end of a couch near a fireplace where gas flames licked three fake logs.
“Cheers,” she said, clinking her cup against the mug she handed him.
Frank only wet his lips with the cocoa—if he drank it, the caffeine would keep him awake all night. But he also said, "Ah, tastes good."
Continuing to stand, she said, "Great. I feel so comfortable in here out of the cold. Thanks again for bringing me home. I hope it's actually not too far out of your way.”
“No problem. It was my pleasure," he said and pretended to sip more cocoa.
She left the room and several minutes later he heard soft music. It was a nice, slow orchestral waltz that he couldn't name, and it seemed to emanate from the walls. Frank looked around for speakers and noticed on a coffee table a black tube as wide as a handful and about six inches long. He went over to the table, bent toward the tube, and heard music streaming from it.
"Bluetooth," Marcia said behind him.
Whatever that referred to.
He turned to face her. She was in a doorway, and light behind her silhouetted the outline of her body through the filmy, knee-length white negligee she now wore.
"There's another speaker in my bedroom." She shifted sideways and pointing at another dark tube standing upright on a chest of drawers. "Want to come in here and look it over?"
Her voice droned on, but he couldn't understand the words. He did understand what she was implying. She was offering herself to him. But she herself in the flesh was an apparition. The light behind her made her glow. It spread around her like an aura. He could see everything, and she was so beautiful, his respiration and heart raced as they hadn't in years.
No argument surged through his mind, no awareness of desires, urges, moral precepts or imperatives, judgments, feelings, memories, nothing contradictory complicated his thoughts. There was only appreciation.
Still framed in the doorway, she said, "Are you all right?"
He nodded. "Sure." But he was staring, almost adoring her.
She left the doorway and floated toward him. Her diaphanous wrap billowed at her sides. She stopped short and reached for him with her right hand. "C'mon," she said, curling her fingers, nodding toward the room she'd been in. Her fingertips touched his left hand.
Frank took her hand in both of his, but did nothing but stare.
Marcia pulled his hand toward the couch. "Maybe we better sit here for a minute. On the couch. Okay?" When he didn't move, she said, "Relax, Frank. Breathe in and out. Sit with me, please. Don't be sick, please."
Her tone prompted him. “I'm, okay, Marcia. Don't worry."
They sat, turning toward each other so their knees touched. Close like this, Frank saw her eyes. Beautiful blue. Wrinkles he hadn't noticed until now gathered at her eyes.
Marcia said, "You don't have to do anything. You've been so good to me this evening I just meant to...."
“Marcia Sue, I'm so glad you let me bring you home. I'm so glad to experience your goodness. The way you're willing to try to make me happy. Of course I'm way too old for you, but that doesn't detract from your kindness."
She shook her head. "I didn't want to shock you."
Frank smiled. "See how you're so concerned for me."
"I don't want you to have a breakdown."
She was upset. "Honey, my shrink would call this a breakthrough. Thank you so much."
"But Frank...."
He squeezed her hands. "I'll go in a minute but I want to be honest with you first. Meeting you was a happy affair, but coming here feels like it was meant to be."
He told her about going to church and grade school here and how he'd lost track and forgotten the place. He also said, "I've misled you. It'll just take a minute to explain." And he told her the truth about Karen, but there was no bitterness or anger, just a recitation of the facts.
To finish, he told her how her dancing had affected him. "What I noticed was that you brought us alive. We were ghosts dancing as if we were doing a tedious job. Your energy and enjoyment made us come alive."
She said, "You're a very good dancer, Frank. You taught me."
"You taught me more," he said, standing. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, found an old business card, gave it to her, and said, "Don't feel obligated, but there's my name,
number and address. I just want to say that I'd be happy to pick you up and take you to dancing next Thursday or any week you want to go. You were a godsend this evening, and I know our group would all be happy whenever you could make it."
"Oh, Frank, I don't know. This was just a one-night stand."
He laughed. "I know we're a bunch of old fogies. But if you change your mind and want a ride, you know where to get it." At the door, putting his coat on, he faced her. "You know dancing is an ancient way to be social and celebrate life. You're good at it. If you want to dance some more, call. Okay? Or just show up like you did today. About your car, I'd be happy to take you back to the pavilion tomorrow. I have nothing better to do. Honest."
Marcia said, "Thanks. I'll call if I need a ride," and draped herself from head to knees in the light blue blanket that had been on the couch. That was the image of her he carried downstairs and out to his car. It told the whole story. It completed the picture he'd had of her. She was made in the image and likeness of the life-size statue that used to stand by the altar in Holy Angels Church. The resemblance was too uncanny to be accidental.
Marcia, Mary. Marcia was Mary, but was she Mary the mother or the other Mary? He couldn't remember who the statue supposedly depicted. Then again, it really didn't matter.

On New York Time


by
​

Teresa Ann Frazee



The music was loud and aggressively differed from anything that came before. Unyielding vibrations assaulted and challenged my youthful auditory range. Amplifiers emitted a steady roar, as the base pounded in my chest, navigating to an unmapped place in a fictive anatomy, where a rebellious soul would reside. This boisterous rhythm was a stripped down incarnation of rock- and- roll, embodying a freedom that could not be tamed, while the energy of its anti-authoritarian echo resonated inside me.
With deliberate speed, we were directly responsible for the validation of defining the identity of a decade about to seize its rightful place in history. From within the inner circle, you could hear our prophetic call. With open arms and a do-or-die scream, we unleashed a thunderous cry loose upon the world, which only the bohemian born could relate. Together, with a certain comradery that belonged to us and only us, we sought a haven in the shadows of the outskirts of night. In a terrain inhabited by a new breed of denizens, we the pale renegades of our time, had found a direction in a corner of a disrupted Eden. Youth’s misplaced Adam and Eve beyond number, there in the era of fringe and leather, we were sheltered in the habitat of nameless forms. So at ease, running headlong into the lawless pace of the insistent drumbeat of my generation. What was born in me, could never be stilled. It was clear, I was where I was supposed to be. So were we all.
Being post Aquarian Age, after we finally laid the Sixties to rest, this was the Seventies in New York City, long after the "Battle of the Bands" was the best thing to happen to a Saturday night. A graffiti adorned door of passage awaited us. At the entrance, amid the spectrally lit darkness, we were greeted by a gaunt, spiky haired, androgynous figure, whose bare arms illuminated illustrations, that burrowed beneath his skin. Like a rag doll, striving mightily to remain upright, he leaned against an abraded old wall, which seemed to have been plastered by hand so many years ago and was now defaced with an illegible collage, of torn, overlapping posters of the latest bands. A cloud of smoke from his cigarette rose toward an indeterminate high-ceiling dominated by an enormous chandelier, the last remnant of a ballroom style, Polish dance hall. Without making eye contact, one-by-one, my peers and I offered our hand to him and in a fugitive moment snatched by starkness, we felt it get stamped with a smudged ink blotch, already starting to fade. This painless branding was a symbol, our dues had surely been paid.
Like a mirage in heat, I could barely see my friend Ann Marie sitting at the bar next to a “Dead Boy”, the bass player, in a punk band with irreverent notoriety. Ann Marie was a together, no-nonsense girl of slight stature, with a teased Shag hairstyle, the color of burnt sienna straight out of the tube. A dedicated leader of fashion, numerous chains hung around her neck. Her fingers long and slender usually held a pastel colored, Nat Sherman cigarette. During the time I had known her, which was since college, I never actually saw her take a drag. Always wardrobe ready, the cigarette was more of an accessory to her all black outfit, than a nasty habit. I worked my way through the cultural darkness, toward Ann Marie. I could hear the whoosh of hair whipping, devoted dancers, glide like urban phantoms, spinning fast in homeward flight. Uninhibited whirling dervishes, defying gravity, belittling nature’s law. I accidentally, brushed up against two Neo Keely Smith look alikes in rhythmic motion, who twisted their contoured postures in spontaneous choreography to the B-52's, “Dance This Mess Around.” As I approached Ann Marie, she was sipping a bottle of Heineken beer, angrily tapping the bar.
"So Ann Marie, what's happening with you? You’re uptight,” I said, just loud enough over the music.
"Oh hi,” Ann Marie muttered with feigned enthusiasm. Her thoughts were presently elsewhere. She shook her head and said, “I mean my mother, she rang me up yesterday. She's still hoping to marry me off; always in my face about it. I told her, geez, I’m only twenty one, besides, just so you know, I don't want any hand me down vows from the sweaty tongues of church and state. I ask you, does this sound like me? She wants me to be a good little girl, get hitched, move somewhere way out in the suburbs, have a white picket fence driven into a well-groomed lawn and settle down with 2.5 kids, you know, where the unconditionally content, call home.” Ann Marie heaved a slow sigh, “What she really wants is for me to trade living for existence. She’s determined to condition me like a dog at Pavlov’s dinner bell. But I’ve got news, I’ve collapsed her myths and rules. I never belonged in her pictured world. So pardon me if I do not fit neatly into the typical role of a perfect daughter and blend into the exiled landscape of the masses. I asked her, at what sacrifice or what cost should I be satisfied by the stagnancy of that illusion?”
" No you're right. Believe me, I know where you're coming from. Don't listen to her,” I said.
“Do I look like I do? I'll tell my mother and anybody else who wants to know, they're dreaming. I refuse to conform to that image,” Ann Marie snapped back, never moving her eyes from her drink.
A tall, lanky, dark haired bartender with a waxed paper complexion and beady black eyes, set far back in his head, appeared, like a black crow sweeping down to pick up his just desserts.
Looking directly at me, the bartender interrupted, " What can I do you for tonight?”
I placed my order of Scotch. After a few nods coordinated with hand gestures and bringing another round to Ann Marie, in one fluid motion, the fresh drinks were exchanged for two dollars from the pile in an age old ritual of trust.
Sitting cross-legged at the bar, drinking Scotch straight up, was quality time. Like an eternal flame, youth’s invincibility mastered my thoughts, which granted me the option of living forever. As the drink went down, it seemed to warmly coat every vital organ, reminiscent of a niacin rush from a B12 shot, depleted of any nutrients. I sat at the bar toying with the cocktail napkin in front of me, without noticing the night’s subtle slip into oblivion. Several glass ring impressions on the napkin held a genuine interest but soon, I turned my thoughts to the reflection of silhouettes in a Bacchic epiphany of decadence and in a glance, watched the fabric of time begin to disappear. The mirror’s view of the interior behind me was panoramic. There were glimpses of fishnet stockings and ringed wrists with nails tipped with silver polish. Translucent skinned young males, left their territorial markings of empty beer bottles and fast burning butts. Emaciated arms swung by, spruced-up in leather bomber jackets, coordinated with worn-out tight Levis, that covered strengthless limbs and buckled boots with the swagger of defiance that encouraged back alley struts. Brazen metal zippers flashed against the uncompromising textured blackness, where compulsions met. Honoring a sleep a day routine, we kept vampire hours, waking up when the sun went down. Not savage creatures thirsting for the blood of man, it is more of an insatiable thirst to feel the life force of youth coursing through our veins. I met my gaze in the mirror and in the style of my contemporaries, a thick fringe of hair brushed against my dusky eyelids with every blink. Even with this slight annoyance, I could see the drama of shadowy figures, like gypsy children of their own birth, fill my view. Gone was the muzzled dialogue of self- compromise spoon fed from the majority. Off the grid was where we lived. In these moments, we had created a fertile ground on which we had become the very culture we defined. It was the corruption of innocence, where nothing remained sacred.
A major lure of the downtown club scene was the bar section beyond the brass rails and on the shelves, directly in front of the mirror. Innumerable glass bottles adorned with elaborate labels of ducks, flowers and grapes flickered like votive candles. A chosen few cobalt or magenta bottles had a sweet, sticky, steel beak of a spout, that easily poured essences from glass decanters. The duplicated imagery in the mirror, reflected the hypnotic kaleidoscope of liquid euphoria, an intriguing illusion in contrast to the darkness behind me. A judicially placed muted blaze of golden light, haloed above the almighty cast register.
“Can I cop a drag?”, asked a voice behind us. Daniel reached over Ann Marie’s shoulder, without receiving an answer from Ann Marie, took a drag of her cigarette and handed it back to her. Daniel, a mutual friend from college was a "Foodie", whose Major at Pratt Institute was Restaurateur, Entrepreneur and Food Management. He was one of those over-educated, out-of-work characters who made a career out of collecting his unemployment checks. Now that he had graduated, there wasn't much call for an experienced swan ice sculptor, especially since Daniel would only consider working as a part-time temp. After college, he was disillusioned when he sought after this type of work and was offered a busboy position with the possibilities of someday moving up to chef. Basically, Daniel thought he would buy a restaurant, with what cash, I do not know, and he would show up at the restaurant twice a year to check up on the staff and see if there was any skimming on the profits. It's ironic that he chose the culinary arts as his life's work. Daniel had the physique of deliberate starvation. He despised food, eating and everything associated with this human function. The whole process tired him, going to the store, picking out, buying, carrying the groceries home, putting them away, cooking and finally consumption. Seeing Daniel standing there wearing a flimsy Junior Miss mini dress over Wranglers and long wavy hair that hung past an insinuating grin, everyone knew, for him applicable work would never materialize.
Ann Marie proceeded to tell Daniel about her mother’s pedestrian plans for her daughter’s future and how Ann Marie would never conform and be part of a community where lives are neatly fitted, as a peg into a hole.
“What's up with that? You tell her sister! Give ‘em hell,” Daniel responded nodding his head the appropriate number of times, to display just enough sympathy.
“Do you want the dirt on what really goes on? I picked up the newspaper today. But you know, no one ever reads the fine print. How are they ever going to see the light?” Daniel said, subtlety redirecting the conversation from it’s course,
"It’s the way it is. Last thing the powers-that-be, want for us to know is the truth, therefore broadening our horizons. Once you see the world in the liberating light of your own unwavering truth, you never see it any other way,” said Ann Marie.
“You know it. Along with the familiar guise of hope, we're being tricked by rituals and misled by superstition. But I'm healed from the wounded logic of appeasing someone else's beliefs,” Daniel responded. And with a wave of his hand he ordered a drink for himself.
After the Psychedelic Fur’s first-set, Joe arrived and wrapped his arms around me from behind and leaned his face towards mine. Responding to his affection I turned on my bar stool, to lick his eyelids.
“You’re a cat alright,” Joe said.
Joe was one of the few people I had met who actually was born in Manhattan and still lived there. A bonafide New Yorker, who knew the guts of the city. Sensitive to my evolutionary needs, Joe and his city delivered. Our compatible sense of timing was impeccable. Keeping it light was never part of our time together of which we were determined to spend every minute. We were the, male - female version of each other. Being artists we couldn't commit to reality. Nor would we.
Joe & I had met on the dance floor in a New York club, back in the 60s. As I recall, he wrote my phone number on the palm of his hand with a Rapidograph pen, that he had handy in his pocket from art class. At the time, it appeared that Joe was inflicting himself with an intriguing ritualistic tattoo. The pen had a chrome needle point and his actions seemed painful and permanent. Strangely different, show me more, I said under my breath. We first met when I was fourteen and he was eighteen years old. When Joe, my perspective beau, had asked me my age, I did the most unlikely thing, I told the truth. Fourteen, I responded. He shook his head and said no really, and continued to pursue this line of questioning further. I was on the spot. I remember, I tried to think up a believable age. According to all responsible accounts, okay eighteen, I blurted out, saying it without looking directly into his eyes. That seemed to do the trick. Being quick-witted, Joe deduced my real age long before he acknowledged the fact that I graduated high school and he graduated college at the same time.
Even though my glass wasn’t totally empty, Joe ordered a drink for both of us. Then Joe took my hand and kissed it.
“Hm, you smell nice. What's that sent?”
“Patchouli oil,” I responded.
“The way you walk on floating feet like Morticia Addams, that's another thing I love about you,” Joe said.
Playfully I said, “Listen to you. Knock it off. My heart had skipped a beat. Aren't you the Casanova? Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you.”
“For me?”
“Yeah for you, silly boy.”
“What is it?” asked Joe.
“You'll see,” I said, as I felt inside the back pocket of my pants and then handed Joe his gift.
“Hey, a braid of your hair. How cool is that!”
After all, it was a meager attempt to reciprocate for all the thoughtful gifts I had received from Joe. It surely was no contest. yet the most outstanding gift that I have earmarked the memory to share and without a doubt, widened the perimeters of my budding artistic world, was an acrylic paint set. As if that wasn't enough, Joe also gave me the book, No Exit by Jean-Paul Sartre. Joe had no intention of me, the recipient of his affection, thanking him in a high-pitch, girlish giggle. My boyfriend, had been listening but not in that annoying obvious people pleasing way. Joe knew of my love of painting and my newfound interest in Existentialism. The paints were a top of the line brand. He had to go to an authentic art supply store in NYC, located obscurely on a second-floor walk-up. One always felt you needed a secret password to actually purchase art supplies in that establishment. You have to be worthy. I found myself in by association. Once Joe gave me a low-cut, skin-tight silver lame’ evening gown, with a thigh high slit up one side. On the hanger this get up, was dripping with sex appeal. I adored that swanky dress. The decadent times we had together left this once glimmering metallic garment, with pure attitude sewn every stitch, stained, ripped, and burned with cigarette holes but still it remained for years in my closet. It was, in fact, my old friend. Always a struggle, being swayed by sentiment, I assumed if I could discard that dress in the trash, and I eventually did, I can throw anything out. I was cured.
In the bar’s mirror, I saw Eddie approaching me from behind, about to cover my eyes and play that dumb Guess Who game. Joe stopped him. Eddie, the failed prankster, was another one of our "Pratt Brat" alumni cronies. Eddie told me, earlier that night, he tried to steal a Clash album, from Korvettes, the department store in Brooklyn. He was smoking a Marlboro cigarette and with his free fingers, Eddie began feverishly combing his Buster Brown haircut, in front of a cracked section of the bar’s mirror. His face had the chiseled features of a Halloween Batman mask. From the look in his manic eyes, I could tell he intended to dominate the conversation. In Eddie's hyper condition, saliva would accumulate in the corners of his mouth, making him appear not unlike a ranting, rabid heathen hound loose from his chain ready to prowl the night. He had me in a verbal stranglehold. Once he would get on a roll, Eddie would curse excessively with full frontal ferocity, spewing nasty four letter words in one sentence, using them as an adjective, noun, verb and possibly an adverb. Eddie's loose language and stumbling Keith Richards entrances, were part of his “get me” persona. At these time, he seemed filled with rage, bearing a load all too heavy for his years. Eddie went on and on. Even though I didn't always agree with him, I recognized his validity. If anyone could pull off the “what comes around, goes around “, theory, it was Eddie. I remember one time, while in college, Eddie worked in a book store. He never showed up for work, forging the forms to be paid. Getting caught stealing from the book store, you would assume got him into big trouble. Disciplinarian charges were brought up at a hearing, which he didn’t attend. “If you paid me enough at the book store, I wouldn't have to resort to stealing”, was Eddie's brilliant defense. His superiors dismissed the charges and actually gave him a raise for a job he didn't go to. Angrily, Eddie continued to speak and told me of the time, he was bound with his own Venetian blind cord and robbed at gunpoint in his Bedford-Stuyvesant apartment. All the while he spoke, he stared into the space around me, only breaking the trance once, when he nodded to the bartender.
Almost in a tone of a question, Eddie said "Hey barkeep, White Russian?”
After telling me these things without comment from me, he asked, “So how are you?"
I snatched the chance to speak, "Fine", I quickly answered. I decided I would catch up with him later. Besides by then, that was all I could muster up and willingly handed the floor back to Eddie. He didn't take it. Instead of guzzling down his drink, towards obscurity, his usual approach, if drinks are on the house, he took a savoring sip of his White Russian. His devotion was intense, as if the expensive drink was one of the high heeled big deals, as Eddie referred to the evasive women who worked in the offices, he delivered packages to on his route as bike messenger, who finally said yes to his advances. Eddie was surely a footnote to history.
Eddie turned to Daniel, “Hey Daniel, remember what we were talking about last night? I tell you one thing, liars, they're all liars. They strip you of your emotions, then tell you how to feel.”
“Sure, I know what you’re saying,” said Daniel
“Don't they see, it’s easy enough to explain, the reality of truth is burdened by displaced sentiment and fear,” Joe chimed in.
"Yeah, without a doubt, truth is overrated in a house of make-believe. To their policy of lies, they’re such pet slaves. They’re like manipulated puppets buried under the rubble of delusion, where out lived dreams and weird luck settle,” Eddie said.
“You nailed it. Our manhandled morality is a crosshatching of lies. I'm just saying, sometimes I feel caged. Am I right Eddie? You get it, don’t you?“, asked Daniel.
"Eddy said, “Don't get me started. Just look at them, daily driven, selling out to some boring 9 to 5 job. Imprisoned in that shadow cast by the weight of promise, always waiting for what never comes. Clueless in a world, desensitized to the really important issues in life. Their minds clouded from hopes and dreams, they fall into the trap door of social order, turning solid ground into quicksand. I know, I say this all the time but in perfect circles they stagger, for only those who know little, master confusion.”
“Still the hierarchy of social order, Joe said, “with it’s power to charm, continue to recruit new enthusiasts, filling their heads with lies, sprinkling their poisons, allowing ignorance and hypocrisy to collaborate.”
Daniel folded his arms and said, “And for them, it's become a huge challenge, to silence our overly defiant voices. To them, we are considered pests, nothing more.”
“Damn straight", Joe said, then he took a swig from his beer bottle.
None of us questioned the tone from which our dialogue sprung. There was a clear driving force among us. We had developed a hard edge, out of grace movement, with a raw brand of beauty, bubbling up from the underground. We were designed for the night. Suspending the clockwork of reality, through detached dimensions of space, together, in a summoning odyssey that reigned nightly, is where we tended to linger. Serendipity had wound about the darkness. There would never be another time like that. As if in slow motion time ceased to meddle.
I made a bathroom call and worked my way to the end of the dance floor. There was a sign on one door that said, “Gents”. A door exactly like that one on the opposite side, had no sign. The signless Ladies Room may not have merited historical treatment like the Paleolithic cave paintings at Lascaux but someday archaeologist might uncover the distinct scratched obscenities and doodled icons that covered the toilet stalls. In a way, this was a lair inhabited by post-modern rebels of an underground society. As I retraced my steps back to the bar, the hour came around at last, it was time to go. The five of us gathered our belongings, we walked out onto East 15th Street and were met head-on by the cold air of night. It was raining lightly, painting the streets gloss black. At the entrance to the club, a group of new arrivals fumbled around in their pockets preparing to pay for admittance. It was well worth the meager fee, if only for a few timeless hours. Some of them were in pairs, some single, some hand-in-hand. A systematic line formation emerged. An obviously cold, blonde stick of a guy, was at the head of the line. He was clutching his jacket at the neck and coughing like a devoted filterless smoker of fifty years. Through the darkness, I vaguely saw the last person on line, an echo of those before him. It was comforting to know the torch was being passed on to a new crew of night lifers. To know they would continue, where we left off, to partake in the insurrection beyond the door. In the early morning streets of the city, getting a cab was easier on the main strip, so we started walking from Irving Place to East 14th Street, checking out the sparse passing traffic for a stray cab heading Uptown. Eddie, as ever, just followed. The pounding base along with Eddie followed us to 14th Street. Stepping off the curb, I tried to avoid the pigeon pecked French fries and a face up Sister Mary psychic fair flier, wading in the puddle. City clutter was streaming downward in a gush of rainwater destined to be held hostage by the teeth of the sewer. As in a daydream, I played mind games with the street, silently taking Rorschach tests with ever-changing iridescent patterns that were formed in the puddles of oil and water. Faint street lights illuminated my wet reflection in a store window. Like a weary ghost, I clutched my black wrap which mingled with my dark hair, that had the shimmer of seaweed, caused by the drizzling rain falling on New York City. Up ahead against the slick darkness, huge 15 ft steam fed pipes from an underground Con Ed worksite, released an ethereal mist, appearing as a crewless ship, fog bound. An image where the conscious became an uncertainty. Three inky eyed girls mercilessly sang a lingering hook line from the club. They flitted past us. Remaining true to my obsession with extremes, I know I read too much into the scenario but when they reached the site, a momentous thing happen. All three urbanize Sirens turned towards the Con Ed ship as if to catch a glimpse of the jeopardized captain. Somewhere between the Sirens and Eddie bending down to pick up a folded $20 bill con, a cab pulled up to us. The other side of the unfolded, phony bill was usually just a piece of paper with some sort of work at home ad. But one could never tell if it was real, until you picked it up. In Eddie's case the bill was always fake. Our taxi was one of those over-sized Checker Cabs that seated five passengers. There were two folding seats up near the plastic partition. Eddy, all hair and superhero clench made a lunge for his predetermined folding seat in the cab with the subtlety of a derail train. Daniel, Ann Marie, Joe and I slid passively into the leftover seats. Eddie began regaling the driver, on everything from the forbidden subjects, politics to religion. He was in his element. You could smell it in the air, along with the pine tree air freshener that was dangling from the cabs rear view mirror.
The night, so rudely interrupted by denied appetites, was drawing to an end. At one time or another during the cab ride home, someone shouted, I'm hungry, let's eat. For the remainder of the night we spoke in loud voices, a result of the amp’s synthesizer hum, still trapped in our tortured ears. We made our odyssey to Apollo's on 29th and 3rd Avenue. Apollo's, an all-night diner, was a place, where detached diners could eat totally unnoticed. Strangers statistically sitting at a secure distance. Too late to be night people, too early to be morning people. They were the beasts of both worlds. Our stomachs abandoned to neglect growled. Hunger had overcome us. After all my dinner that evening, had simply consisted of smoked oysters on a snack cracker. I crawled into a large booth with the slackness of a Slinky moving down a staircase. Jamming together, everyone spoke at once. It was reminiscent of a Robert Altman movie with the exception of an All-Star cast. A smileless waitress with a mussed up French twist and the graveyard shift in her step, approached our booth. We were reduced to, “hon”, in space of seconds. Extensive menus were handed out. In chalk there were handwritten specials on a blackboard, which were much too heavy to consume, envisioning a gastronomical nightmare. The waitress finally, took our orders and tossed the slip of paper from her memo pad onto a spike. Our coinciding dialogue included the revelations this early morning time period graciously allows. Thrown into the mix of faulty ears and hunger, I heard Daniel try to pawn off some story about having Sea Monkeys, as a kid. Sea Monkeys, I remember, became those mysteriously instant critters, when you simply added water. At that time, you could find the ad to purchase them, in the back of a trendy magazine. Nobody ever really knew what they were, let alone spend money on them. Food was served and after devouring my spinach pie, the guys plopped down a bill and some loose change on the speckled Formica table. We made vague plans for the next weekend. My thoughts about going to Mr. Snow's shop during the week kept cropping up. Mr. Snow was the owner of a vintage clothing boutique. He would hold articles of black lace and spandex clothing for me. He never knew my name. I liked it that way, making me feel like in an anonymous movie star. We had a one-dimensional relationship. In my mind, he was always in his store, not allowed to roam about. He was a fixture there, waiting for me to arrive. Mr. Snow was cutting-edge, having the fashion sense of an underground Dior.
Joe and I linked together at the arms and said goodbye to our friends, and started up the street. We sashayed home to dream in our beds. There we were back where we started obeying numbly the internal, command to sleep. Before we called it a night, I felt the anticipation of doing it all over again, same time, same place, next week.
In 1972, Joe and I vowed to love each other endlessly. Our souls consented. Shortly after we reached this agreement, we went through the legal formality of getting from the State of New York, the piece of paper to prove it. But it was more than just a license. I would like to believe it was a sacred union, that we had the blessing of divine government. Needless to say, Joe has moved up in rank with the honorable title of husband, of 48 years and counting. Deep down, I still refer to him as, my boyfriend. Joe calls me his beatnik bride. To me we are still both those skinny kids from the city. To think it all started with that brave question from a teenage boy, " Wanna dance?"

Father Time
​
by


Teresa Ann Frazee





You mortals take fatality all too seriously. Time does not care in the end if your actions save or damn your soul. Either way, the future cheats you, with the most ultimate restriction, of earthly rights. Only Fools fuss with plans. One can never decipher how far, I, Father Time, will go to claim your existence or demise. Practically speaking, my job description is that all living creatures are expendable and to be obliterated and therefore, I am encouraged to move the process of mortality along. The seal is set and reserved for my design of keeping balance between beauty and decay. Uncompromisingly, Father Time, has, does and will continue, with very laborious calculations, to keep time for every single living creature, yet does not pass judgment. I make no boast about having to fulfill my duty and you do not know me if you think I relish this in secret triumph. To ignore my side of things is to see only a partial story that will fail to lead to conclusions and fall short of the truth.
In the beginning, from the moment when I was appointed Father Time and began my career, I understood the necessity of disengaging myself from sentimentality. I have gone to great lengths to guard myself to remain impersonal. That being said, amid all my refusal to be hampered by emotional strain, there is this distinguishing mark of a pathetic sense of guilt. Ultimately, it has guilefully burrowed deep into the tiniest crack in my subconscious, then took up residence, which is an infinite burden. There are those who may claim, it is hypersensitivity on my part and perhaps, I should be made of stronger stuff. Your sympathies, of course, I understand should not lie upon my shame. But I must confess, it seems as if an enormous wedge has been thrust between my belief system of right and wrong. See that fly? Who is to say, after a desperate struggle, when his end will come and he shall fall prey to my persistence, or when a termite, professor, tax collector, soldier, rock star, spider, rat, king, or when I tragically carry off a child into the wrinkled arms of mortality or when a hardworking doting father will meet their demise? I do. The permanently doomed, those frightened souls with survival ever on the mind, their trembling, expiring limbs of flesh and bone, always anticipating miracles but on their fateful day they shall pay a dear price. My superior remains in the role of master, absolved of this task, networks responsibilities, while he takes on the heavy burden of pretending single-handedly to rule the world. Even though, he alone receives the blame, when the numbers add up to my murderous math, I should be grateful for my anonymity. Perhaps, it is a consolation, some may find it to be a perk of the job. But it is not. Quite frankly, I have grown weary pretending everything is alright with anonymity’s wasted skill.
Forgive me but my work is dreadfully tedious. Obviously, this is troubling as it causes such inner conflict. I am torn between my duty to precisely cease a life and my boredom. I guide them into the inescapable afterlife, as I come to grips with the agonies of my unexpressed guilt with dreadful intimacy. It is the power of time which is the sole business of Father Time. This endless journey towards obliterating the living must and will take precedence over any compassion, including pity or mercy. You see, time is intolerant of bargaining claims, pledged vows and resolutions made by the morbidly obese, chain smokers, heavy drinkers, pill popping, mainlining addicts, the bedridden, downtrodden and the poor as sin, who are forced to withdraw from society. Their requests, which are not made lightly, for an extension of time, when theirs has expired, as they swear on their word, to do good, be better and heal themselves, to become upstanding citizens and pillars of their community are all denied. The persuasive tone of their wishes and demands bear no weight on the final outcome. Surely, my job does not entail exerting much devotion to answering their pleas. Even those who are the picture of health, who practice good clean living, they too fail to understand, it matters little, for nothing protects anyone from the unavoidable. Nevertheless, there are times, when I applaud those daring creatures, who step up and attempt to resist the inevitable. It is worth giving due recognition. The elemental principles of the human spirit to persevere cannot be overlooked. With such a display of naivety, these beings feel they have some form of validation, a birthright to push back time, yet their sheer determination, I find commendable. They are reminiscent of the hardheadedness of one coming of age, with a false identification, who believe they are endowed with the attributes of a messiah, who controls the sequence of events and have conjured up the fabrication that they somehow are invincible. I must admit, this attitude causes both admiration and exasperation in me. Then of course, there are those who are forced to look at the over all harsh demands of their lives, are consoled by the thought of their time being over and rather long for the end. They have come to terms with this natural predicament, embrace it and stumble headlong into whatever awaits them. Rest assured, including those determined not to go down without an admirable fight, all will be considered losers when the light goes out in their eyes. It is virtually impossible and certainly meaningless to believe time can be outwitted.
By and large, I have no right to complain that not for even an instance, I cannot entertain the idea of simply unrolling the darkness of a hundred nights and lose myself in rest with the lax muscles of profound sleep. That fantasy would bring me even more despair. I confess, like the daydream of a mentally slow to develop, innocent schoolboy, I momentarily lose all my powers of conception and have this vague hope that perhaps in my incomprehensible hypothesis, time has stopped for a split second. However, reality hits me hard. This position that I hold, has been uninterrupted from day one. Let it be stated, I never asked for the responsibility. It is a huge undertaking which has left me overwrought with restlessness and fatigue. Also, It is a mistake to believe that my existence as Father Time was my ambition or career choice, that would clearly be an inadequate assumption. Oh to make a fresh start! As you can easily imagine, the change no doubt would indeed be drastic. You may very well ask, what then, do I aspire to be? What is my passion? I could simply respond, that I have a longing to escape into a picturesque scene, resonant of Romantic Painters, where a warm breeze wafts the most delicate scent of honeysuckle, as reflective, summer, yellow sunlight pours onto a balcony. I envision myself sitting there, utterly satisfied, slowly rocking in a worn chair. Far off, are scarcely visible majestic mountains with a panoramic view of an exquisite verdure of the meadow below. The past fades into the haze of the horizon, then vanishes into a cloudless blue sky. I certainly understand how this scenario would seem fitting to yearn for, after all, I could use the well deserved rest. But that would be someone else’s flight of fancy. Most likely, a typical dream of the majority but as enchanting as the imaginary gratification is, it is not my dream. I do not consider myself the idle sort or someone who builds sandcastles in the air. My passion is much dearer to me. In all actuality, my desire was and I anticipate will always be, to cultivate and nurture Bonsai trees. This Japanese tradition, has been practiced by both nobility and scholars. History states, it is the oldest horticultural pursuit, which dates back over a thousand years. I remember it very well. There would have to be an infinite number of sunrises before I lose the memory of when I first discovered this living art form. There is a certain personal satisfaction to be gained by adhering to the principles and techniques that are required. For instance, Bonsai trees require long term care and maintenance to properly grow and thrive. They can live for a hundred years, perhaps centuries. It is the art of patience that I find appealing. Harmony, calmness, tranquility and a spiritual mind at peace, is what I seek. But I digress. I accept the stone cold truth of my situation and do not indulge in the comfort of a maddening dream. I am resolved and have succumbed to that fact and shall never speak of my passion again. It is a whim and not entirely conducive to my work. My superior would settle for no less.
I have not yet found any solution to my dilemma, dare I estimate the danger which I run, except perhaps by negotiation with my superior, to hire a young apprentice to assist me. At a cost, I could defy my superior's orders, simply leave my post and abort my mission. Lest we forget, dear reader, as we all know, that would be unadvisedly sound to draw attention to being a disgruntled employee, for there is that wrath of his to contend with. The ramifications are dire. So, I continue as an unauthenticated representative of moral bankruptcy to eradicate the living, day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute. I ask you, which of us is the victim?

Space Station Borvan

   By K. A. Williams



The doctor looked at the smoking TARDIS console with dismay.

"What's wrong with it now, Doctor?" asked Tegan.

"I'm sure the Doctor can handle it," Turlough said uncertainly as the TARDIS spun around and he hung on to the console for support. The Doctor examined the instrument panel, then frowned, his blue eyes darkening. "A stabilizer is broken and I don't have a replacement."

"Where can we find one?" asked Tegan who also clung to the console.

***

The TARDIS made an ungraceful but firm landing on Space Station Borvan. Tegan and Turlough followed the Doctor outside where he set his Panama hat down on his blond hair and adjusted the stalk of celery on the lapel of his cricketer's outfit. 
He was ready to shut the door of the blue police box when a passing Vineryn leered at Tegan, his antennae swirling in a mating ritual. "Maybe you should wait in the TARDIS," said the Doctor. "I won't be long."

"You always say that," complained Tegan.

The Doctor smiled innocently. "Why don't you keep her company, Turlough." 

The Doctor watched Tegan and Turlough reenter the TARDIS before proceeding through the teeming humanoid and non-humanoid species toward the electronics store. He barely missed colliding with a short Liptoid who had a huge container of yellow bunquale sauce balanced on her head.

A blue-haired Brantnodide with pink eyes rolled all four of them when the Doctor approached the steel gate surrounding his wares. He wanted to duck down out of view behind some appliances but he was just too tall.

"Ah, Cegrist, just the Brantnodide I wanted to see."

Cegrist mumbled a few words and the Doctor laughed. "Don't worry, I have something better to trade this time. If you have one of these." The Doctor pulled the stabilizer from his pocket and handed it to the Brantnodide who clutched it in a six-fingered hand, studying it, before nodding.

He went deep into his electronic maze while the Doctor waited, hands in pockets, scanning the crowd for his companions. If they weren't in the TARDIS when he returned, he'd have a hard time finding them in this swarm of people. His compact ship didn't attract much attention here. He watched an entire family of Doluts, fifty in all, enter and depart in a craft much smaller on the outside than his own. And Doluts were twice as tall as humans.

The Brantnodide returned finally, the new component in hand. The Doctor took it from him and smiled brightly. "Thank you. I think you'll like this." He pulled a multi-colored cube from his coat pocket. "The object is to get all the squares on each side the same color."

Cegrist took the cube in one of his four hands and smiled, a frightful sight because of his many sharp teeth, something he had never done after one of their  trades. The Doctor pocketed the new stabilizer and hurried back to the TARDIS.

From the pool of yellow liquid near the door, he could tell that the Liptoid had spilled her precious sauce. The Doctor went inside and was relieved to see both companions there.

"Have fun outside?" he asked. 

"What makes you think we went back out?" Tegan asked, not meeting his gaze.

"Oh, nothing really." He had noticed the yellow tracks that led from the outer door to where Tegan was standing.

The Doctor handed the stabilizer to Turlough, headed toward the inner door, and paused. "Tegan?"

"What?"

"While Turlough's installing the new stabilizer, why don't you go hunt for a mop."

Tegan looked at the yellow tracks with embarressment while Turlough laughed.

                                               

Sunshine and Superman

By

Gerald Arthur Winter


Before his teens Tommy feared he’d been adopted because his older brother Billy’s blunt insinuations that he’d been dropped on his parents’ doorstep didn’t bolster any confidence that his fear of disconnection from his family could be merely his vivid imagination.
Billy would often whisper aside to his friends that Tommy was his adopted little brother, just loud enough for Tommy to hear. Billy’s pretending to keep their blood separation a secret gave more validity to Tommy’s fear. They’d be playing football in the empty lot up the street, and Billy would foster the idea of Tommy’s detachment from his own preferred genes in his younger brother’s head as he handed him the football for an end run. 
Tommy can’t run as fast as I can because he’s adopted. His real parents were trolls. Tommy thought he’d heard Billy say aside to the other older boys, which gave him an inordinate fear of goats in the neighbor’s pasture, from Little Billy Goat’s Gruff to Big Billy Goat’s Gruff. Tommy often peaked under the bridge that crossed the creek in the meadow to see if any of his kindred trolls were dwelling beneath the wooden blanks.
The tackle football was dangerous enough to life and limb with teams of five players on each side, just a few helmets of the 1950’s vintage with no face guards, or cushioned chin straps, but rather just a thin strap with a snap or buckle to tighten around a player’s head with no protection from concussions. Often during contact the helmet would caused even greater injury in a pile-up than no helmet at all. 
Shoulder pads under a sweatshirt were the only other equipment used for protection, but only half the kids could afford them, so they had sixteen-year-old boys with helmets and shoulder pads playing full contact against ten-year-olds with no protection other than fleeing avoidance or true grit against the odds of survival. For the most part, Tommy fit into the latter with a short stature his dad referred to as “built like a brick shithouse.”
Tommy wasn’t sure if the doubts Billy put in his head were to make him falter or to make him try harder when playing with the older boys. Tommy was blond and Billy had black hair, but they still had many facial similarities and gesturing mannerism that could be attributable to both their parents. Tommy didn’t dare ask his parents if he’d been adopted for fear Bobby had told him the truth that troll blood flowed through his veins.  
Billy was three years older then Tommy, and was born two days before Japan attacked Pearl Harbor. Not until they were teenagers had Tommy heard the story from his mom that his dad thought Billy, with his straight black hair as an infant, might be have been mixed up with some Japanese woman’s baby. His dad had wondered if a Japanese woman had taken his real blond, curly-headed son home from St. Albans Hospital and had switched the baby’s as part of some yellow-peril plot to invade America.  
Without his mom’s recounting that story for his reassurance, Tommy suffered from doubts through his adolescence about his true family connection. He never realized back then how the three-year difference in their ages, made him a drag on Billy’s ill-perceived social life at school. Tommy’s acceptance among Billy’s older friends bugged Billy no end.
They lived off the Belt Parkway near Springfield Boulevard in Laurelton, Queens at a time when Idlewild Airport had just two hangers with only a few daily commercial flights. Rockaway Playland and the best beach north of Coney Island were a short train ride on the El from home. By car with his parents and Billy, it was just fifteen minutes across Jamaica Bay. 
Pat Behner was a seventeen-year-old neighbor who often took Tommy to Rockaway Beach on the train when Billy was at summer day camp. Tommy was five and Pat was his babysitter, though she was careful never to use that dreaded term. 
From the first day she’d clasped his little hand in hers and sat beside him on the wicker train seat, Tommy was in pre-pubescent love. A light brushing kiss and brief hug of affection from Pat were exciting to Tommy’s unhatched libido.  
After a day with Pat at the beach, lying in bed at night, feverish from sunburn, and the scent of Pat’s suntan lotion redolent in his memory, Tommy felt certain he could jump out his window and fly to her bedroom window. Even peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with gritty chomps of sand didn’t matter to Tommy, always longing to return to Rockaway Beach with Pat. She was the quiet studious type, but like a caterpillar fresh out of her cocoon waving her colorful wings in the salty sea breeze. Lying face down on the blanket beside her, Tommy wondered if it was the surf or his heart that was pounding so loud against the sand beneath their shared beach blanket.  
Tommy saw that Pat was also his protector. Serene and spread out on the blanket, she suddenly looked up from the book she was reading, Mr. Peabody and the Mermaid, and jumped up to smack a strange kid bigger than Tommy when he tried to steal his pail and shovel. With her shoulder-length black hair swishing, Pat looked like Wonder Woman in her two-piece bathing suit. That’s when Tommy knew he had to become a man. He couldn’t be like the runt in the Charles Atlas ads on the back Page of comic books, the skinny guy with his ribs showing who gets sand kicked in his face by a muscle-bound lug stealing his girlfriend.
Tommy kept it a secret and didn’t let Billy know he was conditioning himself 
with “dynamic tension” exercises under the covers on the top bunk in their shared bedroom—no dead weights or apparatus, just one arm against the other like an irresistible force against an immovable object.    
Pat took Tommy to Rockaway Playland after they left the beach to go on the rides and venture through Davy Jones’s Locker, a fun house with spiraling barrels, distorting mirrors, and traps that made you lose your balance. Rolling around together in the turning barrel, Tommy could smell Pat’s scent. He was in heaven. Wanting Pat, made Tommy’s mind soar from the sunshine of Rockaway Beach to becoming Superman, able to leap tall buildings with a single bound. 
Tommy thought maybe he was adopted, just like Clark Kent, and his real parents died on Krypton and left him to fend for himself, an alien among earthlings who were inferior to his inner strength. But Tommy’s foster family must have decided that he’d have a better chance of survival on this foreign planet if they moved to north Jersey where he and Billy had less chance of becoming juvenile delinquents in Queens. Even though Tommy had to say good-bye to Pat Behner, he vowed to fly back across the Hudson River to make her his life-long sweetheart.

* * * 

There was little opportunity for Tommy to fly in Bergen County in 1954, other than vicariously from the swooshing sound on a black-and-white 12-inch TV when actor George Reeves shed his suit and tie in a phone booth and sprang with his fluttering cape into the sky. Tommy was nine years old having similar feelings toward Janet Daniel's, his same age, as he had for Pat Behner. His affection; for Pat had faded like snowflakes falling on a sizzling volcanic lava. The flakes may have melted, but the lava continued to flow. That’s when Tommy’s mom asked him what he wanted most for Christmas that year. 
“A genuine Superman suit,” he told her without hesitation. “But you have to make it for me from scratch, just like Ma Kent did for Clark.”
“I’ve seen them on sale at the five-and-ten for Halloween. I’ll get you one if you do well on your next report card from school..” 
“School? Superman doesn’t need school. He’s smarter than everyone.”
“Not when he’s Clark Kent,” his mom retorted.
“Those outfits are junk, Ma. If you make it for me, it’ll be bulletproof and with my red cape I could fly.” 
She gave Tommy the kind of look you get from the librarian when you fart in the library, but maybe Billy was right that their mom thought of Tommy as her Golden Boy. He wished his hair was black like Billy’s and Superman’s with blue highlights just like in the comics.


 * * * 
       
Billy received everything he wrote on his Christmas list, and Tommy got many toys and games he’d asked for, too. Then his mom told Tommy he’d better put on his bathrobe because the heat hadn’t come up high enough in the house yet on that chill Christmas morning. Snow was in the air. 
When Tommy opened his wardrobe, there it was, just like in DC’s World’s Finest comic book last month with Superman, Batman, and Robin fighting crime together on the same cover. The Superman suit was blue with a red “S” and a yellow background on the chest. The red cape had a yellow “S” on the back. The stretchy blue pants and red tights had a yellow belt, and on the wardrobe’s floor was a pair of knee-high, red boots. Just with the brush of his hand across the “S” on the chest, Tommy could tell his suit was bulletproof and he could hardly wait to put on his red cape and fly. Now he could be sure Janet Daniels would be his girlfriend forever. He was prettier than Lois Lane or Lana Lang, and she was real and smelled like Juicy Fruit gum.

* * * 

Fortunately it was cold that January when Tommy went back to school, so he wasn’t that uncomfortable wearing his Superman suit under his regular clothes. 
“You’ve gained a lot of weight over Christmas vacation,” Janet Daniels said in the hallway by his locker. 
He closed the locker in time before Janet could see his red cape hanging insider, just in case he had to stop a robbery after school. He’d wait until the corridor was empty before catching his bus home, so he could fold up the cape to fit in his book bag.
Fortunately for those robbers, he couldn’t take out his cape on the bus ride home, because that would give away his secret identity. He couldn’t tell Janet until they were in high school. She’d be more serious and mature at seventeen, just like Pat Behner, now twenty-one. She was practically a grandmother.
Billy teased him about wearing the Superman suit under his clothes at school.  
He was in junior high now, so he couldn’t bother Tommy at middle school, not until they got home from school. Clark Kent was lucky he didn’t have an older brother to keep reminding him that, with that blond wavy hair, he probably was adopted.

* * * 

In May a new kid moved next store. Tommy turned ten and Eric was only seven, so Tommy figured he’d take him into his confidence and reveal his secret identity to him. 
A next door neighbor was almost like family, so he figured Eric wouldn’t give him all that negative jive Billy showered him with every day. Eric was a chubby kid with an odd manner of expression. When he had to pee, he’d say: “I have to make “tiddlelizz.” 
When he had to poop, he’d: “I’ve got to make a “whoorsht.” Tommy later learned that Eric was referring to a wurst, as in liverwurst—a graphic image that left little to the imagination. 
Disney’s animated feature Peter Pan was in theaters that summer, so the fantasy of flying overtook Tommy again. With summer vacation from school for three months Tommy had cultivated Eric’s belief that he was Superboy. Apparently Eric wasn’t as gullible as Tommy thought, so it shattered his confidence when Eric called him a liar—a harsh word for a kid with a dream to fly. There was only one way out. 
He’d have to fake it, but not just with words. Tommy had to make this odd, but stubborn little kid believe him, certain that was the only way to redeem himself.
Tommy planned his strategy for weeks, and finally took his wizened brother Billy into his confidence to help him with some of the details. He brought Billy into their daily games played in late July, so Billy could observe Eric’s temperament first hand. Watching Looney Tunes on TV everyday, Tommy and Billy convinced Eric to play a game they called “Fudd Pesters.”
“He’s only seven,” Billy reminded him. “Should be a cinch. What does Eric like most? Maybe he isn’t such a Superman fan like you and has to be shown what your super powers can do.”
“He’s more into Peter Pan, “Tommy said. “You know, the pixie dust and flying out your window to fight pirates and Indians on an island called Never Land with mermaids and pixies. Little kids’ stuff.”
Billy smirked maliciously. “Let’s see what we can make him fall for.”
“How?”
“I’ll show you tonight.”
Billy and Tommy shared a second-story bedroom above Eric’s first-floor bedroom window with only ten feet between the houses. They could look down from their high window and see into his bedroom. When it was dark, they turned off their bedroom lights and watched from their window until Eric’s light turned out. Billy took one of his marbles, pushed up the screen in their window, and bounced the cat’s-eye marble off Eric’s window sill with a loud—clink! They held their pillows to their mouths to muffle their laughter.
“Eric!” his father shouted. “Stop fooling around in there and go to sleep!”
“It wasn’t me, Daddy!”
“You heard me! Knock it off or I’ll give you a lickin’!”
They waited a minute then Tommy threw a marble that made a boing sound off Eric’s screen, not loud enough for his father to hear from the other room, but enough to bring Eric to the window.
“E-e-e-ric,” Billy chanted softly, but loud enough for Eric to hear. “It’s Peter Pan. Time to fly away with me to Never Never Land.”
We stayed below our window sill in case Eric looked up toward us. 
“Where are you, Peter?” Eric whispered loudly. “Where’s Tinkerbell? I can’t see her pixie dust flashing in the dark.”
Tommy and Billy were about to burst with laughter when Eric’s dad came into his room.
“What did I tell you? Get back in bed and go to sleep! Now!”
We waited about five minutes and Billy found a sparkler left over from The Fourth of July and lit it with a match from a book in his desk drawer. About to start eighth grade, Bobby had already started smoking with his friends in the woods behind Valley School. He nodded for Tommy to lift the screen then he tossed the sputtering sparkler out the window. It landed in a bush outside Eric’s window.
“E-e-e-ric, it’s Peter Pan. Tinkerbell is with me. She’s in the bush, but she’s dying because she thinks you don’t believe in fairies. Clap your hands loud so she knows you believe. She’ll be OK if you shout loud enough for her to hear. Tell her you believe in fairies and clap your hands.”
Eric came to his window and pushed up his screen. The sparker was fizzling out.
“I do believe in fairies!” he shouted and clapped his hands loudly.
Tommy and Billy were hysterical, but Eric’s father burst into his room, pulled down Eric’s pajamas and began spanking him on his bare backside. 
Eric wailed, “It was Peter Pan, Daddy! I have to save Tinkerbell!”
“No more movies for you!” his father shouted. “Now get to sleep before I take a strap to you!”
Tommy felt kind of sick inside about Eric getting a spanking, but Billy gave him a smirk and said, “Just wait. Now you can convince him your Superboy. Here’s how. . . .”

* * * 
    
Billy gave Tommy some ideas how to prove to Eric that he had super powers. 
Billy had to go to Boy Scout summer camp, so he couldn’t be around and Tommy was on my own—just him and his super powers.
He didn’t want to be obvious, so Tommy tried to act cool even though he was visibly sweating in his Superman suit under his clothes in the August heat. He’d never shown Eric his suit before. In his pocket Tommy had two nails. Both were four inches long, but he’d bent one in half in his dad’s vice on his workbench in the basement. 
“Hey, Eric! Tommy called to him in his yard where he was playing with some toy trucks in his sandbox. “Come here and I’ll prove to you that I’m Superboy!”
Curious, Eric got to his feet and waddled toward him.
“Oh, yeah. How?”
The bent nail was inside Tommy’s sleeve. He took the straight nail from his shirt pocket. 
“Do you think you can bend this nail in half?” he asked handing it to Eric.
Eric grunted so hard trying to bend it with his little hands that he farted. He was stubborn for a little kid, so he tried again, so hard and with his face turning red that he pooped his pants. He let out a howl and his mom came out to their back porch.
“What are you boys doing out there?” she shouted. 
Tommy grabbed the nail from Eric and said,” Watch this. I’m Superboy.” He put the straight nail in one hand and covered it with his fist then shook his sleeve and dropped the bent nail into his hand and tucked the straight nail back up his sleeve. He’d practiced that maneuver after watching Bonomo the Magic Clown on TV. “See! I have super strength. I’m Superboy.”
“Nah! That’s not the same nail,” Eric huffed with a frown. 
I dropped the straight nail behind my back.
“No. See, that’s the only nail,” I said.
“Your not Superboy,” he grimaced. “That’s just a comic book. My dad said so. Just like Peter Pan is fake and so is Santa Claus.”
Now this little creep was treading on sacred ground. Tommy pulled his shirt open to show him the super suit with its big red “S” on his chest. 
“That’s just a Halloween costume. I saw ’m in Woolworth’s. You not Superboy.”
“Oh, yeah,” Tommy challenged. “Try and punch me in the chest.”
Eric was little so he punched Tommy at the bottom tip of the red “S” right in the solar plexus. Caught off guard, Tommy could hardly breathe and his face turned red. 
When he got enough air back into his lungs, he shouted to Eric’s mother, “Eric pooped in his pants!”
As he dizzily staggered back home and into the house, Tommy heard the sound of Eric crying and getting a smack from his mom, not on his behind because she saw he’d pooped his pants.

* * * 
 
Billy was still away at camp, so Tommy had to take matters into his own hands.
The next afternoon Eric was playing in his sandbox again. This time Tommy wore some of Billy’s clothes so he had room under his clothes to attach his red cape to his neck and tuck its drapes under Billy’s shirt and pants. He had to role up his cuffs and wore loafers so he could slip them off quickly. He’d left red boots on the sundeck above the garage with access to the sundeck from his parents’ bedroom across the hall from his and Billy’s. 
As he ambled across his yard toward Eric, Tommy noticed Eric’s mom peering out of their kitchen window where she was washing breakfast dishes. Her expression was suspicious with one eye squinting at him. 
“Don’t tell me you’re Superboy anymore,” Eric said. “My mom says you’re just teasing me. People can’t fly.”
“That’s because you don’t believe in fairies and Santa Claus, neat stuff that all kids are supposed to believe in. When they don’t, there not kids anymore. My brother Billy is fourteen, so he’s not a little kid. I’m three years older than you, but I want to believe in all that fun stuff for as long as I can until I’m too old. You’re only seven years old and missing out on a lot a fun. That’s why I’ve got to prove to you that I’m Superboy.” 
I noticed Eric’s mom was smirking at me through the window. 
“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, but first I’ve got to save a kid caught in a tree, stop a bank robbery, then help a plane make a safe landing because it has an engine out on one of its propellers and will crash if I don’t show up. I’ll be right back.” 
As Tommy ran around the side of my house, he let Eric see him shedding Billy’s clothes until his red cape fluttered behind him for take-off and he shouted, “Up, up and away!”
Tommy ran into his house through the front door before Eric could follow him and see where he went, then he ran up the stairs to the second floor. He kicked off his loafers in the hallway then ran through his parents’ bedroom and onto the sundeck where he slipped on his red boots. 
He grabbed the edge of the slanted roof and pulled himself up on the railing around the sundeck and stood on the top so he could pull himself onto the roof. Holding the side of the full dormer, he worked his way up the slanted roof to the top of the dormer above the bedrooms where the roof was level. He ran across the flat roof toward the other side of the house next to Eric’s house. He visualized himself looking just like Superman in the comics. He came to the slanted roof on the other side of the dormer and eased down the slanted roof until the heels of his red boots in the rain gutter kept him from falling fifteen feet to the ground. He spotted Eric below. Eric had wondered around Tommy’s house in pursuit to see him take off in flight. Sure it was a lie, Eric was heading back toward his sandbox. When Eric was directly below, Tommy imitated the whooshing sound from George Reeves flying as Superman on black and white TV. But in full color, Tommy leaped from the roof and over Eric’s head. Thinking back on it, Tommy was glad his Olympic gymnastic, ten-point landing hadn’t gone to his head. Though he felt his thigh bones jam up into his hips, Tommy had broken no bones. He turned on his heels with exhilaration as his red cape swirled with the grace of a matador avoiding a bull’s charge. Eric’s mom came running across the yard and shouted, “Oh my God! Are you all right?”
Of course, she meant Tommy, but he folded his arms and pumped up his chest then said with a wink, “Yes, Eric’s fine. But he must promise to keep my true identity a secret.”
With her mouth dropped open, she said, “Of course, Superboy. We both promise to keep your secret. You’ll never have to prove it to us again. Absolutely, never. We even promise never to tell Daddy. Right, Eric?”
Eric’s face was still in awe after seeing Superboy come flying out of the sky from nowhere and land in front of him. Tommy remained standing in the yard like a statue of strength for truth, justice, and the American way until Eric and his mom went back into their house. When it was safe, Tommy broke his statuesque pose and limped painfully back into his house and upstairs to his bedroom. He cried in pain for an hour. 
Tommy never grew quite as tall as Billy and often wondered if his Superboy landing had stunted his growth. Billy told him that he was shorter than him because he’d been adopted. Even if he was physically damaged or genetically different, in his mind, Tommy always felt taller since that sunshiny day with Eric, just for taking a leap of faith that all kids needed—to dream of feats of strength and wish they’d come to pass.

Her Spirit Within Me

By Gerald Arthur Winter


Jeong Soo and John reunited at Clearwater/St. Pete Airport, both running with hands
raised above their heads in their reunion ritual. He lifted her off the ground and swung her in
his arms, so relieved to know she was unharmed and anxious to hear the full account of her
story about Hurricane Kim. When she told him of the harrows of the storm, his mouth was
agape with wonder over his fabulous wife’s survival instincts in a Cat-5 hurricane.
Jeong Soo had survived childhood asthma, her father’s untimely death when she was
twelve. She was the youngest of five sisters brought up by a single mother in Seoul with little
to eat. She had a bitter divorce from a wealthy, but verbally abusive Korean husband who’d
left her with their only son as her sole demand in their property settlement. Though she
became a successful business woman owning a day spa for women, a fire destroyed her
business without insurance. She had no money and a son to support. She wondered if her
ex-husband had hired an arsonist to destroy her will to live.
Bankrupt and depressed, while she and her son lived in a small crowded space with
her mother and eldest sister, the other shoe dropped. She had a head-on auto collision that
destroyed her only asset, her natural good looks. The impact split her face in two. Though the
Jaws of Life cut her out of the car, she’d lost all her teeth from the accident and spent eight
months hospitalized in traction after multiple surgeries on her right arm and left leg with
metal rod insertions that gave her agonizing pain for several years.
Her mother’s life insurance savings as the widow of a civil servant paid for several years
of Jeong Soo’s plastic surgery, but her bankruptcy left her with no options in Seoul to pay for
her son’s advanced education for an A student in his teens. Urging from her childhood friend,
Minji, convinced Jeong Soo to go to America, obtain a Green Card, and send money back to
Seoul to her oldest sister to care for her son, Jin, a bright boy ready for college.
Within two years she became a certified massage therapist and obtained her
permanent Green Card and was able to pay for Jin’s high school and college. She’d met
John coincidently stopping for gas in New Jersey with her best friend, Minji, and Minji’s
cousin, Nana, who recognized John as the boyfriend of one of her Korean friends.
“How is Keum Suk?” Nana asked John.
His expression became pained then he said,” She died five years ago. “Breast
cancer.”
Though Minji and Nana became glum at the sad news, Jeong Soo kept poking
Minji in the back to make her introduce her to John.
Minji invited John to join them next weekend at her rented apartment in Palisades
Park a hundred miles north.
“A long drive, I know, but we have room for you to sleep. We like to drink, so
no one will be driving all weekend,” Minji, the Alpha she-wolf of the pack said to John.
Despite his grieving, John was taken by Jeong Soo, so tall and lanky, with an
infectious laugh. He agreed, and after that weekend, he and Jeong Soo were never
apart again. Fifteen years younger than John, Jeong Soo still tells him many years after
for her it was love at first sight.
As they became more intimate and committed with his marriage proposal, he
felt obligated to tell Jeong Soo everything about himself, as she did so with her past.
John was a writer and was committed daily to long solitary hours at his craft.
“I’ve been taking notes and drafting chapters for years about people I’ve known,
mostly Koreans over the past twenty years. As you know, I have a sordid past. I was
intimate with many women to forget the fiancée I’d lost, Keum Suk Lee. She died never
knowing my real name. I lied to her about that, so she’ll always think of me as Bill.”
“I don’t care about anything that happened before we met. Do you feel the same
way about my past?” Jeong Soo asked. “I was filled with so much hate for my ex-husband,
and all my hardships made want to die.”
“Of course,” John said.
“Before we decide where we want to live in America, I want us to go to Korea
together. You need to meet my son, Jin. He’s finished college and has a job, but not a
family yet.”
“Does he want to come here to be with us?” John asked.
She huffed, “Why do Americans think all Koreans want to come here? Life is more
difficult there, and we’ve suffered historically, but Jin loves Korea and has no desire to come
here. He’ll make his own way now. He’ll be stronger if we leave him on his own. I want him
to be strong and independent like me. Like you, too.”
“When would we go?”
Jeong Soo grinned sheepishly then waved Korean Airline tickets in his face.
“We leave on Friday for thirty days!” she shouted with glee.
They hugged and jumped in a circle like chimpanzees, Jeong Soo screeching like a
hyena, which is what her older sisters had called her as a child whenever she shrieked out
of control with either joy or anger.
* * *
During the 15-hour flight to Seoul, John kept close watch on his carry-on luggage,
which contained a delicate item of great importance to him. It had already been wrapped in
a protective package before Jeong Soo had seen it, so she didn’t know what was inside.
Though John spent dinnertimes with Jeong Soo’s family, which included her son, Jin,
her oldest sister Geum, who was John’s age, her three other older sisters and their husbands,
and of course, their matriarch, Jang, now ninety-five, whom they all called Halmuni, just as
Jin respectfully called her “Grandma.”
John was the only one to tap into Jang’s dormant sense of humor by showing off his
Korean research and calling her Seolmundae, the mythical grandmother on Jejudo represented
on the island by its highest point, Mount Halla.
Translated later for John by Jeong Soo, Jang told her youngest daughter, “John is a good
man. Please keep him happy.” Then she said with a nod and her whisper of a voice, “Looks like
Sean Connor.”
Now John knew how Jeong Soo had gotten the misread on Sean Connery. As he hugged
Jang for her obvious compliment, she ran her gnarled arthritic fingers threw his white beard
and cackled as Jeong Soo and her four sisters bobbed their heads and mimicked the James
Bond theme song. Dah-da-da-dah . . . dat-dat-dah.
To keep the joviality going, John said, “I thought I married Miss Korea, so tall and
slender, but now I see she’s really my own Bond Girl.”
They all looked forward to the next family meal and the joy it would bring their united
family, but John had more somber business to attend to, which Jeong Soo understood and gave
him her support to do.
* * *
That following morning he took the train from Seoul to a rustic village in a fertile valley
surrounded by sharp mountain peaks. With help along the way from young Koreans who spoke
some English, John found what he was looking for.
The farmhouse was much smaller than he’d envisioned. The barn looked freshly painted
and all of the farming used state-of-the art technology. The farm was just as she’d described it,
a chessboard of various shades of green and yellow on the rolling hills between Seoul and the

distant eastern mountains in the center of the Korean peninsula. The yellow squares were

fallow to prepare for next year’s planting. The green squares were ready for harvest to take

to Namdaemun Market at Seoul’s Great South Gate.

Carrying a bucket in each arm, an old man came out of the barn. He wore a straw hat
and as he came closer, looked ancient, ninety or older. He cocked his head to one side sizing
up John and the carry-on luggage he pulled on wheels.
Hopeful, John addressed him in English, “Is this the farm of Kim Lee?”
He nodded as if he understood.
“Are you a member of the Lee family?”
He nodded again, then asked, “Do you want to buy my farm?”
John grinned and said, “No, sir, I’m not a farmer.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Do you know Keum Suk Lee?”
The old man staggered for a moment then looked for a large stone to sit on. He waved
his straw hat in front of his wrinkled face burnished many decades by the harsh Korean
elements.
“Where is she? Has she returned home?” he asked John.
“Are you her father, Kim,”
The old man nodded.
“I loved your daughter dearly, but she died many years ago of breast cancer. In a sense,
she has come home. I have her ashes in an urn here. Her last request was that her ashes be
scattered at the same place in the mountains, where her mother, Bong’s ashes has been
scattered. Please, sir, will you help me find the right spot so I can fulfill Keum Suk’s dying
wish?”
He wept and groaned, but let John help him to his feet.
“First a drink of makgeolli,” he said, waving John into the house and out of the hot sun.
John tried to imagine Keum Sek, called “Para” when she converted from Buddhist to
Roman Catholic, living in this rustic farmhouse. She’d been tormented by her two nasty little
stepbrothers and her cruel stepmother, Cho. Kim had brought his mistress into his home
then married Cho when Keum Suk’s mother, Bong, died of a broken heart.
John assessed Kim as a stubborn man, but saw that he was now a broken man as well.
He spoke of his late wife, Cho, who’d died a few years ago, and his eldest son, who’d became a
police officer and had recently retired. The two younger brothers had met with bad ends. They
belonged to gangs in Seoul, both alcoholics and gamblers. They were murdered in a drug deal.
As they faced each other across a low table in the farmhouse and toasted with
Makgeolli to Keum Suk’s return home, John unwrapped the package he’d brought and
revealed a blue-and-white, Wedgewood-like urn with Korean folk art designs and symbols
that reflected her Korean ancestry.
John felt sure her father had no idea that Para had converted to Roman Catholicism at
age twenty-one. That part of her faith had already been fulfilled. Now it was time to honor her
Korean ancestors starting with her mother, Bong, with whom she’d joined in spirit many years
ago, but her ashes scattered with her mother’s would bind them eternally.
It was a three-mile, uphill trek with stops along the way to catch their breath. They
came to a glacier lake high above sea-level. They each sat on a boulder to regain their strength.
“Was my daughter smart?” Kim asked. “Her mother said she was a smart girl, but I
saw no value in that—not for a girl.”
“She was very smart, and I loved her dearly. Ojini eeayo. She was gentle-hearted.”
“Are you her husband?”
“We might’ve married, but she died before we had a chance. My wife is Korean. She
knows I have Keum Suk’s ashes and respected my need to do this alone. I’m blessed with
a wonderful wife. In spirit, we both believe that Keum Suk brought us together.”
Having mellowed in his old age, Kim smiled and nodded.
“I haven’t long to live,” he told John. “Cancer . . . weeks, maybe only days left.
I didn’t know that Keum Suk had died, but my oldest son, Yung, knows to scatter my ashes
here, too, but with his mother, Cho’s. How sad that we can’t do right by one another in life,
only in death.”
John rubbed Kim’s shoulder as the old man wept, as he knew Para would with her
forgiveness.
“May I have this moment alone with her?” John asked Kim.
Kim nodded and headed towards the downhill trail then sat out of John’s sight.
“My darling, Para,” John said. “I’ve brought you home. Wait for me here until my time
comes. We won’t be alone because your omma and my yabo, Jeong Soo, will also share this
space in time, which we both know is neither the past nor the future, but only the present. I
have work to do before I join you. I must share our life and those in it with others so they can
fully appreciate the depths of the Korean soul and all its great ancestry. When my work is done,
I’ll join you here at our lake house forever.”
As he scattered Keum Suk’s ashes into the wind and they carried down to the lake, he
envision her waving to him from the dock at the lake house below.
She had embodied three souls in one. Julie was the Korean immigrant who sought
true love with great passion. Para was the angel within her who could fly above the mundane,
finding peace with her accepted Lord, Jesus Christ. Keum Suk was the child, the daughter,
and the lover blessed with two compassionate men in her life who’d loved her as much as
she loved them. Through it all, and with an early passing to join her Korean ancestors, she
had embraced her mother’s sage advice:
“There is no alternative for a Korean woman,” Bong taught Keum Suk, caressing

her only daughter’s soft cheek with the back of her rough hand. “As Korean women we must

trust in the rigid fiber of our Hangukan heritage, yet bend in the harsh wind, simply to survive

for the sake of our ancestors’ eternal peace.”

Although Meg Smith's following story "Christmas with Erbie" is not about my father Herbert Eyre Moulton, it reminds me of my father. Affectionally, he was called "Airbear" (a nickname from French-class), or also, indeed, like the gentleman below: Erbie.
Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 - 2005) had a distinguished artistic career in the fields of literature, opera, musical and drama coahing and worked with such movie greats as Clint Eastwood, David Warner, Zsa-Zsa Gabor and Alan Rickman. 
Now, enjoy Meg's delightful story.



Christmas with Erbie
By Meg Smith



Christmas is the best time of year. I love summer, of course, and fall in New England is always great, even here, in a city like ours.
But Christmas is special because that’s the only time of year
we get to spend with Erbie.
Uncle Herbert. But as far back as I could remember, we’ve called him, Erbie.
Erbie is incredible. Erbie is smart, and funny --
the truth is, he’s my favorite member of the family.
Every Christmas, someone says something like, “We should do this more often.
You should come more than just at Christmas, Erbie.”
And he’ll chuckle and say, “That’s a fine idea.”
But somehow, we get so busy with our lives, and it doesn’t happen.
But Christmas does, and we get ready.
For me, this year was shaping up to be a really special Christmas. I got myself a date.
I go to Hawthorne State College. Being a state college, most of the students are in-state, and a lot of us are commuters.
But, it has a well-known engineering program, and that does bring in some students from out of state.
One of those was Craig. We met in a physics class. I liked him right away. He was thoughtful, and sort of shy. We got to talking, and meeting up in the cafeteria.
I think maybe he was a little lonely, with his family all on the other side of the country.
So, as the semester was winding down, I asked him:
“Are you flying back home during the winter break?”
“Actually, no,” he said. He looked down at his books, which, honestly, I found really cute. “I’m gonna stay here. Pick up some winter credits.”
“Ah, winter session,” I said. He nodded. I felt slightly under ambitious. I was planning four weeks to just work my part-time job at a videogame store, and otherwise, just relax, spend time with my friends, and  let my brain deteriorate.
“Well,” I ventured, “You could do with a home-cooked meal in the middle of all that studying. Why don’t you come to my family’s house for Christmas dinner?”
There was a moment of terrible silence.
Did I overstep some magical line I couldn’t see?
“Know what, that sounds great,” Craig said, in this matter-of-fact way, like, it was natural and logical. That just charmed me even more.
“Awesome!” my voice sounded girlishly shrill. “I’ve got your number, I’ll text you!”
I said.
The days got closer, and I felt this tingly anticipation as if I was a little kid. Everyone noticed it. My mom smiled, and of course, I got some teasing from my brothers.
“Sis is growing up,” said Jax, nudging Scott.
Scott sputtered with disdain -- not at me, but at Jax.
I’m generally regarded as the “baby” of the family, and maybe that’s just because I’m a girl. Scott is two years younger than I am.
Jax is older by a couple years, a widower, and staying at home “to help mom with everything,” although I think mom does just fine.
Also, he’s saving for school, so he says.
It’s like any family, I guess -- everyone knows something is true about someone, but no one says anything.
It gets to me, sometimes. But it didn’t get to me this year.
I was working hard on my degree. I had a little money saved, from my video game store job, and from doing some tutoring at the college. I was musing about internships, although I was also thinking about switching my major.
And, I met this guy, Craig, who made me feel kind of giggly and foolish, but with all my responsibilities in life, I decided I was allowed.
After all, how much longer could I get away with indulging the giddiness of an adolescent?
It was definitely compensating for last year’s Christmas disaster.
Right before school was off for the holiday, I found out my so-called friend, Edith, had somehow amazingly woke up in a sleeping bag with my so-called boyfriend, Dirk, at a party at the house of my other so-called friend, Regina. Who never even invited me.
It all became clear, after the fact, and too late. That Christmas, I was up in my room, sobbing, trying to get all the crying out so I wouldn’t look like an hysterical fool.
And who came to my side, but Erbie.
He caught me in the hallway, going from the bathroom, and I turned my face away.
“Hey,” he said. “I know a heartbreak when I see one.”
He didn’t say, “You’ll get over it.” He said, “Sometimes, people do these things. It’s not your fault. And I know someone’s gonna feel very lucky to meet you someday.”
And he patted me gently on the shoulder. “Thanks, Erbie,” I said, softly.
“Thanks for understanding.”
That Christmas felt like a million years ago, and that seemed like someone I knew, instead of someone I was.
Finally, the day came. A new Christmas Day. Everything was going to go just right.
It was beautiful -- clear skies, a light dusting of snow, just a hint of frost in the air.
Under the Christmas tree was a wreckage of paper and boxes, and our two cats, Phoebe and Fibber, crashed out asleep in the middle of it all.
“That could be the picture for next year’s Christmas card,” Jax said, dryly.
“That’s true!” I said. I thought it was a brainless idea, but I didn’t care. I was in the best mood. Not even my dumb, underachieving brothers could wreck it.
Don’t get me wrong, I love them, but I’m sure most sisters with brothers think of them as first-class pains.
Getting Christmas dinner ready was quite engrossing, and I was glad. I made the stuffing, and my special whipped potatoes with cheese that is my own speciality,
thank you.
It helped to keep away the Christmas-date nervousness.
My mom smiled knowingly. She’s the best.
I went upstairs to get ready. I put on a new, green dress, and makeup.
I felt more like a famous actress than just someone going downstairs for dinner.
Craig arrived, punctually, at 1:45 p.m., just like I asked him to, so we could get settled and have dinner by 2 p.m.
Honestly, it’s not like we’re all sticklers for time, but I knew if I put it to him like that, he would observe it fastidiously.
I could have shown everyone a picture of him on my phone -- if I’d taken one.
 I’d never thought to do that, and I felt weird saying something like, “Hey let’s take a selfie,” when I couldn’t think of a good reason to do one.
We’ll do it at Christmas, I told myself. Before dinner. Or after, maybe.
That giddy feeling, again.
My mom and I went to the door.
 I could see from my mom’s gleaming expression she was already approving. Accomplished, and handsome! You could see it in her eyes.
“Hey, man, welcome,” my brothers said, offering brotherly handshakes.
We got settled around the dining room table with an efficiency that my family seldom musters on any Christmas day. Table set precisely, and elegantly.
My brothers were actually wearing dress shirts and ties, without being prompted.
Mom wore her most beautiful dress -- well, I expected that from my mom.
And me, with my date, Craig, sitting beside me.
“I hope you won’t mind,” mom said to Craig.
“But it takes Erbie a little time to get downstairs.”
“That’s my uncle,” I said -- realizing that I hadn’t even told him.
“Of course not,” Craig smiled. “I’ll just feast my eyes,” he said, looking over the spread.
I have to admit, it did look pretty spectacular this year. Almost like a magazine.
In the midst of my exaltation, for the first time in my 19 years, I felt this weird ache. Each Christmas means another year passing.
Things seem the same, year after year -- the tree, the gifts, the dinner, waiting for Erbie -- but they’re not.
A Christmas will come when maybe I’m arriving from across town, or even someplace else in the world, with my own husband, and maybe my own kids.
And one day, some of the people around the table won’t be there. One day, mom won’t be there, or my brothers, or even Erbie.
There had been a Christmas when my dad was there, but that was when I was only two years old, so I barely remember.
“Everything okay, dear,” whispered my mom, who was sitting on my other side.
“Um, yeah, I’m great.” I squeezed her hand under the table,
and flashed a smile to Craig.
Then Jax started telling a story from work. He works at a convenience store, so, whenever an awkward silence threatens to move in, he always comes up with a funny story about something that happened.
This one was about a customer with a tinfoil hat. We all laughed, even Craig, with a surprisingly hearty, delectable laugh.
Then, I said, “Maybe I should see if Erbie needs a hand.” He was getting older, and maybe, the stairs harder for him to manage.
Just then, we heard the measured creaking, and a slightly labored breath.
“Sorry, all!” a wheezy voice called. A voice we all knew and loved. “I’ll be late for my own damn wedding!” I swear, he says the same line every year, and we all laugh.
Even Craig laughed. “Your family’s cool,” he said closely, in my ear, and I shivered the most delightful shiver.
We all looked up, and we all stood up. That’s another tradition we do -- standing up with Erbie enters the dining room.
“Merry Christmas, Erbie!” we all sang out. I looked around the table -- even my brothers looked perfect, and beautiful to me -- everything looked perfect, and beautiful.
When I looked at Erbie, in the golden light of the dining room, even I was taken a little aback.
I guess when you don’t really see someone for a year, they change.
He doesn’t even live that far away -- just upstairs, in his very own room, in the finished attic, and he only makes this trip down this special day, once a year.
He supported himself for a moment against the doorway of the dining room, and looked us all over. He has a -- I don’t know what you’d call it -- I think of it as an auxiliary eye.
We’ve always argued about whether that eye actually works, but Erbie and mom always swore up and down that it does, and that if we didn’t behave as kids, Erbie’s auxiliary eye would scout us out, and he’d report to Santa, and that’s that.
Of course, we laugh. That’s a tradition, too.
His weight surged forward, on what I guess you’d call an auxiliary pod. As in, pseudopod, except it’s not a false foot at all. It gets him around, and the rhythm of his shifting gait is one of the dear rhythms of our lives.
I touched Craig’s arm. He had stood up, too, just a beat behind us all, because, hey, this was a new thing to him.
His arm shook, though. “It’s okay,” I said. “You’re family.”
But his face had run a pasty green color, that faintly reminded me of The Grinch, which made me sputter a laugh.

Our gaze was all shifting to Craig. “You okay?” I said.
Truthfully, I was getting a little disappointed. Okay -- if you’re not used to someone’s appearance, fine -- but don’t stare.
Which he did.
The air suddenly stung with an acrid smell.
I looked down, and caught sight of his slacks, and the puddle pearling on the wooden chair.
“For real?” I said aloud, before I could stop myself.
Now Erbie focused all of his vision on Craig.
We all exhaled, and pushed our chairs back.
My brothers came over to my side of the table, Jax in between me and my mom, and Scott alongside Craig.
We all latched onto Craig, stumbling a little over the dining room chairs.
He let out a fading scream, but it died midair.
All year Scott had been working on this so-called choke hold, which I thought was stupid, but now I could see its perfection.
Erbie had now ambled up to our side of the table, and there was no struggle, as such.
The glow in his eyes was warm, and kind, and full of gratitude, as it always was.
Craig vanished into Erbie’s arms, his auxiliary arms, and legs, and eyes, and heart.
This was not just appetite.
It was pure love.
And it was because of me. I’d done it.
I felt so proud.
It made up for that failed year, when, in my teenage rage, I told my boyfriend and two fake, ex-friends to forget about coming to my family for Christmas -- that they could starve, for all I cared.
I got a boatload of hell, the one and only time I think my mom ever yelled at me and even Jax and Scott had to calm her. But Erbie -- he totally understood.
Besides, my brothers had gone out, found a kid sitting in a car. He was throwing a temper tantrum and refused to go in the store with parents.
He was, screaming and cursing all the words he wasn’t allowed to say in his parents’ presence.
He yelled and swore at all of us, and Erbie, too; the TV was left on, and he saw his own “missing child” photo, and flailed an arm at the TV, shouting, “ That’s me, you ffff --”
Still, since last year, it bothered me. I had let Erbie down, even with his consoling words and assurances. “Hey, the kid was worth the wait,” he said. “Comedy, too. Goes great with a good meal.”
But this year, I didn’t need any assuring words, I didn’t need anyone telling me they understood, or not to worry.
After dinner, we always liked lounging around in the parlor, feeling lazy and fat and happy, and watching a Christmas movie on TV. “A Christmas Story.”  A movie where you know all the scenes and all the lines, and laugh just as hard every year, every time.
The later part of Christmas day is always when that poignant feeling sets in, of another year done.
This year was a little different. Mom, Jax and Scott all decided to head upstairs a little early.
The dark was coming. The Christmas tree lights glowed hazily. I liked the idea of people passing by, seeing our pretty tree in the window.
The papers and boxes were still crumpled up with the two cats sleeping in them.
Erbie was reclining, resplendent, in the recliner chair only he ever sits in.
It waits, untouched, the whole year, until he is ready to relax after dinner and watch a favorite movie.
Some years, it’s “A Christmas Story,” and some years, “It’s a Wonderful Life.”
He breathed deeply, with his own rhythm, that somehow reminds me of an old boat, creaking against the docks. It always comforted me.
I was half-sitting, half-laying on the couch, next to his chair.
When a commercial came on, he drew a rumbling, slurry sigh and said, “Kid, I gotta...I gotta tell you something.”
“Was it -- okay?” I twinged with a bit of anxiety.
“Nah, nah. That was all good. All good. This is something else.”
Before he said, I almost  knew it. My eyes began to burn, as if ready to cry at the right moment.
“Now, listen. I don’t want any crying stuff. I’ve had a good run. Hell, I think I’ve even outlived my doctors.” He chuckled, a wheezy, sloppy chuckle, like I remembered from Christmas past, but this time, the sound was almost unbearable.
My tears flowed, and I couldn’t stop them. “I thought -- I thought you never went to a doctor!” I said through my snuffling. “Mom said you were just born -- where you were, right upstairs in your room!”
“That’s true. Hey, I made a bad joke. I’m allowed. Kid, I can feel it. I got lumps, all over. It’s cancer. That’s what I get for smoking, maybe.”
I lunged from my chair, and almost fell on top of him. “We can get you to a doctor!” I demanded.
He smiled. He has the biggest, most broken, most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen, and it just made me cry harder.
“Kid, this is how it is. I love Christmas, but this is the best damn one I’ve ever had.”
By now, I was just a pathetic waterfall.
“C’mere,” he said, clearing his throat with a gurgle.
Don’t worry. It wasn’t a perverted thing. He just wanted me to sit in his lap, the way I had as a kid. And that was how I remembered it -- his bulk, like a big, wonderful, warm blanket, to hold me and protect me forever.
I settled in -- a little more clumsily, I admit, as a young adult -- and I was afraid I’d hurt him.
But he just chuckled, and held me, deeply.
I had a plang, a kind of regret, that we only ever had Erbie with us at Christmas. But, I realized, that’s the way he wanted it.
Not a lot of talk about jumbled chromosomes. And, definitely not how grandma planned to put him out in the trash the day he was born, on a lonely December day, when the wind had stripped the last leaves from the trees.
How mom, his older sister, saved him, squirreling him into a closet before she could wake up, and act.
And how my grandmother became the first Christmas offering.
Or all those who followed...my dad, my brother’s dads, my brother’s assorted wives and girlfriends, even that bratty kid in the parking lot. And now, Craig, mine.
Pride glowed again within me.
At that moment, they appeared before me in a shining, starry chain, as I gazed through blurry tears at the Christmas tree lights.
I closed my eyes.
Erbie started singing a lullaby, like he would on those long-ago Christmas nights, when I was little. His voice was like a trilling, a mysterious song bird you hear in the woods but can’t see.
“Children, children, run to the moon, and throw her a kiss for me.”
He coughed, and had to regroup himself before going to the next line.
I don’t know if it’s an actual song, or if he just made it up.
It was okay to feel like two or three years old again, in a warm and safe place, running to the moon, and blowing her a kiss as she smiled a kind, forgiving smile at the Earth.
 
THE END
 

The Honesty of Meat
 
​By Jeff Blechle


Cheery bells and snowy gusts, peppermint sticks and mushroom sauce guided Bobby through hungry dreams until he woke up with a mouthful of last night's round steak and jabbered something up at his hungover, mean-eyed stepmother who then spanked the season out of him acting like this round-headed result of her husband’s first marriage had just smacked her cooking right in the face.
“You little sneak.” Deedee looked like a frosted flake in winter window light. “Just let that be your breakfast!”
Bobby gave her thanks and praise and gagged on his meat.
Deedee smacked his ear. “You can pull that crap at your mom’s house but not around here!” She stomped out of the bedroom and slammed the door and yelled down the hallway.
Bobby spit the mouthful into his nightstand drawer, then called one of the bullies at school that took his lunch money. “Chomper, I want my stepmom to have a really, really bad Christmas.”
“So do I. Wait—who is this?"
“Bobby Dubas.” He heard How the Grinch Stole Christmas! during Chomper’s silence, then scary laughter, breaking glass, the f word.
“Dubas the Doofus?” Chomper belched. “Nuts! What do you want, Doofus? And how'd you get my phone number anyhow? I oughta—”
“Can you come to my house tonight and steal all Deedee’s presents?”
“On Christmas Eve?” Bobby listened to Chomper roll something hard around in his mouth. “What’s in it for me?”
“Deedee’s presents.”
“Just lady presents? Heck no. I want your presents too. And your dad’s. And your sister Shawn’s since she’s a tomboy.”
Frosty pause. “Ok. Come late tonight. Down the chimney.”
“Nuts, Doofus! I ain’t coming down no chimney! Leave the front door unlocked. Geez.”
“Merry Christmas, Chomper.” But Chomper had already hung up.
 
Sometime after midnight Chomper arrived at the only house on the block with pink flashing Christmas lights crowning in a shrub under a window. He shoved his bicycle into a snowy evergreen and spit purple. “The Doofus better not be playing a trick on me. Nuts. I should have brought snacks.” He shrugged, adjusted his snug Santa suit, his white beard, swung his empty sack over his shoulder, trudged onto the front porch, went inside, and loaded his sack.
Winded after his crime, Chomper found the bowl of leftover round steak and potatoes that the dog had refused. Bobby had placed it on a window box above the pink lights about four feet off the porch. “Nuts. How’d I miss that? Oh well. Hulk hungry!”
Chomper learned over the railing, slipped on a pile of screws, the railing collapsed, and he flipped headfirst and crotch deep into a snowdrift. His sack of stolen gifts and their sharp corners landed between his pedaling legs.
 
Bobby trembled down the stairs with his sister, he in boots and winter coat, Shawn in summer pajamas. Christmas morning smelled like the tail end of another old-man poker game in their sticky orange kitchen. The siblings wiped grimy tears from each other’s cheeks and crept up to the half-lit Christmas tree. Santa Claus's Party played in the kitchen and Dad was curled up by a buzzing space heater and Deedee towered over everything like an icy suit of armor. She pointed at a present under the tree about the size of a crock pot.
            “Bobby, where are the other presents? What have you done, you little sneak? Ooo, I am going to tenderize your ass!”
            Bobby put all his ten years into his expression, his swallow, and his voice, “Why would Santa forget us?” He zipped up his coat.
            Shawn ran bawling to Deedee, who bumped her into the Christmas tree box. Shawn sprang up like the devil and threatened everyone’s lives.
             “Shawn! Bobby!”
“Leave em alone, Carrie,” Dad grunted from the floor.
            “Carrie? Who the hell is Carrie? Ooo, I’ll deal with you later, Jim.”
“Jim?”
            Then Deedee went after Bobby. He ducked her weapon, dove under the tree, and lifted the big wrapped box against her boobies. “I don’t know what happened to the other presents,” he cried. “But look! This one’s for you . . . mom.”
            Deedee lowered Dad’s nightstick into the bowl of an old toilet that never made it to the curb, then took the gift from her kneeling stepson. “To Mom from Bobby and Santa.” She swallowed loudly and sniffed. He pulled on his mittens. Something must have got in her eye. He cinched his furry hood. She sniffed again and knelt and removed the wrapping paper and opened the box. Inside, in a stained corner, stood the glob of Bobby’s chewed up round steak. She looked up at Bobby’s sparkling eyes and giggles.
            “Merry Christmas, Deedee!”
            He almost made it to the door.

The House Party

by Anita G. Gorman


Big cities were just too big, Jeremy had decided, so he moved to Ashleyville, Ohio in hopes of finding a community where he would feel at home. Ashleyville needed a pharmacist, and that's what Jeremy was. Single, self-reliant, hardworking: that's how he would describe himself.
He had already accepted his new job when he began to have doubts. What if the citizens of Ashleyville were narrow-minded and provincial? What if they were unfriendly? It was too late to have regrets, so Jeremy made his move and found a house to rent on Elm Street, within walking distance of the drugstore off the village green where he was to work. He was going to share responsibilities with another pharmacist, he had learned. A very good thing, since the pharmacy was open for more hours per week than he cared to work.
He moved in over the last weekend in June and was scheduled to start work on Monday. No one came to his door to welcome him. He sat in the backyard on Sunday afternoon reading the local newspaper and some magazines he had brought from the big city. Then he started reading a book, a mystery he had picked up before he left his old home.
No one seemed to be home on either side of him; at least, no one came to the backyard. He was beginning to feel lonely.
On Monday Jeremy began work. Everything at the pharmacy seemed normal, organized, and just fine. At the end of his shift, he went home to his rented house. He sat in the backyard. Two children were playing next door. He waved to them, and they waved back.
By Friday he was wondering what he had gotten himself into. Is this an unfriendly town? Did I make a mistake? What to do, if anything?
He thought about his plight and called his sister Janice.
"So, how's it going in the little town?"
"I've been here for a week and I don't really know anyone, except for the people at work. No neighbors have come over. I thought people in small towns were supposed to be friendly."
"Remember what Mom used to say when things weren't going right?"
"Yeah, what are we going to do to remedy the situation?"
"Right. I don't think you should wait around for the neighbors to show up. Lots of people are really unaggressive. They wait for other people to invite them, or they stay at home, or they just exist in their little comfort zone."
"So, what do you think I should do, invite them over?"
"Absolutely. Why don't you have an open house this Sunday? I know there isn't much time, but you could put flyers in the neighbors' doors tomorrow and invite them over on Sunday afternoon."
"What'll I serve? I'm not much of a cook."
"Look, Ashleyville isn't the big city, but I bet they have supermarkets and Chinese take-outs and pizza parlors. You have the money, so I don't think we have a problem here. Of course, you won't know how much to buy if they don't RSVP, but I don't think you have time for that. Heck, what you don't use you can freeze, and you'll have dinners for a while."
Jeremy pondered her remarks.
"Jeremy, are you there?"
"I'm here. I'm thinking, I'm thinking, like Jack Benny used to say."
"So?"
"OK, I'll do it. I'll say lunch on Sunday beginning at 12:30. I'll put my cell number on the flyer and my email address, but I'll say they don't have to RSVP; they should just come on down!"
"Remember what Dad used to say when we were in tough spots?"
"Yeah, we're having another adventure!"
Saturday came, and Jeremy wandered up and down the street putting flyers under doormats or in screen doors. Then he returned to the house and his mystery novel and tried not to care if anyone showed up at this party.
By 12:30 p.m. on Sunday he was ready, with numerous tasty dishes from the Chinese takeout, the pizzeria, and the local supermarket. He made up his mind that whatever happened, he was not going to be disappointed. People could have lots of reasons not to show up on a summer Sunday afternoon in Ashleyville, Ohio. What if he were a neighbor? Would he show up at a stranger's house? He wasn't sure.
He left the front door open and the screen door unlocked. At 12:30 he heard a knock. The two children from next door and their parents were there, and the mother was carrying what looked like a cake.
Before long there was a parade of neighbors, old and young, single people and families, all carrying something to eat.
"Hi, I'm Mary Cataline. I live at the end of the street. I'm sorry to say that I don't know my neighbors. Thank you for this."
"Jeff Longsbury. Glad to meet you. Thanks. I appreciate this."
Soon they were eating and talking and laughing together.
"Why didn't we do this before?" That was a woman who called herself Grandma Weatherly.
Jeff Longsbury looked up from his pizza. "Someone new had to tell us what's wrong with this street."
Grandma Weatherly smiled. "Let's do this kind of thing once a month. My house next."
It seemed like a good idea. Now all Jeremy needed was someone to mow his lawn and someone to date. If not on this street, maybe around the corner.

THE SWITCHEROO  ©

a novel excerpt
by
Gerald Arthur Winter
 
 
“Junior”
 
 
Seen by tens of millions on national TV and the internet, my third strikeout in ten pitches against MLB Batting Champ, Cesar Montego, had resounded globally. “Pitching prodigy, Bonnie Swift,” as they referred to me, had been on news anchors’ and talk show hosts’ lips all month long. My name had been broadcast from coast to coast on the media circuit 24/7. Then, after forty days of stardom, my bright candle suddenly flickered out. I became old news and still had no team, no offers, and no future interest in my pitchingtalent by anyone who mattered.  I was too young to be considered in the future. As a girl, even with my unique talent, I was more of a joke to scouts than a prospect. 
 
Pop said I’d become like a circus sideshow with him as the organ-grinder and me as his monkey doing tricks to entertain curious gawkers with my unhittable pitch. Once he realized we’d lost our direction in the media whirlwind, Pop stopped taking calls to book my appearances. He’d turned down the past dozen offers from the
media to appear on the air or in public, and for thousands of dollars. For my sake, Pop decided we’d had enough. His gifted daughter would never become a reality-show freak on his watch.
 
“You’ve become like a sailboat stuck in the doldrums without a breeze to carry you to your proper destination,” Pop told me. He’s an English teacher always expressive like a poet. He would’ve become a Major League pitcher himself if he hadn’t injured his arm in an auto accident. He was counting on me to succeed where he’d failed. Not
really a failure—just rotten luck.
 
It seemed all we had left were unrealistic hopes and aspirations.
 
I’d overheard Gram arguing with Pop: “Instead of fifteen minutes of fame, Bonnie got more than a month of public attention and enough money to pay forfour years of college. Be grateful and leave it at that.”
 
I adore my grandmother, but she’s very set in her ways.
 
“I am grateful,” Pop said.
 
“Then why so sullen?”
 
He just stared at her.
 
She stared right back, the way she did when I told a fib. She and Gramps raised me after my mom died. I hadn’t seen much of Pop till I turned seven. He was too broken hearted over losing Mom. I never knew her, I’ve just seen photos, because she died when she gave birth to me and my twin brother, “Junior.” He died that day, too.
 
“Face reality, Jack. It was wonderful, but that’s all there is, all there ever will be.
Concentrate on making Bonnie keep up with her studies so she doesn’t waste all that money she’s earned. I can’t fathom it. Can you?” she asked Gramps, but he’d already dozed off in his recliner.
 
“I’ll see that she gets a good college education,” Pop said. “But Bonnie wouldn’t stop pitching now, even if I told her to. She’s put in too much time to ever let it go.”
 
She’d given her opinion, as usual, but Gram knew not to push it with Pop.
 
* * *
 
Over the next three years, Pop had stopped coaching Little League. He was concentrating all of his free time after school and on weekends teaching me everything he knew about baseball and pitching. Hard times had passed, and Pop had regained tenure in our local middle school teaching fifth graders. He would read “Casey at the Bat” to his classes every April on Opening Day and would show the video of me striking out Cesar Montego, the best hitter in the majors for the past three years, though he still got the brunt of ridicule every season because an eleven-year-old—a girl no less—had struck him out on TV and was seen by millions on YouTube.
 
Pop used my achievement as an example to his students, conveying that nothing was impossible for them to achieve if they believed in themselves.
 
Students often quoted him as saying: “Truly talented people must rid themselves of all self-imposed limitations. To achieve your greatest desire, always believe in your dream.” Wind of Pop’s quotes eventually reached my ears. At fourteen, changes in me had occurred day by day, but my teen years had come much too soon for Pop, even though my maturity was bringing me closer to an opportunity for a Major League try-out.
 
I’d come a long way from my adolescent awkwardness. For Pop, the day I’d won a pitching contest for kids at Yankee Stadium must have seemed like ions ago. His longing to regain that feeling drove him to build an addition onto our old house in the empty lot he’d purchased. My customized bullpen with Major League dimensions allowed me to practice pitching at home every day regardless of wet, cold, or windy weather.
 
All the practical advice from friends, especially from Gram and Gramps, had opposed its construction, but only Pop could imagine building that space for me, hoping, as I did--my day would come.
 
“The empty lot is big enough for an entire baseball field,” Gram argued.
 
“It’s too cold outside for five months out of the year,” Pop countered.
 
“If you ever want to sell your home, that monstrosity will bring down its value,” she argued.
 
Even Gramps, with a sad nod, had to agree with her practical logic.
 
Pop persisted, filling that space with training equipment to keep me in top condition for if or when that opportunity would ever come. He mirrored all four walls and the ceiling, so when I touched the rubber on my regulation mound, I’d see myself from every angle. Pop would spend an hour every morning before school, and two hours every evening after dinner, as well as a few extra hours each weekend training me and critically observing my pitching. I would practice twice as much on my own, for an hour before Pop woke in the morning and again two hours before dinner.
 
I’d go into a meditating trance when I was alone, getting so deep into my subconscious that I’d experience that sensation scuba divers have with rapture of the deep, no longer able tell if they were swimming to the surface or heading deeper to the ocean’s bottom and certain to run out of air. It felt euphoric, that my reflection and I were one. Sometimes I couldn’t distinguish between the two, as if I were having an out-of-body experience that often made me feel giddy imagining some magical experiences, like talking to my twin brother in my head, but seeing him at my same age as me, as if he’d never died.
 
In my mind, the reverse image of myself and I had become one, but each with a complementary purpose of making us whole. As an eighth-grader, I looked at my reflection, then at my hands in front of me in the bullpen to separate the pitcherfrom myself—Jack Swift’s daughter, his blood. Or was it “Junior” I saw? In my mind,
 
I’d hear him say: Someday we’ll be the closing pitcher in Yankee Stadium.
 
* * *
 
Gram intruded on the pursuit of my dream that year at our Thanksgiving dinner.
 
When I excused myself from the table, complaining of stomach cramps, Pop started to get up to follow me. He was always attentive to my needs, being as much my physical trainer as my pitching coach. He was always over the top on both counts.
 
Gram clutched Pop’s arm before he could leave the table to follow me. From the bathroom down the hall, I could hear them talking about me.
 
“Leave her be,” Gram said. “It’s nothing you can stop, and for once in Bonnie’s life, something you can’t control.”
 
“I resent that!” he snapped back, looking to Gramps for support, but this time Pop got none.
 
“You used to tell your teams that it’s just a game,” Gramps said with a shrug.
 
“What happened to that sound advice, Jack? You’re out of control with Bonnie’s training.”
 
“Everything I do is always in Bonnie’s best interest,” Pop said.
 
“Keeping her well-fed, warm, and safe,” Gram said, then threw up her hands.
 
“You’ve gone too far! Bonnie’s at the age when she needs a woman’s touch—someone who can teach her more than pitching a baseball—someone who can go in there and explain to her that she’s not dying, but just having her first period.”
 
Jack hung his head in his hands.
 
Gram got up from the table. “I’m not going to be around forever, so I’m going in there to talk Bonnie through it. But if you think you can do a better job—be my guest.”
 
Pop shook his head, cradled in his hands.
 
“That’s what I thought,” she said. “What good will pitching a baseball do Bonnie in years to come when she’ll have a family of her own to care for.”
 
Gram knocked on the bathroom door off her kitchen and closed the door behind her, leaving Pop to wonder if my great moment had already come and gone.
 
* * *
 
On the drive home that Thanksgiving night, Pop turned off the car radio playing Christmas carols and touched my hand.
 
“We need to take a break this winter,” he said. “I want to be fresh with new ideas next spring about how to get you seen by minor league teams. You deserve a breather till then.”
 
“Me? Nah. I’m fine. Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t overdo it and hurt my arm.”
 
“Maybe we should tone down the intensity of your practice sessions,” he said.
 
“From what Gram tells me, you practice in the bullpen even when I’m not around. Maybe we both need to cut back on baseball. You need to broaden your perspective, especially regarding stuff I feel awkward talking to you about.”
 
“Gram thought I was starting my first menstrual cycle,” I said. “I let Gram tell me all about it. Old people are so weird about that stuff. I wasn’t crying because I was scared.
 
I was hoping that’s what it was, so they were tears of joy.  I’m the last one in my class. The mean girls at school say I’m not really a girl because I can pitch better than all the boys and I hadn’t had my period yet. They say nasty things about me. You’re worried that my TV appearances could turn me into a circus freak, but to the kids at school I already am.”
 
Pop sighed. “I’ve been out of touch with you about everything but pitching.”
 
I gave him a hug. He was all I had to cling to.  “Don’t sweat it. You’ll figure out something to get me a crack at the Majors. I’m still in it to win it,” I said, sure that my pitching would keep Pop from drifting away from me. But lately I felt I was drifting away from myself, floating away from Bonnie, the girl I’d come to know so well, and could depend on.
 
Sometimes I imagined I wasn’t me at all, that I was Junior and looking at me through his eyes instead of my own. It could be frightening when we were alone with no one else to talk to. It used to be a conversation between us, but with puberty coming to the fore, Junior seemed to be doing most of the talking and I was doing all the listening,
as if he resented me. Ugh! Boys can be so immature.
 
* * *
 
The next morning, as I came out of my room ready to warm up in the bullpen, I heard Pop’s phone ring through his closed door. I heard him stretch then grumble before answering. “Gram, it’s only five a.m.”
 
I laughed about the way Gram always nagged Pop. I went downstairs without hearing more. Gram’s usual pedantic banter didn’t come through Pop’s speaker phone.
 
Instead, it was a muffled whimper.
Even after a big Thanksgiving dinner yesterday, I was up early and set the timer for Pop’s coffee. Its aroma soon filled the kitchen. In the morning stillness, my pitches in my custom-made bullpen made thudding sounds against my target.
 
“Mornin’, Pop!” my voice echoed across the bullpen. “I’ve been working on a new pitch I want to show you. It’s really cool. Maybe unhittable.”
 
I continued rambling as Pop approached me, but he put two fingers to my lips to silence me.
 
“What’s the matter, Pop?”
 
“It’s Gramps . . . I’m sorry . . . we’ve lost him. He passed away in his sleep. Gram needs us.”
 
Tears welled in my eyes as I shuddered and dropped my mitt onto the floor. The baseball fell out of its pocket and rolled across the bullpen. We embraced then Pop led me to his pickup and he drove us to my grandparents’ home a few miles away in Toms River.
 
Pop put his right arm around me as he drove. I trembled, feeling the pain, for the first time in my young life, that Pop must have suffered when Lydia and Junior died. That feeling was unbearable, making me question my dream of making it to the big leagues.
 
How empty and frivolous it seemed without Gramps to see it happen.
The only words of comfort came to me with Pop’s voice in my head:
 
“Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright.
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout.”

I felt like one of those little children wanting to shout with grief. Gramps had been my only positive male authority figure. Pop had been no use to me in his grief over losing my mother and twin brother in childbirth. Gramps had been wise and kind and loving, a dedicated family man who’d kept food on the table and a roof over the heads of Gram and my mother, Lydia, through good times and bad. He’d done the same for me, too, until Pop had begun to
make amends when I turned seven.
 
Not only had Gramps been a rock for his own family, he’d treated Pop like a son, even at Pop’s worst when his grief had turned him into a bitter drunk and a neglectful dad. Until yesterday at our Thanksgiving gathering, Gramps had remained a man of sound reason and quiet judgment to offset Gram’s often didactic personality.
 
I realized it was for my sake that Pop was holding up through Gramps’ wake and memorial service at the same church where Lydia and Junior had been laid out in caskets fourteen years ago. I could see from Pop’s expression that he was struggling with his recollection of that day. Junior must have been in a small, closed casket that was no
bigger than a picnic basket. Lydia would have been lying in her casket, like Sleeping Beauty, as if Pop’s kiss might have brought her back to life.
 
Now Gramps was gone too, along with others Pop had treasured, including his own parents—dead and buried—mere shadows now, whom I sensed he longed to see and touch.
 
He carried that need in his slumped posture as if he were carrying a heavy burden up a steep hill.
 
Of Pop’s own choosing, his brother Davey was dead to him, even though my uncle still worked only forty miles away in Atlantic City, or so I’d gathered from brief exchanges between Pop and Gram, which would quickly stop whenever I’d enter the room.
 
I confronted him about Davey at my eighth-grade graduation, another special occasion without my estranged uncle’s presence. Pop hadn’t spoken to his older brother since their chance meeting on the boardwalk six years ago. I recalled how Pop seemed to
 
regret that brief encounter and hadn’t spoken to me about Uncle Davey since.
 
After my graduation ceremony, I said to Pop, “I’m starting high school. I’m not a little kid anymore, so I have a question.”
 
He seemed leery about what I might ask.
 
“You never talk about my Uncle Davey . . . What’s with that?”
 
“You have no grandparents on my side of the family because my parents, mine and Davey’s, were killed in a car crash when I was nine and Davey was twelve. We had no relatives to take us in, so we were sent to separate foster homes.”
 
“Why to different homes? You’re brothers. I wouldn’t want to be sent away from my brother. My brother died, so I have no choice, but you still do.”
 
“Even at age twelve, Davey had been in trouble—shoplifting, vandalism, and always getting into fights at school. Child Services decided to keep us apart so he couldn’t become a bad influence on me.”
 
“That’s mean. Maybe if he’d had a little brother to look after, he might’ve stopped getting into trouble.”
 
“He protected me from fights in school before that. Sometimes the fights were my fault. I used to get picked on by older boys for using big words they didn’t understand. Davey would step in when I was outnumbered. He was a tough kid, a scrapper, but never had good sense to avoid getting caught. I was upset about our separation. I was allowed to write to him, so I did, but he’d never written back. I didn’t hear about him again until he joined the Marines at eighteen. He was wounded in Iraq, but the injury was as much mental as physical. I went to see him in the VA hospital, but he wasn’t glad to see me.”
 
“Why?”
 
“After his injuries, he became addicted to pain killers then other drugs. When your mom was pregnant, I’d told him not to contact me until he’d gone through rehab. I hadn’t heard from him or seen him until that day we saw him on the boardwalk. Do you remember?”
 
“Sure, Pop, but he didn’t seem so bad. It makes me sad that we don’t see him once in a while.”
 
“I’ve assumed the worst about him, but some of my boardwalk friends have told me Davey still works at one of the casinos in Atlantic City, just as he’d said he would when we’d seen him that day. I hope he’s okay, but I prefer not to bring his dark element into your life. We have enough to deal with. If he contacts me and can show me he’s been sober and drug free, I’ll consider seeing him, but not before.”
 
“I guess you know best, Pop.”
 
* * *
 
The rest of that Thanksgiving weekend Pop and I pampered Gram. She was a strong woman with many friends in her church, and she tried to quell the pain of her loss by playing cards and shuffleboard, baking cakes for bazaars, and attending cover-dish suppers for seniors.
 
I saw in Gram, a woman who could survive the loss of a spouse better than a man, better than Pop had when my mother died, leaving him alone to raise me. Without help from Gram and Gramps until I turned seven, I realized that Pop wouldn’t have made the cut as a single parent.
 
After languishing most of the day after Gramps’ funeral, and Gram finding comfort with some of her close friends from church, Pop kept me close at home and tried to snap me out my gloom. Putting me back on track with my baseball training seemed the best diversion from our grief.
 
As we reclined on the living room sofa, watching, A League of Their Own, a movie we’d seen a dozen times, Pop clapped his hands to rouse me.
 
“How about showing me that new pitch?” he said. “I can’t imagine how it could be any better than your sinker. C’mon. Show me.”
 
“It’s not better, Pop, just different, but not how you’d think.”
 
“C’mon. Let me see it.”
 
I took my time and stretched. As we started to enter the bullpen, the doorbell rang.
Disappointed by the interruption, I slumped my shoulders.
 
“Must be UPS with the new baseballs I ordered,” he said. “It’ll only take a minute, then I’ll be back to see your different pitch.”
 
I leaned against the bullpen’s entrance and watched him go to the front door. He was surprised to see who was standing on the front steps.
 
“Jimmy?” Pop said, making my ears perk.
 
“Happy Thanksgiving, Coach,” Jimmy Stattler said with a nod as his eyes darted back and forth.
 
“Same to you,” Pop said, looking up and down the block to see what the young
 
man, now standing six-feet-four, was looking for at the end of the block in both directions. “You’re old enough to drive, but I don’t see a car. Did you walk five miles from
 
your house just to wish me Happy Thanksgiving . . . two days later?”
 
“Sure, Coach.  I mean, you did teach me a lot about baseball, and I’m thankful for that, but . . . well . . . I heard Bonnie’s grandfather died. I’m really sorry. He came to all our games, but I . . .” Jimmy paused trying to see past Pop.
 
“Did you want to say something to Bonnie about her grandfather?” Pop asked, always the teacher anticipating what questions were on students’ minds.
 
“Bonnie?  Oh . . . Is she home?” Jimmy asked, trying to be nonchalant.
 
“Sure,” Pop said, seeing that he was still looking back and forth down the street.
 
“Would you like some hot apple cider? Pretty cold out today.”
 
“Uh, sure, Coach.” Jimmy darted past him and into our house.
 
Pop looked up and down the street then closed the door. “Does your dad know you’re here?” Like a study hall monitor, Pop eyed us. “What’s going on here?”
 
Jimmy blushed, but I became his willing spokesperson: “Jimmy’s car is hidden on the next block so his dad won’t see it parked in our driveway. If his dad knew Jimmy was here, he’d ground him. Mr. Stattler doesn’t approve of you, Pop—or me.”
 
“You’re seventeen and Bonnie’s almost fifteen. She not getting into your car.”
 
I huffed, “We just want to practice pitching together, but his dad would never allow it. We hoped you would.”
 
“Pitching--just pitching?”
 
“Just pitching, Pop. Don’t you trust me?”
 
“Sure. What about you, Jimmy? Can I trust you?”
 
“Yes, Coach—I swear,” Jimmy stammered.
 
“The door to the bullpen stays open at all times,” Pop said.
 
So it did, but Pop was clueless about what was going on. Jimmy and I vowed to keep it that way.
 
Pop must have smiled when he heard my infectious laughter in the bullpen. A bond had formed between me and Jimmy that I could share only with Junior, though
 
I still wasn’t prepared yet to tell Jimmy about my twin brother’s spiritual connection to me, how I’d never known Junior in life, only since his passing. Friends were too hard to come by for someone like me, the freak of nature that I felt I was becoming. Jimmy and I shared the love of baseball and that’s where it would remain for fear of losing the only person close to my age I could talk to without giving away my secret.
 
Now, in retrospect at twenty-one, I understand that the saddest day of my young life was also the happiest. On that Thanksgiving weekend seven years ago, I’d lost Gramps and longed for his wisdom, but I’d found Jimmy Stattler, the same bratty boy who’d tormented me before I’d bloomed into the image of my mother, Lydia, that
 
I am now. I’m still thankful that Jimmy came to our door that dark day to give me his condolences, because from that day forward we’d love each other forever.
 
I thought, if life is made of such miracles, perhaps I could still pitch for a Major League Baseball team. Why not as the closer in the World Series? As Pop often said:
 
“Dream and believe, but always remember, when your dream comes true, be thankful.”
 
___________
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 

Fangs
By Jeff Blechle


I placed my tool bag in my other hand and turned the bell knob. Lightning struck the midnight, then, “Come in!” Inside, a long flight of stairs reached up into darkness. I climbed, and after passing two landings with doors of their own, stood on a Busch rug eye-level with the blackened joist of an exposed floor. Above that, lamp-lit horror movie posters cornered the ruddy vaulted ceiling. The same voice said, “The furnace is in the basement.”
“Where’s your thermostat?”
“In the narthex!”
 I climbed more steps, found it, set it. A toilet flushed, then a tall, pale, black-haired man appeared in a beige t-shirt near a wooden post. He smiled. “You’re the new guy. Cool. Come on. To the bat cave.”
His shoulder blades worked like bellows under his shirt as I followed him down to the first landing. He opened a door and offered me a flashlight. I took mine out of my bag. “After you,” he said. We descended.
“Scared?”
“Born,” I said. “How long have you rented here?”
“About two-hundred years.”
I stumble-scuffed onto an octagon landing and dust rose in my stirring beam. “Which one?”
“That one.”
We passed through an eight-panel door to more stairs, first concrete, then, turning a sharp corner, stone. How did they run the ducts?
“Are you afraid of vampires?”
A rush of tingles grazed my flank. “Real ones, yes.”
“How real?”
I turned around to curl my lip and he blinded me. The property manager told me to watch out for this guy.
Descending again, his footsteps sounded closer, scratchier.
The steps led us to a small round room with three doors embedded in its walls. I trembled my tool bag and flashlight into my left hand and, fresh out of wooden stakes, pulled out a screwdriver. His white hand reached over my shoulder and pointed at the middle door.
“That one.” Sewer breath.
I clumsily opened it onto a narrow, brick-lined hallway with a dirt floor. I couldn’t turn around so I eased forward. “Damn. I hope I won’t have to go back to the truck for anything.”
“You won’t.”
In the close dampness, sweat ran over my fist and onto the screwdriver handle. The hallway ended in a T.
A deeper voice, “Left.”
Determined not to go another step, I led the tenant to a door-less diamond-shaped dead end. Again, a hand reached over my shoulder, but this time it pulled a string and illuminated the diamond. Laughter darkened it. I whirled around to a mouthful of sharp shiny teeth in a reared-back head. I dropped my tool bag and the flashlight and, gaining leverage from the wall behind me, plunged the screwdriver into his heart.
His eyelids flew away. I let go of the heavy wet handle. Crinkled string swinging between us, I watched plastic fangs dislodge and relax crookedly in his mouth before he crumpled onto the dirt floor.
 Apparently, no one ever found his body.
​

Tricky Treats

By Ed Ahern



The stand went up the afternoon of Halloween. It perched next to the street in front of an old house.
There were two painted signs on the front of the stand.
The one higher up read:


There’s a Trick to Our Treats


The one lower down read:


Take one and begone in fun
Take more and troubles begun


The Gobeline couple that had rented the house were really old, and their neighbors, much younger and still breeding children, wondered why they’d moved in. Still, they kept their yard very neat and made no noise.
At dusk, when daylight had all but disappeared, Mr. Gobeline pulled out a big cart filled with sweet things. There were Marzipan animals, and Berliners, and Schneebȁllen and
Bienenstick and Bremer Klabe. They were sealed in what looked like factory plastic wraps and were wonderfully delicious looking.
Old Mr. Gobeline, pinch cheeked, pointy nosed and stooped, pulled the empty cart back into the house and left the stand all to itself. Toddlers and tots, whose parents brought them Trick or Treating in late daylight, stopped in front of the stand. The young mothers formed a defensive cordon.
“I don’t recognize these candies.”
“Why isn’t one of them here?”
“No, Sally, don’t touch that.”
But one of the fathers, after pretending to read and understand the German labeling, ripped open the wrap on a Bremer Klabe and gulped it down in four bites. “Absolutely delicious. Tastes like it’s just from the bakery.”
The mothers, realizing this was a perfect excuse to violate their diets, each took a different confection and tried it. “Marvelous.” “No preservatives.” “Not too sweet.” They wanted to take a second one, but there were too many witnesses.
“Okay, Jimmy, take just one.”
“Linda, try this one.”
As the evening darkened and latened, the age of the children increased. As did their greed. Older kids sometimes took two sweets rather than one, and several teenagers took three. At nine pm Mr. Gobeline emerged from his house without the cart and walked out to inspect the
stand. There was not a single sweet left, just empty wrappers strewn around. He picked up the wrappers, took down the signs, and carried everything back into the house.
Mrs. Gobeline was waiting for him.
“Did we do well?”
“Ja, wunderbar. At least three hundred. The effects will be starting soon. Are you ready?”
“Natürlich. I’ll be so glad to get out of this costume and back to our cave. Let’s go.”
And the Gobelines drove away. An hour and a half later, those who had eaten only one sweet felt only full. Those who had cheated with bienensticks were seized with rank flatulence.
Those who gorged on Bremer Klabe vomited a multi-colored gruel. Overdoing Marzipan lead to violent convulsions. Berliners were time bombs that exploded with diarrhea in the middle of the night. Schneebȁllen produced snot loaded nasal gushes. Five mothers who stole and ate their child’s confection had it worst, suffering from insatiable thirst and incontinent urination.
Texts and phone calls provided supporting music for the ambulance sirens. It was morning before the neighbors decided that the Gobelines’d got them, and broke down their front door. But the only thing of note that they found was just that, a note. It read:


Hope you enjoyed the true spirit of the holiday.


end

​
Ed Ahern

resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over two hundred fifty stories and poems published so far, and six books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories, where he sits on the review board and manages a posse of six review editors.
https://twitter.com/bottomstripper 
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https://www.instagram.com/edwardahern1860/

The Tale of Jack Finnigan


by Dawn DeBraal




Samhain, the end of the summer, the beginning of the dark winter months. Cald sat near the bonfire watching the costumed villagers dance around the flames. This was the night the dead walked the earth. So that the dead would not be recognized, the villagers put on costumes that allowed the returned spirits to roam, free from discovery. It had been like this for as long has Cald could remember. The stories told by his grandfather and father and now the very ones he told, kept the children interested on long winter nights, when they were cold and hungry, but kept entertained by his stories. The scariest story was that of the pumpkin headed man, a tale with true origins.
Jack Finnigan a villager in Newgrange, Ireland carved out a pumpkin for the Samhain Festival and wore it upon his head. The story was told long before Cald’s grandfather’s time.
Jack wore dark clothing using the pumpkin as his mask. Everyone laughed seeing the funny man walk about the village. The eyes of the carved pumpkin did not quite line up with his own eyes, so Jack fell down several times. It didn’t help that he drank copious amounts of mead.
Jack had always been the laughingstock of the village, having taken to drink like a duck to water. Known as a happy drunk, always dancing, singing making a joke here and there. But this night, he was at his funniest with the large pumpkin he had pushed his head through.
Jack walked through the village scaring children by jumping out from doorways, and rain barrels. At first it was funny, but when the children started to cry, the villagers grew angry and chased Jack out into the woods with pitchforks and torches. Jack disappeared into the forest but later it was discovered that several children were also missing.
The next morning a group of the villagers formed a posse just before dawn to search for the missing children. The angry villagers carried torches while they searched the woods for Jack who they suspected of taking them.
Sticks were used to beat the bushes, every shack was searched, but nothing turned up. A farmer went out to his field where he discovered a pumpkin on the
ground. The discarded pumpkin had been carved with a hole cut at the bottom large enough to allow a man’s head to slide into, and a pair of eyes and a mouth had been cut out making this into a mask. This was the path Jack Finnigan had taken, the villagers were sure, and they ran in the direction of the found mask. As the morning drew long, there was no sight of the children or the person they suspected of taking them. Days turned into months, months into a year. Neither the children nor Jack were ever seen again.
Each Samhain, a pumpkin is carved with a face and set out on the doorsteps of those in the villages wanting to protect their children. A candle is lit and placed inside of the pumpkin illuminating its face to ward off the dead. “Stay away from the children of this house,” the pumpkins proclaim. The villagers call these shining pumpkins, Jack O’Lanterns.


THE END

Halloween Costumes
​
By Anita G. Gorman

Here it is, my 90th Halloween. And once again I am planning my costume. The neighborhood children love to see what I have on when I open the door. Sometimes I think they laugh at me, but when I’m dead, they’ll miss me. Some old coot will probably buy my house and put a No Trespassing sign on the front fence and a padlock on the gate, maybe even some barbed wire on top. As for me, I’m the friendly sort. I’m also a little odd.
I remember my first Halloween costume. I was a gypsy with a long skirt, frilly blouse, big, bangly earrings, three long necklaces, and a bandana on my head. I knew what would happen when I wore the costume. The gypsies would find me and take me away to their camp in the woods. There I would dance around the bonfire and eat strange gypsy food and be adopted by gypsy parents who would not make me go to school. I was afraid they would spank me, as my parents sometimes did, though not very often. If I didn’t have to go to school or clean my room—no one has a room at a campsite—what was there to spank me about?
The next year I wanted to be a cowgirl. In those days you could buy cap guns with holsters and caps that would make a loud noise and leave a smell of burned paper. I wanted a set of guns and a belt with two holsters for my birthday that year, and somehow I got it. And a cowgirl hat. No boots. Cowgirl boots would have been
hard to find in our town, and they would have been expensive. So on Halloween that year I wore a blouse and a skirt, ordinary shoes, and my gun belt with the two holsters and the two cap guns. And my cowgirl hat. I knew what would happen when I donned that costume. I would shoot my way out of my house and out of town. At the edge of town, a horse would be waiting for me. A little horse, since I wasn’t very big. I’d gallop to a ranch where they would take me in. I would be hired to be in charge of the herd. I’d make lots of money, no one would punish me for anything, and I’d never have to do the dishes or clean my room. Other people at the ranch would do that sort of thing.
The next year I decided to dress as a princess. I had a crown on my head and a magic wand in my hand. Somehow I managed to buy some netting at the five and ten cent store, and I just wound it around my growing body, over my pink dress. This time I knew that once I reached the end of my street, a handsome prince would come along and invite me to his castle. At the castle there would be no homework, and no one had to eat liver and onions.
The next year I decided to dress as an old woman. I borrowed a cane from my great-grandfather. My mother had an old polka-dot housedress—does anyone wear a housedress these days?—and I put on the housedress and hitched it up with a belt from one of my little-girl dresses so I wouldn’t trip. I found a plaid shawl and wrapped it around my neck. I took baby powder and sprinkled it on my hair so it
would look white, just like an old woman. And then I made my hair into a bun, with big hairpins sticking out all over. This time there was no gypsy band, no ranch in the mountains, no handsome prince. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be old. It was easier to believe in a magic wand than it was to believe that I would ever be old.
So, here I am, now 90 years old. No point in dressing up like an old woman, since no one would think I was wearing a costume. I think I will be a gypsy this year, with a bandana on my head, and three necklaces around my neck, and a long skirt that will conceal my sensible shoes. I hope the neighborhood children admire my costume.

The Lost King

by

Mehreen Ahmed


Based on a plot told orally

by

​Vahid Husen Sayyad


Daisy was held under a dark, mystifying spell. Nestled by the cozy fires of her drawing room, she sat this evening on a rugged floor in her palace. She moped about an incident which occurred in her laboratory last night. She looked lazily out of the tall French windows and viewed a full moon, a flying saucer of gold. The enigma touched her. She became distracted. Her five year old daughter Chevon, ran around the large drawing-room, braiding in and out of aged furniture. Chevon stopped short and looked at her mother. She stepped forward. A doll lay on the rugged floor by a varnished wooden table. She picked it up and looked at her mother again.
Daisy wore a white tee shirt and black shorts. She lived in this palace with her daughter, and their Nanny. The Nanny raised them both over two generations. She raised Daisy, now twenty-six, the Nanny was fifty-five. But the Nanny never got a respite. As soon as Daisy grew up, Chevon was born. Her duties as Nanny resumed.
This morning, at an unearthly hour, Daisy woke up in a gilded bed. She heard a beak knocking on the window pane. A black crow sat on its ledge. Heavy curtains separated the two earthly creatures. She asked, what was up? In coarse words, which only she understood crowed, ‘messed up‘ ’messed up’.
A knock on her bedroom door, her soft voice coated thinly in drowsiness.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me,” a female said. “I brought you breakfast, Miss Daisy. May I enter?”
“Come in?”
The ornate palace door was made of solid old oak. It hinges creaked, when it opened. The door tunnelled. A dark tunnel. Daisy squinted her eyes. Nanny came flying through. She flew in and landed gently on her two feet at the footrest.
‘How’re you this morning, Your Royal Highness?”
“Hmm. Tired. Say, what’s for breakfast?”
“The usual, porridge and orange juice,” the Nanny replied.
Daisy, looked at her and then at the food.
She blurted out.”Who prepared breakfast?”
“I did. Why?”
“No, just asking,” Daisy replied.
“Now, eat up, dear. Slow and easy. Relish it.”
“I still feel faint, Nanny,” Daisy said.
“Are you tired from last night’s experiments?”
“Maybe, I’m not sure,” Daisy said.
She took the first scoop of porridge from the bowl. The spoon melted into the porridge. She saw it; she felt nauseous. She pulled her bed clothes over in a heap, climbed down the bed and ran into the toilet. Nanny looked concerned and she ran after her. Daisy bent over a gaping hole and threw up. She looked down to see what exactly she vomited. She saw green phlegm floating down in a dark pit.
“Are you okay?” Nanny asked, hovering over her head.
“I’m good,” she answered.
“What’s wrong?” Nanny asked. “I don’t know. But, I’m going to find out soon,” she answered. “Say, is Rupert at home?”
“Yes, he is. He was asleep, when I woke up to prepare your porridge.”
“Hmm, has Chevon eaten yet?”
“No, I am about to take a bowl of porridge to her too.”
“Look, never mind her porridge. I’ll prepare it myself. Can you ask Rupert to see me in the lab, please?”
“Okay, if you say, so. I have been raising the two of you over two generations, you know.”
“I know, Nanny,” she smiled. I love you, too.”
The Nanny left. She grumbled and wondered, what was Miss Daisy up to. Daisy, however, walked up and down the room in her tee and shorts trying to find the cause of her nausea. She had fallen asleep by the fire with Chevon last night. She had no idea who brought them upstairs. It must have been Nanny and Rupert. She drew the curtains apart. Spring blooms in her garden. An ocean of pomegranate stretched across the rolling, lush lawn. She stood on its edge. She saw pomegranate seeds dribble out of a broken shell; fallen through; the lawn turned red.
She was engrossed in thoughts. What had happened in the palace laboratory last night? She was trying out one of her inventions. The metal war suit in red. She was playing around with its settings, trying to get its speed right. It must work. She must be able to fly in it, go places, time travel, at the touch of a button on the inbuilt supercomputer suit. She must be able to land back safely in her laboratory too. It was a giant suit. She began to feel faint in it. She came out and fell down. She was out for a few hours, until she came around by herself. How could that have happened? She thought she was invincible, a superhero in that suit. That she stood now at her garden’s edge after she threw up again this morning. The seedy red lawn at her feet lay to the far end.
Oh! That porridge! That porridge must have caused all this. She must not forget Chevon’s porridge. She must make it herself. She didn’t know anymore what was going on in the palace kitchen. She must also let Nanny and Rupert take an early retirement. They must be relieved from their duties. No matter, there was much love between them, Nanny and Daisy. After all Nanny raised Daisy. Without her, Daisy wouldn’t be King today.
Back in the day. 1788. The battle of Northumberland, a decisive battle took place which had mapped her Kingdom of Northumberland. Rashtra had annexed it, this neighbouring state. Now the proud rebellious nation was in the grips of its much hated King __ King Corrom. Daisy seized the opportunity. She had her red war suit ready. She and her brother, the King of this annexed state decided to fight back.
They garnered strength by gathering a large army. They approached another vassal state, Cobra. The King of Cobra agreed to assist. King Cobra was in possession of a large and a mighty army. Two states combined forces. They rose against the common ruling lord. A brutal battle ensued. It was a rain drenched day, on the outskirts of the state of Rashtra. The field was camped with royal tents over by the horizon. Daisy appeared in her metal red suit to fight yet another war. Her brother, the King by her side, except he was not in any suit. The war was bloody. The field couldn’t soak up enough blood that day. Her brother fought valiantly. However, a sudden sword thrust cut through his heart. The King fell. Daisy, in all her efficient armour tried to get him off the battlefield as fast as she could. But she realised, she too was hurt.
No. Wait. She recovered in fifteen minutes. In fifteen minutes her near fatal wound cleared. She made an attempt to rescue her brother, but when it came to pass, he had gone. The thrust, too deep, he had lost far too much blood by the time, Daisy brought him back to the camp.
The battle was a win. Long live the King. She crowned herself King.
The battle! Ah! It was all but terrific and terrifying at once. There was a banquet to celebrate the win. The spoils of war were many. The loot was deposited into the royal coffers, the plunder, the torched villages. She saw them. Daisy saw how it had all burnt. She had overheard the brutal rape cries; the slaughter of children on long spikes. But she turned a blind eye. Grave war crimes were committed. Murders took place. They were committed in the name of the state, but were pardoned. Because, the war was a necessary evil.
Daisy shed tears. Today, she cried for her noble brother, which no King should do. Show tears. But her sorrow took a dive into the abysmal pool of depression. It was beyond reprieve. She saw the moral demise of all the King’s men. Most deplorable, murders, cuckoldry, and coquetry filled up the shady palace halls. She dared not to find out about the martyred King, who had too succumbed to it once when he was King. God Knew and legend had it. God knew, the dead King had illegitimate children littered across her Kingdom which she now ruled.
After all these years, at twenty-six, Daisy stood in her palace kitchen making porridge for her daughter Chevon. The King, long gone many centuries, too short. The battle was well-documented in the preserved pages of history. She mourned. Did she mourn for the corruption in the palace? Perhaps, not, she was too used to it. Her own uncle and cousin tried to dethrone her.
Yes, they did. They planted Rupert as a spy as Nanny’s husband. They thought, no Kingdom was large or small enough for them. They felt that only they had the anointed rights over the kingdom. Back in the laboratory. 2020. Daisy, at twenty-six, sat in front of the computer, trying to tweak her red super suit. Make it perfect.
In it, she reached for the cosmos. She viewed the stars and floated through the galaxy's space-time at a speed of light. She travelled the skies. She fainted. Someone called her mummy, mummy. She heard a distant call. ‘Wake up, I’m hungry’. She struggled to open her eyelids in a dark room. She lay on a farm bed in tee and shorts. She looked at her. It was Chevon. Chevon clutched her little doll and stood by her bedside. There was a door in this room too. But they were plain white, not ornate, nor old oak. Her windows were not heavily curtained and no crow beaked at the pane. Bunches of rhododendrons spread over the white picket fence of her hilltop cottage, not strewn with pomegranate red seeds. This day; another moment; yet, another time loop would soon lap her up.

Burial At Sea

By Roger D. Hicks


Robert Jordan, which had not been his name for the first fifty years, stood on the stygian deck of the anonymous US destroyer as it plowed its way at three quarters speed through a moonless night surrounded at excessive distances by the other members of its battle group cruising toward a ceremony which Jordan’s life and life’s work had brought him to by special invitation of President Harris herself. As he waited for the captain, in whose quarters he had eaten a late dinner after his helicopter landed, Jordan quietly considered how thirty years of working devotedly for the greatest enemy of his new and dearly beloved country had brought about this ceremony and his attendance. The ship was carrying the small group of principles to this ceremony along with its regular crew. As the captain, soon to become an admiral, had explained to him during dinner no one on board even knew that a ceremony was set to take place except that small group of principals, Jordan, the captain, the chaplain, and six anonymous sailors all chosen for their top secret security ratings and all brought in with Jordan from other ships scattered over the world. Those six sailors, despite their collective trustworthiness, did not even know the exact nature of their job that night. It was 2035, more than fifty years after this long, despicable saga had begun and Jordan remembered that time, when as a young agent in Russia’s FSB or national spy agency, he had been chosen for what seemed a fairly simple assignment which, at the time, constituted only a small portion of his entire work load in New York City where he had been posted after a few years work post training in Moscow.
His superiors, including the man who would eventually oversee the entire agency before moving on to bigger and better things, had considered him a natural for assignment to America based on a carefully built shadow life as a minor anti-government dissident and mildly successful business man. He had grown up traveling the world with his father, a career KGB officer. Jordan attended the best private schools where he learned a multitude of skills necessary to an aspiring spy. He spoke Russian in addition to English, German, and Spanish, all nearly without discernable accents. He knew the law applicable to the United Nations and a dozen consortiums of colluding nations on both sides of the perpetual war of worldwide influence. He was an expert in the use of nearly every lethal weapon known to mankind although he rarely found the need to use one. His work was much more subtle, subversive, silent, and yet equally important to his birth country and her security forces.
In New York, he was provided a steady flow of rubles laundered through several ever changing agencies and individuals which was intended to make his source of wealth appear impressive and simultaneously indiscernible. He came and went, a young, intelligent, handsome, and intriguing immigrant who could often pass for a native of his locale. He remembered now that initial meeting nearly fifty years ago, in a failing casino in New Jersey, which had ultimately led to his standing on the blackened deck of a US destroyer, by invitation of the President, awaiting the final ceremony for the other attendee at their long past meeting. He had received orders from Moscow to become an unsuccessful high roller in that slipshod operation in New Jersey and to make contact with its putative owner. That man was to be characterized by his many weaknesses, dishonesty, unjustified ambition, amorality, and pathological lack of veracity. Robert Jordan, in his old persona and with his original name, had gambled often and poorly until finally that casino owner, also characterized by his lack of business skills and deep in unredeemable debt, approached him at the roulette table one night, patted Jordan effusively and falsely on the back, introduced himself with the words, “I
see you’re losing a little tonight, not like your usual big wins. You’re a wonderful gambler, lucky, very lucky, my kind of gambler.” If he had actually been a successful high roller, Robert Jordan knew he would have likely been spurned by this pathological liar and braggart because his wins would have further endangered the failing operation. But the braggart was the object of his work. His superiors, when they gave him the assignment, had provided some basic information about the man and ordered him to discern the rest. The object of his attentions, as Jordan well knew, had applied to Alfa Bank, in Moscow, for loans which no American bank would give him, millions, many millions, approaching a billion dollars American had been his audacious and unjustifiable request. But Jordan’s ultimate superior also controlled much of the commerce at Alfa Bank and was always seeking weak, manipulable individuals who could be controlled by fueling the sources of their greatest weaknesses, especially if they also had contacts which led to others who might someday be able to serve the FSB willingly or unwillingly.
Robert Jordan’s assignment had been to lead this gullible bankrupt to believe he had powerful contacts in Russia and to fuel his weaknesses with gifts, bribes, and enticements intended to draw him in ever deeper much like a fly landing in the net of a hungry spider. But Jordan also knew that the target’s gullibility, ignorance, and excesses did not preclude him from being the kind of person who would walk happily into that web if it were baited with rubles, women, and praise. As a man of some established level of honor, Jordan had not particularly enjoyed some aspects of his work, finding beautiful women willing to go to bed with any man, no matter how reprehensible, for money. But Jordan found such women, had them brought to New York from Russia and took two to the casino one night. The bankrupt owner, never one to ignore what appeared to be a willing woman, approached the table as the two harlots hung on each of Jordan’s elbows. Both were low level agents in the FSB and knew their work well. With prompting from Jordan, they catered to this failing ignoramus and Jordan allowed them to leave him at the roulette wheel which he immediately abandoned as the three entered the elevator to the penthouse. His work for that night was done and he had a positive report to write for Moscow. The women and the video obtained too easily via cameras in their jewelry and purses told Jordan the next day that he had been successful. That video was the first such which Jordan placed in an ever growing stockpile to be used by his superiors at some future time.
Within a few weeks, Alfa Bank approved the loans which they never expected to collect on in monetary terms. They knew the payback would not come in American dollars or rubles. They were hoping for some other, yet unseen remunerations. They were playing a long term game. They would wait. Jordan followed orders from his superiors explicitly and developed a reputation within the agency for quiet but important successes and a great deal of skill in handling an asset who did not even know yet that he was an asset. Jordan traveled the world, played roulette poorly on a few occasions until the casino changed hands, sought further contacts with this braggart, fed him the lies which Moscow required, and led the asset to believe that he was a very important man to Jordan. Yet, at the same time, Jordan smoothly rebuffed the man’s persistent requests to meet someone who could introduce him to Jordan’s superior who, at that time, was not even recognized as being in that position by the braggart.
Jordan moved steadily up the ranks of the FSB, came to know several of his upper level superiors quite well, developed a growing reputation as a skilled agent, and traveled the world on various
brief assignments which also served to reinforce the asset’s mistaken belief that Jordan was a successful Russian business man who simply loved New York.
Finally, with some minor, overrated and overt support along with even more clandestine assistance, not all of which was known even by Jordan, the asset came to be mistakenly seen as a success by many people on both sides of the Atlantic. He managed to manipulate his way into management of a second rate beauty pageant and a terrible television show which painted him as a masterful business man. He persistently requested Jordan to gain him access to the key players in Moscow which Jordan failed to perform but very successfully managed to present as failures of other contacts rather than himself. Their relationship grew and the agency head advised Jordan to both nurture and create unreachable dreams for the asset. Eventually, the man came to believe he was capable of becoming the leader of the entire free world after he had been given copies of the biographies and literary works of Hitler, Milosz, and Machiavelli although Jordan always doubted his ability to read and comprehend such pithy writing. The braggart hired a second rate ghost writer to pen what he was certain would be an autobiographical masterpiece, dictated numerous grandiose lies which converted his multitudinous failures into unrivaled successes, and finally needed the ghost writer to invent a minimally flowery and false title. He even invited Jordan to attend his announcement to the world that he aspired to be its most important citizen. Jordan arrived at the announcement as late as possible, elbowed in as far as possible from the press corps and watched as his intelligence asset, if that were not too magnanimous a descriptor, rode grandly down a gold escalator, spoke in a rambling fashion to the press about his ambition, and induced them to graze over a buffet of his poorly made, over priced, and failing commercial assets. A few days later when he and Jordan met, he regaled the FSB agent with a grand description of his plan to become the most important man alive.
Meanwhile in Moscow, the man in charge assigned a small team of computer experts to assist the braggart by hacking and placing grand stories about him in a large group of media services which catered to the most marginal and least intelligent groups of citizens of America. The agency director had no belief, perhaps not even hope, that this work could be successful until one night while drinking his nightly single shot of Russo-Baltique Vodka he decided to have his computer experts hack into the state election systems of several key American states. He rolled the alcohol around his teeth and tongue, smiled his chilling smile, and realized that he was a genius, probably the greatest and most devious genius in the history of Russian intelligence. That very hour, he awoke his chief computer expert, gave him his marching orders along with a list of the key American states he wished to steal an election from, and slept like a baby for the first time in years.
On the morning after the 2016 election, the most important man in Russia awoke to news that his computer hackers had all earned promotions, smiled his nefarious smile, and finally deigned to make a brief call to this braggart who had gone to bed the night before, for the first time in his life, with the full realization that he was unfit to handle the chore he had usurped. Jordan read his marching orders from the secretive communication channel with Moscow and learned that he had been recalled to Moscow for a “much needed and well earned vacation”. After that, he found himself receiving no meaningful assignments other than sometimes giving boiler plate lectures at the FSB training academy and transporting unimportant people to their unknown assignments around Eastern Europe. The few agents he considered to be his friends never invited him to their dinner parties and he realized that, despite his role in the installment of a Russian agent in the
White House, he was now persona non grata. Based on his years of experience, he realized that he was considered to be dangerous to the agency because he knew too much. Although he slept little, guarded his safety at a level which he had never been required to do before, and wondered when he would be eliminated as had a dozen others who had also known part of the story. He considered his options, death by an agent assassin, banishment to the gulag, suicide, or defection. In memory of his father and his illustrious career, Jordan did not act rashly, made no immediate decision about his fate which he considered to be the one decision which he was still capable of making, carried out his low level assignments just as diligently as he had at twenty-five, and hoped that somehow he would be allowed to escape the usual fate of an agent with excessive knowledge of any major operation.
As he stood on the deck feeling the throb of the massive American engines, Jordan listened to the sound of hundreds of tons of steel cutting the ocean to foam, and marveled that for twenty years he had been able to live, escape elimination, and actually defect to this country which he had come to love and which now considered him a hero worthy to attend this event. In late 2020, shortly after the election which unseated his former asset, Jordan during a minor assignment to Ukraine, happened to encounter a man he knew to be a CIA agent who masqueraded as a millionaire dilletante. This was not their first encounter but Jordan realized he did not wish it to be their last. He took a step only a half dozen or so FSB and KGB agents had ever done and approached the US agent in the restroom of an opera house, slipped him a message on edible rice paper, and went to his hotel to wait. Within six hours, a bellhop opened his door without knocking, spoke to him in perfect English, and offered him a life once more provided he made up his mind within three minutes. Jordan used two of those priceless minutes, left the room as instructed, climbed into the taxi which miraculously appeared as he stepped out the hotel doors, and left Ukraine, Russia, his homeland, his identity, and his dilemma forever. The taxi dropped him at a nondescript warehouse which was held under a non-existent corporation but used by American intelligence and two hours later found himself in a wooden shipping container complete with sound proof walls, food, water, bedding, and a chemical toilet being transported to an airport. After a long, jarring flight, the container was opened in Seattle and Robert Jordan learned that he was considered a very important asset to the American Director of National Intelligence and to the Attorney General.
His Russian life was dead forever. But Robert Jordan, as he was now known, was alive, had an identity constructed over the next six months as he was searched for by the FSB all across Ukraine, Russia, and anywhere else they had an agent. His Russian identity no longer existed and eventually with plastic surgery, intense reading and testing on this fictional life of Robert Jordan, he came to understand just who he was and would be until the day of his death, by whatever means it came. He told American agents everything he knew about their former putative leader, how he had become a traitor, who handled his treason, how his assets were diverted and concealed as they left Russia for his use, and just how much he had given the FSB over the last several decades. The worst part of the entire ordeal was the time he spent, concealed in a series of remote locations, testifying over closed circuit television to the grand juries and trial juries which indicted, convicted, and sentenced the braggart and nearly a hundred of his co-conspirators. The remote location was changed daily, sometimes his testimony was cancelled when suspicion of his discovery made his American handlers jittery. But after months of testimony, the braggart was convicted of treason, and Robert Jordan was handed a new life as a retired plumber from another state who decided to live his remaining years on a small farm growing excellent tomatoes from
heritage seeds along with beans of similar history. He never went to movies or a store. He had no wife, no children, no amusements other than his garden. But he had self-respect and he had his new country which he came to love and which had offered him this last opportunity to be in the same location as the braggart who had died in a prison cell in Colorado after spending thirteen years in solitary confinement.
As Jordan heard the footsteps of the captain and a chaplain on the deck behind him, he smiled and remembered the voice of President Harris as she had asked, “Would you like to attend his burial, Mr. Jordan? If so, myself and our country would be very pleased to give you that opportunity.” Jordan accepted without hesitation, found himself whisked off his little anonymous farm in a blacked out Chevy Suburban by four well armed agents, driven to a small military base where he was put on a plane to another plane at another darkened airport, and thence to the Chinook helicopter which took him at nearly 200 miles per hour to the deck of the destroyer along with the plain canvas bag which contained the remains of the old braggart and traitor, and the six anonymous sailors who would be key players in this last ceremony.
The captain approached silently from the darkness and stopped beside Jordan. The chaplain strode to the rail over the water and turned toward the soft sounds of six men carrying a burden across the deck toward the rail. When they stopped beside the chaplain, the captain uttered his only words on deck, “Proceed chaplain.”
The chaplain quoted from memory in a soft voice which barely made it to Jordan and the captain, “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven, A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance. Amen.”
The six anonymous sailors lifted their burden over the rail, released it, turned to salute the captain, and disappeared into the darkness with the chaplain. Jordan followed the captain back to the companion way leading to the officers’ quarters in silence. As the door closed behind them, Jordan heard the captain say quietly, “Beside Osama, as it should be.”
Copyright August 18, 2020


Author’s Note: While this story is copyrighted, the copyright is intended only to protect my authorship. Anyone, any time, anywhere has my unrestricted permission to disseminate this story on any medium whether now known or created in the distant future. You may share it on social media, e-mail, websites, books, magazines, literary journals, or other forms of mass communication. I do not seek or require any form of remuneration for this work other than dissemination of the work. This permission is granted in tribute to my mentor, Don West, who published his life’s work without a copyright. The only thing I ask is that you give appropriate author credit and my brief bio is below.




Biographical Statement:
Roger D. Hicks is an Appalachian writer, blogger, and auctioneer living in West Liberty, KY. His work has appeared in “Northwest Indiana Literary Journal”, “Freshwater”, “Bryant Literary Review”, “True Christmas Stories From The Heart Of Appalachia”, “Wingspan”, “Across The Margin” and numerous other venues. He is currently working on a second short story collection and a biography of an Appalachian coal camp town.

---

Prison Planet 7

by K. A. Williams


Topaz awoke in the top bunk bed, in a barracks full of other women, dressed in a gray uniform of soft breathable fabric and sturdy work boots.

Topaz was confused at first then her memory became clear. She was a robotics engineer that had been tried for embezzlement and sentenced to work on a prison planet. Her lawyer had been an idiot and her trial a joke, she could have defended herself better.

Silver androids came in and started waking up those that were still asleep. Everyone else seemed afraid at the sight of them; Topaz thought they looked like antiques.

The woman in the bottom bunk bed said, "Do you know who I am and what I'm doing here?"

Before Topaz could think of how to answer the woman, one of the androids went to the center of the room and started speaking.

"You are all criminals and have been given a memory wipe. Your sentence is to work on this farm. You will start after your first meal and work until dark with a few rest breaks and lunch in the field. There are separate communal bathrooms and showers for the men and women. Only the necessities such as food and clean clothes will be provided."

Topaz had been classified as a sociopath so she assumed her brain was different than most people's and that was why the memory wipe hadn't worked on her. It had changed her though. Now she cared about other people, and she hadn't before. 

Breakfast in the cafeteria was a tasteless fare with substandard food. When it was over everyone, except the older prisoners who worked in the kitchen, was driven out into the field on solar powered vehicles, given farming tools, and supervised by androids. 

After a day of working in the field, everyone was listless and quiet in the cafeteria at supper. Topaz was unused to manual labor and was completely exhausted. She almost fell asleep and had to catch herself from falling face first into her meal of half rotten produce. 

She looked out the glass windows at the fields of vegetation illuminated by outdoor lighting. All that fresh produce and the workers were eating this slop. Topaz grew angry. 

***

The days passed by with agonizing slowness. The ones whose memories were gone selected new names for themselves. The past didn't matter much here anyway.

One day it poured the rain and the workers were able to come in from the fields earlier. Most changed clothes and took a nap before supper, including Topaz. Since she had rested she was able to stay awake and when the others fell asleep that night, she snuck outside.

She had noticed that the androids were taking the harvested food to a large building near the barracks after the people returned from the fields. One android was standing guard outside.

Topaz pretended to be sleepwalking. The android grabbed at her arm and she feigned a stumbling fall. "Ouch," she said. "I've sprained my ankle."

"I will carry you back inside," the android said. "If you are unable to work in the fields tomorrow, you will work in the kitchen."

Topaz threw her arms around the android's back when it picked her up and felt for a concealed button that she knew was there. She pressed it three times in succession. The android stopped, frozen.

Topaz climbed down and moved behind the android. She pressed the button two more times and a concealed panel opened. Topaz was grateful for the outdoor lighting as she searched and quickly found the override switch and the communication link that connected all the androids.

"You and all of the other androids will obey me," Topaz commanded. "Any previous orders will be ignored."

"Yes," said the android.

"Tell me what's in that building."

"A time portal."

"A what?"

"A time portal," the android repeated.

"Show me."

The android led the way into the building where other androids were standing there awaiting her orders. Baskets of food sat on the floor in front of a large circular opening that was a swirling midnight black.

"What is that?"

"The time portal," said the android.

"Explain," ordered Topaz.

The android told Topaz that there was a food shortage in the future because industrialization had polluted many planets. 

Scientists had discovered wormholes that led to the past and they traveled on spaceships through these wormholes. They searched for and discovered unpopulated regions on preindustrialized planets with suitable warm climates. 

Androids were brought to those planets where they constructed buildings and water towers, installed irrigation and plumbing pipes, put up solar generators, plowed fields, and planted crops. Scientists built a time portal and when all was ready, prisoners were transported there to harvest the crops and send them back to the future. The planet they were now on was called Prison Planet 7.

"Why were these particular model androids sent here and why aren't you helping to harvest crops?"

"We are older models designated to be scrapped before this experiment began. Our fingers are not dexterous enough for picking delicate produce. It would be crushed."

"I can fix that," Topaz said. "Do you have any tools? And I need a bright place to work."

The android showed her a large room in the time portal building that had equipment in it. "All androids come to me now," Topaz ordered and they obeyed.

There were fifty of them in all. She fixed the dexterity of the fingers on ten of the androids. She didn't have time to fix anymore, she was getting sleepy.

"Don't wake us up early, we will not be going out in the field today. Only obey the humans that are on this farm now and no other humans. Is that understood?"

"Yes," they answered in unison.

"You," she said to the android that she had been talking with. "I will call you first android. How often is the food delivered?"

"Every night after humans go to bed," said the first android.

"Has any been delivered tonight?"

"Only thirty percent."

"Then someone will come here through that portal soon. When that happens, you will bring that person or persons directly to me. Do not answer any questions or obey any commands from that person or persons. Is that understood?"

"Yes," said the first android.

"The ten androids I fixed the fingers on are to be called androids two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, and eleven. The rest of you count off consecutively left to right starting with number twelve and that will be your number."

They did that.

"I want androids two through eight to pick delicate produce in the field this morning and bring it to the cafeteria when it's picked. Nine through eleven will fix the humans a delicious breakfast. The rest of you can go into the fields at daybreak and work till noon picking non-delicate produce. Is that understood?"

"Yes," fifty voices said in unison.

Then Topaz went back to the barracks and caught a few hours of sleep. 

***

No one was woken up the next morning and everyone was confused as they entered the cafeteria and got a pleasant surprise.

Topaz's bunk bedmate in the barracks had given herself the name of Eve. She shook Topaz awake that morning. "They're not taking us into the field today and we have a delicious breakfast. Come on."

Topaz slipped on her uniform and boots and allowed Eve to drag her to the cafeteria even though she wanted more sleep.

Everyone was enjoying breakfast and talking excitedly. Topaz interrupted them by speaking loudly and explaining their situation. "My name is Topaz, and luckily I have my memory because I was a robotics engineer. Last night I managed to put the androids under our control. The androids were under the control of people from the future but I have reprogrammed the androids so that they will respond to our orders now."
 
"The people in the future have sent us back to the past to a time when the worlds were not polluted so that we would harvest food for them. The androids will now help and obey us."

"I have posted an android guard in the time portal room. Someone will come here soon to find out about the food supply that I stopped from being delivered. The android will bring them to us and we can negotiate a trade."

Topaz got her some food and sat down next to Eve who started bombarding her with questions, as did others at her table. She only half answered them because she was busy eating.

Before she and others had finished breakfast, many having gone back in line for second helpings, the android guarding the time portal brought in a struggling man.

Everyone in the cafeteria stopped eating and looked at him. 

The man glared at them all in return. "I am Conrad, your warden. What happened to the food shipment? It's almost midday. Why aren't all of you in the field? And what's wrong with this android? Why won't it obey me?" 

Topaz got up and faced the man. "If you want your food shipment, we'll trade. We only have the bare necessities. We'd like an android doctor, medical supplies, and entertainment for our leisure time among other things."

"Trade?! Doctor?! Leisure time?!" exclaimed Conrad. "You're all prisoners and harvesting food is your punishment. You'll do as I say."

Topaz said in a calm voice. "Oh, I don't think so. If you're unwilling to trade, I'll command this android to smash the time portal, after it throws you back through."

Conrad was silent while everyone watched him.

"I know what you're thinking. You plan to use the wormhole to time travel and return here with other androids to force us back to this gruelling work schedule. But at the first sign of invasion, our androids will set fire to the crop fields," Topaz said.

"You're bluffing," Conrad said.

"Am I?" Topaz countered. "This is a planet we're on. We'll simply go somewhere else and hide. And survive. We'd rather stay here where our androids will now help us harvest the food, but we will not work all day long, seven days a week. Also we will no longer tolerate being served food that should have been thrown out but we will trade."

"Even if I agreed," Conrad said, "these androids can't help you harvest all of the crops. Their fingers were poorly designed and lack dexterity. Any delicate produce they pick would be smashed."

At that moment an android returned from the field with a basket of strawberries, perfectly intact. Conrad stared open mouthed.

Topaz smiled. "You were saying?"

"H - How did you? How did they?"

"About that trade," Topaz continued. "We will get a list together for you after we finish breakfast. You can just wait there a few minutes. It's the first decent meal we've had since we got here as I'm sure you know."

“Hey Jealousy”

By E.M. Woods
​


When Scotty Johnson of the Gin Blossoms asked me back to his hotel room after a 90’s tribute concert, I couldn’t believe what was happening. My head was buzzing from the gin and tonic he bought me not twenty minutes earlier. His hand was resting on my knee in the darkly lit bar of Xfinity Live. Was tonight the night that I would get to party with the rock star?
Only a few hours before, I was pulling into the parking lot of the concert venue with my brothers, Stan and Mark, and Stan’s fiancé, Amber. We were looking for a decent throwback concert to our childhoods since we were all raised in the 90’s and some popular bands from the era were playing. Stan and Amber were pumped for Nine Days to play “(Absolutely) Story of A Girl,” Mark was still licking his wounds over Fastball cancelling at the last minute, and I was most excited to see the headliner: The Gin Blossoms.
I had been a fan of the AZ band for ages. In 12th grade, I played the song, “Hey Jealousy” on a dusty cd player in my debate teacher’s classroom, hoping to persuade the class as to why it should be considered one of the greatest songs of all time. My classmate, Alan Schoenbach beat me out with Bruce Springsteen’s “Rosalita,” but only because he brought in his guitar and played along with his cd. Theatrics always sway a crowd.
Eager to prove myself right about “Hey Jealousy’s” classic potential after all these years, I waited all night for the song to play. I patiently endured a band member from Nine Days explain his new career as a teacher. I channeled my annoyance at Mark’s insistence that “The Way” would’ve been the best song of the night into my beer. I didn’t even complain when some drunk 30-year-old accidentally stepped on my feet when they lost their balance. And you know what? It paid off.
From the moment The Gin Blossoms vaulted onto the stage and got everyone going with “Follow You Down,” I knew I was right. The band was everything I’d hope they’d be: energetic, talented and bonus—funny. The lead singer, Jesse Valenzuela made a nice quip about the scantily clad waitstaff before breaking into “Allison Road.” Stan and Amber were tapping their feet along to the music and Mark had stopped complaining. From “Found Out About You” to “Til I Hear It From You,” I was belting out the lyrics and sporting my nerdy, spontaneous dance moves whenever the band decided to rock out with some sick guitar solos. The only time I stopped singing and swaying like some deranged muppet come to life was during the final song, “Hey Jealousy.” They had saved the best for last. The beat and the lyrics captured the quintessential cool of what I thought life should be in high school thru late 20’s (mind you, I was around ten when I thought this, but it all came rushing back): fast-paced, semi-irresponsible, figuring things out the simultaneously hard and fantastically grunge way. This is what life and The Gin Blossoms were all about. Listening to them playing this song felt like a profoundly reverential moment. I almost cried when they stopped playing. I didn’t want it to end. Stan must have sensed my heartbreak because when the band left the stage, he suggested we all head inside the bar for some more drinks.
It wasn’t two minutes before Scotty Johnson spotted me in the bar and bought me a gin and tonic. Our flirting was textbook. I teased him that his last name wasn’t really Johnson; he took my phone and saved his number into it. When the bar announced last calls, Scotty’s hand was on my knee. He leaned in. Then he whispered: “I have a suite at the Holiday Inn. Come back with me.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Amber winking.
I was awestruck. After all, if the universe brought me together with a Gin Blossom tonight, who was I to say no?
As I scrambled my brain for a clever response, my cell went off. “Boyfriend” flashed across as the caller, so I couldn’t play it cool in front of the rock star. Scotty knew I wasn’t going back with him the second I answered my phone. The 90’s were over and so was my time with this Gin Blossom.
It wasn’t until the car ride home that the perfect response to Scotty jumped into my head. They were lyrics from Hey Jealousy: “If you don’t expect too much from me, you might not be let down.”

On the Covers of The Rolling Stones
​

By Gary Wosk


The BANG, BANG, BANG on the front door of their San Fernando Valley bedroom community house abruptly awakened John Meyer, his wife Louise, and their two teenaged children, Bobby and Jane.


John and Louise sat up in bed startled by the commotion downstairs.


This cannot be good, thought John. It’s probably the Los Angeles Police Department.


“Bobby and Jane, I hope they’re okay,” said a suddenly hysterical Louise.


John and Louise slowly emerged from their slumber, slipped on matching bathrobes and to their quick relief, met their children waiting at the staircase. The four slowly walked downstairs together.


Peeking through the shutters, they eyed two young men with long hair wearing psychedelic shirts and bright bell bottom pants. The strangers, one with reddish lips and the other haggard with bags underneath his eyes, seemed unsteady on their feet and each leaned onto the other for support.


Yes, concluded, John, they were high on something. He would have been happier if greasers had been causing the disturbance.


“Leave or I’ll call the police,” warned the hard-nosed John through the screen. A life-time, right wing Republican, he held a baseball bat in his right hand in case the strangers somehow burst in.


“You’re acting like wild horses. Calm it down,” John admonished them.


They banged on the front door again.


“Blimey, give us shelter, please. It’s late, sir,” said the man with reddish lips. He spoke in a British accent. “No need to call the bloody bobby.”


“Give us shelter,” he repeated. “We need to sleep. Fluffy pillows and covers, too, please. You have a spare bedroom, right?”


“Who the hell are you?” groused John.


“Are you barmy? You really don’t know who we are? We’re not rabble rousers, sir,” said the red lipped man who seemed somewhat more sober than his companion. “We didn’t come to your home to cause any problems.”


It’s a lovely place gov’nor. We’re not trouble makers, I assure you,” said the companion, who also spoke in a British accent. John thought he would be surprised if a doctor even found a pulse in this lifeless looking, pockmarked hippie.


“Love, peace and good old fashioned family values,” said the red lipped one.


The two strangers laughed.


“Are you two on drugs?” John asked sternly.


“Drugs, not us, not in the least,” said the man with red lips. “Just two blokes with jet lag.”


Bobby and Jane asked their parents to stand aside so they could peer through the shutters. Each turned to the other with a startled look on their faces.


“It’s Mick!” the freckled Bobby said excitedly. “And Keith!”


“Are you sure?” asked Jane, a blonde with a Marilyn Monroe mole above the right side of her mouth.


“Well, look again,” said her brother, responding to her doubt.


“We won the contest,” Bobby exclaimed to his parents.


“Mom and Dad, we won, we won!” confirmed an equally ebullient Jane.


“Surprise!” said the man with red lips. “Sorry we didn’t notify you. We didn’t want any press.”


“What contest?” said John, now quite irritated.


“Jane and I entered a contest sponsored by Teen Beat magazine. It was called
“Let’s Spend the Night Together with the Rolling Stones.” It’s a sleep-over.”


“Why couldn’t you have won a night with the Beatles?” said the flustered John. “They seem like nicer even though I can’t stand their music. She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah. Who cares?”


“PLEEZ let us in,” pleaded Mick. “If we don’t get satisfaction soon, the deal is off and we’ll go home crying and all. I’m really getting hacked off.”


John opened the door a crack, and then the rest of the way, realizing that the two men were not threatening.


“Okay guys, you can come in. But don’t try anything.”


Mick immediately began flapping its wings in the foyer, his signature dance. He jutted his head back and forth and pointed here and there with his index finger.


“I wanted to prove to you who I am. PLEEZ to meet you. What’s my name?” he asked.


“Pray tell,” said John, who still held the bat in his hand.


“I’m Mick Jagger” He extended his to hand for John to shake.


This is my mate, Keith Richards. Say, do you have a cold Guinness or something to start us up, baby? We just arrived from London, you know. Need to kick back. We leave for New York in two days for an appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show. Have you heard of him?”


“We watch the show every Sunday night after Lassie and Bonanza,” assured Louise.


She suggested ice tea instead of alcohol, perhaps a soft drink. She and John did not want to see the “start me up” side of Mick or Keith.


Mick and Keith shook their heads at the suggestion.


“We would prefer two jars of beer. said Keith. “We won’t get too mullered. We promise. Have some grub, too?”


“We don’t have Guinness, only Schlitz, honey,” said the worried looking Louise to John, who thought Mick and Keith were extremely rude. She was still wearing curlers which amused the guests. “I can also make some sandwiches.”


“How about a bottle of Jack Daniels instead,” said Keith. Opening up a suitcase and pulling out a plastic bag appearing to contain lawn trimmings. “We would be more than happy to share some of this with you,” he said.


“Mind if we light up?” asked Mick.


“Outside, in the backyard,” reluctantly blurted John. Better than having the smell of marijuana lingering in the house, he thought.


While the house guests waited for their food and drink to arrive, Jane began making goo goo eyes at Mick. He gathered that Jane had fallen head over heels for him. He realized he couldn’t cop a feel because the old man was there.


Let’s spend the night together, now I need you more than ever, he teasingly sang to her knowing that was not possible


“I will say that you do look sweet. You look like my girl back home,” said Mick. “Her name is Angie. Angie, Angie. Sorry to repeat myself.”


Louise arrived with Coca Cola and chicken salad sandwiches.


“Oh, Mother,” said Jane. “Isn’t Mick sweet?”


John expressed outrage at Mick’s suggestion of spending the night together with his daughter. Louise looked like a deer in headlights, not knowing what he was referring to.


“Say, what do you mean by that, sleeping with Jane,” said John, the veins in his temple and neck about to burst. “This is outrageous. Who do you think you are, punk?


“Mick Jagger,” he answered with a grin. “I’ve told you so, weren’t you listening?”


“Oh, he didn’t mean he really wanted to sleep with her,” said peacemaker Keith, his words slurred. “Well, what I mean to say, chap, is that he might a been thinkin’ it, sleepin’ with her and all that, but you don’t always get what you want, if you try real hard, you might find what you need. Don’t you think that Mr. Meyer when you see a young chick, meaning no respect to you Mrs. Meyer.”


You know, Mrs. Meyer, you’ve got a real fighting man there,” said Mick. “He should enlist in the army.”


“He already served in Korea,” said Louise. “Do you want to see his medals?”


“Decorated are you?” said Mick.


John was having second thoughts about allowing the long haireds stay over. His wife could tell he was about to kick them out. He had enough of their flippant remarks.


“Oh, John,” Louise said, “they’re harmless. It’s only rock ‘n roll talk. They all talk that way. Don’t worry, Ronald Reagan won’t find out you let hippies sleep over.”


“We’re not hippies,” said Mick. “In fact, we sometimes hang out with the Hell’s Angels.” He was impressed by Louise’s intervention.


“That’s swell of you, to stand up for me and Keith,” said Mick. “Kids? Did you see your mother standing in the shadows? She was great. If he would have turned us out into the street at this time of night, we would have been shattered…shattered, and it would have been all over now.”


“That’s right,” said Keith. “John, you’ve got a real honky tonk woman for a wife. It’s good to see that wives can stand up in your country and that the husbands don’t have the wives under their thumbs.”


Only the teen-agers knew what they were talking about because they recognized the lyrics.


The Rolling Stones and Meyers moved into the living room and were joined by the family dog, a Jack Russell terrier, quite energetic, a performer of pet tricks even at this hour.


“Nice dog, he is,” said Mick. “A regular Jumpin’ Jack Flash, I do say.”


“His name is Paul,” said Louise.


“Ugh. What a name. Just keep his slobber away from me,” said Mick. “I don’t want forty licks.”


“It’s time to call it a day,” said Keith. “Do you have that room for us? Pillows, sheets and covers?”


“Yes,” said John. “Don’t worry about it.”


“I have a question,” said Bobby.


“Shoot,” said Mick, with kindness in his voice.


“Well, I know this is last minute and all. Would you be interested in giving a community concert tomorrow afternoon at Petit Park. It’s just down the street. I know the park director.”


Mick and Keith mulled the suggestion over. They liked being spontaneous and suddenly showing up in a park they never heard of would be groovy, they figured.


“Yeah, we’ll do it if you get the nod from the park director. Couldn’t do many sets, if that’s okay with you Bobby,” said Mick. “We’d have to get a hold of the other members of the band, have them meet us there. They’re staying in a pad in
Laurel Canyon. We’re meeting with some record company executive tomorrow evening. Is there an auditorium at the park?”


“I was thinking of having the concert on the soccer field. That way many more people could attend. There’s no time to get the word out, but the community would hear the music blaring from the speakers and would pack the place.”


“We won’t play for less than ten thousand people,” laughed Keith. “Hey, If you can pull it off, lad, I say yes.’ I like your spunk.”


“Okay,” said Mick to Keith. “We’ll call our agent and tell him to contact the park and get everything ready.”


After a good night’s sleep, everyone enjoyed a hearty typical English breakfast of cereal, eggs, bacon, sliced tomatoes, sausage, bean, toast and jam and marmalade.


The Rolling Stones, the greatest rock ‘n roll group of all time, gave a thunderous 30-minute concert on the soccer field on June 15, 1965. The first song was their hit Satisfaction followed by Time Is On My Side and It’s All Over Now.


The music could be heard for miles. Thousands of local residents attended. No Hell’s Angels were there and so no one was knifed or killed. No media covered the event because they did not know a concert would take place. This was the largest concert in the history of the San Fernando Valley until the Newport 69 Pop Festival at California State University, Northridge. That concert was headlined by the Jimi Hendrix Experience and featured the Creedence Clearwater Revival, Joe Cocker and Eric Burdon.


People, however, still talk about The Rolling Stones’ lost concert.


###

Dry
​
by Ryan Priest
​

Amelia looked out into the vast, empty expanse. She could see a man coming, crossing the dunes on the Eastern horizon. He hadn't seen her yet but she knew he was coming. Her shack was the only standing structure for over twenty miles in any direction in this especially harsh section of the wasteland.
She left her lookout spot and went inside. It'd take him more than half the day to make his way to her front door and there was much to do before then.
With her heavy metal gloves, she pulled a thin line, lifting into the air, over the door frame, a large iron anchor. She tied the string off, stretching invisible and taut across the bottom of the doorway.
Next, she took the screws out of either side of the trick plank on the floor. She flipped the plank over so that the side with the nails was up. The side that was meant to swing up into the face of an intruder if he stepped foot inside.
She then pulled out her extra-special bottle and the one clear glass. She poured in the liquid. It looked like water. She did not drink. She left the glass and bottle on her wooden table.
"If the anchor and plank don't get him," Grandfather had taught her, "Offer him the cup of acid to drink."
It hurt to admit it but every year that went by after his passing, memories of Grandfather faded a little more. His mustache, white as bone. Stern face, loving eyes. Dusty hours spent learning how to hunt, training to fight. So many days now beginning to blend together in her
mind’s eye. Soon, she feared, Grandfather would be reduced to a fuzzy picture and a few tones of voice, like her parents had, so many years before.
Amelia went into the shack’s one bedroom, formerly her grandfather's and now hers. She lifted her dusty cloak off of her slender body. She next took off her pants, her shirt, until she was stark naked.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Grandfather had been right about her. She'd grown up to be beautiful. He'd always told her she would. Not out of any sense of pride but as a warning. "You're going to be a very attractive woman and that means that men will come for you."
The lines her shadow cast on the wall looked like a rolling landscape of dunes; the first hill of her calf sloping coolly to her smooth thigh, culminating in the round mound of her butt before the low valley of her lower back, the curves rising again along the flawless contour of her spine leading into the trestles of dark hair which, in the shadow play, looked like a dark storm preparing to streak across the serene peaks and valleys.
She liked the way she looked but she didn't have much to compare herself to other than faded photographs in magazines and the few scattered memories of her mother and other women who would come by when she was just a girl. Women didn't come around anymore. Only men, like the one outside, with nothing but ill intent and appetite fueling them.
The thought of sex-hungry men made her flush. She kept her focus and poured her oil down her bare chest coating her skin. She rubbed it all over, down each arm and each leg. She was glistening like polished metal. "If anyone of those bastards ever gets lucky enough to lay a hand on you, you'll slip out of his grasp like a fish."
"Yes, Grandfather."
"Don't ever let one get that close in the first place."
"No, sir."
But she did. She wondered if her grandfather was watching over her and if he was angry or proud that more often than not, she chose to meet the men on the open field, before they even got to the traps. She'd meet them with honor and fight them toe to toe. Not one had ever made it out alive. Men were easier to kill than sand tigers.
She always imaged that her grandfather was proud. She could fight as well as any man.
She took out her outfit, her special outfit, the decoy outfit. A black string top and a matching thong. "This is only for decoy purposes. You get a man thinking about sex and all his other senses turn off."
Grandfather knew everything. He'd told her about how, many years before, when his grandfather was still only a boy, the entire wasteland had been underwater. There were no five-hundred-pound sand tigers, no cats at all. Just water as far as the eyes could see, with enough fish to feed the world over and never run out. Grandfather's grandfather had told him that people had made an awful mistake and it had destroyed the whole planet and disfigured all of the animals. He called it the sin against nature. The old lands had been overrun by the birds. Sky blackening swarms of carrion birds, each as big as a man, with talons that could take an arm off and sharp beaks that could penetrate a steel breastplate. Survivors had been forced to flee into the dry, salty wastelands.
She checked under the bed for Hilda. If she followed the rules, she was supposed to stay right here and wait for one of the traps to do its job. If they all failed then she was to flash a smile and beckon the man closer. When he got within five feet, she'd pull Hilda out from under the bed and chop his head off with her sharp blade.
"Even if you don't take the head off, any wound dealt will still be fatal."
"Yes grandfather." But it was just redundant planning, no one had ever made it passed the anchor.
If she wanted to be a bad girl then she'd take Hilda out now and walk outside to wait for the man.
Could her grandfather's spirit read her mind? She wondered if he knew that she secretly wished a man would make it to the bedroom. It was all she could think about some of the time. Men. How they smelled, how they sounded, how she smiled when they smiled at her. She was tired of fighting and killing, she wanted to see what a kiss felt like.
Sure, some men were vile and feral but others were nice. Some men simply begged for their lives without defending themselves. She didn't want to kill them but she had no choice. At night though, she'd think about those men. She'd imagine herself allowing them to live, letting them touch her, touching them back. She was beginning to get as silly around men as they got around her.
She ran to bedroom's peephole to check this new stranger's progress. He was almost to the house. She tried to see his face but he was still too far away and the dust was kicking up too much to get a good look at him. She didn't know why she liked looking at some faces more than others but she did.
As the man got closer, she decided she liked his face. He was young, his dark cheeks full of life. She liked the clothes he wore, wind tattered and sun baked. She wondered what he looked like without them.
She chided herself for losing focus. Grandfather would be disappointed. She pushed thoughts of her grandfather far out of her mind. She didn't understand it but she hated even thinking of him when she got like this.
What did her grandfather know anyway? Something about men being dangerous and untrustworthy but all of that seemed so unimportant at the moment. The only thing she could
concentrate on was the deep brown of his eyes. He had high cheek bones and she was filled with an overwhelming desire to just bite them. Even looking made her toes curl involuntarily.
She let out a sigh and the volume and depth of its tone surprised even her. That settled it, this one got to live.
Amelia took Hilda out and headed for the front door. Her heart was beating so loud in her chest that she could hear it. It was like she'd felt when hunting or during her those first fights, back when anything could happen, before she'd gotten so good.
Walking out on her porch, the sight of her own bright, glistening body filled her with a wicked confidence. She was doing this, there was no way she wasn't doing this.
The man stopped in his tracks. His eyes, beautiful and brown, grew wide as he saw her. She held Hilda out and he watched startled, as she dropped the sword blade down into the dirt and walked forward, unarmed with a determined leer. The man, still shocked, clumsily threw all his weapons down too before stumbling towards her with a happy smile on his face.
As they strode towards one another his eyes made her very aware of her own body and the way it jiggled and swayed as she moved. She didn't care if he stared at her, she wanted to be stared at by him. She didn't have to worry about him ravishing her, she was going to ravish him.
Out from behind a smaller dune came first the hiss and then, too quick to prepare for, a sand tiger. It vaulted forward using its thick hind legs like springs and chomped down with gnashing fangs onto the head and beautiful face of Amelia's would be suitor. A few vicious whips of its neck and the man was in pieces.
"Damnit!" Amelia screamed. Of all the times for a stupid sand tiger. She grabbed Hilda out of the ground and threw her at the dining tiger, too blood drunk and frenzied to see it coming.
She turned back inside, she didn't even bother to get the meat. She already had enough tiger meat to last half a season. She had her own frenzy to take care of. She stepped over the tripwire, danced over the floorboard and headed straight into her bedroom. Her body felt like it was on fire. She threw herself down onto the bed, closed her eyes and allowed her imagination to take her away, to places where there were no tigers, disapproving grandfathers and no elaborate plans, just men. Hard bodied, gorgeous, smiling, men.

1970


By DC Diamondopolous


Drunk and stoned, Scott staggered out the door of the Whiskey a Go Go and into the night. A blurred neon sign from the Sunset Strip flickered and shuddered through the ebb-and-flow haze that hovered from his high. The notice to appear before the local draft board was crumpled deep in the pocket of his bellbottoms like a wet snot rag.
He lit a Camel. “Happy birthday to me, but who gives a shit,” he shouted at a group of foxes in hot pants. “I’m gonna go to Canada, wanna come?”
Jelly brained, Scott closed his eyes and leaned his bushy blond head against the building until his knees buckled, and he landed on his ass. He blew a stream of smoke up at a three-story-high billboard of Linda Ronstadt, then flicked the cigarette across the pavement.
“Fuck-off. Go on. Get outta here,” said the bouncer, standing outside the entrance to the club.
Scott crawled to his knees as a wave of barf started to peak. He ran up the sidewalk
to the back of the Whiskey and threw up on the steps of the fire escape. With the bottom of his tie-dyed T-shirt, he wiped his mouth, felt better, took out another smoke, and lit it.
He didn’t have rich parents who could get him out of the war, he wasn’t a psycho, and no way was he queer. He didn’t have the grades or want to go to college. His passions in life were drawing and surfing. The only thing left was to run away to Canada. But Scott hated the cold, and there were no decent beaches. When his father saw him sketching he’d say, “You’ll never make a living at that sissy artsy-fartsy stuff. Cut your damn hair. Join the military. Be a man.”
If he did go to Nam, he’d kill people he had no beef with. When he told his old man this, he exploded, “Communism must be stopped. Or we’ll all be talking Russian.” His mom stood in the background nodding and silently crying.
When the National Guard killed four students at Kent State, his father told him they deserved to be shot for protesting the war. Scott was dumbfounded. “What about My Lai? Did innocent Vietnamese deserve to be raped and murdered by U.S. soldiers?” “That’s war,” his dad snapped. “It happened in WWII. Korea. It’s no surprise it happened again.” His dad’s answer blew his mind.
Scott asked him if he’d been born German would he have sent Jews to the ovens. His father said, “I would have followed orders, that’s what soldiers do.” “Then you’d be a murderer,” Scott yelled. His dad slapped him. Shocked, Scott held back his rage from wanting to wallop his old man and beat the callousness out of him, but that smack turned the shine on his father’s pedestal to rust.
It was hell living with his family in Hawthorne. Scott moved out, got an apartment, a
job at Mattel. He hated the nine-to-five monotony of assembling Barbie Dolls for a paycheck and the tired empty feeling of coming home, getting drunk, smoking pot. He missed the old days when he and his dad fished off the Redondo Beach Pier. He missed having a father.
Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water” boomed then faded from a car as it cruised the Strip.
His childhood friend, Robbie, had come home in a body bag. For what? Their generation was screwed. He had no say about the war because he couldn’t even vote. If attacked, Scott would gladly take a bullet for his country. But this war? He slid down the wall of the Whiskey, dragging his angst with him.
His mother called that morning, wishing him a happy birthday. She told him his father loved him. Then why didn’t he call? Scott knew why. His father was stuck in a time warp when going to war was heroic. His dad thought him a coward for not wanting to fight. His parents would freak if he’d run away to Canada.
He stubbed out the Camel and brushed vomit off his sandals.
Through the mist of his high, a mellow warmth broke through. He took out the crumpled draft notice, smoothed and folded it, and stuck it in his pocket.
He needed to draw. He imagined his hand flying across the page, creating a world of his own. It calmed him, made him feel in control. Not even sex could do that.
Scott turned away from the glitz of Sunset, the shimmering lights of the city beyond, and headed up Clark.
His mom’s ‘58 Ford Fairlane — last year’s 18th birthday present — with the remaining scraps from the peeled off bumper sticker, America Love It Or leave It, was parked up the hill.
A group of hippies walked toward him.
“Peace man,” one of the guys said, holding up the V sign of his right hand as he passed.
“Yeah, man. Peace,” Scott said without hope, his strong young body to be used as a killing machine.
He unlocked the Ford, took out his drawing pad and pencil, and sat on a low concrete wall facing Sunset and downtown L.A.
Street lanterns and outdoor apartment building lights cast ominous shadows from manzanita plants.
Scott could have drawn in total darkness, so clear was the picture in his mind, the certainty of his decision.
With the pad on his knees, he sketched the sun setting on a beach in South East Asia with a sandy coastline, palm trees, bamboo boats.
He heard the rat-a-tat-tat of machine guns in the jungle, hissing insects, the smell of death in the rice paddies.
The sprinklers came on and he jumped up, shielding his paper. But Scott liked the river of tears running down his drawing, leaving their trace on his dying body as he took his last breath on the shore of the South China Sea.


dcdiamondopolous.com
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B07455RZ6W

The Swan Daughter

By Meg Smith
 
Jane likes stamp-collecting.
Justin takes her to conventions -- maybe because he relishes his big brotherly role, and probably because he loves showing off his car and driver’s license.
They’re just back from the first of a two-day philately extravaganza, at the Holiday Inn in Hillsborough. Not far from here.
Justin tells me, “Ma. She was like one of three girls there.”
I see the placid indifference in Jane’s faintly-freckled face, in her eyes -- green, reminding me of a cat lazing in a patch of sunlight.
Soundlessly, wordlessly, she moves in a graceful path, album under her arm, toward her room.
“Hold on there, Daisy May,” I call out, and she stops, not abruptly, like a kid, but kind of fluid -- like a barn swallow landing on a limb. “First, thank your brother for taking you.”
“Uh huh. Thanks, Justin.” There’s beauty in her voice, too, even if her words are pure preteen.
“Second, please show me what you got.”
She turns; her gliding gait makes me proud and uneasy.
She opens her album and presents it to me, like we’re in some secret, sacred ceremony.  It’s a page of stamps, of different kinds of bats. The “Night Friends” series.
I feel strangely at a loss. “Very good.”
We’re such an awesome family of communicators. I suppose that’s my fault.
She nods, and turns again, almost ballet-like, and seems to vanish like a silky cloud.
“So graceful,” a friend once said. “She should take ballet lessons.”
Like I could afford that. She’s never asked for them, but she seems always to be moving in her own dance.
I should be glad for this stamp-collecting hobby. It doesn’t cost as much.
In her brother’s face, something of bemused, and unsettled. Maybe it mirrors what’s in my eyes.
That might just come from being 16, and the older brother to a 12-year-old sister.
Yes, a distant memory though it may be, I, too, was once 12, bordering on 13.
It was  -- well, maybe we’ll get back to that number later.
My point: I really was that age once. And I remember a strange female tribe, with their stamp collections, model airplanes and rock albums.
I regarded those girls with a mix of awe, and pity.
I was headed for nursing school, just as my mom had, and the voke.
I was going to make my own money and chart my own course. No one debated that in our house. My mom always worked. The rent didn’t pay itself.
It’s clear that even at the dawn of her adolescence, Jane isn’t apprehensive.
The philately. The lack of concern. I’d call it a preteen thing if I didn’t know better.
But I know both my children very well.
Justin, tall, with dusty hair, masking his empathy and compassion with feigned disdain.
His friends do it, too. They always seem to be at our house. Because you see, I’m the cool mom.
Their loud rock music is a shield. I know it. But I never embarrass them by saying so. I just ask them to keep it down. I listened to most of those same songs, a fact that always  makes me sigh.
 
***
 
 
It’s night.
I know Justin is asleep in his room, the music still on, a muffled sound of angry drums and guitar.
 
Jane -- honestly, I think that child never sleeps. But she is quiet. The quiet of a child who rules her own language. “What is it like -- to have a daughter as calm and well-behaved,” I’ve heard, more than once.
 
Sometimes with admiration or envy, and sometimes -- with a hint of judgemental disbelief. I’ve even said out loud: “Really. I know what you’re getting at.”
 
Over and over, I have made a little mantra, in my mind. She gets it from me. All her good qualities. Her beauty. Her smarts. Her calm. Her beauty. She gets all of it from me. Sometimes, when I am alone, I say that out loud, too. Show me a mom who never talks to herself.
 
***
 
I would like just one night without feeling an unnatural shiver.
 
I’m sitting up, on my bed, still in a top, and jeans.
 
The air through the screened window is warm, and slightly fragrant. Lilacs in late bloom.
 
I have a radio talk show on. I’ve lost track of the topic, but the voices are comforting.
 
I’m working an iced coffee Justin got me, unbidden, and unceremoniously, because he’s proud of driving and getting things.
 
I get up, without turning on a light, and look in the mirror. I look at the once-young woman staring back.
 
My cheekbones cut an outline now. I had a round face when I met my husband.
 
All in all, I feel I have kept pretty well. I feel both pride in that, and resentment for feeling like I have to appraise myself.
 
My mother appraised herself, every day --  even when coming home from working a shift.
 
I think of Jane.
 
She will not do this. For Jane, no checking in with the critic on the other side of the mirror.
 
She might, but, even if she does, she will not see much change.
 
I think fleetingly of putting on a dress. A light, cotton, flowery one.
 
And then in my absurd, inner, mom-talking-to-herself voice: “The hell.” I leave my room.
 
The house is dark, silent except for the dim light over the stove.
 
At this hour, some voices intrude upon my mind. Like Gretta reminding me: “You’ve had a lot of breaks. I mean, not every single mom has a nice house on a cul-de-sac.”
 
“Go to hell,” I mutter. Is that for Gretta, or the apparition at the back door.
 
Maybe I’m saying it to both.
 
Over time, forces can gather inside a person.
 
The thing is, I really don’t want the kids to know. Or, in Jane’s case, I don’t want a reason for her to get up and come out with her curious inquiries.
 
 
I’m outside. Moths are flailing helplessly around the porch light.
 
I turn it off, and they disperse, in a frantic, winged mist.
 
In my periphery, I see a light on the in picture window of the Carron’s ranch house across the way. As if they don’t have enough to gossip about.
 
It always makes me feel perversely amused.
 
With the porch light off, I am standing in the moonlight, pasty through clouds and warm-weather haze.
 
A shadow grows around me, and there is no greeting.
 
Just this: “You didn’t answer my call.”
 
“And I’m not going to.” I pull a cigarette from my jeans pocket, and a lighter.
 
 I don’t offer one, I just smoke casually, and the smoky haze floats around me.
 
I hear the exasperated sigh, and that comforts me. “You think you’re being brave. But it’s selfish.”
 
I draw a long drag, and my cigarette glows, like the glaring eye of a feral creature.
 
“Don’t talk to me about being selfish.” I blow a stream of smoke. I know it’s like a shield -- and I feel entitled to one. “I always wonder if you’re all like that. Selfish.”
 
Another sigh comes in response. “This is an old conversation, Krista. I was selfish. It’s all in the past.”
 
I resent hearing my name, and I say so.
 
I want to lean against the porch railing, but instead I stand up straight, and step forward. I can feel my face flushing. I flick some ash.
 
“Yeah, well she is not the past. She’s here now. Only you are in the past.”
 
In the half-dark of the moon, I see discomfort, anger. Some men delight in saying, “that’s in the past,” like snipping a cord with pliers.
 
But they hate hearing it.
 
“What happens when she starts to ask you -- about herself.”
 
I take another languid drag. “I really doubt it. She doesn’t ask anyone anything.” I’m feeling a grim satisfaction.
 
I step forward. “You’re not much for consequences, are you?”
 
I blow more smoke, and don’t wait for an answer.
 
“She’s mine,” I pronounce. “She’s none of you. And, every day, that’s more true. You’re just some nonsense in her DNA. She’s growing up, in my world.”
 
He’s come here, over the years, at night. He has always said he has no choice. I know that’s rubbish.
 
 I know it’s rubbish because Jane is the proof. She gets up every morning.
 
Sometimes I catch her on this same porch, looking at the rising sun, just staring at its copper blaze, like they are having a conversation.
 
I’m not going to tell you that my heart is not torn when he leaves. We once had a place, to call ours.
 
No longer.
 
He is looking for something to cling to. Someone. I’ve determined that he won’t find that here.
 
“All these things you say, about her being only yours. That’s going to end.” I will not deny, his voice carries some kind of music. And the struggle in his voice to claim dominance -- and failing -- I like hearing that, too. That’s probably why I’ve tolerated all this, for so long.
 
 In the movies, it’s so different. They sweep into a room, maybe a bedroom -- dark cape, dark eyes like daggers. They own everything around them.
 
“I raised her. She has my values.” My cigarette is nearly out.
 
“She’s becoming an adult. I fell. I fled from my duties. But now --”
 
My neighbor’s light winks out.
 
“You need to go,” I say.
 
“Do you really care what they think?”
 
“I care about my daughter.”
 
I can feel tears in wet islands, on my face.
 
I am alone again.
 
I go inside.
 
Before closing the screen door, I say, out loud, in the direction of the Carrons’ house: “I think you need to watch your own wife.”
 
The morning comes. Music is coming from Justin’s room, louder, and with purpose.
 
He’s not even in there, he’s in the shower.
 
I go to Jane’s room. There are illuminated unicorn stickers on the door.
 
It’s day two of the stamp convention. Presentation day.
 
She knows that of course, but it’s mom’s job to remind kids of that which they already know.
 
“Honey, you up?”
 
After a moment I push open the door.
 
There is a shadow, dancing, like a swan.
 
My heart begins to hammer and my ears ring.
 
The shadow turns in that effortless turn, softens, and disappears.
 
***
 
“You really need a better outlook,” a former friend said at coffee one day. This was after Justin came home from first grade with a gash in the side of his head.
 
A kid at school teased him about his errant father. My former husband. My prehistoric life.
 
Justin ran at him; the kid threw a rock. Justin got sent home with a suspension.
 
This former friend was of the opinion that her fellow women would do better in this world if only they stopped doing dumb things.
 
“Perspective,” she said. “You’ve been given a lot of breaks. Not every single mom gets to live in a nice ranch house in a cul-de-sac.”
 
It was one of those famous times my mouth got me into trouble. “Well, you know, I have a plan,” I said. “I’m going to stop  paying rent, and get us thrown out of that ranch house, and onto the sidewalk.”
 
Her mouth began to move but I interjected. “Then we’re going to move into a trail tent in the woods. I’m sure that will make life better for all those worse off than we are.”
 
“I didn’t mean -- “
 
“You never do.”
 
Nausea gripped me. Not because of what she said. I reached around in my pocket book for some saltines. I chewed them up with gusto.
 
“Hey --”
 
“Hey what,” I said through the crackers. All righteous indignation was muffled by the crackers. “Stop judging other people’s lives.”
 
She sighed. “You went to that dance.”
 
“Yes I did,” I said. Another friend had dragged me along and then abandoned me to argue with her ex in the parking lot of the Elks.
 
And my soon-to-be husband wasn’t even at that dance. He was at a poker tournament in the adjoining function room.
 
His partner was my friend’s ex.
 
We began to talk, he and I.
 
Such beginnings are really just that simple.
 
It was five years later, thereabouts. I had been newly-single for three of them.
 
I was working in a residential home, Palm Manor. There were no palms, just some scrub pines.
 
It was a little after 11 p.m. I was ending my shift. Another beginning was about to unfold.
 
The air outside was cool, invigorating. I lit a cigarette. I didn’t like smoking in my car.
 
Moths dithered around a parking lot light. Moths acting crazy around lights -- they’re almost like sybiline prophets.
 
Justin was with his Dad that weekend. I both wanted him to spend more time with his father, and dreaded it when he did. Would he come home changed, transformed, some undesirable part of his father’s nature within his being.
 
I drove, my torn thoughts my only companion, as so often was the case.
 
Our town does have some scenic places, even if ugly milk-carton developments have cut into them over the years. And yes, my rented house in the cul-de-sac is one of them.
 
I suppose that’s why it’s affordable. A salad ranch, a coworker called it.
 
I’ve seen her husband at the VFW. He provides her a better house, but I don’t think she knows the real price.
 
There’s a park, near a lake. The park has trucked-in sand, and some picnic tables.
 
I pulled over. I wanted another cigarette.
 
The park was never a woodland preserve. I remember there was a big fight over it at Town Meeting, but in the end, the voters agreed to buy the land to keep the woods.
 
No one ever said the reasons out loud but everyone knew.
 
Yes we need places for houses. We also need woods. For birds and deer and all those Disney things.
 
I pulled in the lot. I got out of my car.
 
There he was.
 
I recognized at once who -- what -- he is. I laughed out loud. Here’s someone who will never clutter up my life the way Justin’s father had, I thought. Because it simply isn’t possible.
 
He has his own universe, defined by the boundaries of a forest and a lake. And, a quarry, filled with ancient rain water. That’s where they come from, and that’s where they stay. Mostly.
 
It was hard to believe some carved-up picnic tables and fake beach sand could form a portal between two worlds, but there it was. There we were. I went. The taste of wet leaves, and their tangy scent -- yes, I can still invoke it, minus the pain.
 
Jane to me was neither a burden or a gift, nor a dilemma. She was simply mine.
 
He had failed her. He had failed her by not showing her that world beyond the lake.
 
The lake in the daytime was a pretty place, as municipal beaches go. Distantly, white swans and ducks gleamed, unafraid.
 
***
Justin is at Jane’s bedroom door with me, with the obvious discomfort of a teen boy approaching a younger sister’s room.
 
“What’s this shit,” he demands, but there is fear in his eyes.
 
I feel my mom-authority evaporating, and my heart races. “She’s gone.”
 
“Ma, I can see that!” Then, “Sorry. Maybe she went in the yard to talk to the sun.”
 
I turn to him, startled momentarily, but his tall presence, his face splashed by tears. “She’s not in the yard. She’s gone.”
 
“Ma, hell!” He storms past me, to the door.
 
“Justin --” he’s gone, in his car, his beloved, rust-and-bolt Camaro. A chick-pickup turned kid sister rescue vehicle.
 
Anger churns in me. Did he come for her, when we were all asleep? I can’t even call him.
 
I make up my mind. I’m going. Tear open that pathetic earth hovel or whatever it is -- I’ve never seen the place. I’m getting my daughter back, and I am going to finish this.
 
I should call the police. But, I don’t.
 
I get in my car, and head for the lake.
 
***
 
It’s early, yet. No cars are there. But I’m a mom on a mission, and nosy spectators will not deter me in any case. I slam the door, and take quick, angry strides. Or try to.
 
The sand catches at my feet, in my nurse’s Stride Rites which are great for tiled floors, but not here.
 
Before I know it, I’m perspiring. The air is chill. Flies graze my head. Black flies.
 
I swat at them. “Fuck off,” I say, loudly, ridiculously.
 
I stare at the lake. It’s broad, placid, green-black, and mesmerizing.
 
Tears course down my face, and my eyes sting.
 
I find myself sinking, sitting on the gritty, sandy shore; Canada geese are clustered near the foam and reeds along the edge.
 
It catches up to me all at once. If what I think happened, happened -- no police are going beyond this place.
 
They won’t. They can’t.
 
I need to gather myself. I look, straining, for a glimpse, a gray glimpse of the quarry, beyond the trees.
 
The sun is rising.
 
I’m weeping.
 
I’m not alone.
 
I don’t think I ever saw my daughter cry before, until now. She is standing before me, impossibly tall, almost like her brother, like what every mother fears -- a daughter becoming a woman, literally, overnight.
 
But she is in fact still a little girl. Tomorrow is her 13th birthday.
 
The morning breeze tousles her soft, long, black hair. She didn’t get that from me.
 
Or her delicate skin, or long-lashed eyes.
 
Or her terrible grace.
 
Relief sends shocks through my body. I leap up, reach out, to grab her, and she stands back.
 
I feel a stab in my heart. “Are -- you --” it’s like being in a dream, when you try to scream, and no words come.
 
“Oh, mom,” she trembles.
 
She reaches out to me now, and touches my hand. Her touch is warm, but that, too, chills me.
 
Her face. Her hands. Streaks of scarlet.
 
I shrink back, and feel hot with shame for doing it.
 
“Mom.” There is firmness in her voice now, and it takes me aback, a little.
 
I put out my arms to her.
 
“I’m okay.” Anger is building in me now. My child, endangered, safe, but still -- “You’re coming with me and we’re getting help.” I glance in the direction of the hidden quarry. “He is bad. You need to understand that. We’re going to the police -- “
 
She steps back again, her gaze steady.
 
She swipes at the tears on her face with a savage fury. “Mom!”
 
She holds out her hands, palms-up, showing me the blood, scarlet rivulets.
 
“You’re hurt!” I insist. “Jane, you scared the hell out of us!”
 
“I’m not hurt,” she says, her voice starting to quake now.. “But” --
 
She looks swiftly over one shoulder, gesturing toward the water.
 
“The swans.” I barely hear her. “What did he do to get you here? Did he bribe you? Just take you?”
 
She repeated it. “Mom! The swans!”
 
My resolve is fading, my mom-patience drained.
 
 Never have I felt a need to discipline her, my perfect but mysterious child, but now I’m about to pick her up, swan-babble and all, and pitch her into the back seat and tear off to the police station.
 
No time to worry about what they might think of my cracked-sounding story.
 
“Mom!” She erupts in tears again. “Wait! Just, wait!”
 
“You are coming with -- “
 
“Mom, I just felt it -- like I was all cut-up inside, and dying, like in the desert. So I took the swans -- “
 
She puts her hands, stained red as if from henna, to her beautiful, tear-stained face.
Everything courses through me. Pity, horror, rage.
 
I put my arms around her, and I pull her head to my collar bone. “My baby.”
 
She convulses with sobs.
 
We head home. She is looking down, into her hands. I reach over, pull the seat belt across her.
 
I notice for the first time, she is clasping something she has taken out of her jeans pocket.
 
It is a small, white feather.
 
She says, softly, “I think. Maybe. I think they’ll be okay.”
 
I pull out a cigarette.
 
***
 
I don’t go to the police.
 
I have decided I am past that.
 
I put Jane to bed, pull up her girly-pink comforter, and she does not resist any of my maternal ministrations. She goes to sleep, as if merely worn out from a strenuous soccer game.
 
When she awakens, I will talk with her about all that has happened.
 
I close the door, and run my hands over the unicorn decals on the door.
 
***
 
Justin’s friends arrive, a hellbent posse. He told them, damn him.
“If the police don’t take care of this, we will,” says one friend, Brennar. Long, stringy black hair.
 
He has had more than one scrape of his own with police.
 
“Guys,” I raise my arms, like a conductor. “Please. She’s okay. Let me handle this.”
 
I have never seen a group of teens look so disappointed. They were really ready to deal a fearful lesson in slaughter.
 
I call in sick to work.
 
And I wait for the sun to set.
 
***

As the sky fades to blue, to purple, to black, and insects begin to chatter, I feel my resolve grow.
And with it, questions.
 
Jane is still safe, asleep, in her room.
 
Justin and his friends have gone out. I insisted. Go for a drive, I told them. Let them hunt for some invisible enemy.
 
I know it will come to nothing.
 
And I don’t want them involved.
 
The fact is, I really don’t know what I’m doing. Anything I know, I have come to realize, is from movies.
 
Crosses. A wooden stake. I don’t have these things.
 
Illogically, I laugh.
 
I will know when the time comes. It’s that simple. I’ll just have to.
 
I’m standing on the porch. Smoking a cigarette. There’s nothing about me that suggests I’m a great hunter of evil, supernatural, unnatural things.
 
I’m a slight woman, in capris, a T-shirt, and a sweater over my shoulders. Wearing clogs, and smoking.
 
The stars appear, faint light through a nighttime haze.
 
The Carrons’ light is out. Maybe they’ve gone on some vacation of reconciliation. Such are the things nurses come to learn.
 
I am not alone.
 
The apparition before me is none of the sultry arrogance of nights past, years past.
 
“Any last words,” I ask.
 
“I...didn’t take her.”
 
“I’m her mother. Don’t shit with me. I found her by the lake! Blood all over her hands!!” Despite myself, my voice is climbing.
 
There’s shaking in his voice. “She’s reached the age. She’s waking up. Her time. It’s beginning.”
 
“Your time is ending!”
 
“Mom!”
 
We both turn.
 
She moves to my side, while my brain is trying to process how she came out, with the screen door still closed. She moves between us.
 
Eyes. Their eyes, so much alike, staring deeply into the dark.
 
I have never, ever once, seen the two of them, together, like this.
Even in the patchy moonlight, I can see. Eyes, so much alike. Something, in her, that is definitely not from me.
 
I force back tears, and breathe deeply.
 
“The swans go from one side of the lake to the other,” she tells us.
 
I put my hand to my head.
 
All this time, I’m thinking, braces, fighting over makeup, teaching her the unpleasant truths of womanhood, like preparing in advance for unwelcome advances.
 
These things, I’ve rehearsed in my mind, seeing my own preteen self in some afterimage, trying to defeat battles not yet fought.
 
Not once, not ever, did I consider this battle among them.
 
I reach out and grab her, and pull her back toward me.
 
Even she is shocked. “Mom -- “
 
With my free hand, I make a slashing gesture. He steps back.
 
“This -- this creature -- has no part of you!”
 
“Jane.” Not my voice this time. I can’t ever remember his saying her name aloud, until this moment.
 
She strains against my grip, and she looks away. “You’re not taking her!”
 
But, it’s as if my hands turn to water.
 
She does not go to him. She does not go anywhere.
 
She’s simply gone.
 
And I realize, he was telling the truth. He didn’t take her.
 
She went. To find her whole self.
 
For the first time, since that one night, we go, together, to the lake.
 
And, she’s there.
 
A swan is moving toward her in a sure stream, a silhouette of white wings opening.
 
She’s removed her shoes, and is leaping in a made--up dance.
 
She tiptoes to the edge of the water, her arms open.
 

 

The Gallery
by
Gerald Arthur Winter




A laser of light flashed across Sally’s wet windshield. Before she could
count—one-Mississippi, two Mississippi—lightning struck a magnolia tree just
ahead of her high beams. Thunder exploded as the magnolia in full bloom fell
across Sally’s 2011 red Coyote convertible. The airbag whooshed in her face,
stunning her for several minutes. Then the pounding windshield wipers made
her realize where she was, not at home in her comfy jammies.
She wasn’t sitting by the hearth of a crackling fire and sipping cabernet
to soothe her tired mind after a long day at the office. No. After dealing with
a shit storm of unhappy customers whose orders hadn’t been delivered on time,
she was stuck on the road alone in a thunderstorm with a goddamn tree trunk
straddle across her dented hood.
She was about to call Triple A for road assistance, but her iPhone showed
no bars. There were no streetlights, and the wind and rain were kicking up. She
tried to restart her stalled car. The engine turned over, so maybe she could drive
out from under the fallen tree. It was just a magnolia with no more than two
feet to its trunk’s circumference. She opened her car door and got out to see if
she could back up without any further damage.
She walked around to the trunk of her car to be sure she wouldn’t be
backing off a cliff or into a ditch. There was enough level ground behind her to
try, but then she saw that the felled magnolia hadn’t been completely uprooted.
The ball of its thick tangled roots were still embedded firmly in the ground.
Regardless, she had to at least give it try. If it continued to damage her
car as she backed up, she’d just stop and hope someone would pass by willing
to give her a lift to a gas station to get a tow.
Home, she thought. Crap! Where the hell am I?
Her roommate, Tricia, would be wondering what had kept her, but with
her iPhone unusable, there was no way to call her. Her stomach growled. It was
7 p.m. and she hadn’t eaten since 1 p.m. She felt a little dizzy, too, not just from
hunger either. At her last checkup, her doctor said she was anemic, needed to
eat more red meat and drink red wine to bolster her immunity against next
autumn’s flu. She’d had only a salad at lunch because it was Friday and Tricia’s
turn to provide them with dinner, a weekly ritual they’d enjoyed as roommates
since graduating from college and entering the work force. Both were department
managers for different companies, Tricia for an online food service, and Sally for
a line of women’s clothing and accessories.
Last night Sally had gotten off early with plenty of time to prepare their
dinner, complete with candlelight, cloth napkins, and the Sterling place settings
from her hope chest, which seemed to have little chance of hope after she’d
turned thirty-nine last spring. She’d tried the online dating services, but that
hadn’t worked out well—men, argh!
With hunger pangs and a burning sensation in her gut, Sally recalled that
there was a chocolate bar in her glove compartment from weeks ago. Hopefully
Tricia hadn’t found it when she’d borrowed her car while hers was in the shop.
Just as she bent into her car to check the glove compartment, high beams made
a bright halo on the horizon. The headlights’ rays glistened on the wet macadam
on the country road in the boonies of rural Florida.
Sally began to wave both arms high so the oncoming vehicle would see
her, not just to give her aid, but also to avoid running her over or crashing into
her car disabled by the fallen magnolia.
Seeing the white van slowing down as it approached, she waved her arms
more vigorously. The van’s brakes squealed and the tires screeched on the wet
pavement. The van fishtailed before sliding to a sideways stop just a few feet
from Sally’s trembling knees. There was just the driver in the front seat. The man
opened his window and shouted, “Anyone hurt?”
“No! It’s just me. The tree was struck by lightning and wrecked my car.
I have no phone service out here. Would you give me a lift to a service station?”
“Here! Take this red towel and roll up your car window tight with the
towel hanging out. That’s to let the sheriff’s deputies know you’re safe and
you’ll come back for your car without them having to tow it.”
She did as the man advised then got out of the rain and into his unmarked
van, as she noticed, wondering what trade he might be in.
“Where to. Honey?” he asked, not in an offensive manner so much as
kindly. She’d had enough close encounters to tell a man’s intensions by his
tone better than by the words he expressed. He was no more than forty, a big
guy with his knees tight under the steering wheel.
Despite her confidence in her judgment, Sally rambled nervously.
“The storm took me off course from Route 275 about ten miles back with
a detour that led me onto this unfamiliar road. I hadn’t seen any service
stations between there and here. I assumed I needed to continue in this
direction before I saw another detour sign. Never got the chance to find
one.”
There was an awkward silence between them as the rain pounded
against his windshield. Only their eyes flickered with light from his headlights
with neither of their facial features apparent to the other. He smelled of hard
labor while she wafted a hint of herbal hair conditioner and a deodorant
that had begun to fail with her rattled nerves and physical distress.
Sally thought of the two of them stuck in the van’s close cabin were
like two rabbits she’d kept as pets as a child. That mammal smell of a rabbit
in heat reminded her of those long-eared rodents and how her father had
to separate them so they wouldn’t multiple.
Multiply, she thought. What a funny word out of the context of a
math class. Go multiple yourself.
When her father was at work, she’d let her bunnies scamper free in
yard. When the rabbits mated despite her father’s attempts to separate
them, he began to breed them for food. At age five, that was her first taste
of wild game. She never bought meat from a store again.
Her thinking about the rabbits became a titter that brought her
out of her private thoughts.
“Something funny?” he asked.
“Oh, no. I’m sorry—my name is Sally, and I was thinking how my
roommate would be laughing at my circumstance. Tricia thinks I’m a
feather brain.”
“Sorry for your circumstances, Sally. I’m Jake. My GPS in this van
seems to be working, so give me your address and I’ll take you home. You
can call for a tow from there.”
“Drive me home? Would you really?”
“Of course. I’ve got no place to be in a hurry. I’m not married.”
“Thank you so much, Jake. Wow! Lucky me.”
She gave Jake her address. Although the GPS said it would take forty
minutes, with the rain and detours, it took an hour.
“Are you sure I can’t pay you for your help, Jake?” Sally said with his
van parked in her driveway.
“Oh, no. Always glad to help a lady in distress.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No. I’ll just grab a burger on the way home.”
“Listen, Jake. Friday’s are special to me and Tricia. We’re both gourmet
cooks—all natural. Come in and join us.”
“I hate to impose. Are you sure Tricia won’t mind me intruding for dinner?”
“No bother, really. Tricia’s even more easy-going than me. She’ll enjoy
having you supper as much as I will.”
“OK, if you’re sure.
When they went to the front door of the rented home Sally and Tricia
shared, Sally used her key then called out to Tricia. “Come and see whom I’ve
brought home for dinner!”
Tricia came from the kitchen wiping her hands with a dishtowel.
Jake stood more than a head taller than the two women.
“Wow!” Tricia said extending her hand. “He looks like he could have us
both for breakfast.”
“Oh no, I’m just here for dinner,” he said, making the women laugh.
“We’re having red wine,” Tricia said, but if you’re a beer guy we have
several choices.”
“Cab or Merlot?” he asked.
“We’re having red meat for dinner,” Tricia said. “Will a full-bodied
cabernet suit you?”
“Great.”
“Dinner will take a half-hour. How about cheese to go with your wine?”
“Sure. Whatever,” Jake said as Sally led him into the den where he took a
seat in a leather recliner. “Nice house,” he said, observing the welcoming décor.
“Been here three years. We like it. Let me bring you wine and cheese.”
When Sally returned with two wine goblets and a platter of assorted
cheeses, she found Jake looking at a gallery of framed portraits in the corridor
that led to their bedrooms.
“Who’s the artist?” he asked.
“Oh, that’s Trish’s handiwork. I can’t draw a straight line.
“Relatives?
“Oh, no. Just people we’ve come to know since moving into this house.”
“Hmm. Quite a few.”
“Always room for more friends. Ask Trish if she’ll do yours.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Come sit down, Jake. Just lean back in that recliner and I’ll set up a
tray so you can reach your wine glass and enjoy some cheese before dinner.
Do you like sports. If there’s a game on tonight that you’d like to watch,
here’s the remote.”
“The Bucks are playing the Giants,” Jake said. “Sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. Cheers!”
“Cheers!” Tricia called out from the kitchen.
“Cheers!” Jake said clicking his glass with Sally’s.
“Relax, Jake. I’ll be right back,” she said, joining Tricia in the kitchen.
When Sally and Tricia came back to the den with their drinks in hand,
they saw that Jake’s eyes were closed as he lay back in the recliner with his
feet up. The women winked at each and clicked their wine glasses together.
“Do you want to sketch Jake’s portrait before dinner?” Sally asked.
“No, that’s OK. I’ve already got his face imbedded in my mind. I’ll
work on it tomorrow.”
No response came from Jake.
Sally took the TV remote from Jake’s stiff grasp then turned off the
football game.
“God, I hate football,” Tricia said with a shrug.
With the interior silence of their home, they could hear the wind and
rain still pounding against the windows as the house creaked and moaned.
“Don’t these kind of stormy nights give you the creeps?” Sally asked,
but Tricia just shrugged.
“What part do you want tonight?” Tricia asked as she began to undress
Jake.
“We have corn-on-the-cob and string beans from the garden, I think
a half-pound of liver would go nice with that.”
“OK, me, too. I’ll get the saw and we’ll gut him here then take the limbs
to the freezer. Never know when we’ll get another pandemic or hurricane.
Better to stock up with more than we’ll need than to get caught short.”
After Sally spread plastic drop clothes all around the recliner, Tricia
put on goggles then pulled on the chain saw with a roar.
Jake’s eyes suddenly opened and he let out a gasp. Outweighing the
two women combined, he sprung from the recliner and dashed buck naked
from the den and out the front door into the stormy night.
Jake had left his keys in his trousers, so Sally and Tricia watched
calmly from the front door as Jake jump-started his van then squealed out
of the driveway.
“Aaaaah!” his shouts could be heard above the wind until the van
vanished into the night.
“Nice try, Sally,” Tricia said with nonchalance. “You win some and you
lose some. I defrosted Jimmy’s thigh just in case you’d come home in this
storm empty handed.
“Oh, yeah . . . Jimmy, the home inspection guy. He was sweet . . . and
very tender, no more than twenty-five.”
“And single . . . we don’t like to leave kids without a dad.”
“Is Jake married?” Tricia asked.
“Jake? No. Unless he was lying. I wonder what he thought we’d be doing
after dinner?”
“Even if he only has a girlfriend, I’d enjoy hearing his explanation about
the way I used a laundry marker to indicate the cuts I planned to make with the
chainsaw. I had my mind all set for his liver. I bet it would’ve been delicious.”
Later that night, with Jimmy the home inspector’s leg in their satisfied
tummies, Sally and Tricia toasted with a night cap as they stared sadly at the
empty frame meant for Jake’s portrait to join their gallery.
“Here’s to Jake,” Tricia said. “The only one to get away.”
“To Jake,” Sally said as she dialed Triple A for a tow.

Mary Catherine's Confession
by Anita G. Gorman
​

Mary Catherine O'Flanagan wearily pushed open the door of the parish office and began her usual chores. She made coffee, emptied the wastebaskets (where was Jonah, the janitor?), and put her desk in order. Why she put her desk in order when it was about to be disordered, that she could not say. It was just one of her morning rituals, as was her gruff and brief encounter with the pastor
The door flew open, and there he was, Rev. Barnabas Philemon O'Flaugherty, a tall, bald man of 70 with a sour expression on his face.
"Good morning, Father." Mary Catherine tried to be friendly, though she knew it was futile.
Fr. O'Flaugherty grunted and pointed a finger in the direction of the staff kitchen. "Coffee."
"Yes, Father, right away." Mary Catherine moved fast, since she knew he would want the coffee immediately, if not sooner.
Soon she was down the hall, a mug of steaming coffee in her hands. "Here you go, Father. Black, just the way you like it."
He grunted again. "Close the door on your way out."
Slowly Mary Catherine made her way back to the desk. She turned on the computer. Soon she was busily organizing parish records, in between phone calls. "What is your Mass schedule?" "How do I register at the parish?" And the most difficult question for the secretary: "May I talk to the priest?" Fr. O'Flaugherty never wanted to talk to anyone except for his close friends. So
every time some stranger would ask to speak to the pastor Mary Catherine would say, "I'm sorry but he's at a meeting. I'll connect you to his voice mail."
And so she did. And he rarely checked his voice mail, or if he did stop to listen, he would listen quickly and delete, delete, delete.
It had not always been this way. Twenty years earlier when she first started to work in the office after her children were all in school, things had been different. Fr. O'Flaugherty had been rather charming, as she recalled. Not as charming as Bing Crosby in that great movie Going My Way, but that was a movie, not real life. Yet Father Barnabas Philemon O'Flaugherty had been affable and funny and patient. What had happened? Was it old age? Was the bishop annoyed with him for some reason? Who knew? All Mary Catherine knew was that she was getting extremely tired of hearing curt remarks and seeing scowls and fielding questions from parishioners who wanted to talk to the priest. Sometimes they even walked into his office without an appointment and demanded a few minutes of his time. Or Mary Catherine would call him on the phone and he would say, "OK, send her in, but don't forget to call me in ten minutes to remind me that I have an appointment with the bishop."
Some parishioners became suspicious and wondered why the bishop wanted to see the pastor so often. On the other hand, the only people in the parish the pastor wanted to see often were the men--doctors for the most part--who played golf with Father Flaugherty. Mary Catherine wanted to call him Father Barnabas; so many priests these days were Father John or Father Bill, or whatever, but she didn't have the nerve. Nor did anyone else, except perhaps for his golf partners.
So there she sat, thinking about the pastor, wondering what to do, and staring at the computer screen which had gone into sleep mode. Suddenly she heard a familiar voice.
"Mary Catherine, are you being paid to watch a blank computer screen? Let's get some work done around here. I need you to check on the choir director's expenses. He seems to be spending far too much money on music."
Back to work, and back to rising resentment. She wanted to tell him off. She wanted to give him a lecture, but she had not been raised to do such a thing. She wanted to quit, but she needed the money. By noon she was steaming with anger, and by 1 p.m. guilt had set in.
"I need to go to confession," she thought. "Not that I think I've committed a mortal sin, really, by being angry. After all, there is such a thing as righteous anger. Still, I don't feel good about my anger, and he is, after all, a priest. The bishop laid his hands on Father and that gesture, the laying on of hands, goes all the way back the apostles."
"Mary Catherine, you're muttering to yourself." There he was again. She hoped he hadn't heard her. Had she really been muttering? She did carry on conversations with herself from time to time. Maybe it was time she stopped.
"Oh, sorry, Father, I'll get that information for you right away."
And so the day progressed, and by the time she was done, she was convinced that she definitely had to go to confession. And that was a problem. There was only one priest at the parish. How could she go into the confessional and say, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three months since my last confession. I swore a few times, but the main thing is that I am very angry with you."
The confessional had two parts, the old style box where you positioned yourself on a kneeler and the priest listened from the other side. Or you could go into the other side where there were two chairs and say your confession face to face. Either way was not going to work. Father Flaugherty knew her voice, and she didn't think she could disguise it. What to do?
By that evening--it was Friday--she had a plan. She needed to go to the parish on the other side of town, to a priest she didn't know. Of course, he might know Father Flaugherty, but all priests were bound by the seal of the confessional, so they were not allowed to ever tell what a parishioner told about her sins, whether petty or huge. She fell asleep that night feeling better.
On Saturday morning, she checked the times for confessions at St. Aloysius Parish. They were in the morning, at 11 a.m. That was unusual, but not unheard of. At her own parish, St. Brigid's, confessions were at 3 p.m. Mary Catherine decided that the morning time was just fine. She'd be able to go shopping afterwards. She had all the time in the world, now that she lived alone. Her husband Geoffrey had died three years earlier, and the children were grown.
When Mary Catherine arrived at St. Aloysius, she saw that there were only two people waiting to go to confession. Slipping into a pew, she gathered her thoughts and waited. A young man went in; a few minutes later he was done. Then it was an old woman's turn. Mary Catherine got out of the pew and stood a few feet from the confessional, just in case someone else came in. The old woman came back out very quickly--not too many sins to report, Mary Catherine concluded.
Now it was her turn. She had done this many times. She decided to open the door on the right so that she could talk face-to-face with the priest. She was getting too old to kneel in a dark chamber. The door was a bit hard to open. She gave it a big push and almost fell into the little space. And there, in all his glory, with a purple confessional stole around his neck and a breviary
on his lap was her boss and pastor, Father Barnabas Philemon O'Flaugherty. Mary Catherine gasped. "O my God!"
Fr. O'Flaugherty looked shocked. "What are you doing here, Mary Catherine?"
They looked at each other in silence for the better part of a minute.
"Well?" he asked.
There was nothing to be done. Wearily, Mary Catherine sat in the chair opposite the priest. Making the sign of the cross she began: "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
Mary Catherine dreaded showing up for work on Monday morning. She had gone to the early Mass on Sunday and slipped out a side door to avoid shaking hands with the pastor. After wondering whether her headache warranted a day off, she decided to follow the words her husband used to say: "Be strong!" So there she was, shortly before 9 a.m. on Monday morning arranging her desk and turning on her computer after making coffee in the staff kitchen.
The door opened. There he was, Fr. Barnabas Philemon O'Flaugherty. She closed her eyes.
"Good morning, Mary Catherine!" He sounded unusually cheerful.
She opened her eyes and stared at him. "Good morning, Father."
"Coffee?" He was smiling at her.
"Oh, yes, I'll get it." She sprang up from her chair.
"No, no, sit down. I'll get it for you. How do you like it?"
He waited for her response.
"A little cream, please. No sugar. Thank you. Thank you."
She sank back into her chair, smiled, and waited for the phone to ring. It did.

Afterglow

by

Gerald Arthur Winter




He was startled by the knock at the front door. Then the doorknob jiggled for a moment
before he heard the key inserted and the deadbolt click open. The metal door creaked on its
hinges as it swung open. The bright, rectangular light from the open door hurt his eyes from
twenty feet across the hardwood floor to the sofa where he’d been anticipating . . . anticipating
. . . anticipating . . . something—anything to help him regain what he’d lost.
A backlit figure, obviously of a woman with her graceful, dance-like strides, came
toward him. With the setting sun at her back, her lithe figure cast a long shadow, a narrow black
path that cut straight to his doubts. She turned to close the door behind her, but he objected.
“No! Leave it open . . . I need fresh air.”
“Fresh air?” she questioned with a thin taint of mockery in her tone. “I think you may
have had too much of that already,”
“How so?”
“I’ve been calling you for the past—” She looked at her pink smart phone’s screen.
“Jesus, Jared. It’s been eighteen hours.”
He frowned then gave her a blank stare. The time hadn’t registered.
She sat beside him and put her cool palm to his fevered forehead.
“Are you ill?” she asked. “Should I take you to your doctor?”
“It’s Sunday, Bethany.”
“Then to the ER.”
“No . . . I just need rest . . . to gather my thoughts.”
“Thoughts about what? About us?”
“Everything doesn’t have to be about us.”
“Maybe not, Jared, but lately it seems everything has nothing to do with us.”
He grimaced and shook his head. “I just needed time to complete my novel. I’d promised
delivery of my final draft by . . . shit! By tomorrow.”
“That’s why I’ve been calling. This three month separation has been hard on me . . .
I’ve missed you, Jared.”
Without response, he just stared blankly at her.
“Damn you! Kiss me,” she implored with a puckered close-eyed lean toward him.
“Mmh,” he responded in her embrace, as her lips searched for his tongue, like an
anaconda unhinging its jaws to swallow a capybara along the Amazon, but he resisted.
“Jared! What’s with you? Is there someone else? You slept with her last night and
now you’re done with me?”
“You’re being ridiculous, Bethany. I’ll never be done with you, but . . . I may be done
with me.”
“What are you talking about, Baby?” she asked nuzzling his neck, but before he could
answer, she pulled back with a start. “Jared! What happened to your shoulder? My God!”
She pulled his bathrobe off his shoulder bruised deep purple. As she kept pulling
the bathrobe lower, she saw that his entire arm was the same lavender hematoma hue.
“I’d better get you to the ER right now,” she said.
“No ER . . . I’ll be fine. It doesn’t hurt. I saw it when I took a shower. It goes down
my back on the left side and—” he pulled open his bathrobe to reveal his total nakedness, no
surprises there after three years as lovers. “My left hip and down my thigh past my knee to my
lower calf.” He raised his left leg and rotated his foot. “The ankle’s fine.”
“How can it not hurt?” she asked. “It looks dreadfully painful. It hurts just to look at it.”
“Because compared to my inner hurt, these exterior bruises are insignificant.”
“Don’t go literary on me at this crucial moment. This looks fucking serious! Do you think
anything’s broken?”
He grinned at the corner of his mouth, creasing a dimple that had first attracted her to
him. “Not any bones,” he sighed. “Just my spirit.”
“Okay. Let’s start from the beginning,” she said as if she were prepared to take dictation.
She occasionally had when the only way he could create a short story was verbally because his
fingers couldn’t keep pace with his mental narrative.
Jared struck a pose in Lord Olivier, Shakespearian fashion, “It was a dark and stormy
night as Jared emerged from his mother’s womb.”
She punched his right shoulder. “Damn you, Jared! I’m serious!”
He pulled the robe off his right shoulder. “I’ll give it an hour, but you may have hit me
hard enough to have matching purple shoulders. Jeez. Where’d you learn to punch like that?”
“I grew up in Philly. My best defense against the mean girls.”
“Well just control yourself. I had a pampered childhood.”
“Yeah, right. Ozone Park, Queens? That couldn’t have been a church social either.”
“Guilty as charged,” he huffed, but slipped back into the dregs of his morose.
“What have you been doing these past eighteen hours to have ended up such a fucking
mess?”
“Blank . . .”
“What do you mean?”
“A total blank.”
“You mean you don’t remember?”
“Not a damn thing—zero.”
“Wow! Okay. Go back in your mind to the last thing you can remember.”
“I’d been working eight or more hours a day since the end of June till—what day is it?”
He’d already had his wall calendar out on the coffee table before Bethany arrived, so
he leaned forward from the sofa and pointed to the day Bethany had said it was.
“It’s Sunday. We just talked about that. Remember, your doctor’s office is closed today.”
He nodded and pointed. “Hmm, today is Sunday, June twenty-fourth. Yesterday, I had
the last scene in my novel to write, only a couple of pages left to go. I used Hemingway’s advice
by not writing the last scene, even though I’d already worked it out in my mind. Papa said it was
best to stop writing near the peak of a climax and sleep on it so all the creative juices could
percolate overnight. It’s supposed to give a writer greater insight to write what had been con-
cluded in the subconscious, a much purer environment for creating effective fiction.”
“You mean that Dr. Butler Dreamscape shit?”
“Precisely. Intending to sleep on it, I’d been living like a monk these past ninety days to
meet my publisher’s deadline tomorrow, so I’d gone to a clean well-lighted place for cocktails
and dinner before coming home to sleep on it. The plan was to wake early this morning to
complete the novel and submit it tomorrow for my agent to deliver.”
“And so?”
“So I don’t remember leaving Adaggio’s where I had two glasses of Merlot with my
veal chops marinara.”
“How could you not remember leaving?”
“That’s the million-dollar question.”
“We should go to Adaggio’s and inquire.”
“I called an hour ago. Spoke directly to Anton, the owner. He said I seemed fine when
I left with the woman?”
“Woman? What woman?”
“I went alone. I ate alone. I don’t remember leaving, with or without a woman.”
“Anton couldn’t tell you anything about her? How about a description?”
“He’d never seen her before, but she was blond, wore sunglasses as I did, because I was
seated on the exterior balcony facing the sunset, much like tonight’s. It was about twenty-four
hours ago when I was finishing my dinner.”
“Did you finish, then have dessert or coffee?”
“I don’t think so . . . I remember looking down at my empty plate expecting the waiter to
clear the table, but then—”
“Then what?”
“There was a crashing sound, I felt jolted, then I . . . then I . . .jeez, I can’t remember,
not a thing till less than an hour ago. It’s all a blank.”
“Jesus.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—a fucking blank. I’ve been trying to write those last few pages
of my novel and none of it makes any sense. Each time I think I’m done, I realize the last three
pages are the same—the same! Over and over, the same goddamn pages, paragraphs, sentences,
and words. It’s as if I’m not writing them, but they’re writing themselves . . . They have a life
of their own.”
“Show me,” she said.
As she read the pages, Jared stared at the widescreen TV left on mute. It was the local
news. A boy had been run over and left for dead in a hit-and-run incident with no witnesses. It
happened in an rural section of town where there were no security cameras to view a video of
the apparent vehicular homicide.
Bethany read aloud: “He felt like an angel, his feet not touching the ground as he
descended the balcony stairs to the parking lot. In his mind, he seemed to float across the
parking lot to his car. It looked like a good chance of rain with dark clouds hovering on
the horizon above the sun setting atop the distant trees. He opened the hatchback of his
SUV and took out a cheap umbrella, the kind sold for three bucks on city street corners
in a sudden downpour, but not meant to survive more than a single squall. Much as he felt
about himself regarding his longevity in the nameless shit storm that his writing career had
recently become—”
He interrupted her narrative from the manuscript on his laptop. “Stop. Please, quick
run downstairs to the garage and bring me my umbrella.”
“What the hell for?” she balked.
“Uh, I want to see if it’s wet from using it in the rain last night. It might help my
memory.”
“You’ve been lying around till almost dinner time, Jared. Can’t you get it yourself?”
He lowered the shoulder of his robe to reveal the purple bruise and fawned for sympathy.
“Christ, you’re such a baby.”
He opened his robe like a flasher. “That’s no baby—Baby.”
She huffed, “I liked you better when you had no memory of what an asshole you can be.”
“Sorry. You’ve been so kind in my hour—make that eighteen hours—of need.”
“You sound like John Barrymore in an old Thirties flick that I wish had remained silent.
Okay. I’ll get the umbrella, but I think I should take you to the ER for a look at those wounds
—and to check for a concussion, too. Which may explain your memory loss.”
When she closed the door where she’d entered minutes ago, he waited until he heard
her footsteps descending on the exterior wooden stairs from the balcony to the garage. Then
he turned up the TV’s volume and heard: “The police have been going door to door in the
neighborhood surrounding the alleged scene of the hit-and-run. The boy was pronounced
dead at the scene when found at eight o’clock this morning by another boy on a bicycle. The
coroner put the time of death no later than nine o’clock last night. Apparently the body had
been left alongside the light-trafficked country road for about twelve hours before discovered.
If you know anything, anything at all, please call the hotline shown on your TV screen. The
boy’s parents have been distraught since he hadn’t return home last night from his job at
McDonald’s. He was expected by 10 p.m. but never showed.”
Jared heard Bethany shriek from the garage. He turned off the TV and heard her
rapid ascent on the stairs. The door swung open just as before, still startling him even though
this time he was anticipating her entry.
“What?” he asked her as she approached him.
“When did you have an accident with your car?” she asked.
“Accident?”
“Your left front fender is totally crunched.”
“Oh . . . when you said ‘accident’ I thought you meant with another car. I hit a deer a
week ago. Poor thing never had a chance. I was going to report it, but with my novel’s deadline,
you know how it is.”
“Where did this happen?” she asked.
“Hmm, let’s see. It was when I took a short cut off Ulmerton Rd. That country road that
winds around the horse farms and saves you fifteen minutes with no traffic lights. You know
how bad the traffic can be on a weekend.”
“Weekend?” she asked. “Which weekend? Not last night?”
“Last night?” he hesitated staring into space for a moment. “Oh, no. It happened the
weekend before.” He began repeating himself in Trumpian fashion, hammering details into the
solid metal of the listener’s brain until his truth became hers by amalgamation. “I’d just bought
a book I’d wanted to read for a long time. I went to Barnes and Noble in town, got the book
on discount with my membership then drove home.”
He reached for his wallet lying on the coffee table beside the calendar. From between
the loose bills, mostly twenties, he pulled out a receipt from the book purchase. He unfolded it
and squinted at it closely then handed it to her as if it were a Special Delivery of fact: Exhibit A.
She squinted at the receipt as well and said, “Mmh. September sixteenth. Then the car is
drivable, right? Since you hit the deer?”
“Well . . . I drove it home that night but . . . I guess I haven’t tried to drive it since.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“I figured I’d just call and have it towed by the body shop when I was ready to make the
insurance claim.”
“Don’t you have to make a claim within limited time, like twenty-four hours, maybe
forty-eight at most?
“The novel . . . the deadline . . . it’s consumed me,” he rationalized. “The dent isn’t
important compared to that . . . it’s my living. The dent is nothing but an unfortunate reminder
of an animal that didn’t have the good sense to look before it leaped.”
She said, “You’re forgetting one important fact, Jared.”
His mind raced. Fact? Fact? Forgot a fact. Forgot a fucking fact?
She took a deep breath then spoke in high C, like air slowly released from a balloon.
“You must have driven your car to and from Adaggio’s last night when you had dinner . . .
with that damn mystery woman.”
“The blonde?”
“The same . . . with the sunglasses . . . who Anton never saw before.”
“It’s coming back to me now . . .” he said as if visualizing a scene.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes.”
“Who is she, Jared?”
“My Uber driver.”
“You can’t expect me to—”
“No. Really, Bethany. Her name was Lilly.”
“Like short for Lillian?
“No . . . no. She was very unusual. She introduced herself to me, as Lilly when she
picked me up here to go to Adaggio’s last night at six. But her name on her posted ID said
“Lilith.”
“Oh, boy! That’s a good one, Jared. So some psycho Uber driver with satanic genes
beat the crap out of you and gave you all these bruises. Maybe you didn’t tip her enough
after she drove you home, so she threw your ass down that twenty-foot flight of stairs from
your balcony to your garage?”
“It’s a thought,” he said with a shrug, but she wasn’t buying it.
Obviously pissed, she waved an arm at him with dismissal and said, “Have it your way,
Jared. But I’m going to call Uber and find out who this psycho bitch is who threw you down
the stairs. Not like I haven’t wanted to do the same to you often enough.”
As he heard her footsteps in decent on the exterior stairs, each clunk on the wooden steps
reminded him of his drunken tumble down the stairs last night. Was it 9:45 p.m. or 10:15 p.m?
The numbers had been blurred on his SUV’s digital clock right after the impact, enough from
the side along the dark road’s shoulder to collapse his fender, but not enough to inflate the
airbag. He swore he’d seen a deer, an eight-point buck writhing with muscles in his rearview
mirror. Nothing else, so he’d kept driving with only a mile left to get to his home.
He’d fumbled with the remote garage opener but entered without a scratch. He’d gotten
out of his car, beeped the car lock with his keys, then closed the door and headed up the stairs to
have that last night’s sleep for the closing scene of his novel to congeal the action in his grey
matter.
He undressed and put on his robe and sat on the sofa, gathering his thoughts as he flipped
on the eleven o’clock news. As he’d drifted off in slumber, he felt at peace with himself, a
smooth transcendence from what is and what might be.
He felt like an angel, his feet not touching the ground as he descended the balcony stairs
to the parking lot. In his mind, he seemed to float across the parking lot to his car. It looked like
a good chance of rain with dark clouds hovering on the horizon above the sun setting atop the
distant trees. He opened the hatchback of his SUV and took out a cheap umbrella, the kind sold
for three bucks on city street corners in a sudden downpour, and not meant to survive more than
a single squall. Much as he felt about himself regarding his longevity in the nameless shit storm
that his writing career had recently become. He was feeling lightheaded from his two glasses of
wine at dinner. Anton knew his car, so it wouldn’t be towed if he left it overnight and took a cab
home. He dialed Uber.
Within two minutes, the Uber driver showed up, lowered her window and said, “Hi,
Mr. Smythe, I’m your ride.”
When he sat in the passenger seat beside her, he read her ID card on the dash and made a
muffled hmm sound.
“Problem?” the driver asked.
“Oh, no,” he said with a shrug.
“What then?” she asked.
“I used to date a woman with the same name.”
“No shit.”
“Yes, shit,” he said, grinning. That dimple crease in his cheek held her attention.
“You’re my last fare tonight,” she said. “I started at 6 a.m.”
“Whew! Sixteen hours? Is that legal?”
“No . . . but I am.”
There was a minute of silence. Ten minutes from Adaggio’s she was already pulling into
his driveway.
Nice to meet you, Mr. Smythe,” she said. “Here’s my card. I’m local so you can always
call me direct when you’re in a hurry.”
“You want to come up?” he nodded to the stairs leading to his second-floor balcony.
“You mean for a drink?” she asked, totally blasé and not offended by such an open, male
predatory gesture.
“Or for the night . . . but only if you want to,” he said, showing all his cards.
“Didn’t I see you with a woman in the parking lot just before I arrived to pick you up?”
she asked.
“The blonde?”
“The blonde.”
“Business associate,” he said.
“What’s your business?”
“I’m a writer?”
“What do you write?” she asked.
“The jury’s still out on that.”
“Can I be your jury-of-one tonight?”
“Why not? Come on in, Bethany.”
She followed him up the stairs and they entered his condo. She went to the bathroom
to freshen up and he did the same. In his robe he came to the living room and poured two glasses
of Merlot then waited for her to join him. He was startled by the knock at the front door. Then
the doorknob jiggled for a moment before he heard the key inserted and the deadbolt click open.
The metal door creaked on its hinges as it swung open. The bright, rectangular light from the
open door hurt his eyes from twenty feet across the hardwood floor to the sofa where he’d been
anticipating . . . anticipating . . . anticipating . . . something—anything to help him regain what
he’d lost.
A backlit figure, obviously of a woman with her graceful, dance-like strides, came
toward him. With the setting sun at her back, her lithe figure cast a long shadow, a narrow black
path that cut straight to his doubts. She turned to the open door behind her, where two other
figures followed her.
“Jared Smythe?” one of the men asked.

“Yes,” he said with resigned calm as the blonde took off her sunglasses.
“Sorry, Jared,” she said. “They’ve seen your car in the garage. The dented fender.
There’s blood. It’s a match.”
“Bethany!” He called to the bathroom. “Come out and tell these people where I’ve been
these past eighteen hours.”
He thought he still heard the shower running, but it turned out like most of the past
eighteen hours, that it was all just the afterglow of his imagination . . . music of the night that
spun a tune to suit its composer, but echoed untruths, perhaps lies, even to himself.

Menny Aviv and me, we have a cool story to tell.
We both know the same healing practitioner ... and just by coincidence, or what seemed like one (whispered: because it wasn't, but shhh, don't tell anyone), we found out we were both authors with similar book titles. His is called "The Curse of Eros" and mine is called "Aphrodite's Curse". We are both married men with children living in the same area in Germany, both multi-cultural and both multi-lingual. How's that for a dance of energies?

Here's what Menny says about himself: 

I was born in 1971 in a little town in the north of Israel to parents who have migrated from Morocco. As a young man i traveled for long periods of time in different parts of the world. I studied theatre and drama, had a short experience as an actor and gave it up for a short career as a real estae appraiser. 
I migrated to Germany in 2008 to marry my wife Marion with whom I have two boys. 
I've written manny short stories and have published them on different online platforms.
In 2017 my first novel, "The Curse Of Eros", was published in Israel.
I've written several stage plays in Hebrew, English and German.
My greatest lterary influences are Shakespeare, Proust and Nabokov.

And here is the opening of his story in Hebrew: 

אני הייתי בנה היחיד, והיא הייתה לי אימא בלעדית. אהבתי את יחידותי, ויחידותי השפיעה עליי טוב ויקר. ילדותי חשוכת האב הייתה שאננה ומוגנת, אף על פי שחלק ניכר ממנה עבר עליי בהמתנה לשובה הביתה מהעבודה. לעת ערב, משהיה נשמע סיבוב המנעול, הייתי רץ לאורך המסדרון ומתנפל עליה, גומע עד שיכרון מנשיקותיה הרכות שהיו מפצות כדבעי על שעות הבדידות. אני זוכר ערב אחד שבו שבה מאוחר מן הרגיל. כבר הייתי בן עשר ולא נזקקתי עוד לשמרטפותה המעיקה של מרים השכנה. שערה של אימא היה רטוב ועור פניה נשא את צינת ליל החורף שרחש מעבר לכתלים. עיניה הקרינו תשישות נוראית. כשהגשתי לה את התה נטלה אותו לסלון והשתרעה אפקרדן על הספה.
"אלברט עזב אותנו," אמרה.
"תאכלי משהו," אמרתי, מצביע על הסיר המתחמם.
"לא. אני רוצה שתניח לי עכשיו," השיבה ברפיון אונים, עצמה את ריסיה מצובעי השחור וצללה למצולתיה נטולי החלומות שמהם גם רעידת אדמה לא תעירה.
כיסיתי אותה בשמיכה וניגשתי לערוך סדר במטבח. את התבשיל המיותם הכנסתי למקרר, שטפתי את הכלים והלכתי להתבצר במיטתי ולקרוא באחד מספרי הסיינס-פיקשן שהייתה מספקת לי בנאמנות. בטרם נרדמתי הספקתי לקלוט את צלילי צעדיה נגררים בסמוך לדלתי, את זרם המקלחת בחדר הרחצה ואת איוושות ההתייפחות שהתאמצה להחניק בכריתה. 
צר היה לי על אלברט. הוא היה המעודן שבמאהביה, והיחיד שאת נוכחתו הייתי מסוגל לסבול בבוקרי השבת שלנו. על נמיכותו וקירחותו פיצו פני אפולו מחודדי סנטר וחוש הומור נדיר, שהיה מפעיל קסם על אימא וסוחט ממנה את מיטב צחוקיה. היא הייתה נוסעת איתו במרצדס המוכספת שלו לסופי שבוע במלונות שונים, ולשם כך הייתה נאלצת להפקיד אותי אצל ריטה, אמה מולידתה, אשר מילאה בחוסר רצון את תפקיד הסבתא ורק פיללה שבתה "תתחתן כבר עם האיש העשיר הזה ותמצא סופסוף שקט בחיים המחורבנים שלה."

And now: enjoy his story in English!


*
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Only child

by Menny Aviv


 I was her only child and she was my exclusive mother. I loved my uniqueness, which had given me a lot of innocent joy. My fatherless childhood was mostly carefree and secured, although I’d spent a large part of it waiting for her to come home from work. In the evenings, as I heard her open the door, I would run towards her along the corridor and intoxicate myself with her kisses that abundantly made up for the hours of loneliness. I remember one evening when she came home later than usual. I was already ten years old and didn’t need anymore the tiresome babysitting of Miriam the neighbour. Mum’s hair was wet and her skin had absorbed the chill of the winter night that sizzled beyond the walls. Her eyes projected terrible exhaustion. She rejected her usual cup of tea, walked to the living room and sprawled on the sofa.
“Albert left us,” she whispered with a blunt expression on her face.
“Eat something,” I said, pointing to the pot on the stove.
“No, let me be alone now,” she answered feebly, closed her blackened eyelashes and sank into her dreamless depths from which even an earthquake could not wake.
I covered her with a blanket, put the stranded pot into the fridge, went to my room and entrenched myself in my bed with one of the science fiction books she used to buy me. Before I fell asleep I could hear the sound of her dragging feet in front of my door, then the shower stream from the bathroom and finally the resonance of her sobbing which she struggled to stifle with her pillow.
I was sorry to lose Albert. He was her most delicate lover and the only one whose presence I could endure on our Saturday mornings. To make up for his shortness and baldness he was endowed with a pointy-chinned Apollo face and a rare sense of humour that cast a spell on mum and squeezed her best laughs out of her little body. He would take her in his silver Mercedes to luxurious hotels on weekends, during which I was forced to stay with Rita, her own mother, who reluctantly played the role of the grandma and whose sole wish was that her daughter would “finally marry that rich man and find some peace in her shitty life.”  
Albert dissipated like smoke, and like all the men that preceded him he also left a dent of grief on her soul. She was just thirty then. Her bright hair was still abundant and brilliant, but her face was already notably scarred by the chisel of despair. She used to wake up at dawn, adorn herself diligently in front of the mirror, make my breakfast and take me to school. When I’d come back to the empty apartment there were usually boxes of food waiting for me on the threshold, however, I gradually taught myself to cook and did not need the generous services of Miriam, whose tears of pity obscured the sky of my merry orphanhood.
The pleasure cooking had given me was intensified by the anticipation of her arrival home, and her gratification had filled my heart with delight.
“I have a little chef at home,” she said once and kissed my forehead before closing herself in the bathroom for her long bathing ritual which she religiously performed.
Mum accepted my gastronomic authority with humility, although on Fridays she would still expropriate the kitchen in order to bake her wonderful cakes, whose unique quality I’ll never be able to recreate. On Saturday mornings, which were to us like small islands of shiny intimacy in the gloomy ocean of life, she would sometimes take me for a picnic by the river, and occasionally even borrow Miriam’s car to take me far away from our stifling apartment block – and on these days our life of poverty was richer than anything the world had to offer.
However, mum had slowly confined herself in the shell of her sorrow and her nights had tortured her with nameless yearnings. I would hear her wander within the walls like a captive ghost, and a few times, as dawn broke, I had found her lying on the sofa in front of the muted TV, her thin legs extending out from her nightdress and her hair covering her face like a veil of shame.
“You’re already a big boy,” she told me in one of those mornings, just after she hastily got dressed and put on a corny layer of makeup, “you don’t need your mummy anymore.”
She was right. The task of housekeeping was anyway simple, and since she’d stopped bringing her lovers to her own bed and had been absent more frequently I learned to enjoy the blessed peace of the nights and the sense of exclusive ownership of my little, shabby manor.
When I was fifteen I found a job at a steakhouse that had just opened on the riverbank, and although I was initially designated to be a busboy it didn’t take long until I became a proud and enthusiastic member of the kitchen crew. My humble salary delighted mum, so much so that she didn’t even utter a word of protest when I stopped attending school. She would just take her share and disappear into the night, and return the next day drained and unattainable, declining food and affection, rushing into the bathroom and scrubbing her flesh with the soapy sponge which could not remove the stains of her misery.   
“You don’t want to know what she does with your money,” Rita told me on one of her rare visits while nibbling the rim of a cookie she’d just dunked into her tea, “and besides, she’s losing her wits. You’ve got a loony mother and I’m too old to take care of her.”  
Though Rita’s prophecy wasn‘t quick to materialize, mum’s functioning did gradually erode as time went by. The demon of depression took over her entire being until it ultimately subdued her. She started secluding herself in the apartment for whole days, curled up in her bed or on the sofa like a forsaken kitten – staring silently at the screen, eating scarcely and drinking loads of black coffee. Even the expected dismissal from her workplace did not cause her to react beyond a lazy gesture of indifference and a sickly sigh. When I once dared to shake her out of her numbness and say a few words of reproach, she ground her teeth and growled at me while her eyes were burning with hatred:
“Leave me in peace, you annoying boy!” her dragon mouth spat towards me, “who are you to preach to me! I didn’t even want you! A fucking accident, that’s what you are! A miserable accident that happened to a stupid girl!”
I left her alone, and from then on I spent as little time as I could in the apartment, although I would still buy the necessary groceries and cook the dishes which she barely tasted. Most of my time and energy were devoted to my work, at which I continued to excel, and when I was seventeen Naomi’s house became my safe haven in the stormy sea of my young life. 
Naomi was dwarfish, short tempered and charmingly frivolous. Her hair was crudely dreadlocked and her body possessed a kind of sweet and erotic chubbiness that had delighted my grateful fingers. She was seven years older than me. She saw me one day from the opposite bank while I was soaking my tired feet in the icy river. She came to sit by me and talked to me in such warm frankness that I couldn’t help falling directly into her sinister trap. She fell in love with me at the speed of light and declared that I wouldn’t have any choice but to submit to her tireless wooing. She slept with me the first night she took me to her humble home. She was my first one.                 
Under her guidance I got to know the secrets of the sense of touch and learned passion’s elusive language. Most of the time she’d ask me to be delicate and patient but once in a while she’d demand me to treat her in a domineering roughness, “like an unbridled whore on a dark street corner.” She used to mock my adolescence and my shyness but at the same time her love had become jealous and twisted to such an extent that she regarded any female presence around me as a genuine threat.
“One of them will steal you from me,” she told me one night when she came to pick me up after my shift, scanning distrustfully the cheerful cluster of waitresses that assembled in the kitchen.
“What will you do when it happens?” I asked.
“I’ll kill us both,” she answered with fabricated humour that could barely camouflage the burning pain in the bottom of her throat.
I had no intention of deserting her. Her friendship was to me like a blessing from heaven. She supported me all along in the tiresome care of my domestic nutcase and even drove us to the hospital the day mum, slender and fragile as a dried leaf, was finally admitted to the very pastoral psychiatric unit.
Time had hobbled slowly. Mum barricaded herself behind her walls and didn’t even bother to answer my phone calls, but had merely sent a few short text messages that hadn’t revealed anything. Naomi insisted that I move in with her for the three month of hospitalization and used that time to weave our weird relationship with rigid ropes of morbid addiction. Her feelings of alienation from the community in which she was born and the animosity she imagined seeing all around her locked us in a blurry bubble of solitude. Her mating habits lost completely their original tenderness. She dictated a fierce choreography of domination and subordination, and sometimes she would beg me to pull her hair harshly while she was barking her sensual delight at the wall of her narrow bedroom. As the storm would cease her body would become a wreck of sweaty organs and she’d lay her sweaty wild head on my chest and shed onto it thousands of tears of horror.
“I know you’re gonna leave me,” she wailed franticly, “in the end they all do.”   
And she was right. The urge to flee the cuckoo’s nest appeared shortly after I moved into it and ripened fully when mum was released from the hospital. She returned to the apartment in a scorching August afternoon, not before she’d had her hair dyed and bought herself some new sets of clothes. Her spongy cheeks were stretched by an unwanted smile as a reaction to my visible astonishment.
“Yes, I put on some weight,” she said, kissed my chin, and started laying out her new skirts on the sofa. 
“I’m hungry,” she added after a moment of awkward silent, “can you make something to eat?”
I went to the kitchen willing and eager and took the required groceries out, and while I was washing the vegetables and heating up the olive oil in the pan she came behind me, opened the cabinet under the sink and threw away a bundle of prescription drugs.
“I don’t need this shit anymore,” she grunted, then collected her folded clothes and locked herself in her room.
 
Darkness had descended over us and mum was still holed up in her shelter. A sterilized silence prevailed in the apartment, through whose open windows the dense summer evening was slowly invading. The cooked food was impatiently waiting on the stove. My smartphone was frequently vibrating from Naomi’s desperate suicide threats, which didn’t concern me at all. I was already well acquainted with her melodramatic tendencies, and I knew that she would soon capture another young and clueless prey along the river, bind it with her silk threads and intoxicate it with her sweet potions. 
It was almost midnight when I woke up to the clattering noise of cutlery. I was lying on the sofa, my legs were heavy and my head was humming with inane thoughts. She was sitting at the table, stuffing her mouth like a refugee on the run. My nervous roaming didn’t distract her, and when she was done she brought her plate to the sink and went instantly into the bathroom.
After more than half an hour she opened her bedroom door and recoiled as she saw me sitting on her bed, among the carefully arranged stacks of her closet’s content.
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes.”
She gazed at me with an alienated dread.
“For good?” I asked with a trembling voice.
“Yes.”
“Where will you live?”
“You don’t need to know that.” 
I stood up and caught her between the closet door and the wall. She bowed her head and put her palm between her closed eyes, gripping her nose bridge and shaking her body as if she was ardently praying.
“I’m starting all over again. You have no part in my new life. Don’t take it too hard. Anyway I’m not a real mother, and I’ve never been. I want out, as far away as possible. Another land, another language, another weather. I don’t belong here, in this middle eastern hell.”
She walked past me and sat down on the bed, pulling gently strands of her wet hair. Her eyes looked far beyond the boundaries of the room. Her lips trembled as she spoke.
It would be different this time, she said. She’d known him already for a few years. She met him during one of his frequent vacations in his homeland, and from the beginning he wooed her persistently. He was not young or particularly handsome, but he loved her and was willing to take her under his wings. When she was at the hospital she contacted him. He flew especially for her, and during his visits he excited her imagination with stories about the little American town in which he lived.
“The taxi is coming at five in the morning. Now get lost please, I have lots to do.”
She pulled a suitcase out of the closet and started packing her belongings, humming a melancholic melody, inaccessible and distant as her new country.
The night went by like a sleeping battleground before the inevitable clashes of dawn. The alarm clock woke me up from a restless sleep. The sound of her merry feet stabbed my soul like blunt arrows. She came out of the bathroom and started pulling her suitcase towards the door. I got up and ran along the corridor, as determined and excited as that child who greeted her when she arrived home from work. I grabbed her arm and started wailing uncontrollably.
“Please, mum. Don’t go. Please…”
My words blended with an enormous cascade of bitter tears.
She struggled with me as if she was fighting off an attacker at a dark street corner.
“Let go, you lunatic! Let go!”
“Mummy!.. Mummy!..” I recited again and again the expired magic spell.
She slipped away from my grasp, opened the door and vanished with her suitcase before I could regain my strength. I withdrew humbled, sat down on the sofa and let the weeping do with me as it pleased, until its wells ran completely dry.
The rising sun painted the air with shades of glistening crimson. The awakening street gradually added a background music of desolate routine. No force on earth could make me stay in that apartment, which from the moment of her departure was no longer my home. I got dressed swiftly and went down the stairs onto the summer-stricken streets. My steps were wobbly but my sense of direction was sober and steady. The lucid flow of water penetrated my hollow heart while I was walking along the river, and when I arrived at the opposite bank the village welcomed me with a familiar inhospitality. I walked shortly along its crumbling paths, and when I stood on the threshold of the little house and opened its door I inhaled gratefully its musty odours. Naomi rolled in her bed and scanned the uninvited guest in a sweet and wicked satisfaction.
“Hi,” she said and raised her blanket, “come and join me.”I took my shoes off, plunged myself beside her and curled up with her warm, seductive flesh as if I was holding on to the last bits of life. Her caresses filled my body with a blind tranquillity and the whispers of her love accompanied me into the dark tunnel of sleep, from which I prayed I would never wake up.                              

Ballerinas are Steadiest When Spinning

By Angela Camack



Tonight’s performance would accelerate Clarissa’s career or hold it in place, perhaps for the rest of her performing life. A soloist with an important New York City ballet company, she was making her debut in Swan Lake. All the classes, the pain, the hours taken from childhood and adolescence experiences for practice had finally led her here, to this stage, to this spotlight. There were so many dancers, so many talented people in the company, all of them waiting for one chance. This season, thanks to retirements and a ballerina with a baby bump, it could be her time. Success would mean promotion to principal dancer.
She made her entrance, leading her swans like a queen. Every step was graceful and eloquent, and applause was generous. The performance flowed on. ‘Clarissa’ stepped aside as her body told the story, starting as the White Swan and becoming the Black Swan, moving from innocence and despair to manipulation and sensuality. She and her partner Rob, her Prince for the evening, moved together in an almost instinctive unison. Together they worked the Swan Lake equation; two dancers equal three characters and make two romances.
Now came the Black Swan’s solo, and the pinnacle of the performance. Thirty-two powerful turns on one toe. The Black Swan spun, spinning a trap to catch the Prince, hypnotizing him away from the White Swan. Audiences loved it.
Now is the time. Take a deep breath into your already depleted lungs. Move to center stage and begin. Draw the Prince and the audience in with each turn. Fifteen, sixteen, … at the seventeenth turn she felt it. The tip of her pointe shoe drifted an inch to the left. It may as well
have been a canyon. She felt her knee tremble. Time expanded, stretching out like taffy. Not a fall, please no. The spell would be broken, the illusion shattered. There would be a literal fall from grace.
Deep breath, control. She met Rob’s eyes. Did he know what had happened? If they were dancing together, he would know immediately that she was losing her balance and he could help her correct her position. Now she was on her own.
She remembered other mishaps. The performance of the Nutcracker when she had to deal with a broken shoulder strap; there could be no wardrobe malfunctions when the audience is filled with children. Her dance in Tarantella, when she hit her tambourine and half of the metal discs went flying. But she had always managed, hadn’t she?
Another deep breath, for control. Control: dancing was the juxtaposition of control and abandon. She could do this. Her body was a perfectly tuned instrument, under her command. She straightened her knee and her back, held her arms closer in to compensate for the change in position. She swung her leg around in time for the eighteenth turn. Yes. She was rock-steady again. Time contracted to its normal length. Nineteen, twenty turns, scalpel-sharp and clean again. Now she was doing double turns. Single turns were all well and good for little White Swans, but the Black Swan grasped for everything with both hands.
Done. Now come to a perfect, steady stop, arms raised in triumph and head high. Take deep breaths without gasping. There was silence. Time expanded again. Had she failed after all? No, from the theater came the thunder of applause and cheers. She had hypnotized the audience along with the Prince, and they were coming out of their spell. Rob gave her the tiniest of winks.
Clarissa could have stopped to take a bow, but right now there was no Clarissa. She was the Black Swan, and she was getting her wings.

The Award for Best Botkin

By Yash Seyedbagheri 




Nick calls his older sister Nancy after she wins a Best Actress award for Drunk Mothers. Nick is thirty-two, Nancy thirty-seven.
He congratulates Nancy, uses words like “tour-de-force,” and “well-deserved,” words that seem detached and cold. He doesn’t know how to make it more personal, sounds like one of those critics who jerk off to their fifty-dollar vocabulary words.
He needs to congratulate her, as a loving brother. She’s won so many awards and he’s congratulated her, but through cold, formal statements and what-have-you. She’s his sister, but for the past five years, they’ve inhabited a different sphere entirely. Actor vs actor. Thanks to his idiocy and a sitcom role that he valued above all else.
Nick wants his sister back, the old Nancy.
Nancy thanks him for his support, her tone friendly. Cautious. It is as if she is expecting him to dig up dirt, gain advantage. As if he is another competitor and not the little brother she encouraged to become an actor. The little brother she once called nicknames like “old sport,” and teased with good-natured mercilessness, about his perpetually long hair, his bad jokes. His sensitivity.
Nick wants to tell her he doesn’t want to one-up her. Acting is crap. There’s a part of him who wants out of rehearsed smiles. The competition, alliances and rivalries, worse than turn-of-the century Europe. He doesn’t want Nancy pursuing roles and awards, wondering if he’s going to outdo her.

I’m happy for you, Nick says. It sounds fake, but he means it. Even if he feels a pang of bitterness, thinking of his last award that tore them asunder. Two Botkins divided by a common language.
And Nick telling her to go fuck herself. Among other choice phrases.
Nancy says she fought hard for her award.
You deserve it, Nick says, over and over, like a chorus.
I’m sure you’ll get a role, Nancy says. Which is the worst thing she can say, but Nick understands it too well. It’s the way they’ve lived for too long.
Nick hates having felt envy, watching his sister get award after award. He hates that sense of being a loser, needing to diminish others. Especially his own sister. And now here he is.
It’s not important, Nick says. He’s acted too long, wouldn’t mind something new to take on.
She sounds surprised. Is he all right? For a moment, he hears the old Nancy, big sister, back in action. It’s fleeting, but he tries to capture that moment in his mind. The lilting voice rising, the expectation in her voice, overwhelming. Almost motherly, even, something unlike their own mother, perpetually inebriated.
They may talk platitudes, but she is his sister. They have a connection, even if it has been frayed, even if they have both distanced themselves from their shared origins. The weight of their last name, Botkin. A name that held the weight of rugged Scots ancestors and country-club Episcopalian socialite grandparents and lost parents.
They once played together. Played spies. Detectives. They won, capturing all the world’s enemies with ease. Good always triumphed, brother and sister brought together by victory, arms raised in triumph as they vanquished these feigned foes. She also promised to protect him from their parents’ constant fights, beer mugs and knickknacks hurled in fusillades. He remembers her mischievous smirk, crooked, her laugh. The way they made up new identities while their parents fought. Nancy was even then a glamorous actress. Nick wanted to be a king or an emperor. They conjured fantasy while words and beer bottles shattered outside.
She was the one who encouraged him to take up acting in high school, attended every play he was in, while their parents were out entwined in liaisons and booze. She was so proud when he got his first role, even if he was playing a fucked-up writer in a meta picture.
She was so many things. And then they were torn apart by an award for a lousy sitcom.

I’m fine, Nick says now. And truth be told, Nick would be fine giving it up. Acting transforms people into entirely different characters. He never imagined he’d be a thirty-two year old with a short temper. A propensity for being offended by the smallest of slights.
I can’t play anything but lovable losers, he adds, laughing.
Hollywood loves losers, she says. Laughs. Nick cannot help but laugh too. He’s played a multitude of losers. Depressed bartenders, a lecherous, lovable Episcopal priest, a screenwriter with a tumor.
It’s no way to live, fighting. Being unable to simply abide, take losses, to laugh at things. Telling loved ones to fuck themselves, that they didn’t know a thing about the world. About acting. That they were selfish. Especially his sister. How those words swirl like sickly alphabet soup. How Nick wishes he could erase them all or reshape them into something teasing and funny.
Nick’s been living like this too long, unable to really let go. And it feels like being on the brink of things. The brink of some explosion, unimaginable.
Nick’s been doing small indie pictures for the past couple years, even though he’s auditioned for some major roles. He auditioned for a young Lenin but wasn’t charismatic enough. He couldn’t capture Hitler’s madness. He wasn’t hyper enough for Teddy Roosevelt. On his defects went.
Of course, he did play Czar Nicholas. But it was a sitcom. That cursed sitcom. If he’d never done that role, perhaps he wouldn’t be making this call now. If he hadn’t overreacted to Nancy’s joke about it being third-rate, they wouldn’t be here.
Truth be told, that sitcom was third-rate. It was a Romanov-centric sitcom called, Everybody Hates Nicholas, with an inappropriate laugh track and British actors playing half the population of the Russian Empire. Nick took the role because he thought playing another Nick was propitious, an omen.
Perhaps he and Nancy would still be as close as ever. Perhaps he wouldn’t live with the weight of invectives hurled at Nancy, sweet Nancy. Fuck yourself. You don’t fucking know shit.
Perhaps she wouldn’t have withdrawn into her own movie roles. So many ifs. Perhaps they would be celebrating their victories, their small roles together, still calling each other their own nicknames. Nan. Nicky. Old sport. Dumbass. Saint Nick. Nancy Drew, which Nick had used to tease his sister because she loved mystery. Perhaps they would be spending time at each other’s domiciles, like the old days when Nick and Nancy gathered in her room, when they were scared.
His past roles should be history. Things to put behind. But then again, Nancy could play Hitler in drag easily. Nick tries to banish this ember of jealousy. Still, it darts about his consciousness.
Be gone, he growls silently.
Nick describe how he was captivated by Nancy’s role, words incoherent, excited. Childish. He loved the way she played a drunk mother so well. And he was. Nick was captivated by the way she vacillated between love and manic rages, despair, and somnolence. She switched moods with the grace of an acrobat, of someone fighting in life. Nick, on the other hand, is someone accustomed to drifting, waiting for opportunities.
Nothing beats drunk mothers, Nick says.
There is silence, deep and dark. Nick fears he has offended her.
I love what I do, she says. Inhabiting characters. It’s power, you know? It’s something indescribable to inhabit another person’s head. Learn about their flaws. Learn why we fuck up.
Fucking A, Nick says. The universal trait.
Nick loves that Nancy utters the word love. But he wishes he could say it with ease, say what he wants to tell her. He loves her. He’s an asshole. A motherfucker.
Nancy asks Nick about his career. You’re not really giving it up? He laughs it off with another joke about playing losers.
Love. It’s a word he hasn’t pronounced in years, not since that damned sitcom blowup. You could do better, Nicky, she’d said. And thinking about it now, there was a tenderness, concern in that statement. Nick disregarded entirely. A concern for Nick, a desire to see him become a new man. He wonders what she wanted to see in him. Someone more confident? A facsimile of her?
The thoughts confound him. He feels sorrow, bewilderment. Rage.
Like an asshole, he’d withdrawn into shibboleths of self-pity. Nancy tried calling, texting, emailing. Nick withdrew into silence. For too long, he strove for the highest-ranking roles possible. Strove to prove something indescribable. Perhaps to prove that he could do better than a comedic Czar Nicholas, to prove he could keep up with the world, with his sister. Beloved, sweet Nancy. This makes him want to weep.
Soon enough, Nancy gave up, overwhelmed by projects. Nick wishes she’d held on. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t apologized. Maybe he wanted her to keep trying, to not give up on him, like their parents.
They’ve talked, about the weather, politics. About music, such as the Tchaikovsky waltzes Nancy loves to play and Nick’s love of Afroman. Nick hates having to be polite and distant, walking around landmines.
Maybe that’s why it hurt so much when nothing followed, his sister rising up the ladder and Nick being stuck with indie directors who wore berets and fake names like Rufus Dupree. Maybe that’s why he lashed out, a feral being, told Nancy she wouldn’t know a good sitcom if it
stalked her. That she should stick to her dramas. Kiss his ass. Maybe it was all the rawness he absorbed, spilled out.
Maybe that’s why Nancy became absorbed in the whirl of movies, a world apart from Nick.
Nick tells Nancy now people overthink things. Hold onto little things for far too long, whether glories or losses. He says it with shame, shame that he cannot reference the guilty party: Nicholas Alexander Botkin.
Nancy switches to politics. The old standby again. Nick could care less, but he ends up talking about how he likes Elizabeth Warren’s policy wonkiness. If these perfunctory conversations are all he can have, he’ll take them.
I’ve overthought so much, he says, words slipping from him like a tide. He has labeled himself for once and for all.
Another long silence. Nancy makes a joke about overthinking being a Botkin trait. Better than our parents, who didn’t think at all.
This is the first time she has mentioned their parents. Nick can imagine the hurt she must be enduring, that continues to collect within. She invested so much time encouraging him, to act, to become someone. And he has never really thanked her.
He tells Nancy now they should get together. Celebrate her victory. This is her moment and he must put aside his own envy. What’s going to happen is going to happen. He will tell her things left unsaid when they meet.
I’ll check my schedule, she says, taken aback. But he cannot help but think there’s something there, some small hint of pleasure.
I’m open, Nick says. Anytime.
Perhaps it’s the way they lived. Perhaps she’s afraid of the things she’s built up being taken.
Nick feels that way, but he’s never thought his sister was in any danger. She’s always had the better roles. Drunk mothers, female lawyers battling lecherous fedora-clad men in the 1950s. Revolutionaries. Nick doesn’t want to imagine this conflict reaching an apotheosis, the tabloids dissecting this family feud.
He doesn’t want it to transform into something dark and vast. Something like their parents’ own marriage, event. He’s frightened, watching constant fragmentation, people drifting into ego and foolishness. Like that little boy who played with Nancy years ago, except he has no one to protect him now.
Now he’s one of them.
Nancy says she has to go, not with the brusqueness of the past, but unease. A sadness.
Nick wishes her all the success in the world, hoping it will convey the truth of the matter. He wants to help. Erase their history. Rewrite things. He draws the words out, slowly. Nick hopes that he is conveying things he’s lost the ability to communicate.
Thank you, Nicky, she says, and for a moment, he thinks she knows. She knows and is grateful. He hopes that she feels some sense of ease, however small. How he hopes she thinks of them as tethered together. He needs so badly, he feels tears rise, still wishing her success, words dissolving into desperation.

Penance

By Edward Ahern


Walter Mueller waved a thick arm toward the stained-glass windows. “We’re not going to knock those out, Imre, even with what the heat loss will cost me. We’re going to back-light and strobe them so they’ll pop out at our drinkers. Sanctified eavesdroppers. Should give the clubbers guilty pleasure staring at them while they’re hooking up.”
Father Imre Herceg winced at the man standing next to him in St. Emeric church. The Connecticut parish, once full of Hungarian-Americans, was almost without members, and unable to pay its bills. But its sale to a man creating a singles bar seemed close to sacrilege.
The two men made an odd pairing. Father Herceg was gaunt and tall, with white hair, and in his black cassock looked like a lit funerary candle. Walter Mueller’s well-tailored gray suit struggled but failed to mask his portly frame. They looked like the personification of starvation dieting and binge eating.
“I’m glad the Bishop let you handle matters, Imre, you’ve been a lot easier to deal with than some of the Bishop’s gofers.”
“Thanks, I guess. You paid a large amount for a hundred-forty-year-old church in need of serious repairs. And disregarded the false rumors about the church being haunted. So long as what you do with the desanctified building is legal, we will have no objections.”
The concern in Father Herceg’s eyes was apparent. “Don’t worry, Imre, no sinning will be done here. Well, at least not consummated here. And the ghosts just add to the clubbing experience. I’m going to have the wait staff in pale makeup, like vampires.
Imre Herceg shifted topics. “The religious items—altar, tabernacle, statues will be out by the end of next week. You do still want the pews and organ?”
“Hell yes. We’re going to step the pews two high along the side and front walls. Pad the seats with suggestive cushioning, bolt down some little bitty cocktail tables and let ‘er rip. Figure to use the organ as background music for the wet tee shirt contests.”
The priest kept silent. He’d been given the failing parish as the last gasp of a forty-year career. Imre had wondered at his ordination if he might become a prince of the church, bishop perhaps, or archbishop. But between a weakness for the bottle and an unwillingness to be unctuous, he’d remained a journeyman priest.
After showing Mueller out through the sacristy door, Father Herceg left the church lights on and slowly paced down the central aisle to the rear of the church. The winter dark made the empty church seem dim, as if the season were fighting against the lights. As he walked, the priest once again thought he felt the brush contact of others, like commuters ignoring him in their passage. Just drafts, he reminded himself, or the misfiring senses of old age.
The Diocese had ruled that confessions must be scheduled weekly, so St. Emeric held them every Saturday evening from five to six, whether or not anyone showed up to repent. As he
reached the confessional, Father Herceg extracted his breviary from a pocket in his cassock and opened the middle door. His flock strongly disliked sitting face to face with their confessor, so the carved oak confessional with kneelers and screens was still in use.
Imre picked up his silk stole from the shelf and placed it over his head so the ends draped down to his waist. Then he sat on the cushion he’d left on the chair and opened the breviary. He’d already read the daily selection, but had the strong feeling that God liked repetition in prayer and started over.
“Páter Herceg.”
Imre started and dropped his prayer book. He hadn’t heard anyone enter, and the confessional doors always creaked.
The man spoke in Hungarian, his voice wavering as if it were windblown. “Páter, I need to confess to you before I can leave.”
Imre said his pre-confession prayer to himself. “Of course, my son, please begin.”
“Bless me Páter, for I have sinned. It has been a hundred twenty years since my last confession— “
“Wait, a hundred twenty years?”
“Yes, Páter.”
“I don’t recognize your voice, but you sound much too old to be playing a prank like this. If you’re not here for confession, please leave.”
“Páter, this is very hard for me to accomplish, so please listen closely. My name was Halasz István, and I was a parishioner here at St. Emeric.”
Father Herceg had leaned closer to the latticework separating the two men, but the penitent’s side of the confessional was very dimly lit, and all he could see was a vague, gray shape.
“Mr. Halasz, you’re not making any sense, and if you don’t leave, I’ll be forced to call 911.”
Halasz’ sigh sounded like a slow leak from an air mattress. “The police could never find me. Please, Páter, I’d rather not demonstrate. Many of us were left here without choice after our funerals. But with the church closing we must find a way to leave. We hope if you confess us we can go.”
Father Herceg found his voice and took out his flip phone. “I warned you. Not get out, before the police come.”
He pushed the three numbers, but before he could hit send, his hands went numb with bitter cold, the fingers frozen in claw shapes.
“Please, Páter, we are desperate for your help. We live here with you, and know you to be a good man, despite your watching those cable television shows and drinking too much vodka.
Father Herceg began shaking his hands to try and get back feeling. The phone popped out and bounced off the side wall of the confessional. He jumped up and grabbed the handle of the confessional door and tried to turn it. But the handle, like his right hand, was frozen.
“Holy Mary, protect me,” he yelled. Imre slammed into the confessional door twice before it splintered off its hinges and hung sideways. As Imre ran out, the hissing voice resumed. “You should have more faith, Father. Now we must demonstrate.”
The priest ran awkwardly toward the front of the church, out of breath by the time he reached the altar. As he did so, he watched the flower-filled vases around the altar tip over one by one, spilling water onto the floor. The ciboriums inside the tabernacle began rattling together, and the water in the baptismal font began slopping over. A stray thought broke through his panic—that the vases and the flower stems weren’t being broken, nor was the font. It was careful mayhem.
The telephone land line was already disconnected, and his cell phone, if it still worked, was in the confessional. I am, however fallibly, a minister of God, he thought, and will stand within my faith. If this is demonic, I must face it. I will not abandon this church while I tend to it.
Father Herceg’s hands had thawed, and he took out his rosary and walked back down the main aisle to the confessional. He grabbed the penitent’s door and threw it open. The air inside seemed hazy, but there was nothing else in it. He stepped into the center cabin to retrieve his breviary and phone. The abused phone was dead. As he sat in his chair, punching phone buttons, the voice resumed.
“Páter. We are asking for a sacrament you are ordained to give. What evil can there be?”
Imre shuddered. “Mr. Halasz, was it? If you are a Catholic, you will know that the church’s sacraments are for the living and not the dead.”
Am I in an alcoholic delirium? Some aftershock from a stroke? “What you ask is impossible.”
“Our baptisms are listed in the church records. And our other sacraments and funerals. We’re part of your flock, Páter. I can give you our names and birthdates.”
This delirium will pass. Find a witness who will prove this apparition false.
“Look, whoever you are, it’s a cruel, clever trick. I’m going to the Vilmos house next door and call the police. You’d be wise to run away before they come.”
“Vilmos is my great grandson. Please give him my blessing.”
The priest jumped up, stepped out of the confessional, turned around, and flung open Halasz’s confessional door. And again, nothing was there but a faint shimmer. He walked unsteadily out the rear door of the church and over to the Vilmos house.
Father Herceg watched Vilmos’ shocked expression as the priest telephoned the police and described the incident. “It was a, an attempted shakedown I guess, from a man hiding in the confessional.”
“There’s a patrol car on the way, Father. Please stay at the Vilmos house until it arrives.”
As the policeman was speaking, Imre could hear a siren getting louder. After the police arrived, they searched the entire church and the rectory, found nothing, and took Imre’s statement.
“The man wasn’t a thief,” Imre said, “but he’s seriously disturbed.”
“And you didn’t see him when he knocked all that stuff over?”
“No, officer. I know it sounds crazy, but I couldn’t see anyone.
“Yeah, crazy. Well father, do you want to move out of the rectory tonight?”
“Thank you, officer, no. You’ve searched the church, and I’m sure he’s long gone.”
Once the patrol car had left, Vilmos insisted on walking back into the church with Imre, and helping him clean up the spills. As he was removing the splintered door from the confessional, Vilmos jumped backward.
“What is it?”
“I thought I felt something tousling my hair. Just nerves I guess.” Vilmos’ smile was forced. “Or maybe our famous ghosts.”
“Nincsenek kisértetek itt! There are no ghosts here.”
“As you say, father, but some of us are superstitious.”
Imre thanked Vilmos, locked up the church, and walked across the driveway to the rectory. Let it go, old man. You’re not leaving this church, this church is leaving you. You’ll probably go to a nice inner-city parish where everyone speaks Spanish.
He poured himself three fingers of vodka, added ice, and dropped into his recliner, the only piece of furniture in the house that wasn’t convent-Spartan. Imre launched a recorded episode of a mature-rated cable show and let the vodka work its magic. He paused the show twenty minutes later, got up and dropped fresh ice into his glass.
How did Halasz know how much I drank? He started to pour, glanced around, and stopped at two finger depth. I could get an exorcist. But no, they’d never agree to an exorcist for a church that will be profane in a few weeks.


***

The next morning, before mass, Imre reentered the church and searched through all three confessional cubicles for microphones or wires, but found nothing. He stood outside the oak doors and spoke aloud, his voice echoing in the empty church.
“Infernal or ghostly, if you’re here, show yourself, and I’ll show you what an ordained priest can do with the Roman ritual!”
It’d sounded stupid as soon as he said it, and his bravado died away unanswered. Yeah, sure.
After mass, Imre walked back over to the rectory. The death of a church involved about as much paperwork as its birth. Imre got busy officially notifying present and former parishioners of the closure, and suggesting alternate parishes that could minister to spiritual needs and would be grateful for donations, however small. The work extended, with a break for a sandwich lunch, until five that evening. It was again dark, and Imre paced slowly back over to the church. After letting himself in he walked to the front of the altar and looked up at the massive Crucifix.
How many marriages, and baptisms, and holy communions, and funerals. And this wonderful, old, dilapidated house of God is being discarded like yesterday’s vegetables.
“Páter,” the voice wheezed. “Páter, I’m afraid I must insist.”
Imre jumped and spun around, looking for its source. But the church was empty. “So, you don’t need a confessional to speak.”
“No, but dark spaces make it easier. You need to confess us, Páter.”
“Why don’t you all show up at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll invite the bishop.” Imre realized that he was being sarcastic because he was afraid.
“The light disrupts us, Páter, in a painful way I can’t describe to you. You will need to confess us in the evening, after dark. We were not sophisticated, and you will find our sins commonplace.”
“How many of you do you claim there are?”
“Twenty-seven, counting myself. If you use our years alive, there’s one boy of ten, and the rest of us range from our twenties through our eighties. Sixteen women, ten men. We’re not evil, Páter, it would be like confessing the Holy Name Society.”
Imre sat down in a front pew for almost ten minutes thinking. Then, without standing, he began to speak toward the altar.
“This is a moment when I wish I were trained in logic like a Jesuit. I am probably delusional, in which case what I do will be without moral consequence. And if I, in good faith, administer the Sacrament of Reconciliation, there should be no evil, perhaps only impropriety. But if you, my mental aberration, do not truly repent, the sacrament is null and your sins will remain with you. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, Páter.” The voice seemed a chorus of softly whistling words.
Imre was silent again for a few minutes. “And these confessions would involve penances.”
“Of course, Páter.”
“Are all these ’parishioners’ here?”
“Yes, Páter.”
“Then let’s begin. With you. It will probably take a few hours.”
As Imre walked back to the confessional, his thoughts churned. Is what I’m about to do a sin of itself? If they’re not released, will they haunt me instead of my church? Just walk out the back door, priest, and don’t come back.
But Imre knew he couldn’t desert. At the rear of the church he entered the confessional, donned his stole, said the usual prayer, and slid open the panel that allowed him to hear a penitent.
“Yes, my son.”
“Forgive me, Páter, for I have sinned, it has been a hundred and twenty years since my last confession.”
“Go on……”
Their sins, as Halasz had said, were mundane. Carnality of course, and theft, greed and gluttony, all the seven deadly sins were well represented. But no murder, no acts so vile that Imre shuddered. All had died before the advent of porn sites or shaming on Twitter, which was refreshing. The boy, Gáspár, made Imre heartsick. He’d died at ten of pneumonia, before he’d had a chance to become good or evil. His confession could have been Imre’s at the same age. The boy did not deserve to serve penance, and Imre absolved him with an extra blessing.
By the third confession, Imre found himself asking their names, and where they had lived, and who among their descendants might still live near the church. He felt he was attending 
a parish reunion spanning more than a century, and was sorry to end the last confession a little before eleven that night.
Cretin, you’re just pandering to a delusion in hopes it’ll dissipate. May God forgive me for what I’ve just done.
As Imre stepped out of the confessional he thought he felt hands gently patting his back
“Thank God for you, Páter!”
“Halasz?”
“Yes, and everyone else. Gáspár has left us. When he came out of confession he had a smile that would melt gold, and then, no words, he just left. You’ve given us hope, Páter.”
“There’s more for you to do, Halasz.”
“Yes, Páter.”
***
Father Herceg handed over the church keys and moved out of the rectory two-and-a-half weeks later, at eight in the morning. Mueller had crews waiting to rip out the pews and rearrange them. As he left, Imre could hear the rusty screams of bolts yanked from concrete.
Priests never really retire, just work part time. Imre found himself housed in the rectory of a placid suburban parish, Assumption, where ethnicity had lost relevance. His new parishioners thought his being Hungarian exactly as significant as his being a Capricorn.
He read two months later that his old church, newly christened as The Sacred Sinners, had opened with a capacity crowd. Curious, Imre drove by the next Saturday night. The large
church parking lot, nearly empty for Sunday masses, was full, and a long line of young men and women stood outside the rear doors waiting admittance. The emblem of the club, a heavily made-up angel wearing a low-cut celestial robe, hung above the doors.
Thousand one…, thousand two…, Imre thought. Patience. Let’s wait and see.
The wait took three more weeks. As he was celebrating a 10:30 Sunday mass, he noticed a large florid blob in the congregation. It was Mueller, who trapped him after mass was over.
“Father, you gotta perform an exorcism.”
“Mr. Mueller, nice to see you too. What’s this about an exorcism?”
Mueller waved his arms, and Imre noticed sweat rings that had seeped through the suiting. “The club, ah, church. It’s possessed. People are afraid of it.”
“Please, Mr. Mueller, let’s just sit in this pew.” Imre hitched up his vestments so he could sit more comfortably and turned to listen.
“My club is ruined. People come in, they don’t even finish their second drink, they turn all pale or flushed and almost run out. They claim something’s whispering in their ears, threatening them with damnation if they sin. Word spread, nobody even comes anymore. That damned church is costing me a fortune. I gotta have an exorcism.”
“That’s something you should talk to the diocese about. I’m sure the bishop would listen closely to your complaint.”
“That son of a bitch! He told me there was no such thing as ghosts, and that I’d bought the church as is, problems and all. But you could do it for me. You know the church is haunted.”
Imre nodded in apparent sympathy, but inwardly asked God to forgive him for the almost lie he was about to utter.
“I’m afraid I’ve never seen a ghost, inside or outside of Saint Emeric. Maybe there’s something in the ventilation?”
“No, no, Goddamit! I know fear, and these wanna-be players are scared shitless.”
“Language, please, Mr. Mueller. I’m not authorized to perform an exorcism, but I could visit your club, could even bless it if you like.”
“When, Father? I’m hurting bad.”
“Well, I’m tied up this week with masses and visits to hospitals, but I could stop by… perhaps a week from tomorrow?
“You’re killing me, Father. Look, I’ll pay you to come by later today. We’ll call it a donation.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but no, thank you. A week from tomorrow?” Which should be enough time for you to slow cook properly.
“Oh, hell, all right.”


***

Father Imre arrived at four in the afternoon. Even in daylight the interior of the ex-church was garish, with nightmarish pink and purple lighting strips festooning the walls. A long bar with
perhaps twenty stools had replaced the altar, and shelves of liquor bottles took the place of the tabernacle.
“It’s quite a change, Mr. Mueller, but I don’t see anything supernatural.”
Mueller frowned. “Nah, nothing’s happened during the day, but then there’s nobody here but the cleaning crew. And it didn’t attack the staff. Can I get you something? A drink?”
“A healthy Gray Goose would be nice.”
After a sip Imre continued.
“I’ve had a chance to talk to some of my parishioners about your place, Mr. Mueller. It seems that its reputation is terrible. I don’t know how you’ll recover. You have my sympathies.”
“That’s not what I need, Father. If you bless this place, will the demons go away and leave me alone?”
“I’ve never seen real proof of any ghosts, Mr. Mueller. Any blessing is spiritually valuable, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be much use against something imaginary.”
“So, what the hell am I going to do?”
“I wonder. You have several other businesses I believe, all profitable?”
“Yeah, they’re good money makers.”
“How would it be if you were to take a tax loss on the club by selling it off cheaply and offset the loss against the profits from your other businesses?”
“You sons-a-bitches! You think you’re going to hustle me? I’ll burn this place down first and claim the insurance.”
“No, no, Mr. Mueller, you misunderstand. We don’t want the church back. Just think for a second. Depending on how you declare the value of the church and the costs of improvements, you might actually make money selling the building. I can think of several congregations that might be interested.”
Mueller remained silent during an internal calculation. “I don’t know how, but you’ve screwed me Father. I’ll think about it.”


***
​
At Mueller’s invitation, Father Imre returned to the church about a month later, shortly after dark, and walked up to the bar.
“You know what I’ve done, Father?”
“Yes, Mr. Mueller, it’s been on the news.”
“I still think you and the bishop diddled me, but I sold it like you said. I’m a little ahead of the game. And I could move the appliances and lighting to another church that hasn’t got any spooks. Would you consider acting as a consultant for me, help me get through all your holy red tape?”
Imre smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Mueller, but I can’t. Good luck though, maybe the next church will be your conversion.”
“Yeah. No hard feelings. I left you a little something on the bar. Goodbye, Father.”
Mueller let himself out the sacristy door while Imre looked out over the dance floor, trying to visualize people kneeling in pews. When he was sure that Mueller had left, he called out. “Mr. Halasz?”
“Yes, Páter.”
“Is everybody here?”
“Yes, Páter.”
“You’ve succeeded. The club has been shut down, and a Pentecostal group, Joseph’s Many Colored Coat, will be moving in. You have performed your penances well. When you whispered in the ears of those clubbers, you acted as their consciences. I believe your penance is fulfilled, and pray that you can move on. The lord be with you.”
They answered with a sibilant group “And also with you.” Halasz spoke a last time. “We’re leaving, Father, the oldest ones first. Köszönöm!”
“You’re welcome. Goodbye, my little flock.”
Imre reflexively turned to face the absent crucifix and noticed a bottle of Gray Goose vodka and a glass on the bar. Just one, he thought, for missing members.

Lady-in-Waiting
by
Gerald Arthur Winter


Gail was a fetching brunette with sad, mahogany eyes and long black lashes fluttering
like a spider’s legs when she was excited, both positively and negatively. I first noticed this
when she was denied her winning run, scored during a recess softball game in third grade.
There were twenty kids in Miss Malatesta’s class. This was the early ’50s when no one
had yet conceived of using “Ms.” and you were either married or not. There were twelve girls
and eight boys in our class of which I was one. In the interest of balance and a presumption
of fairness, our teacher made up two teams of six girls and four boys on each. With her vast
knowledge of human anatomy and the natural order of the universe, Miss Malatesta put the
tallest boy on each team in center field to provide leadership to the left fielder, right fielder,
and short fielder, who made the tenth player on each team on the field. She must have figured
the tallest boy on each team would probably be able to outrun and catch a fly ball better than
any of the three girls in the outfield, awkwardly ambling around him. If a line drive got past
the boy in center, only his strong arm could prevent the hit from turning into a home run.
She put one boy at shortstop, and on the mound to pitch for each team. She must
have figured the pitcher had to be a boy with a faster underarm toss to home plate than
any of the nine-year-old girls could muster. She put the tallest girl from each team at first
base, because girls are graceful and can leap high enough or stretch doing the split to catch
any poorly thrown ball from one of the infield girls for the out. A boy at shortstop would
handle anything hit between second and third base. With a skilled boy in that key position,
any ground ball to short would be an out.
She certainly wouldn’t have one of her young ladies squatting behind home plate
where the boy pitcher could see her panties from the pitcher’s mound, so the fourth boy
was catcher. She’d arranged the two teams with such precision that during the first thirty
minutes the score was tied at 5-5 with almost all of the runs by both teams scored and
batted in by boys. The exception was a line-drive double between the short fielder and
left fielder. The ball got past Tommy, the fleet-footed center fielder with a strong arm to
keep Gail from getting farther than second base. Leading off second base, her eye lashes
fluttered visibly, even from where I played first base on her opposing team.
With just five minutes to go at recess, Miss Malatesta said there would be time
for only one more batter before we would have to leave the warm April outdoors buzzing
with bees in the clover-clustered outfield and return to our stuffy classroom. Miss Malatesta
was especially fond of Pete, the pitcher on my team. When Gail dared to steal third base in
the middle of Pete’s whirling wind-up, I heard Miss Malatesta gasp. Even farther away now
at third base, Gail’s eyelashes fluttering with pride were visible to me at first base.
“This is a friendly sport,” Miss Malatesta proclaimed. “No stealing allowed. Go back
to second base.” When Gail shrugged in protest and her eyelashes fluttered more erratically
in anger, with a red face, Miss Malatesta shouted, “This instant!”
From the mound, Pete smirked at Gail cursing under her breath as she returned to
second base muttering and kicking dirt all the way.
“What was that, young lady!” our teacher demanded.
“I said, ‘stealing in softball is allowed!’”
“Not in this game. I make the rules,” Miss Malatesta said with authority. “No stealing!”
I liked Gail’s spunk. I’d kissed her playing spin-the-bottle at my birthday party when I
turned nine. She’d kept those big brown eyes wide open when I kissed her and she tasted like
Juicy Fruit gum. When she blinked her eyes, her eyelashes fluttered against mine like butterflies
trapped in a jar.
Gail wasn’t popular like some of the other girls in my class, mostly because the other
kids thought she was a tomboy. She had a horse that she kept in a barn, and liked to ride her
horse and play sports just as hard as the boys. That may have been the first time I felt some-
thing different about a girl as someone I didn’t just talk about but wanted to talk to. I found
Gail interesting.
When Nicky, the center fielder on her team hit the ball way over Tommy’s head in
center field, Gail rounded third and scrambled home for the winning run. If my team had to
lose, I was glad it was because of Gail’s running home to score. She was great to watch in
full sprint with her skirt swishing around her muscular thighs and her long black hair like
the trail of a jet behind her lithe gallop. But Miss Malatesta had blown her whistle at the
same time Gail crossed home plate.
“Tie game!” she shouted to the class. “My whistle ends the game five to five. Back
to class everyone. Come on, line-up single file.”
I wanted to tell Gail how great she’d played, that she was a winner, but she was
fuming too much for me to approach her. Our pitcher, Pete, grinned at Miss Malatesta
with cocky assuredness. Like, Gail, I felt the game had been fixed.
My girlfriend in third grade was Leslie. I was neither the best looking nor most
athletic boy in my class. At four-foot-five, I was three inches shorter than Leslie. What
had attracted me to Leslie more than her gazelle-like qualities and shimmering blue eyes
was her mother, whom she took after. Mrs. Chase reminded me of Phyllis, the lead singer
of The McGuire Sisters on the Arthur Godfrey Show. Mrs. Chase was only twenty-seven
years old and married to a balding, entrepreneur, a pioneer in the field of plastics. She
was his trophy wife before her husband even got his first patent.
Perhaps his greatest plastic production came in the form of Leslie, a Stepford
adolescent who liked to touch and be touched, but her kisses were like a trip to the
dentist, tough on the jaw. Even when she showed me the lace frills on her new panties
with the days of the week embroidered on them, I thought more about the taste of Juicy
Fruit gum and long, fluttering black eyelashes that probably would never need mascara.
I kissed Leslie often, but liked Gail better for her yearning to be skilled at something
—anything she could be the best at.
A kind of rivalry developed between Leslie and Gail in third grade, with Leslie
lining up her clique to mock Gail at every opportunity. Gail ignored the taunts, even when
Miss Malatesta organized “Bring Mom to Breakfast” whereby the class prepared breakfast
from scratch in the classroom. We churned butter, baked biscuits, and fried eggs after
squeezing oranges for fresh juice. Coffee and tea pots steamed on the counter as well.
Gail’s mother had to work and couldn’t attend, but Gail brought a note of apology
to Miss Malatesta. Leslie’s Mom showed up in tight pink peddle-pushers, called “toreador
pants” in Sears & Roebuck catalogues. Her bright red top showed freckled cleavage as she
batted her shimmering blue eyes. I served Mrs. Chase a cup of coffee with cream and sugar,
but her Lily of the Valley scent permeated the Colombian bean aroma.
The first half-dozen biscuits came out of the toaster oven and Mrs. Chase began
to spread the soft, sweet butter on the biscuit she’d cut in half. The steamy center quickly
melted the butter and Mrs. Chase rolled her baby blues with delight and a clockwise
motion of the tip of her pink tongue around her full red lips.
“Scrumptious,” she proclaimed.
“Leslie made them for you,” Miss Malatesta said with a smile and nod to Leslie.
But Gail turned from the toaster oven with a pout. “Leslie just stirred the batter.
It’s my mom’s recipe.”
Miss Malatesta shook her head with a frown. “I watched Leslie add the ingredients.
Your mother isn’t even here, so at least she won’t be embarrassed by such a false claim.”
“Her recipe is on the back of the note I gave you this morning,” Gail said.
“I threw that note away, obviously a forgery . . . Won’t you have some eggs?” Miss
Malatesta asked Mrs. Chase, escorting her toward the frying pan and mumbling something
under her breath, surely about Gail’s claim.
Gail saw me watching her and said aside to me, “She makes me want to scream and
throw things.”
“You’ll only get in trouble,” I cautioned her.
“I’m already in trouble without even doing anything, so what does it matter?”
I thought about her logic, but hesitated to agree, because I didn’t want to be a catalyst
to greater trouble for Gail.


* * *


Fire Prevention Week was a big deal in grammar school in the ’50s. A volunteer fireman
in town dressed up like Smokey Bear. In a poster contests one poster from each grade level was
chosen with a prize for the winner. In order to prevent favoritism and have the Crayola posters
fairly judged, each teacher from grades K through 8 assigned a number to be put on the back
of each poster rather than the student’s name. The teacher kept the list of what number went
with which name for when the winners were chosen.
I was among the top artists in my class and was chosen with Joe Minarick, the smartest
boy in school, to paint a mural of dinosaurs. Our artwork was rendered with a volcano erupting
in the background and was displayed in the school lobby outside Principal Risser’s office. Many
girls in my class had a delicate, artistic touch to render realistic, colorful images with crayons.
I decided to put Smokey Bear in my poster, not just because I was good at drawing
figures and animals, but I hoped for an edge from Smokey himself if he judged my poster.
From where I sat at my desk sketching the outline for Smokey with a pencil, I could see over
Gail’s left shoulder where she was drawing a deer family fleeing gracefully from flames
raging through a forest. I was impressed, but Gail’s images made me try even harder to
make Smokey as realistic as a talking bear dressed like a forest ranger could be.
All of the completed posters were brought to Miss Malatesta and placed face-down
on her desk. She noted each artist, told the students what number to write on the back of
their posters, then she recorded the names in a log next to that number for when the winning
number was chosen.
On the big day when the presentation of the winning posters from each grade were
displayed on stage in the assembly hall, I was happy to see Gail’s poster on an easel with a
blue ribbon for first place. I saw that Gail was in the row in front of me with a broad smile
waiting for Principal Risser’s announcement of the winning students. He started with
kindergarten and used a yard-long pointer with a sharp rubber tip to draw attention to
each winning poster.
When he came to third grade, the principal said: “The blue ribbon for third-grade
goes to . . . Leslie Chase!”
When the students applauded, the noise was too loud for anyone to hear Gail’s
expletive reaction, but even in profile, I could read her lips: “What the hell! That’s my
poster!”
When Leslie came on stage to shake the principal’s hand, Gail stood up and
shouted: “That’s my poster, not hers!”
The teachers, students, and parents who’d been invited to see the winners presented
in assembly were collectively aghast, but I felt like standing up in support of Gail’s claim,
which was the truth seen with my own eyes.
According to the third-grade log of students, Leslie’s name was listed as number “18.”
Since Gail’s mother hadn’t been called to attend, she wasn’t present to comfort Gail
in her outrage, and since the posters were drawn in school rather than at home, her mother
could not attest to Gail’s being the artist of the winning poster. It seemed that I was the only
classmate who’d paid much attention to what Gail had rendered on her poster, the graceful
deer running in panic from the flames of a forest fire. The competition for the blue ribbon
was staunch, and most nine-year-olds were too self-absorbed to care about anyone else’s
creation but their own. I proved to be the exception to the rule.
Principal Risser nodded to Miss Malatesta to escort Gail from assembly hall to end
any further disturbance of the ceremony.
I heard Miss Malatesta say softly to Principal Risser, “Children often lie for attention,
but records don’t lie.”
Gail was crying as she left and her eyelashes were droopy as she rubbed her red eyes.
The last time I saw Gail was after school going home on the bus, and I sat beside
her and put my hand on top of hers. She flinched at first then turned to see my empathetic
expression of sadness. I was taken aback when I saw that the left side of her face was red.
Upon closer look, the rosy blotches seemed to form the pattern of a hand. When she blinked,
tears dripped down her cheeks.
I rubbed the top of her hand and said softly: “I believe you . . . you can draw deer
as beautifully as you draw horses. I never saw Leslie’s poster, only yours. You won.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said with a shrug. “We’re moving next week. My dad
got a job in Connecticut.”


* * *


Later that year Leslie’s dad moved his small plastics company from Paterson,
New Jersey to Philadelphia, and I never saw Leslie again. I didn’t see Gail again until
my 50th High School Reunion. With everyone reaching age seventy and many having
passed away, the attendance was expected to be sparse. The Reunion Committee asked
the alumni to make an effort to search for missing students from our town going back
to primary school. The internet helped find people from our class who’d moved away
before ever making it to high school.
Although I’d have never recognized Gail Morris in a crowd after so many years,
she came up to me with a broad smile, took my hand in hers, and patted the top of my
liver-spotted hand.
“You probably have no idea who I am,” she said. “But I’d know you anywhere,
even with your white beard.”
I was about to admit that I was stumped until she turned her head to say hello
to another alumnus among several elderly ladies waiting to be greeted by the Reunion
Committee. In the harsh overhead light of the high school gym where we held our
reunion, despite her wrinkles, Gail’s eyelashes still fluttered as no others I’d ever seen.
She appeared very confident and sure of herself as she handed me her card with an
invitation to attend her art gallery in Manhattan’s SoHo district.
I was glad that early negativity in her life had probably made her even more
determined to succeed. She’d been a lady-in-waiting to find happiness in who she is.
“Horses?” I asked.
“Mostly,” she said, “but one with some deer painted from memory.”
We laughed, wondering what had ever become of the other third graders
on our teams that day she’d stolen third base and scored the winning run just as
the bell clanged to end our recess.
I went to the gallery to see Gail’s art exhibit and saw that the one painting
among all the horse paintings was a watercolor, but it seemed to match every stroke
of the winning Crayola poster rendered so long ago.
When Gail came up behind me as I observed the deer fleeing in the forest
fire, I said, “I believed you back then.”
“I know, “she said, taking my hand in hers with a squeeze. “You can only
steal someone’s ideas, but never their vision.”
Though I regretted not knowing the details of her life from the day Gail moved
away from my hometown till today, as a writer I imagined a novel about that transition
of her life. But like so many of our lives, the best author is the one who lived it, felt the
pain and joy along the way.

ALL FOR NAUGHT


by Madeline McEwen


Brenda Brimstone, the fire-eater’s assistant, almost swooned when she first saw the new magician, and I thought to myself, right then and there, well this won’t end well, but nobody listened to me.
I was the cleaner, and sometimes helped out checking coats when they were short staffed. Had done for over fifty years. Should have retired, but I couldn’t get enough of the place. They’re like family, those theater people, more than that because I never knew what a real family was all about until I ended up at the Crescent Theater. But I’m not going to talk about me. I wanted to tell you about him, that Brian Naught, the new magician, who put Brenda in a spin.
I could see why. Everybody could. He looked like a movie star standing on those boards that I’d spent the whole morning scrubbing. He had presence, and you don’t see that too often. Who knew where Mrs. Moon, the theater director, found him, but she was never wrong. This one was a star and destined to shine. Wouldn’t mind giving him a polish myself.
That said, he needed a new name, a stage name. Who ever heard of a magician called
Brian? Doesn’t inspire. Doesn’t conjure up the right image. Doesn’t hit the mark on the billboard posters.
Can’t remember when we last had a great sorcerer unless you count that illusionist, and personally, I didn’t. Too arty for me. I preferred something meaty, and you don’t get much more meaty than slicing a body in half. Now that’s my kind of magic. I’d volunteer to be the sacrificial victim if Brian twanged his saw blade at me. But, they’d want someone younger, prettier and most of all, vulnerable. Gone were the days when I’d caught a man’s eye, but there were other compensations to old age.
Since nobody noticed me anymore, I had the chance to spy them, to observe all those tiny clues when they thought nobody was watching. I don’t mean a quick snort of snuff or a sniff of something stronger, but their tells—that’s poker player speak—the secrets that betrayed them. Like a flash of a smile that faded too fast, or a smile on the lips which didn’t reach the eyes, or matching their promotional headshot photos in a fraction of a second if a camera happened to flash in their direction.
And when I looked at Brian, I saw it straight away—damaged goods. However, I wasn’t one to judge. From where I stood we all had that same hallmark. Even Brenda, moving past the middle-aged years hadn’t wrestled her demons into submission. Was that what Mrs. Moon saw too? Was that how she singled out each of us? But I never saw it coming, although the clues were there to see.
Brenda wasn’t the only one in a tizzy over Brian, even when he emerged from Madame Morte’s private office with his new name.
“What’s it going to be?” I asked as he swept past me in the wide corridor with a bevy of tall chattering girls around him. He stopped dead in his tracks searching for the owner of the craggy voice—me. I hadn’t spoken to him before directly. I’m short too. We met eye-to-eye.
He leaned back, chin high, arms out in a theatrical gesture, “Mungo the Magnificent.”
The girls effervesced with enthusiasm. I kept my own counsel. Why burst his bubble? Then again, what did I know about the business? If it had Madame Morte’s approval, who was I to say otherwise?
Brian, or rather, Mungo, had more props than any of the other performers. A huge collection of who-knows-what arrived at the back entrance on numerous old wooden pallets. Harry had the unhappy task of hauling everything inside. Harry’s been here a while. He used to be a performer—Soltan the Strong Man—but shelved his weights and hung up his dumbbells. These days he puts those muscles to more practical tasks, mostly working on the sets, scenery, and wires, but he turned his hands to anything that needing human-sourced horsepower.
A couple of weeks later, I was busy down in the orchestra pit—more pit, less orchestral—mopping the floor during the early shift rehearsals—if early is mid-afternoon—when I caught a glimpse of the first act in what turned out to be a three-part tragedy.

#
​
This was opening night for Mungo now he had perfected his new act. The majority of the performers, apart from a few stragglers, sprawled in the stalls awaiting their cues. Some played cards, others gossiped, but they had a perfect view of the stage, nothing they’d not seen before. They bided their time waiting for the chance to see Mungo. Nobody was interested in the fire-eaters performance and certainly not Brenda, who if truth be told, had seen better days.
Brenda, in full sequined regalia and feathered head-dress, glided across the stage with a long lit taper in each hand toward Bernie Flame, the fire-eater. Brenda had messed up her timings on each of the prior tricks, so Bernie was not in the best humor. Brenda, I’m sure, had many talents. However, I wouldn’t trust her to light a cigarette let alone ignite a three-foot torch balanced on someone’s head, somebody else’s head, not her own.
To be fair to Brenda, I couldn’t account for the water spill on the stage but it was nothing to do with me. Me, my mop, and my bucket were all five-foot lower than the stage. I wasn’t packing a water pistol, and even if I had, my aim wasn’t so good. The water wasn’t there during the previous tricks, so how did it get there? Yes, Harry was up on the ropes fixing the crankshaft, but he didn’t have water up there with him. Besides, Harry was a neat-nick—a place for everything and everything in its place. But those were questions, and accusations, for later. Besides, Harry took the blame for most mishaps. I’d never known him to defend himself,
no matter how great or minor the misdemeanor.
Didn’t make any difference when Brenda fell flat on her face. The tapers to skittered and scattered across the wooden boards. Now if I’d skidded on a puddle, I’d have made darned sure those tapers hit the puddle too, but Brenda, she wasn’t lucky like that.
Bernie glowered at Brenda, his new assistant. Up until that week, she had been the knife thrower-cum-chainsaw juggler’s assistant. Texas Ted had taken early retirement on account of carpel tunnel syndrome. With him, Brenda only had to look beautiful and stay as still as an icicle tied to a tree trunk while Texas whirled those chainsaws and gouged off chunks of wood the size of house bricks. One way or another, you had to give to woman credit. Few people had the nerve to cope with that kind of threat.
Tear stained, snotty nosed, and dress torn, Brenda didn’t seem a good match for Bernie. They had a few more hours to practice until we opened the doors to the public. I figured they’d work it out. A few stitches here and there from, Sari, the seamstress, and all would be well and good.
I felt a little sorry for Brenda since it was her birthday. I’d chipped in to buy her that lavender—supposed to be calming—bath pampering set. Maybe that contributed to her slippery end sliding across the stage, poor thing.
However, I never guessed that when the curtains rose that night, the audience would be greeted with a sight far more gruesome than that little mishap.

#
​
Before the next act took to the stage to practice, yours truly was summoned from the pit to clean up the spill. A wet stage is akin to a death-trap, so I was up there quicker than ninepence, despite my arthritis. I got to my knees, head down to the task while vicious barbs of spite flew back and forth between the players. No pushing or shoving, nothing physical, but all the same, the atmosphere was toxic.
What? Did you think everything was fluffy and friendly around here? Hell no, this was family and that meant fights. And talking of toxic, so was that spill. I immediately recognized it as 3-in-one, the viscous oil with that unmistakable smell. I glanced up hoping to catch a glimpse of Harry, but no one was up there with the pivot mechanism for the revolving scenery. Still, an oil spill was an easy enough mistake to make. How was Harry to know they’d be using the stage, and even if he did know, one little squirt wasn’t fatal? The show must go on, and the screens won’t spin if the system’s rusted up.

#

Later that day, I happened to be in the green room freshening up the refreshments and freshening my own parched throat with a quick sip of that new seltzer that’s all the rage, when I came across Harry. Now let’s be clear about one thing first. Although I shouldn’t have been in the green room except as my duties commanded, neither should Harry. That room was strictly for the performers.
“Hey Harry,” I said, cheerily enough because we were both in the wrong place at the wrong time. He sat on the velvet couch twiddling one of the gold colored tassels. I’ve done that myself. There’s nothing like twiddling something tactile to calm me down. Next to him, an open
packet of salmon sandwiches—boy, did they stink—lay abandoned. Obviously, Brenda’s fish-only diet wasn’t panning out. Don’t know why? She ate less than any of the dancers, and they lived off fresh air and a hint of lemon spritzer. I hadn’t noticed Brenda packing on the pounds, but the woman was determined to transform herself into little more than a sprat. I told her not to stand in the way of the inevitable middle-aged spread, but she mowed me down as a defeatist.
Harry wore a hang-dog expression, mighty shoulders slumped, chin on his massive chest, tree-trunk arms as limp as spaghetti. The smell of Brut cologne permeated the room. Harry needed an update. Although, I noticed he’s smartened his appearance; gone were the ratty T-shirts. Instead, he wore a striped red and white shirt reminiscent of his stage costume from yesteryear. If I weren’t mistaken, he’d spruced up his mustachios too, blackened and smoothed to a waxen gleam.
I was going to ask about the oil, but something about him made me stop. Harry could be remote, often remaining silent for days like a taciturn mute. Mrs. Moon never referred to whatever it was that caused his trauma. Our secrets were safe with her.
“You’re a woman, Mildred,” Harry said, looking at me questioningly.
“That’s true.” What else was I supposed to say?
“When a girl says she loves you, what does that really mean?”
I stuck out my bottom lip to indicate that I was giving this question serious thought. His watery eyes told me he set great store on what I was about to say. I didn’t want to get it wrong.
“Usually,” I said with as much authority as I could muster, “it means a girl wants to spend time with you, that is, you over and above other people, men.”
He looked at me expectantly, so I bumbled on. “If things aren’t working out right now, then remember Mahatma.”
“Who?”
“Gandhi. ‘The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.’”
Harry sighed, a huge sigh with enough air to make the little tassels spin. “Thanks, Mildred. You’re the best. I’ll go and finish breaking down Mungo’s pallets now. You can take some home as firewood if you like?”
Honestly, I was just glad he got up and left. I had no intention of taking a sack of kindling home on the bus. I was already behind on my cleaning rota, and all that fresh sawdust under the stage wasn’t going to brush itself away. I wished they wouldn’t do their messy jobs down there. Yes, it’s about the only large unoccupied space, but it makes more work for me: abandoned shoes and other items of unmentionable clothing, sandwich wrappers, empty bottles, you name it, I find it. That’s the less glamorous side of the business.
At the time, as I nibbled a chocolate wafer catching the crumbs in my apron, I wondered about the girl Harry spoke of. What kind of girl played with an old man’s affections? How would the romance play out and how would it end?

#

I heard on the grapevine that Madame Morte discovered Brian’s act after a tip-off from one of the girls. That wasn’t uncommon. Goes with the territory; a performer falls on hard times or suffers some personal tragedy, and the artistic community unites. There’s nothing like a sympathetic ear to the ground to open all kinds of unexpected tunnels of communication. When you’ve been treading the boards for years, everybody ends up rubbing shoulders with their competitors every once in a while. In fact, many of the greatest partnerships occurred by pure happenstance, like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. However, Brian was a solo artiste.
Speaking for myself, if I’d seen Brian’s act and heard he was looking for new work, I’d have happily given him any leads I came across. Who wouldn’t want to help someone like him: personable, talented, and full of potential? Turns out, I wasn’t alone in my sentiments.
“All I’m saying …” Brenda’s voice pleaded as I held an ice-cube to a lump of chewing gum to the bottom of a seat out of sight, both me and the seat. I could smell her perfume. She must have bathed herself in the stuff.
“I think your act could move into the stratosphere with the right partner,” she said, “or assistant, someone like me.”
As my fingers froze, I wondered how many other offers Brian had parried during his first weeks. By the sound so things, quite a few.
“Thanks, Brenda, but as I said to the others, I’m a one-man band if you know what I mean?”
Something about the way he spoke to her made me think there was more to it, that maybe, they knew each other before. I lifted my head above the tops of the seats and saw the two of them standing together, two silhouettes with not a lot of white space between them. Although Madame Morte didn’t have probationary periods, everyone understood the unspoken rule—play nice.
I watched Mungo snag Brenda’s elasticated waistband, more like a twelve-inch corset. He tucked one finger beneath the lace edging at her sternum, pulling her closer, and said, “you might want to try some mints to mask your fish-breath.” He kissed her on the cheek and let the elastic snap back saying, “and be a good girl, Brenda.”
Then he left her alone on the stage. She stood there for a few moments, and it made me wonder. In one way, he had given her a gentle rebuff, but in another way you could see it as a slap. Whatever it was, I didn’t have time to hang about and watch. Besides, I saw Harry stride across the stage hauling Mungo’s coffin into position, so I hurried off to the box office to polish the window half an hour before opening. I’m sure there are more germs on that glass than there are in the rest of the theatre put combined. I blamed the heavy breathers myself.

#

Usually, new acts are scheduled to play last as a way of drawing in the audience to keep them on the edge of their seats. But, tonight was different. Mungo had top billing, and we’d sold every ticket. With standing room only, I planned to watch from the wings if I could persuade Harry to leave a heavy unmoveable trunk into position. Usually, he obliged but tonight he was busier than usual. It’s no fun being five-foot-two when everyone else is a regular height. You get to rely on other people helping out, and I was pretty pissed with Harry for giving me the cold shoulder. I’d hardly seen him since he’d put the props in position, and since then the whole area had been cordoned off so that nobody had a clue about how Mungo would pull off his great feat. Security was tight, and Harry was in charge of keeping the curious at bay, including me.
Rumor had it that Madame Morte had taken one of the private boxes for herself and an exclusive party of hob-nobbers, but I thought that was unlikely.
The band had been playing outside on the street to entertain the long snake of theater goers. Every one of us was there gawking. This was an unprecedented move but had drummed up even more fervor. The press were champing at the bit. We were going to be headline news in the morning. I was thrilled. There’s nothing like some positive press coverage to help boost profits, but the noise was unbelievable. Cars honked their horns and people in the neighborhood hung out of their windows watching the comings and goings.
Inside by then, I’d taken up my position. I smelled something familiar—lavender—something strange—who knew?—something fishy,
probably fear and nerves and sweat.
As it was, I couldn’t see a thing. The wings were off limits. We were all herded back behind swathes of drapery, the blackout kind where the weave is so dense you couldn’t sneak a peek. From where I stood, I could hear the hub-bub from the audience, the shufflings, the chatter
of excitement, and the occasional pop of champagne.
I caught a glimpse of Brenda hanging something on the back of the dressing room door and by the time she muscled into the group with us, she was almost too late. I couldn’t help notice a light dusting of sawdust on her pale, fair hair.
The bar staff must have been run off their feet, and the temperature in the house rose degree by degree. I unbuttoned the neck of my blouse. Brenda’s bare arms shone with a sheen of that smelly lavender bath oil, but nothing was going to stop those wrinkles from settling in—I should know.
The band played their opening refrain. The audience nestled like chickens rustling feathers and taffeta, and finding their roosts. Hush descended. I heard the ratchet system crank, creak, and groan into action. So much for the 3-in-one. The houselights dimmed as the spotlights came into view and the curtains rose in unison.
For a second, silence reigned. Then gasps, followed by a squeak of terror and a roar of horror. There was a scuffling noise from the audience as if they had stood up. I heard a long strangulated scream. The people in front of me stepped back. Then all hell broke loose. I wriggled my way through the escapees and moved forward with more strength than I knew I had. I wish I hadn’t.
There, center stage for everyone to witness stood Mungo’s coffin sawn into two halves and the body within similarly severed. Underneath a pool of dark red blood soaked into the floorboards sprinkled with flecks of sawdust.
I turned away. I knew what I’d seen, but I couldn’t bear to think about it. Was that all that remained of Mungo, those two parts?

#

I don’t know how we all got through the rest of that evening. One moment it was chaos, and several hours later, they were all quaking together in the green room. I joined them, walking in last, except for Mungo who had a prior engagement at the morgue.
The police, Britain’s finest, in the personage of Inspector Blot, had questioned each and every one of us separately. Now we were all corralled for a finale of grave import.
The investigation had ensued, but in the meantime, we were under strict orders not to talk among ourselves and add fuel to the frenetic media frenzy.
“Understand,” Inspector Blot commanded. “The theater will remain closed until further notice. Under no circumstances are you to speak to any member of the press. Do I make myself clear?”
We nodded dejectedly. I examined the performers’ faces. Was everyone as stunned as me? So much for opening night. At this rate, I’d be lucky to find the money for my bus fare let alone this week’s rent. If the theater didn’t re-open soon, we’d all be down the soup kitchen. And what about all the other members of staff, the servers, the hat-check girl, the doorman? They didn’t survive on wages; they needed their tips to make ends meet.
The trombone player chewed his bitten nails. Brenda picked at her perfect cuticles, and Bernie, the fire-eater, sucked his thumb.
How long was this all going to take? When would everything return to normal? How was Madame Morte going to find a replacement for Mungo? What kind of an act could follow in his bloody footsteps? A cute kitten conjuring trick?
“Can I come in to clean tomorrow?” I asked. “Got to keep the theater ready to open.”
Everyone turned toward me, and I suddenly realized what I had said. Surely they didn’t expect me to clean up after that? Wouldn’t the police do that kind of mop job? Then again, I couldn’t visualize Inspector Blot wearing a pair of marigolds.
The inspector inclined his head. “Kind of you to offer. If you ever need extra work, here’s my card. We’re always looking for post-trauma hygienists.”
A communal shudder riffled through the green room, and it wasn’t just me.
“When do you think we’ll be able to open?” I asked.
“A few weeks, maybe, after the hearing.”
“What hearing?”
“The sentencing hearing.”
“Sentencing? Don’t you have to have a trial first?
Come to think of it, don’t you need a defendant?”
“We already have one.”
“Who?”
A collective sigh filled the room. The performers were restless.
Inspector Blot explained.
“Seeings as how you were late, we arrested Harry after his confession.”
“Harry? My Harry?” Brenda shot me a look. I corrected myself quickly to avoid any misunderstandings. “Our Harry? He confessed? Confessed to what?”
“He confessed to having sawn Mr. Mungo in two in a fit of jealous rage over a girl.”
“Never. Not Harry. He’s as mellow as a lukewarm cup of tea.”
The inspector raised his eyes skyward. “He confessed, I tell you.”
“He said those words, ‘jealous rage’?”
“I put the theory to him, and he nodded agreement. That’s a confession in my book.”
“I don’t know what fantasy manual you’re reading, but in the chapter of the Crescent Theater, we expect a lot more from our cast than mute acquiescence. What makes you think it was him?”
“He cannot account for his movements. He has no alibi.
The chainsaw, his, was hidden
under the stage, and, of course, the blood evidennce on his overcoat.”
“Where did you find the overcoat?”
“Hanging on the back of the stage door.”
“Anyone could have planted it. Everyone passes through there every minute. You couldn’t find a more busy thoroughfare if you tried. Any one of us could be guilty in that scenario.”
“But no one else had motive? Who else had fallen in love with Brenda Brimstone?”
“She’s ‘the girl’?” As I mentioned, the days of Brenda’s girlhood were long past.
“Yes, the girl, Brenda Brimstone, the object of desire.”
“Nevermind.” I had to think fast. Harry, my fellow colleague, if not friend, stood accused of a heinous crime. Why on earth had he confessed? Then again, he hadn’t, he hadn’t uttered a single word.

#

My mind was racing, heart pounding and armpits sweltering as I tried to figure out what had happened. I thought of Harry—why hadn’t I noticed he wasn’t in the green room until that moment?
“It’s hard to quarrel with the blood evidence,” I said, thinking aloud, “but someone else could have worn Harry’s coat. It would have acted like a coverall or an apron, protecting the perpetrator. Anyone could have worn it. Someone small like me. It would have covered me from head to toe.”
I glanced at Brenda’s red, patent-leather toed shoes as she tucked them back behind a collection of bags and take-out boxes at her feet--
a hasty order to feed the starving artistes.
“What you don’t seem to understand,” the inspector said,
“is that Mungo was killed with
a chainsaw, Harry’s chainsaw. That’s a mighty heavy piece of equipment to wield around. Who else would have used that?”
“More or less anyone, I’d have thought. The whole point of a chainsaw is to take the effort out of the work. Those things cut like butter for anyone knowing what they’re doing.”
“I don’t think many of us share that competency,” the inspector said. “Personally, I feel unsafe holding a stapler and I’m fully qualified to handle stationery.”
“Where was the chainsaw found?”
“Hanging in the usual place in the tool department, blood had dripped all over the shelf beneath.”
“Ah! Well, Harry would never have returned the chainsaw to its rightful place without cleaning it first. He’d rather die than mistreat his tools.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t hold with the death penalty any more, but he’ll certainly rot in jail for the rest of his lifetime. And, he deserves every minute for the wickedness of his crime. To kill another man, a small, weak, defenseless man, is beyond my comprehension.”
“Mine too. What if someone else killed this weak, defenseless man? Someone who would never be suspected.”
“Who do you have in mind? Maybe one of these fine feathered ladies who grace the green room at this moment.” He laughed. “Perhaps one of these pretty, slender-armed, narrow-wristed, semi-clad girls.”
“I agree, to a point.” I gave her a look so she’d know I was about to point the finger. “What about Brenda?”
“Who me?” Brenda feigned both surprise and innocence. However, she wasn’t an actor but an accomplice. Although, in this case she was the perpetrator.
“Ladies, ladies,” cooed the inspector. “Don’t brush your fur the wrong way. I draw the
line at cat fights. You older ladies need to keep your hormones in check. What could Brenda possibly have to do with such a bloodthirsty, not so say, strenuous crime?”
“Everything,” I explained. “She spent many a long year learning all about chainsaws with Texas Ted.”
“There’s a difference between observing and acting,” the inspector said.
“Too true,” I agreed, “but she was responsible for maintaining the chainsaws, cleaning them, storing them, repairing them. Texas Ted had carpel tunnel syndrome. Towards the end, he still had his strength but any finer movements were impossible for him. He left all that for Brenda to do.”
“But I wasn’t there,” Brenda whimpered.
“When was Mungo murdered?” I asked.
“Approximately,” the inspector said, “thirty minutes before the curtain rose.”
I thought back to the excitement before the performance, the band on the street, the noise. That’s when it must have happened. I remembered the smell of lavender when we waited behind the drapes and the sheen on her skin when she finally joined the rest of us.
“Good,” I said turning to Brenda. “So you must have been in here eating the sandwiches I brought through to help the short-staffeded kitchen. I wondered why all the salmon ones had gone by the time I returned for a quick snack myself.”
“That’s right,” Brenda said her face flushing scarlet. “I ducked behind the dresser when you came in because I knew you’d be mad at me.”
“There you have it, inspector, from her own lips.” I couldn’t help feel smug. Why not grab my moment of triumph? “Take her away and release poor Harry,” I said with more drama than a B-rated movie star.
“You wizened, old, hag,” Brenda spat. She dashed for the door and was out of the room
before anyone moved a muscle to stop her.
“Wait a minute,” the inspector said though it was unclear whether he spoke to me or the disappearing Brenda. “What have sandwiches got to do with the price of fish?”
“Nothing,” I explained. “There were no sandwiches, not here in the green room. I made that up to catch her out. She grabbed the opportunity to give herself a false alibi because she was out on the stage wearing Harry’s overcoat and holding the chainsaw over Mungo encased in his coffin.”
“But why did Mungo get inside the coffin?” The inspector rubbed his chin. “He was due to perform in half an hour.”
“Perhaps Brenda offered to help him out, have a dry run, check all was good inside of the box. Who knows? Why don’t you ask Brenda?”
“What was her motivation?”
“Again,” I said with patience. “Ask her, but my guess, he hurt her feelings.” I knew I wasn’t wrong.
“But why did Harry confess and take the blame?”
“Harry? Now there’s a man who can always be relied upon to shoulder every burden. That’s the kind of man he is. Tender hearted and in love. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.”

The Best Word

By Maliha Iqbal
​


A solemn boy of seven was busily writing away without a thought about the world. He was perspiring and his clothes were damp. There were beads of sweat on his forehead as he knitted his brows in concentration.
Suddenly a woman in her thirties came into the room and looking at him said “Samad! Take a break! You ought to be tired by working like that since morning and that too with a power cut! It’s so hot!” “Mother! Please don’t worry about me, the heat doesn’t bother me” replied the boy with an earnest look on his face. His mother merely stared at him, mumbled “what a child!” and left.
She rushed to a quiet corner of the house with tears welling up in her eyes. Once she was out of earshot, she began weeping and muttering over and over again “Oh! How the child loves to study! If only I could give him a better future! His books are his only solace from the grief and miseries of his life!” She soon stopped herself as she recalled her husband’s last words before he left the world. “You should be a source of inspiration, courage and love to Samad, never show your sorrow, face your troubles with a smile.” Yes! That’s what he said and that’s what I’ll do! She thought and smiled suddenly which lit up her face.
Samad lived in a war-torn country. Many had rebelled against the government and the country was at civil war. There was an epidemic of poverty and all had fallen prey to this.
It was nearly 9’o’ clock in the evening when Samad silently slipped out of the back door of his house and hurried through the lonely streets to a tiny, dilapidated building tucked away in a corner. A contended look came over his face as he entered the building and greeted his educator. Ah! That was his school! How he loved going there! Samad went to school in the silence and aloofness of night- most children in the country did because of the fear of rebel attacks. Samad had few children in his school, only seven and he was the brightest among them.
They had recently started learning English and today their teacher had an interesting idea. “All of you have to write your favourite word of English language on your slates and then one by one you will come out and tell the whole class why it’s your favourite. You have ten minutes” announced Mr. Blake, their teacher. He wanted to test the children’s vocabulary and spellings. Soon the room became silent as each child began to write.
Samad finished his work much earlier than the given time and stared idly at the light bulb in the room which was flickering occasionally. It gave a dull glow and swarms of insects had gathered around it. Out of nowhere a loud explosion was heard
followed by shouts of terror. The rebels! The teacher shouted “keep calm! Don’t be frightened! Hold my hand and don’t let go of one another.” Everyone slowly began walking out of the building in a single file but suddenly the lonely streets seemed to have come alive and people bustled all about. In the chaos and confusion, Samad was separated from everyone.
He did what any wise person would have done and began running towards his home which was nearby, the slate still grasped in his hands. He was out of breath but he wouldn’t stop at any cost. Finally, the front door of his house came into sight and he ran faster still.
Suddenly there was a loud explosion and Samad saw large flames before he fell to the ground. Bruised and bleeding, he got up, limped a few steps and collapsed. An agonized mother found her son the same night with a slate gripped in his lifeless hands. On the slate was the word “HOPE” written in a shaky handwriting. Isn’t it the best word? Doesn’t it provide you with the courage to strive towards your goal? Hopelessness itself is the end of life. Even insects are attracted towards a source of light for navigation and warmth or should we say a source of hope?

A Constant Source of Light

By Angela Camack


New York City, late winter, 1987

Jessica kicked at a pile of dirty snow. “I hate the 1980’s,” she muttered. New York City was grimier and the crime worse; people were greedier. New York was turning into a city for the rich and the poor, as middle-income families were priced out. Brooklyn was growing, however, as artists, dancers and musicians were squeezed out of studio and rehearsal spaces in Manhattan. Homeless people gathered on the street, huddled with their miserable collections of possessions, causing fear and pity in passersby. For the first time she and Charlie were talking about moving the children out of New York. Music had moved from rock songs with political and social lyrics and soulful folk music to heavy metal, which was all clang-bash to her. Musicals were still on Broadway, but they were gaudy, special effect-ridden spectacles that lost singers and dancers amid the glitz. Theater no longer had room for experimentation, for intimacy with audiences.
Jessica came of age in the early ‘70’s, which kept some of the spirt, freedom and hope of the ‘60’s. But going back to the early 70’s would not bring her to paradise, she knew. Those times had problems too. “I’m getting old, I guess. But dammit, things were different.” She kicked a snow drift again, not realizing there was a brick behind it. Stupid! She couldn’t risk a broken foot.
Jessica had been a dancer, which you knew by looking at her; slender frame, perfect posture, honey-colored hair in a bun, expressive blue eyes. Her feet were slightly turned out, making it seem like she could glide in any direction, and she had a grace that did not desert her when she was on the john clipping her toenails. She was in her next chapter now, with a husband, two children and a job teaching for the company where she had danced for most of her career.
By the time she got to the theater she realized the cause of her distress. It was two years to the day, almost to the hour, when she got the call that Wyatt had died. Wyatt, her first husband, breaker of her heart and her best friend, gone from this world but released from it too. Wyatt, the constant link to more innocent times. She waited until her classes were done, the children picked up and dinner started before she let herself remember.
They met in the cast of Street Dreamers, a musical that opened to condescending reviews in the smallest theater on Broadway. But the folk-like score, energetic young cast and hopeful message gained a following through word of mouth. The play had a long run and was still loved by community and college theaters.
She fell in love with Wyatt early in the run. Everybody loved Wyatt. He had that spark that drew your eye to him, that undefinable quality that was impossible to teach in any drama or music school. Everyone who succeeds on the stage has it, but Wyatt had it by the bucketful. He could enchant the most jaded or apathetic audiences. They loved him no matter what he did.
Not only audiences loved him. The cast circled him when they went out after the show. Waiters gave him extra sides, bartenders, free drinks. Landlords waited for the rent and cabs stopped for him on rainy days. He enchanted the world, this skinny, dark-haired, blue-eyed, shaggy-headed, sexy Peter Pan.
She watched during his solo one night, the hard to please New York audience clapping along as he sang. The stage manager joined her. “In the palm of his hand, as usual,” he said. “He sheds his own light, that one.”
It seemed Wyatt loved Jessica back. Within two months of Street Dreamer’s opening, they were together, seriously together. Although the times saw couples tumbling in and out of bed as easily and playfully as puppies, neither Jessica nor Wyatt could be casual about closeness. They came together and stuck. Their minds clicked together perfectly, sharing everything easily, finding fun in the most mundane things. The city turned into their playground. They held emotional conversations on the subway in fake languages. They mimed carrying huge panes of glass on crowded streets and played statues on the Lincoln Center fountain. They were the first to find new bars and musicians and cheap restaurants.
They moved in together, sharing dreams. They spent time on their bed, gazing at the cracked ceiling holding hands and talking. He always held her hand. They married during Street Dreamers’ run, a small ceremony at the director’s home followed by a raucous reception at their favorite restaurant. Wyatt and Jessica, their lives braided together. She had never been happier, and it showed in her dancing. Wyatt the magical, who found poems, perfect roses and flea market treasures, who made her laugh.
She noticed that for all his warmth and playfulness, their lovemaking was muted. He was always loving and considerate, but it seemed like he was rehearsing for something that was coming later. She said not a word; why, when what they had was so good?
Eventually they found jobs in other shows. Life went on. She began to ask, “Should we get a bigger apartment?” “Do you think we can take a vacation next year?” “When can we think about
a baby?” “Do you want a baby?” Wyatt was – muted, becoming less willing to share as her questions grew more serious.
She found out why one Monday afternoon, when both of their shows were dark. Wyatt sat her down in their kitchen and poured each a glass of wine. He told her that no matter his feelings for her, he could never be the husband she deserved. Although he had hidden the truth from himself, he was gay. He had been gay all his life, but never acknowledged it. He poured his energy onto the stage to compensate. When you come from a small town and a strict family you hid the truth, even from yourself. You played along with what was expected of you. And when you found a beautiful, talented girl whose personality meshed with yours, you told yourself that the love you felt for her could be channeled into marriage.
“Why did you marry me, Wyatt?”
“Because I love you.”
“Then why are you leaving me?”
“I have to admit what I really am. How can I be a husband, torn, like this? You deserve someone who doesn’t have this kind of fight going on inside.”
“So, have I been a smokescreen all this time?”
“No, I love you, I wanted so much for this to work.”
“How could you do this? Why didn’t you tell me before I fell in love with you?”
He was crying too. “Because it was the way I thought things should be and because I loved you. I still love you.”
“But you’re leaving.”
“I think it’s for the best.”
Before she realized it, glass was shattering, and Bordeaux sheeted the wall behind him. ”You bastard, I hate, hate , hate you!”
“Jess, I’m so sorry. I’ll move out as soon-“
“I’m leaving now. I’ll find somewhere. Go find your real soulmate.”
“Jess-“ There was nothing to say. The divorce was uncomplicated. Their families did not understand. His mother called her constantly at first. “What happened, Jessica? Why did this happen? Who did this to him?” She suspected his family thought she drove him to it.
Jessica’s life was leveled, most of what she counted on swept away in one Monday afternoon, leaving a barren landscape. But despite a week of not going to classes and trying to heal her wounds with liberal applications of brandy, takeout food and peach ice cream, she was still dancing remarkably well. The deep pain she felt helped her connect with the emotions she danced, both happy and unhappy.
But the theater scene soon became impossible. Wyatt called and left messages she didn’t return. The theater community being what it was, they saw each other at parties, show openings, restaurants. She felt people were watching her, expecting her to scream, cry, scratch at him.
She got a job with a modern dance company. At least she would be spared the rounds of auditions, the parties, the connections she had to keep up, all still part of Wyatt’s world. The company toured part of the year. She wouldn’t running into Wyatt or looking for his face in the crowds.
She loved her work, that was a consolation, even after she heard that Wyatt was in a relationship with another actor. She turned to her dancing, learning her roles and finding her place in the company. When she finally looked up, she realized it was time to find people again.
Charles Kendell was there. A tall, blond Viking in sweatpants and T-shirt, he had been with the company for fifteen years. He still danced some signature roles, but taught company classes and managed the tours.
“You can smile,” he said one day as she darted offstage after the last dance.
“I was so preoccupied getting used to things.”
“You looked so unhappy sometimes.”
She laughed. “That’s a long, messy story.”
Charlie learned her story. She learned that he had been engaged to a woman whose family convinced her to find a man who had a more secure job. He helped Jessica fall in love again. If her love for him wasn’t as reckless as what she had felt for Wyatt, it was as true. Charlie felt the same. They came together on equal ground.
So they married, and now came the larger apartment, the vacation, the talk about children. Wyatt was pushed away, put away with other childish things. She read about him in the newspapers but made no move to see him.
She met Wyatt again late in her second year with the company, coming home from rehearsal. Wyatt was standing in front of her apartment.
“How are you, Jess?”
“Fine. What are you doing here?”
“I heard you’re with the Carron company. I followed you home one day.”
“Wyatt Weston, boy detective.”
“Don’t be hard, Jess, it’s not like you.”
“How would you know?”
“I guess I wouldn’t, but I wondered about you after we broke up. I still wonder about you.”
“I’m married again, Wyatt.”
“I know. I’m glad. I have someone, too.”
“What do you want?”
“Just talk to me. Please. I don’t want to leave things being your enemy.”
She talked to Charlie, of course. “He has a point, Jessica. The breakup was so bad, and you were so hurt. It sounds like he was, too. Put it to rest. Even if you just see him once, it’ll close things up between you”
They met for breakfast one Monday morning. His face was a little thinner, his hair shorter and neater, his smile the same.
“You look beautiful, Jess. Marriage is good for you,” He smiled ruefully. “It always was.”
Amazing how they fell back into their old routine so quickly. By the time the waiter had cleared their plates and poured more coffee, they were laughing and trading anecdotes about her tours and some songs he was composing.
After that they didn’t stay away from each other, meeting for lunch or coffee. Minds clicking perfectly, sharing everything, finding fun in the most mundane things. And life went on.
Charlie and Jessica started trying to have a baby when she was 28. She was still dancing well, but dancing and motherhood both demanded youth, and in due time two children came, a boy and a girl. Charlie taught dance, and eventually she did too. Wyatt worked steadily in the theater. He broke up with the actor and fell in love with Dixon, a lawyer.
But by the ‘80’s it was hard for him. Dixon began to worry. Wyatt quit a long-running play to take a vacation but spent most of it sleeping or reading, carrying an exhaustion that never lifted. He had a chronic cough and trouble breathing. Weight washed away from his already slender frame. His skin looked bad. For the first time he had difficulty finding new roles.
By the time he was diagnosed it made no difference. He had something called AIDS, a disease that was terrifying gay men. There was nothing that could stop it, and soon some people in the medical world were too frightened to care.
He did voice-over work for a while, but even that became impossible. Dixon went on working, waiting for an axe to fall. Would his test results shatter his life? What would happen if his law firm found out about Wyatt’s illness? How long would he have Wyatt?
Wyatt’s friends gathered around him. At first, he kept up with the talk and the laughter, surrounded by the people who loved him, who were still drawn by his light. But he kept getting weaker, kept moving farther away. Finally, all he could do when Jessica came was to hold her hand. His mother came to care for him as he got sicker, maintaining a tense truce with Dixon. At least the end, when it came, was peaceful,
Wyatt’s family buried him near their home in Delaware. Dixon had no legal claim to him. His casket was closed, a framed headshot placed on top. The mourners gathered at his family’s house after the service, moving in two circles, Dixon and Wyatt’s friends and Wyatt’s family and
their friends. A curtain of uneasiness hung between the two groups. There was palpable distrust of Dixon, even though he and Wyatt had been together longer than some conventional couples.
Jessica crossed the room to get coffee. A friend of the family caught her eye .”You were the wife, right?” she asked. “He should never have gone to the city. It ruined him. Show people ruined him.”
“My husband and I are dancers, “ Jessica said stiffly.
“But it looks like you turned out normal.” Jessica held her breath and walked away, not wanting to cause a scene.
The gathering wound down. Jessica moved toward the bathroom, running into the woman who had spoken of Wyatt’s “ruin.” In the dark hall, the glow from a wall sconce caught the woman’s eyes, making her look hectic. She grasped Jessica’s arm, talking like they were resuming the most ordinary of conversations.
“It nearly killed his parents, you know, what he turned into. That’s why he got sick. That’s why they’re all getting sick. It’s a judgment, you know.” Jessica could no longer hold back. “Don’t you understand? Wyatt was good. He was better than you could be on your best day. He had his own light! Everybody loved him-“
Charlie was beside her, “Turn loose of her arm right now. Come on, Jessica, we’re going home.”
Charlie led her past the now-silent groups. They drove quietly through the dusk, then the night, to his parents’ house in Montclair, NJ, where the children were staying.
The house was quiet when they entered. Charlie insisted she take half of one of the muscle relaxants he took for chronic back pain (dancers never stopped aching). She fell asleep quickly.
She woke the next morning to distant sounds in the kitchen. Charlie and the children. She felt too heavy to join them. What had it all been for, loving Wyatt, and losing him, and losing him again? Was it worth being leveled like that?
She hauled herself out of bed, showered and dressed. It was worth it. She was able to start over, to build something permanent on the ground left behind. When she married Wyatt, she was still a girl, a girl whose dance teachers had to remind her not to be hypnotized by her reflection in studio mirrors. But she learned to look outside of herself; to understand and forgive Wyatt. To support Charlie when he retired from dancing and wandered the apartment like an elegant ghost. To leave dancing behind and happily embrace motherhood. The first risk had made all other risks possible. Not risking would lock you in a prison, alone.
Charlie was cooking eggs, the children chattering. “Hush guys. Your Mom needs to sleep.”
“Here I am,” she said, moving toward her family.

Shenanigans before Christmas
by
Gerald Arthur Winter


In the late 1940s, Coca Cola ® was a rarity in our home, available only
as a special treat during the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Mom
said it had to do with “Mr. Touch Decay” and the cost of dentist bills for fillings.
The war had ended, money was tight, and jobs were scarce. Dad’s salary was
$100 a month, considered middle-class at the time. We weren’t poor, but we
We ate a lot of Campbell’s tomato soup with water, not milk. Too often, meals
were just bone marrow from soup bones spread on white bread. Chicken livers
were prevalent on our dinner menu, with beef liver and onions, or kidney stew
weekly for dinner.
Dad had been a draftsman for the Defense Department during the war
so he had never left the states. After the war, he commuted to New York City,
Monday through Saturday, to work as a commercial artist for advertising
agencies. No five-day work week back then, which seemed to Mom like some
crazy idealist scheme a union Communist had dreamt up rather than anything
practical that could ever happen for the American worker. A 48-hourwork week
without over-time pay seemed fair to my folks. They were Republicans.
We lived in a quad apartment close enough to the Long Island Railroad
to make the dishes rattle in our kitchen cupboards when the LIRR Express from
Manhattan to Queens thundered by. Though the noise was a nuisance to Mom,
it was convenient for Dad to walk to and from the train station in less than a
minute.
The four families in our quad consisted of us, the Winter family of four,
the Goldfield family of four, the Shulmann family of three, and the McGorey
family of four. All told, half the tenants were Jewish, and the other two quarters
were Irish, and us of German-Austrian decent.
The Goldfield sons were in their early twenties, one fat and slovenly,
the other confined to a wheelchair with rheumatoid arthritis. According to
Mom, the Goldfields were “nice people,” but they kept to themselves. The
McGorey daughters were Kathy, a freckle-faced, buck-toothed tomboy in
eighth grade who beat up boys, and her seventeen-year-old sister, Patricia,
who was sometimes my sitter when Mom had to take my older brother,
Bobby, to the doctor. “Patty,” as I called her, was my Dream Girl, though I
was too young to have any desires beyond a peck on the cheek before she
tucked me in for a nap. Her breath smelled like Juicy Fruit gum. Kenny
Shulmann was an only child, between my age and Bobby’s. The three of us,
Bobby, Kenny, and I, often played together—more plotting than playing.
There were no pre-schools back then, so a boy like me approaching
age five had to entertain himself. Having a brother three years older paved
the way toward more extravagant mischief. The snowy, black-and-white
reception on a rare TV available to watch at a friend’s house made life
beyond our limited realm in Queens seem dull and grey. But I owed a
colorful kaleidoscopic view of the world to my brother Bobby’s artistic
perception of life. Color us, along with Kenny, a rainbow of trouble and
shenanigans.
Kenny Shulmann and I are gonna raid ole lady Schmidt’s house
when school’s closed for the holidays. Since you’re such a tattle-tale,
you’re comin’ with us. I figure you can’t tell Mom and Dad on us if
you’re in on it, too.”
“Sheesh, Bobby. I wouldn’t tell, but I don’t wanna go. I’m scared of
that ole lady. She reminds me of the witch in Snow White, especially with
that wart on her big nose.”
“Kenny and I will protect you, Gem. We’ve got a plan.”
Bobby always called me “Gem” when he wanted something from me.
It was Dad’s nickname for me since Mom said I was “a diamond in the rough,”
a real gem. Any other time, Bobby just called me, “Squirt,” because, up to
age three, I’d been a bed-wetter.
“What kind a plan, Bobby? Whaddaya wanna go in that scary ole lady’s
house for? She threw a bucket of ice water on us when we went trick-or-treating
last Halloween. Sheesh. It’s freezin’ now in December. I don’t wanna get all wet
again. I could catch P-neumonia.”
That’s what Mom called it, because she wanted her boys to know how
to spell, even if I wasn’t in kindergarten yet and Bobby was in second grade at
P.S. 61, an old wooden schoolhouse on Higby Avenue. He had to walk two miles
to school every day from Laurelton. I had to respected an older brother with that
kind of courage.
“Ole Lady Schmidt’s got fancy things . . . crystal goblets, clocks, and jewels.
Maybe we can find some cool stuff to give Mom and Dad for Christmas tomorrow.”
“What if the ole lady catches us?” I warned.
“Ya kiddin’? She limps with a cane. She won’t catch me and Kenny, but I
dunno about you, slow poke. You run like you’ve got a load in your pants.”
“Aw shut up! I can run as fast as you and Kenny.”
“You may have to if you don’t wanna get left behind.”
“Jeez, Bobby. It’s Christmas Eve/ Shouldn’t we wait till the middle of
Christmas week to raid that old lady’s house after Santa’s delivered our toys.
Maybe he’ll bring Mom and Dad some cool presents, then we won’t need to
get any stuff for them from Mrs. Schmidt’s place.”
Bobby and Kenny smirked.
“I already got my Hanukkah gift,” Kenny said. He was taller than us and
skinny with curly black hair. Kenny was almost six. Compared to me, Bobby and
Kenny seemed like men of the world, so I had to follow their lead.
“Don’t you know that George Washington attacked the British on Christmas
Eve. Don’t you want to be brave like the Father of Our Country, Gem?”
“He did? Really? Doesn’t sound like a nice thing to do,” I said.
“Nice for us, but not for the Red Coats.”
“I’m too young to know about all that stuff you’ve learned in school, Bobby.”
“I’m teachin’ ya, so you’ll be ahead of the other kids when ya start kindergarten.”
“How we gonna sneak out without Mom and Dad knowin’?”
“You know how Dad comes home bleary-eyed from the office Christmas party
and he and Mom fight then go to bed so they can wake early to decorate the tree, wrap
our presents, and fill our stockings before we get up to see what Santa’s left us. That’s
when we’ll sneak out with Kenny, cross the railroad tracks, and walk a block to ole Mrs.
Schmidt’s big house on the corner.”
“That big house is as scary as she is,” I said.
“Ah, she’s just an ole lady with a bunch of neat stuff we can snatch while she’s
sleepin’,” Bobby said. “Everyone in the neighborhood will be sleeping, except us.”
Kenny nodded and said, “Maybe I can find a necklace for my mom.”
“Sure, there must be lots of cool stuff she’s been hoarding in that house for years.”
“I heard her husband had been a banker in Germany before the war, but unlike my
grandparents, the Schmidt’s came to America with lots of money, so the Nazis couldn’t
get it.”
“What are Nazis?” I asked, but Kenny and Bobby rolled their eyes at me.
“My grandparents didn’t escape,” Kenny said, his mood suddenly solemn.
“Maybe some of my grandparents’ things were stolen by that German banker, Mr.
Schmidt. Maybe his old widow has my grandfather’s watch.”
Bobby and I stared at Kenny for a long silent moment, until Bobby said, “We’ll
meet in the cellar coal bin at midnight then climb up the coal shoot to leave without
using the doors, so our folks won’t hear us.
We put our hands together like Gene Kelly in The Three Musketeers.
“One for all and all for one,” Bobby said, just like in the movie.


* * *


The coal bin in the cellar stunk, and Kenny was already there when Bobby and
I arrived. We nodded in unison and climbed up the coal shoot, me in the middle, behind
Bobby and in front of Kenny. When we got into the yard and crawled along the barbed-
wire fence that separated our building from the railroad tracks, it was colder than I’d
ever felt before. Maybe because I was scared and shivering, but the night air was surely
freezing and damp, as if it would snow. I loved the thought of snow on Christmas, but
hoped it would hold off until we had our fun and got back home safe in our beds.
We knew about the deadly third-rail that could electrocute us if we stepped
on it. That was common knowledge for all kids who lived close to the tracks.
Bobby gave me a glare over his shoulder and said, “Don’t get fried, Squirt.”
We huddled in the bushes in the empty lot across from Mrs. Schmidt’s house.
“She must still be awake,” Kenny said, noting a light flickering at the first-floor’s
bay window.
“Maybe not,” Bobby said calmly. “Remember when she opened her door,
holding a bucket on Halloween, then dumped cold water on us? I’d seen a fireplace
in her living room. She must’ve lit the fireplace for Christmas. See how it’s flickering
at the window. She must’ve left the fire going till morning. C’mon. We’ll slide down
her coal shoot and come up through her cellar stairs.”
We did as Bobby said, and within ten minutes we were on the first
floor. We found the living room where the hearth still glowed with smoldering
cinders. The house smelled like Christmas. Her tree had the fresh scent of blue
spruce. Candles scented with apple, cinnamon, and pumpkin flickered all around
the room. Christmas cookies must have been baked in the oven earlier with the
air still sweetly redolent of vanilla and sugar.
Rather than Christmas lights strung on her tree, each branch had a
candle in a holder at its tip, a German tradition I was familiar with from my
grandmother. I wondered why Mrs. Schmidt would go to all this trouble
just for herself when no one had ever seen anybody come to her home
other than the postman and the milkman.
The candles were charred, so they’d been lit earlier, but you couldn’t
leave them burning for long without the danger of setting the house on fire.
My grandma said that’s what made a candlelit tree more precious with its
beauty only for just a brief moment. She said it was like the fleeting gift of
the Christ child, a symbol of how we had to concentrate on that blessing
from God, so we wouldn’t lose its glow when the candles burned out.
As I was staring at the tree, Bobby and Kenny went to the dining
room where a long table was set with ornate china, sterling silverware,
and crystal goblets. Along every wall were china closets containing a
variety of crystal figurines, goblets, chalices, vases, and delicate toys as
I’ve never seen, which included dolls of every kind from all parts of the
world. Bobby was right about what Mrs. Schmidt had in her home, a
fortune. including gold watches, diamond rings, and necklaces displayed
like a jewelry store on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.
Bobby and Kenny started eating from a decorative plate stacked
with cookies shaped like Santa, reindeer, angels, and Christmas trees. The
cookies sparkled with decorative colors. I tasted one, too. My mouth
drooled with the sweet flavor of the cookie still warm from the oven.
Warm, I thought, but before I could warn Bobby and Kenny,
there was Mrs. Schmidt’s frowning face glaring at me from her reflection
in the mirror above the sideboard beside the dining room table.
“Ya-a-a-ah!” I shouted running for the cellar door.
Bobby and Kenny echoed my screams, but each grabbed handfuls of
jewelry as the old woman shrieked and swatted her cane at them. Bobby was
right, we were all too fast for her, but we kept bumping into one another in
the cellar and scrambled awkwardly up the coal shoot. To our surprise, when
we came out of the cellar through the coal hole into the yard it was snowing
like crazy with strong wind.
“Aw, shit!” Bobby shouted, giving me a look of warning not to tell Mom
that he’d said the forbidden S-word.
We had to scramble back down Mrs. Schmidt’s coal shoot and huddle
together in a corner by the coal bin. We shivered for several hours in the dark,
but thankfully, Mrs. Schmidt never came down the cellar stairs to find us. The
three of us whimpered and cried. I felt my tears freezing on my cheeks. I’d
never imagined spending Christmas Eve like that.


* * *


The snow didn’t stop till sunrise when we had to burrow our way
out of the coal hole. The snow was up to my chin and even above Kenny’s
waist. It was hard to trudge our way through the deep, heavy snow in the
yard. Though some trucks had begun plowing the streets, we had to go
home the way we’d come along the railroad tracks. The tracks had been
plowed clear by a locomotive , but the third-rail was buried, so we couldn’t
see it. Bobby made a stuttering sound by sucking cold air through his lips
like an electric shock to make me and Kenny jump.
“Cut it out, Bobby!” Kenny complained, but I just wet my pants.
The warm flow quickly froze against my thigh. Under the streetlights,
the blowing snow sparkled like glitter, and the wind made five-foot
snow drifts at the street corners.
It was almost 9 a.m. when we returned to our own coal bin and
divvied up the goods among us. Kenny wanted the gold watch because
he believed it might be his grandfather’s. He kept that for himself, but
took a diamond tie clip for his dad and a pearl necklace for his mom.
Bobby snatched a silver hairclip with diamonds for Mom and a golden
cigarette case for Dad. Bobby grabbed a silver cigarette holder for
himself, figuring he’d use it when he was a grownup. Bobby never
seemed to like being a kid, always wanting to be in control like a
parent. That’s what made him so bossy with other kids.
I took what was left, a gold wristband for Dad and a diamond
encrusted rose pin with silver petals for Mom. Only one item remained
for me, a German coin dated 1933.

The profile of a man called Paul von Hindenburg was on one side, Reichsmark on the other.

It didn’t seem like much compared to what Bobby and Kenny got, but I liked the feel
of it in my soft little hand, and the coin seemed to glow with warmth
in my snow suit’s pocket. I’d lost my mittens in the snow, so the coin
warmed my cold hands when I put a hand in my pocket.
Kenny made it upstairs to his folks apartment, and Bobby and
I came up the cellar stairs into our apartment to find a Christmas tree
decorated and a Lionel train set with tracks around the base of the
tree. There was a train station beside the tracks that had a sign on
its roof: PLASTICVILLE
“Look, Bobby. The tracks have a third rail just like the LIRR.”
He was staring at my face with a grin. He nodded to the mirror
hung above our living room sofa. We both stood on the sofa and laughed
at each other with our faces blackened with coal dust from climbing up
and down the coal shoot at home and in Mrs. Schmidt’s coal bin. Mom
and Dad were still asleep after thinking we were safe in bed and staying
up late to set up the tree and the electric trains before Santa delivered
our presents.
Mom and Dad left an ashtray full of cigarette butts and the
dregs of what looked like Coca Cola ® in cocktail glasses. Bobby took
one glass and handed me the other.
“I dare ya, Gem,” he said, both of us aware of Mom’s strict
rule about drinking Coke only on Christmas and New Year’s.
“It’s Christmas,” Bobby said, giving me permission. “Cheers!”
I nodded, and Bobby counted to three. We both gasped because
there was rum in the Coke. We ran to the bathroom and rinsed out our
mouths, then Bobby washed the coal dust off his face and mine. The
bath towels were soiled, but Bobby just shrugged, probably figuring
he’d think of some explanation for Mom that would incriminate me
more than him.
“I know where Mom hides the wrapping paper. C’mon, Gem.
Let’s wrap Mom and Dad’s gifts and our own, too, as if Santa brought
them for us. Hurry, before Mom and Dad wake up.”


* * *


Mission accomplished, we were busy playing with our new train
set when Mom and Dad came out to the living room in their bathrobes
and pajamas to wish us Merry Christmas.
“Looks like Santa’s been good to you boys,” Mom said.
“And to you, too,” Bobby said, nudging me to help present them
with the gifts we’d wrapped, his neat with bows, and mine with tape in
all directions and the wristband and rose pin protruding from the gaps in
the reindeer-patterned wrapping paper.
“What’s all this?” Mom said with surprise. “How did you—?”
“Not us, Mom.” Bobby said.
“It’s from Santa,” I said.
She turned to Dad, but he just shrugged.
“Well, I never—“Mom said, but the doorbell rang, startling all of us.
Then Dad peeked out the bay window and said, “Wow! I can’t believe
all that snow. Must be more than two feet. Look at those drifts.”
“There’s a lot more than that snow that I can’t believe,” Mom said,
glaring at Bobby. Then she knew to turn to me, the weakest link in last night’s
chain of events.
Bobby wrinkled his nose at me, his signal to keep my mouth shut, but
then Dad said, “There’s some old woman at the door and she’s got a German
shepherd with her. Could she be blind and wandering out in the snow on her
own with her seeing-eye dog? She must have lost her way in the snow.”
“I don’t think so. Somehow, I think I can guess what she wants,” Mom
said with a squint, more at me than at Bobby, probably figuring I’d cave.
As Mom and Dad went to open the door, Bobby pinched my arm.



“Mouth shut, Squirt. She’s got nothin’ on us—” he started to say, but
ole lady Schmidt spoke first.
“Merry Christmas,” she said with a subtle German accent like my
grandma’s. “I just wanted to be sure the boys, the other taller one, too,
will come to shovel my walks today, even though it’s Christmas. I can’t
afford to slip on the ice and break another hip. Took me an hour to get
here walking in all this snow with my bum leg. Thanks to my dog, Strider,
I got here in one piece. Wires are down—no telephone service to call you.”
Then she hesitated, seeing Mom’s new rose pin pinned on her
bathrobe and the diamond clip in her hair. Dad had his gold cigarette
case in his hand. The way she glared at me, obviously Mrs. Schmidt
wasn’t blind as Dad had thought. Grownups seemed to have some
telepathic line of communication to report to one another about kids’
bad behavior.
“I’m glad to see your new rose clip suits you,” she said to Mom.
Mom stammered, surely wondering what this was all about.
“You see, I made a deal with the boy upstairs and your sons,” Mrs.
Schmidt said. “I let them each pick out Christmas gifts for their parents
and for themselves from my vast collection in return for their shoveling
my walks each time it snows this winter.”
I could see from Bobby’s expression that he was as dumbfounded
as I was. What was the old woman talking about?
“It was your older son’s idea, because the boys are too young to
have money to buy family gifts.”
“When did all this wheeling and dealing go on?” Mom asked with
a frown at Bobby.
Whew! I was out of this one.
Mrs. Schmidt gave Mom her answer. “Last Halloween, the three boys
stopped at my house and saw my collection. I could tell they admired my
wonderful things, so I gave them what they each wanted, and they agreed
to shovel my snow-covered walks all winter.” She turned with a smile at
Bobby and patted him on the cheek. “Bet you never thought it would snow
on Christmas, huh?”
Bobby shook his head and stared at his feet with shame.
“I don’t want to spoil your family’s Christmas morning, so how about
if the boys come by at two o’clock this afternoon. Three hours work before
dark will make us even. Farmers Almanac predicts no more snow this winter.
Maybe we can strike another deal next Christmas, too.”
“I had no idea my boys were so industrious,” Mom said.
“Sure fooled me,” Dad agreed.
“It is ‘Mrs. Schmidt,’ right?” Mom asked, and the old woman nodded.
“You must be chilled to the bone. Come sit and have some hot chocolate
with us. Can I offer your dog something to eat? We have some giblets set
aside because the boys don’t like it in their turkey stuffing. You’re welcome
to join us for dinner. We have plenty.”
Mrs. Schmidt stayed for an hour while Bobby and I played with her
German shepherd as the grownups shared stories. She had to leave hoping
to get a phone call from her son from the Veteran’s Hospital. Kurt had been
wounded in the war and had lost an arm fighting in France. He hadn’t been
able to visit his mother since his discharge. He’d hoped to come that Christmas,
but his travel had been delayed by the unexpected storm.
“Kurt was afraid he’d be more of a burden than a help to me, but
If he arrives tomorrow, I’ll convince him that, with your sons’ help around
my house, in exchange for gifts, of course, he’ll be no burden to me. You’ll
get your friend, the Shulmann boy, to help me, too. Won’t you?”
We nodded.


* * *


At two o’clock, the Shulmann’s came down from their apartment to
have holiday cocktails with Mom and Dad, while Kenny joined me and Bobby
over at Mrs. Schmidt’s house where three new snow shovels were leaning
against her porch railing for us to begin our work. Enthused by the holiday
spirit and inspired by the outcome of what had begun as an assault on the
property of a defenseless old woman, we cleared and salted Mrs. Schmidt’s
walks in just two hours rather than three.
“Great job, you schtinkers,” she said, jokingly. “Come in for some
hot apple cider before you go home.”
As we sat in our stocking feet with our goulashes drying by her
crackling fireplace, the old lady told us the stories behind the things we’d
stolen from her.
“Like your family, Kenny, I’m Jewish. But to escape from Germany
when Hitler began to take over, we changed our family name to Schmidt,
which was more Arian, if you’re foolish enough to believe such a super race
exists. We are Steinbergs by birth, which would have put us into the boxcars
to the death camps a year later. We were lucky to get out and come to
America without loss of life or fortune. But the guilt over those less
Fortunate still hangs around my neck like a noose. I’m thankful that you
boys did what you did.”
“Thankful?” Bobby said with puzzlement.
“Yes. These trinkets may have value, but not to me. They remind me
of my fear with no solution to appease my guilt, unless I give them away.”
“Wow, so you’re Jewish, too,” Kenny said. “I’m sorry I thought you
were a Nazi.”
“Hey! I’m not even five yet!” I blurted. “What’s a Nazi?”
“Hopefully, you’ll never need to know,” she said, but you’ll have to
before you become a man. If you don’t, there’s always a chance they’ll
come back.”


* * *


On our walk back home, it was turning dark and stars twinkled in
the mauve sky. When a shooting star crossed the horizon above the newly
completed Idlewild Airport, I shouted, “Look! Santa’s sleigh is heading back
to The North Pole!”
Even Kenny and Bobby couldn’t be sure if I was right. It seemed as
if Santa had somehow transformed three naughty boys into future young
men who’d learned an important lesson about giving rather than taking.
“Can you hear them?” I asked Bobby and Kenny.
“Hear what?” they chorused
“The bells jingling on Santa’s sleigh.”
They cocked their heads then grinned, unable to deny what they
also felt sure they’d heard. Over seventy years later, I still imagine hearing
them at Christmas.


* * *


It didn’t snow again that winter, but there was still a foot left on the
ground and higher drifts that were like grey boulders from air pollution by
New Year’s Eve. The Shulmann’s decided to join Mom and Dad by going to
Times Square to see the dropping of a ball from a tall building. Mrs. Schmidt
told Kenny, Bobby and me that the ball was invented by Adolph Ochs, a Jew
of German heritage who had owned The New York Times. The old lady had
a wealth of information to share.
I interrupted her to ask, “We didn’t know you had a dog. How did
you keep your German shepherd so quiet when we came into your house
through the cellar. I’d never have come if I’d known Strider was here.”
She laughed and said, “I’m not blind, but Strider’s deaf. He served
like my son Kurt in the war, but the shellshock destroyed his hearing. He’s
a bomb sniffer, not an attack dog, not even a good watchdog, but I love
him and he keeps me from getting too lonely.”


* * *


So that our parents could go out, Mrs. Schmidt volunteered to
have us three young boys spend the night. The old lady had great tales
to tell us that kept us awake till 1 a.m. She even let us use noise makers
on her front porch at midnight. Just don’t ever tell Mom and Dad that
she let us all drink a toast with her homemade cranberry champagne
to bring in the New Year. The Singing Cowboy, Gene Autry, sang
“Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer,” on our Philco radio all week. It
was a wonderful time to be a kid. Everyone else from that Christmas is gone, but me, but I still have my Reichsmark to remind me of all I’ve
learned since.
That next spring, I turned five under the private tutelage ole
Mrs. Schmidt, who saw to it that I’d know more about everything
than all the other kids before I started kindergarten. Of course, my
big brother, bossy Bobby, would always know even more than me.
Happy New Year!
Cheers!

Hot Shower

by Gregory Von Dare



For months we knew it would hit us. We were told that the American government had a foolproof plan and we could all relax. Yeah, right.
We were the losers in a giant celestial game of billiards. A roaming deep space object clipped a chunk of ice in the Oort Cloud at the far edge of our solar system and veered in toward the sun. So far, no big deal. But then it glanced off a big rock in the asteroid belt near Mars, which sent it barreling down among the inner planets. After several supercomputers crunched the numbers, they came up with the same conclusion—Earth impact.
Anyone who owned a telescope directed it skywards to catch a glimpse of the incoming deep space object which, due to its elongated shape, dark gray
color and booming speed, was called “The Night Train”. The object was about a kilometer long and weighed several million tons. It was a planet killer.
The U. S. government’s big idea, as it turned out, was to let the Asians handle it. We and the Europeans would put up a ton of money, the Japanese would do the engineering, and then the Chinese would quickly construct a swarm of rockets to reduce the Night Train to dust, harmless dust. Or chunks so small they would vaporize in the atmosphere, making a great show, but doing little if any damage.
Time was running out as Night Train rushed toward us. The Japanese worked with manic energy and the Chinese recruited a vast army of workers; which was not entirely a volunteer effort. Almost overnight, a fleet of gleaming, silver rockets took shape in Mongolia, where they could be launched without hurting anything, since there was nothing there to damage.
It made for quite the spectacle, seeing all those rockets lift off in tranches of six or eight, flashing skyward to save our asses. It wasn’t until they were on their way and the smoke cleared, that the networks started airing an interview with a Japanese engineer. The man claimed big egos and bureaucratic feuding within the rocket design project had allowed a fatal flaw in the guidance systems of the missiles. And that the Chinese rocket builders had used inferior materials in order to squeeze a few yuan of profit out of the project.
However, since the man had been fired about halfway through the venture, his testimony was down-played by congress and finally rejected. The engineer was arrested for conspiracy to cause panic and suffered a near fatal beating in prison.
In the end though, he was right. Somehow the rockets were flying too close together and many of them bumped into each other, blowing up whole groups of the missiles. Finally, there were only ten remaining out of the dozens that had been sent racing to our rescue. When they finally struck Night Train, at about twice the radius of the moon’s orbit, they had what seemed to be an astonishing success.
The object was gone in a cloud of smoke. However, the cheering was short-lived. What happened was that one huge rock had been transformed into hundreds of big rocks, most of the about the size of a school bus. Some nearly as big as a mountain. Too big to simply vaporize in the atmosphere. Instead of being shot with a howitzer, we were going to be peppered by a cosmic shotgun. The bookmakers in Vegas began taking bets on how many billions would die. You have to admire the persistence of greed.
Right now, I feel the ground shaking like the footsteps of a giant on the prowl. It is, as predicted, a hell of a show. Smoky streaks flash across the sky; in the distance there is a flash of light and a deep boom. Any glass that’s not covered by plywood or corrugated metal will burst into sharp little pebbles. You don’t want to be standing in front of that window.
Many people near the oceans have already been submerged by tsunami waves from offshore impacts. I don’t think drowning is fun, but they are the lucky ones. Every day it gets worse. Here in Denver, we haven’t suffered a major hit yet, but it’s just a matter of time. As Earth turns on it’s axis, it brings fresh territory into the path of the meteor shower.
Dublin was the first major city to be vaporized—so much for the luck of the Irish. Moments later, Seville went, then Lyon, all of Monaco, then Vienna, then Baikonur, the Russian spaceport.
And on and on it went. Here in the USA, the government was desperate to place blame on someone. The Japanese engineer was a prime figure, until the media spoke with a single voice extoling him as a whistle blower and hero, then the onus shifted to the Chinese. If only they weren’t so corrupt, if only they hadn’t cheated.
We watched the inexorable march of destruction across the Pacific. Hawaii was spared but a hard hit in the Aleutians generated a tsunami that caused major damage along the northern shores of the Islands. Honolulu was deserted but basically untouched. Hour after hour there were bulletins of hits, misses, and amazing stories of rescues or fatalities as the hand of fate touched so many.
With the dawn, it was our turn. San Francisco was not harmed but sprawling Los Angeles took three major hits and several minor ones. Most of Hollywood vanished in a single strike. Las Vegas received no less than four hits, completely destroying it. What were the odds of that? Phoenix was rendered into ashes and didn’t seem inclined to rise up from them. Here in Denver, we held our breath.
About 3:00 pm, the sirens went off. Everyone looked up at the same moment. There it was, a bright pin-point in the big sky. A daytime star. It didn’t remain a pin-point for long. In just a few minutes, it grew to the size of a Harvest Moon, then bigger.
The air began to warm up. It crackled in an eerie and foreboding way. That ball of fire was coming right down on us. Families, lovers, friends and co-workers made their tearful, hugging good-byes. Only seconds remained now. At the end, it got much hotter. The thing gave off a brilliant blue-white light that washed the color out of everything. It roared like a hurricane. We all thought the fireball would slam into the ground and that would be our finish. But we were wrong.
When the fragment of Night Train was still a mile up, it exploded. Our own personal H-Bomb. Too bad we were so stupid and greedy; that we had elected vain and incompetent leaders; that we had lost the will to work together for the survival of humanity.
The shock wave came rushing at us like a ghost of vengeance. It touched my building and…


End

“The Dead of Venice” (1914)

A short story by Dan Klefstad


She promised to do it quickly. I promised to stay out of sight. All bodies float, which is why I brought two anchors – one for me, one for her victim. All she need do is throw us in, then the chains, followed by the weights. This far out the lagoon is forty feet deep, maybe fifty. From down there our lifeless ears might still enjoy the sounds of Vivaldi performed in St. Stephen’s Cathedral. Just as likely, we’ll hear the rattle of Europe’s emperors as they prepare – once again — to exterminate a generation of working class blokes like me. As I row, I point to Italy’s newest battleship which dares to keep its lights on; perfect target for a night raid. I ignore that bit as I play the tour guide for Fiona and tonight’s meal. “The Regina Elena. Faster than the HMS Dreadnought wot I helped build. Yup, this next war looks to be a doozie.”
In the lamplight, Fiona toys with the gold dragonfly I pinned to her ball gown. I can see her eyes well up and her mouth tremble. Lorenzo, heir to the Duke of Parma, raises his fist at the glowing gunboat. “Viva l’Italia!”
Toff. What does he know of war? I served in the Tibetan campaign, so I know it’s a nasty business for those who actually fight. I want to hit him now but we’re still within sight of ship and shore. Looking back, I see a city of free spirits being hemmed in by sandbags and barbed wire. Bloody hell, when did the Four Horses of the Quadriga flee the Basilica? Someone said the statue might go to Rome for safe keeping. From what — So the Turks can’t take it back?
I suppose I owe you an explanation as to why three people are in a boat, after dark, and two of them will soon head to the bottom. Hang on: The young swell is giving Fiona his kerchief. Blimey, he even recites a Shakespeare sonnet – in English. She tries to smile but struggles to contain her thirsty teeth and, guessing here, a broken heart? Concern for her future? Both hands cover her mouth as she leans forward, shoulders quaking. This exposes her breasts which prove such a distraction that Lorenzo misses the oars resting and the blackjack falling toward his scalp. I wanted to wait ‘til a hundred yards off the Main Island, our usual point, but the fog rolled in so … Boom. Done. Colazione is ready.
I uncork my wine and try not to stare as she sinks her canines into his neck. It always amazes me how efficient she is. No wasted drops. Her lips move gently as she slowly sucks him dry. I’ve never timed her, but bottle and body usually empty together. Then I chain him to the anchor and over he goes. The rest – hundreds of them – are a little further out in what I call “the cheap seats.” This will be my final resting place. I can barely stop my tears now, but they’re not for me. Creatures like her are vulnerable these days. She’ll need someone to look after her, but my pain is almost debilitating now; I couldn’t arrange a replacement.
I take another sip and remember how our partnership began with an ad in the Daily Mail:
“Seeking Personal Assistant. Must be physically strong, and willing to work all hours. Compensation: copious. Benefits: worthy of a parliamentarian. Nota bene — People with the following characteristics should not apply: squeamish, weak-willed, illiterate, semi-literate, religious, superstitious, melancholic, alcoholic, xenophobic, agoraphobic, unimaginative, uninventive, uninspired, and with rigid moral standards.”
I had to look up Nota Bene and, if pressed, would cop to some grumpiness without a few pints each night. But I posted a reply. Benefits worthy of a parliamentarian. What did that mean?
***
We met soon after sundown in Hampstead Heath, at the gazebo. I wore a suit that no longer fit and she wore a dress that barely contained her bosom. Her coal black hair waved gently across the palest shoulders I’ve ever seen. I thought she was a courtesan looking for some muscle, and she did nothing to dispel that notion. She gave me money to hire a carriage which took us to Charing Cross. We stopped outside a row of fancy homes and that’s when she turned and handed me the dragonfly. All that gold with emerald eyes; I couldn’t guess the value of this “down payment” as she called it. Then she lowered her voice and — without blinking — said, “A gentleman lives there. I am going to drink his blood and he will die. Your job is to wait in this carriage until I return. If you tell anyone what I just said I will know, and I’ll come after you to reclaim my dragonfly. And you. If, on the other hand, you wait as instructed, I will pay a handsome sum. But first you’ll need to get rid of the body. Think of a place to bury him. And start thinking of places for tomorrow night, and every night. Welcome to your new career.”
***
She didn’t tell me for a week that I was her first. Guardian, I mean. Or caretaker or whatever you call someone that works for a … Whoops, not supposed to say that word. Anyways, from backbreaking work in a shipyard I started breaking my back for Fiona, digging graves and such. That first week I made more than all the previous year and a half. I quit that job — Hello new job — and soon graduated to being the murderer. Things were getting hot for Fiona, what with Scotland Yard improving their detection and all. She needed someone to do the dirty work, which I didn’t mind. I killed before, but it always bothered me that the people you shoot, stab, or blow up often go to waste. You seal them in a coffin or burn them and that’s it; they serve no further purpose. These days, when a body goes limp in my hands, I know it’s about to give life.
She looks ravishing afterwards. Her hair gets full and wavy. Her skin glows like the moon. And her eyes – you could drown in them, they’re like a clear lake with a bottom so deep, so full of secrets that you’d need to swim forever to discover them. It’s the opposite, though, when she doesn’t get her ten pints. That’s the nightly quota. The first night without a victim is bad, but her hair starts to fall out on the second. Then her skin wrinkles and begins to smell, and her eyes harden to the point where I think she’d eat an entire schoolyard of children. I work very hard to make sure I never see that look again.
***
“We have to move,” she announced one night. “Detectives, newspapers – I feel like we’re surrounded. Did you know Venice has lots of people and very few policemen? It’s also easier to get rid of bodies there.”
“Where will I dig? It’s a city built on water,” I said before realizing her point. “Fairly deep water actually, between the islands.”
“Yes.” She frowned. “The only problem is getting there.”
Before the night is over, I’m nailing her into a trunk with an unconscious bloke beside her. The journey would take two weeks by ship so she warned me: Some passengers would have to die. When I asked how many, she wouldn’t answer. I think she didn’t know the minimum needed to sustain her. In the end, I tossed three bodies over the rail; we couldn’t risk any more. To this day, I pity that poor bastard that crossed our path after we landed. I did a rum job of subduing him, and Fiona ripped him so terrible that half his blood painted the alley. Absolute horror show. We didn’t have a boat yet, no weights. Just my blackjack smashing his nose, a knock-down drag-out into the alley, and Fiona attacking his throat like a rabid dog. The musical accompaniment, though, was amazing. A lively melody emanated from a church across the street. I’d never heard a string ensemble perform, so I was unprepared for the effect it had. The bowing and plucking lifted my spirits, opened my heart, and stimulated an awareness I’d never felt before.
A spark of inspiration – Let’s make this disaster look like a Mafia hit. I took my knife, severed his head, and tossed it into the nearest canal. Wouldn’t you know, that did the trick. The next morning, I scoured the papers and saw nothing. No mention of a blood-sprayed alley, headless body, or bobbing face screaming in silent agony – Niente. There was, however, an article about another event on that same street: a review of a concert featuring music by the baroque master Antonio Vivaldi. It said they did five shows a week at St. Stephen’s Cathedral, and they always sold out when performing The Four Seasons.
***
St. Stephen’s became our main hunting ground. Fiona and I surveyed the crowd and she picked the swain who’d leave with her as the musicians stood to rapturous applause. That’s how we claimed the cream of European society. Too bad I won’t see the job through to its finish. Here, off the Piazza San Marco, this dying East-Ender is preparing for his curtain call. I am not even good enough for an emergency snack because the cancer makes my blood smell bad. When she said that, when I realized could serve no further purpose, I replied “Enough. Let’s end it.”
“Well,” I stand chained to my anchor, “you found me. You’ll find someone else.” I wipe my nose and eyes and lower my head toward her. “I’m ready.”
Her hands caress my face as her lips melt against mine; I taste a little of bit of Lorenzo. Now our foreheads rest against each other. “You’ll feel a brief shock but no pain. I promise you.”
“Will I hear the music from St. Stephen’s?”
“Vivaldi? Yes. And Bach …”
I nod, tears mingling with hers in a puddle at our feet. She drapes her right hand around the back of my head, stroking my hair, while her left tightens around my chin. “And Corelli … Scarlatti…”
I close my eyes.
“… Handel … Monteverdi…”
I feel the shock but the flash behind my eyelids is a surprise. From inside the boat I hear a series of sobs. Then a splash, followed by a slight wailing sound, which gets wobbly as I sink beneath the waves. Her voice grows fainter and fainter as I take my place among our Venetians.
Her timing was perfect. The concertmaster is tuning up the ensemble. I hear a pause. Then, glory of glories, they launch into the first movement, La Primavera. Four violins, one viola, a cello and bass fill my ears. Even the bells of the Regina Elena keep time with the bowing. I’ve seen this show dozens of times and never got tired of it. But the water bends the music in ways I couldn’t imagine. Antonio, if you’re in the ground somewhere, find a way to get yourself down here. Your Four Seasons never sounded better.
Best seats in the house, eh boys? You can thank Fiona for that. Better yet, keep her in your prayers. It’s the least we can do for her. God, what an amazing place to spend eternity.
###


‘The Dead of Venice’ is a chapter-excerpt from Dan Klefstad’s upcoming novel, Fiona’s Guardians.

To be an Adventurer
​
By Marc A. Hernandez


Graham drew the string back on his bow knocking the arrow and sighted the target. Though it was only fifty meters away, the target itself was no larger than a playing card made of a thin shiny paper. In the dark of the training grounds though it was nearly impossible to see even with perfect vision, and one would argue that he had better than perfect vision. With bow drawn and arrow ready, Graham gave a the light post a gentle nudge with his foot, causing the lantern to rock slightly splaying it’s light all through the grounds. He didn’t need much even an edge of the card was all he needed to pick up light. He waited, biding his time, muscles set against the pull of the bow, gray eyes focused on the silhouette of straw man. There, the arrow left the string like lightening and whistled through the air before striking the target a split second later. Graham lowered the bow and unstrung it, gathered his empty quiver and took the lantern off the post before making his way down to the target. As he arrived he lifted the lantern revealing the straw man riddled with thirty arrows. Each placed at the center of the small playing cards on different parts of the body ranging from joints to lethal points such as the heart and spleen. He studied each one noting how far from center each was before removing the arrow and placing it in his quiver. The first rays of light were finally casting themselves on the high clouds as he finished. He sighed as the grounds began to fill with milling students, instructors and other personnel, a new day had begun.
Graham sat on a stump in a heavily wooded area about six miles from the academy reading a book, The Twilight years of the Common Blue Dragon. He sat with a mildly amused expression as he read through the pages before a faint step caught his hearing. Finally, he thought, took them long enough. Graham had spent the morning after his morning archery practice to set up several trails for his students to track. All led to nothing but one led to where he waited. However, he made them all cross and wind with each other so if his students were not careful, they could be wandering in circles. He had made it difficult but not overly so that a good ranger couldn’t see the tricks and track the correct path. He had also given them until the sun was highest before he deemed that they had taken to long and lost their target.
Another faint step in the silent woods near the same area told Graham that they had finally arrived. He closed the book and stood up looking in the direction of the noise catching the glimpse of sandy blonde hair. She’s there so that means…. Graham over his left shoulder as the flash of a cloak disappeared behind a tree. One in front, one behind… and the third? A faint smile cracked his stoney face as he flipped the book in his hand before hurling it into the tree on his right. A thud followed by a pained surprised yelp then a crashing through branches broke the silence. A young man with short brown hair landed on the ground groaning holding his head, the book landed next to him.
“I have your friend,” Graham stated, “reveal yourselves or he dies.”
Nothing not even a breath broke the silence.
“Fair enough”, Graham shrugged as he walked over to the dazed man.
“So how should we do this”, he asked rhetorically as he removed a long knife from his belt.
“We could do this quick or maybe I should do this slowly. I am a little out of practice with the slow removal of flesh.” Graham twirled the knife dangerously close to the brown haired man’s face. Daze evolved to nervousness and concern as the young man realized what was happening.
“Go! Leave me!” the young man called out.
“So brave of you, thinking of your fellow comrades,” Graham shook his head. “Do you think they well tell of how you wanted to die for their behalf or how much of a moron you were inviting death upon yourself?”
The young man did his best to put on a defiant face, but his eyes gave away his thoughts. Graham stood himself up and put the knife away and reached out his hand to help the young man up.
“Enough! Come out Lilya, Korvin!” Graham called out.
“Gods above, Korvin!” The sandy haired Lilya groaned as she stepped out from the woodline. “Did you really think sending poor Ben into the trees would be a good idea?”
“At the time, it seemed like a good idea” a tall thin man with a smooth bald head approached from behind where Graham stood with a still disheveled Ben.
“After all it is like Master says,” Korven continued. “‘the enemy on the run that knows it is being hunted will be alert for all threats from all directions. To counter this, one must be prepared to approach from where they think they are most secure as this will be what they expect and want least.’” As he said this, Korven had taken a stance almost like a school teacher scolding his students.
“And still you tried to apply this tactic to the person who taught it to you,” Graham turned to him. “You may have had the first part correct but failed to realize that I would always be ready for confrontation. Not all enemies, beings or animals you may find yourself leading a party towards will be afraid. Some may be using the same tactic on you and will strike out and kill you all when you think yourselves invulnerable.” Graham paused and pointed to Ben you had recovered and was massaging his neck trying to avoid stiffness from the fall. “Much like Ben here found out with this attempt.”
“Thanks for that…” Ben grunted out as he let his hands fall to his side before finally noticing what had struck him out of the tree.
“Master, you were reading this?” He indicated to the book as Lilya snatched it out of Ben’s hand to inspect it.
“A little something to pass the time,” Graham replied.
“Oh I’ve heard of this one!” Lilya said enthusiastically. “Up until this book was written we didn’t really know what happened to the blue dragons and the end of their life. Where they went, how they died information like that until this Lockees person set out to document it.”
“A researcher went out looking for dragons?” Korven laughed, “He must have been in deep debt to risk either large reward or burning, agonizing death.”
“He wasn’t just a researcher,” Lilya shot back, “He was a scholar with mastery in nearly every subject. He not only understood the way the world as we know it works, but was also looking at the supernatural world, why only certain people are able to become mages and shamans. And he was definitely smart enough not to go alone.”
“You seem to know a good amount of this Lockees,” Ben spoke up, “I never figured you for a bookworm.”
Lilya smiled, “Some of us grew up in civilization, Ben. Not all of us had the luxury of chasing wolves away from our goats out on the Eastern Plains.” Then her face turned serious as she faced Graham who had stayed silent as they discussed the book.
“Master, there is one other thing that I had heard…” her voice trailed off.
“And what is that?” Graham asked partly curiously, mostly dryly.
“I had heard that you were in the party.”
Korven and Ben’s eyes widened slightly as they looked from Lilya to their Master then to each other.
“I was,” Graham replied.
“That means this is a recent book!” Ben said to Lilya “No way you read it when you were….” He stopped when he realized Lilya was tense and not paying attention.
“Yes you are correct,” Graham said to Lilya.
“Many think they are prepared but they are not, often the first time new adventurers leaves statistically most of that party will not return. They have in their heads glory and riches and take a quest that is better suited for ones with more experience. Unfortunately they learn, they suffer and if they can not endure, they return home or to the temples they came from. But the ones that can carry on, they can learn, how not make the same mistakes. Perhaps they eventually find a group of companions or maybe they find others who have lost just as much as they have. Perhaps with this group they go on adventures and quests, wiser and more wary, succeeding this time. They get a taste of victory, a heartfelt thank you from a from a poor mayor who was at wits end with a problem or they rescue a maiden taken by bandits before they could defile her. A small taste, but like a drug it is all that is needed. All the thoughts of glory and riches while in some far off land begin to become a reality again. Though you are all are just
beginning, never forget that even after a hundred quests you can find yourself staring into the face of defeat and for us, especially as rangers, defeat wears the same countenance of death.”
Graham stopped and smiled at his students who stood silently looking pale, they were unaccustomed to hearing this type of talk from their teacher who was usually much more reserved.
“Come, gather ‘round,” he motioned to the soft loamy soil and the three moved robitcally. Graham looked up at the sky and guessed there were still a few hours before the sun would begin to set.
“I won’t bore you all with the tiniest of details, but I will tell you the story of so that you better understand if this is what you want to do.”
Before we delve into the heart of the story, perhaps it is best if you knew who my companions were. I think of them often and will carry them in a special place of my memory as they were among the best I’ve ever worked with. First there was Asmir, our dwarven mage, nearly as round as he was tall with a great, thick, white beard with bushy eyebrows to match. He was just passed his bicentennial and though we never knew his his exact age we had a rough estimation of two hundred eleven years. Next was our tiefling paladin, Isaiah, with his glowing red eyes and horns. Despite his appearance he was the kindest being I have ever, and likely to ever, meet. He as our group thermometer, always knowing when it was time to rest as he seemed to have a sense of when we had pushed to far. Finally there was our high elf, yes the same who are rumored to have descended from the Fae. Kallen towered over us as our sword maiden. Unusual for an elf to not be a scout or ranger, she had seen a sword master performing various feats at a carnival nearly a thousand years ago and resolved to learn the art, much to her family’s chagrin. Elegant, precise and deadly in battle, absolutely stunning. Lockees, as one of you knows was the scholar and quest giver, choosing to accompany us. Though what you do not know, Liliya, is that Lockees is a
woman. Cynthia Lockees, she often kept her first name out of print as she enjoys her privacy. Also she fears that her reputation will precede her and will affect some of her fieldwork. An older woman at the time of our quest but still spry and youthful, she was not the figure of the typical aged, balding scholar with spectacles. She prefers to be out and active in the pursuit of knowledge, testing theories and coming up with new ideas that challenge the normal thinking. I’m sure right now she is halfway across the continent looking for some new mythical flower or mysterious creature, but I digress.
We had arrived to purported beast’s home, a cave that ran into a one of the mountains. It was early in the day and we expected the beast to be inside so we had set up a base of sorts a ways from the entrance. Everyone was to remain outside and I would venture in to scout the cave to see if it was occupied. It was dark but the large opening allowed ample light to come through for much of way. Eventually that light began to grow dim but found another light source coming from in front. I carefully made my way towards it, making notes of any hazards and looking for any traps that hadn’t been destroyed by the dragon as it entered. The fact that there were traps means that some intelligent creatures had occupied the cave at some point, possibly being consumed by the beast. I did my best not to dwell on that thought as I stepped out into a large domed area. The roof had collapsed allowing light to some in from a large hole that rose overhead some 80 meters. Due to the mountain it was at an angle as most of the light was cast against the back of the room. Scanning the room there was no beast to be found but many damaged man made objects. Silently examining the items I found weapons, some armor and crates of rotten food. Humans, I judged while examining the style of a helmet. A unique pungent smell caught my attention as I moved further into the natural room. I followed it and found a several barrels in various states of damage. Further examination revealed that they were used to store valturian tar, a highly addictive drug that causes the user to gain huge amounts of energy, strength and to depending on the amount an uncontrollable emotional state. It appeared that this was a drug runners hideout when the dragon decided that it wanted the cave for itself. After it took care of the previous occupants it got into the drug and began rampaging through the mountainside and nearing the city.

FACTOTUM

by

Steve Carr


My first memory of being inside that house was me awaking to the sounds of two voices.
“I think he's waking up.”
“Yes, he looks to be coming around.”
“Give him a few minutes.”
Before I fully opened my eyes I was lost in the sensorial assault on my body. I was bathed in the coolness of crisp clean linens, feeling the delicacy of sheets covering me, their scent of cleanliness a mixture of laundry detergent and fresh air as if they had been hung out on a clothes line to dry. I could barely distinguish my skin from those sheets, feeling scrubbed and aired out also. Also were the scents of apples blowing in an open window, and other aromas, fresh baled hay and cow manure from a grassy pasture and the sweetness of moisture from a recent downpour.
Beneath the lightness of the sheets my body felt weighted down, not by any mechanical means,
but by the muscles that defined it. They were foreign, those muscles; a change, no matter how subtle, in my physical structure. My fingertips were pressed against the sheet on which I lay, and they too felt foreign. As I opened my eyes completely they were massaged into focusing by a soft hazy white glow. Staring into my face were three other faces; young men of similar age and appearance.
“How do you feel?” the one with baby blue eyes asked, looking into mine.
“Where am I?” I asked, my throat raspy but not sore. My words sounded different, not unfamiliar, just different, as if I hadn't spoke them for some time and was on the verge of forgetting their simple meanings. The men around me each smiled differently giving me the impression they had each interpreted the question a different way and were trying to compose in their heads a friendly response.
“You're in a safe place,” the one with the gray-blue eyes said. “Are you in any pain?”
I didn't know why I would be. Although other than the opening of my eyelids and my fingers feeling the sheet, I hadn't voluntarily moved any part of my body. I didn't ache or have the sense that I had been injured in any way. I wriggled my toes slightly beneath the sheet and felt relief that my stillness was not paralysis. In thinking about my body, the entirety of it, I was aware that I was naked and that my skin felt like new clothing; its surface was courser and the hairs on it more numerous. I looked down the length of my body and while it was the same length that I recalled, the terrain was different. I had become mostly a flat plateau from my neck down.
“I'm not in pain, but I'm thirsty,” I said.
“Of course,” said the one with the gray-blue eyes as he raised a glass straw extending out of a glass of water to my lips. I sipped on the cold water watching the condensation on the outside of the glass turn to drops that slid down over his fingers. The two men stood silently watching as I drank. When satiated I pushed the straw away from my lips with my tongue.
“Where am I?” I asked again
“An outpost,” the one with the bright baby-blue eyes said.
“Then it's done?” I said.
They both nodded their heads. The one with gray-blue eyes put his hand on my arm compassionately then quickly pulled it off as if he had overstepped his bounds. “You can stay here and rest for a while or you can get up and get dressed,” he said. We put some clothes on the chair that we were told ahead of time would be the right size for you.”
I glanced over at the chair, at the pants, shirt, underclothes on it and a pair of work boots placed on the floor in front of it. “Give me a few minutes,” I said.
“Certainly,” they said in unison and started to leave the room. “If you need anything we'll be downstairs,” the one with gray-blue eyes said. Then they went out the door closing it behind them.
Staring up at the ceiling for several minutes I was immersed in the thoughts of how smooth it was, without a bubble, crack or imperfection. It was like a field of painted silk that stretched from wall to wall, corner to corner. I pulled one arm out from under the sheet and reached toward the ceiling, stretching and wiggling my extended fingers noting the stark contrasts between the tan of my arm and the perfect white of the ceiling. Then there on my forearm I saw the small blue tattoo. I pulled it closer to my eyes and read: David.
I sat up and swung my legs around to the side of the hospital bed I had been lying in. For just a moment I felt dizzy and briefly closed my eyes and allowed what felt like sand in my brain to shift into a level plane. When I opened my eyes the room seemed barren, with nothing on the bright white walls except recessed lighting that beamed out diffused light. There were no marks on the wall; clearly nothing had ever been hung on them. The open window was the only thing other than the closed door that broke up the monotony of the room. I pushed aside the sheet that had been covering me and stood up. Looking down the length of my body I saw the changes: no breasts, the addition of male genitals, hair on my legs, subtle changes in my musculature. Naked, I walked to the window and looked out.
Sunlight bathed a bright green lawn that stretched to a two lane road. The lawn, this house I was in, was bordered by a white rail fence. A huge tree heavy with foliage was on the left side of the lawn. On the right side where the fence was open, a gravel road branched off from the road and led up to the house. On the other side of the gravel driveway was a horse paddock where a large palomino stood at the rail around the paddock, its head hanging over it and nibbling on blades of grass longer than the rest of the lawn. A large black crow and several robins were on the lawn hopping about from spot to spot. On the other side of the road there was a forest, thick and dark. There were no other structures in sight.
I turned and put on the clothes left for me, and other than being aware of the heaviness of the boots, the clothing made me feel no different either. I had gone to sleep on my home planet a woman and awoke a man on this one. They had prepared me well for the change, but I worried that I should feel different at least about who I was, but I didn't. I was now David, the same person with a different name and different body on a different planet. There were no Davids on my planet. There were no men.
I opened the door and went out into the hallway. It was a world apart from the room I had just left or the world I came from. Along both walls heads of wild animals affixed to smooth and shiny wooden plaques were mounted along the walls. Some I was familiar with, like the lion, tiger, deer, moose and buffalo, but others I wasn't, but all stared from their taxidermied heads with black marble eyes. In between the heads were photographs in 8 x 10 mats and frames of hunters on safaris holding an assortment of weapons, most posing with broad smiles with their foot on a dead animal. The photographs ranged from early twentieth century to present day.
The shift from the sterility of the room to the environment of glorifying ritual slaughter of animals couldn't have been more profound. My heart beat hard against my chest and I became conscious of the thudding sound of my boots on the wood floor as I went to the top of the stairs. As I descended the chairs a cloud of noxious odors hung in the air; stale smoke, sweat and alcohol. At the bottom of the stairs I entered yet another world.
The room off to the left of the bottom of the stairs was a combination living room and junkyard. Along the walls in stacks as tall as I was stood everything from empty beer bottles to used auto parts. Paintings in cheap frames on black velvet of nude women were hung above the junk piles. In the center of the room five battered, worn overstuffed chairs faced the only wall not covered by a painting. The two men who had been with me when I awoke were each seated in a chair looking at a large flat screen television. Image after image of war scenes with dead bodies, ruined cities and blasting armaments of all kinds flashed into view then out. There was no sound, just the images. The two men turned to me as I entered the room.
“Did you find your name?” the one with gray-blue eyes asked me.
“Yes. I'm David,” I said.
“I'm Nick,” he said holding out his arm for me to see his tattoo.
“I'm Jake,” the other one said.
“What is this place?” I said sweeping my hand about the room and up the stairs.
“It's a place of men,” Nick said.
“Not of all men,” I said. “It can't be.”
“That's true, but it is representative of the men they want us to be,” Jake said. “It's part of our training.”
#
In late evening as the sun began to set behind the forest on the other side of the road the shadows behind the house grew longer and darker. I walked among fallen apples from trees whose branches were thick and weighed down with them. The aroma of apples, rotting and fresh, perfumed the air. Nick and I had placed the palomino in the stable for the night and gave it fresh hay and water before locking the stable and walking out into the cow pasture. There were no cows in sight but the fresh piles of manure that spotted the grass we were walking through was clear indication they had
been there recently. A flock of wild turkeys noisily made their way along the edge of the pasture bordered by another forest. Nick carried a rifle, its long barrel resting on his shoulder, the butt in the palm of his hand. He looked like one of the pictures of the soldiers in the photos in the upstairs hallway, only with jeans and a flannel shirt instead of a uniform.
“This isn't what I was expecting,” I said.
He put his finger to his lips and looked about nervously. “Not so loud, they have listening devices everywhere, even in the ground.”
“So what if they do?” I said just a little quieter. “It's not as if they're going to send me back home. Men, especially the version of it that they want us to be, wouldn't fit in on our planet.”
“You saw the same videos before you volunteered that we all did,” Nick said.
“Those were about how they wanted to change our bodies so that we would fit into this world's image of men, not that they wanted to change our personalities.”
“You can't change one without changing the other,” he said taking the rifle from his shoulder and aiming it at the turkeys but not shooting.
“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “But how do we affect any change on this planet if we're engineered to be the same as everyone already here? We were all told we were to be pioneers in the mental evolution of man as a species, not become caricatures extolling the worst traits of the human male species,” I said, my voice rising.
“Don't you get it?” he said. “Our planet intends to see to it that the society of mankind doesn't advance beyond where it is at present.”
“You know that and you don't fight against it?” I said.
“Hush,” he said looking around nervously again. “I only have two days more here at this outpost before I go out among them and I don't want any trouble.”
“Nick,” I said, “there are thousands of outposts just like this one all over this planet and have
been for many generations. Each outpost has those like us who became men to unknowingly perpetrate a lie about what it means to be a male. Doesn't that disturb you at all?”
“Not as much as being vaporized for treason,” he said, turning and walking back to the house.
#
In the middle of the night I was wide awake trying not to look at the walls of my bedroom covered in pornographic photographs. Staring up at the ceiling I was feeling hopeless about my future and despondent about having made the choice to commit to an irreversible mission to come to this planet. Through the open window of my bedroom a steady breeze carried in the scent of farmland. It was being awake that saved me most likely.
As the ship from my planet landed on the lawn in front of the house I jumped up from the bed and hurriedly slipped on my clothes and shoes and went to the window and watched as several females walked down the ramp from the ship toward the front door of the house. As they weren't bringing a new male to transition with us here at this outpost I surmised that only one thing would require such a visit, me. We had been overheard after all. I opened my bedroom door and ran down the hall, down the stairs, and out the back door into the forest beyond the pasture and hid among the trees, watching.
Even from that distance I could hear voices within the house, but not what was being said. When two flashes of light went off like quickly exploding light bulbs I knew Nick and Jake had been vaporized. I had been overheard after all. My home planet couldn't risk the threat of contagion spreading from me to them. I wanted to weep, not just for what had happened to the two men, but in realizing that while we had been given new bodies, we weren't acceptable as men unless we adhered to preconceived ideas of what men were on the inside as well as outside. We had been brought to this planet to maintain a status quo not to change it. From the forest I watched as the machines flew out of the ship and burnt or vaporized everything growing on or standing around the house, then scraped the earth clean, removing any sign that other than the house, no one had ever been there. Then the ships
flew off into the night sky.
I haven't traveled far from the house which they left standing for reasons that I can't completely fathom. The sheen from the window glass hasn't dulled. The scars left behind by the machines that scraped away the lawns and gardens that once surrounded the house are dug deep in the earth like bloodless cat scratches. Dead leaves and other flora debris are piled on the porch, carried there by the wind. Now, in its second summer of isolation, it is neither landmark or signpost. But as I drive by it and see it there never aging, its white paint not altered by the seasons, I worry that it has been abandoned only for a short while.


Steve Carr, who lives in Richmond, Virginia, has had over 300 short stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals and anthologies since June, 2016. Four collections of his short stories, Sand, Rain, Heat, and The Tales of Talker Knock, have been published. His plays have been produced in several states in the U.S. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize twice. His Twitter is @carrsteven960. His website is https://www.stevecarr960.com/ He is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/steven.carr.35977.

 
A DREAM WALKING
By Bernie Silver

I'm a semiretired reporter and editor who in my dotage has turned to part-time caregiving and fiction-writing, not necessarily in that order.
 
Randall Setler sat in the cloistered darkness of the Rialto movie theater fantasizing what it would be like with her, "with" being a euphemism for you-know-what, "her" being Irene Wyler, the beautiful—make that stunningly beautiful—star of the film he was watching.
Heaven-Sent had garnered no accolades and surely would win no awards, for like most of Ms. Wyler's two-dozen films, all of which Randall had seen at least twice, the movie was singularly unremarkable except for her.
But she was enough.
Enough to raise the hopes of many, if not most, women that they too might someday become strong and independent, yet remain kind, sensitive and understanding, and, as a bonus, mate with a good and honorable man.
As for men, Ms. Wyler triggered their fantasies of someday bedding a drop-dead, out-of-this-world, pulchritudinous woman.
Which might explain (note the modal auxiliary) the train of events that began midway through that night's Rialto screening of Heaven-Sent. One minute Ms. Wyler was
enjoying a glass of wine with one of her many lovers, and the next she appeared to be scanning the audience. Then, stretching plausibility even further, she popped out of the screen, descended the stage on which it resided and strolled down the center aisle, all the while looking directly at Randall Stetler. Upon reaching his row she took the seat next to him.
This can't be happening, he thought. Things like this don't happen in real life. Things like this can't happen in real life. Things like this don't, and can't, happen to me. I must be dreaming. Or fantasizing, as usual.
Just to be sure, Randall pinched his forearm, which hurt, so he must be awake. He almost pinched Ms. Wyler's but managed to refrain. Instead he turned back to the screen.
She was still there.
He glanced to his right, and found her still there too.
He could draw only one conclusion: he must be losing it.
Randall vowed, not for the first time, to stop all this nonsense, this daydreaming and fantasizing. But then the Irene Wyler next to him smiled the smile that had so enchanted him on screen, and that, along with her incomparable beauty, had earned her the lead in countless other men's reveries.
Irene Wyler leaned toward him and whispered, "Don't worry, you're not hallucinating—I'm real." She offered her hand. "Feel."
Randall hesitated. When the actress repeated her request, he gave in and took the proffered hand.
It seemed real enough. He squeezed it just to be sure.
"Ouch," Irene Wyler said. "Not so hard."
"Sorry."
"Well, at least you're convinced now, right?"
Randall remained mute.
"No? Okay, touch me again, only this time anywhere you want." Now the smile turned mischievous.
Still hesitant, Randall laid a hand on her shoulder—bare except for the spaghetti straps of her summery cotton dress.
"I suppose that'll have to do," Irene Wyler said. "Let's call it a start."
Randall removed his hand but said nothing.
"Oh, I get it," Irene Wyler said. "You're the courteous type . . . considerate of other patrons. I like that in a man."
Randall managed a half-smile but continued his silence.
"Okay, let's go someplace where we can talk," Ms. Wyler said. "Or do whatever."
She stood, grabbed his hand and tugged him to his feet. He followed her into the lobby, where she looked as exquisite as ever, even under harsh lighting.
"Where would you like to take me?" Irene Wyler asked.
Randall knew where he'd like to take her, but said, "You hungry?"
"Actresses are always hungry. The price of starvation diets.”
"What kind of food do you like, when you do eat?"
"I like anything and everything. You pick."
"Thai okay?"
This was Randall's favorite, so if nothing else he'd enjoy a good meal during this fantasy.
“It's more than okay," Irene Wyler said.
He chose the Thai House, a cozy eatery within walking distance of the theater.
#
Upon their arrival the actress kissed Randall's cheek, a gesture that felt real enough, then took his arm as they entered the restaurant.
Apparently both hostess and waiter could see her. The former led them to a table for two and the latter gawked a moment before taking her order of tofu and bean sprouts. Reluctantly he turned to Randall, who ordered Pad Thai and, with Irene Wyler's consent, two iced coffees.
The waiter departed and Randall gazed openly at his companion.
"'What're you staring at?" She sounded more curious than annoyed.
"You."
"I know that, but why? Do I look that much different in person than on screen?"
"No, you're breathtaking either way. It's just, I've never seen you in reality, if that's what this is. Which I doubt."
"Thanks for the flattery but what do you mean, 'Which I doubt?'"
"C'mon, this isn't real. It can't be."
"You mean us being here together?"
"Yes."
"Why can't it be real? You felt my hand, my shoulder, my kiss . . . what more do you want?"
"Look, actresses don't just step out of a movie screen and into my life," Randall said. "Now don't get me wrong, this is great. In fact, it's the best dream I ever had. But it's just that, a dream, and I'm pretty sure I'll wake up soon. I just hope it's not too soon."
"Okay, I'll play along," the actress said. "This is a dream, and I too hope you don't wake up prematurely. Because we have something to do."
“What do you mean, "some thing to do? What thing?”
"Please don't play dumb, Randall. It's unworthy of you."
He decided not to question her further. Whatever would come, would come. Admittedly, though, if her idea of something to do coincided with his, he'd finally reached nirvana.
"So what do you do with your time?" Irene Wyler asked. "That is, when you're not picking up women in movie theaters."
"I didn't . . . I . . ."
"Do you know how cute you are when you blush?"
"I . . . no . . . well, I'm a writer."
"A writer? How exciting. What do you write?"
"Fiction. Short stories mainly."
"That's wonderful!"
"Only one of them's been published, in some obscure magazine whose name I can't even remember. And I got paid next to nothing for it."
"But you're doing what you love, right?"
"Yes, there's that. I worked nine-to-five for years, in the PR department of a major tech company. I hated the job but it paid well, and I saved enough to support my writing
habit. At least for a while."
"Good for you. I admire risk-takers."
"Yes, but all those years—"
“Doesn't matter. You're doing what you love, and risking your security to do it. That's admirable . . . and in a way romantic.”
"I never looked at it that way, but I'm glad you do."
"Would you take a risk for me?"
"If you were real I would."
She laughed full out just as the waiter arrived with their coffees. Irene Wyler sipped hers, then surveyed her surroundings. "I like this place . . . it's homey and comfortable." She turned back. "I also like my escort. A lot."
"Who . . . me?"
"Did someone else squire me here?"
"But you don't even know . . . I mean—"
"I know a little about you, and what I know I like. Now it's time to find out more." She cleared her throat in exaggerated fashion. "First off, how old are you?"
"Um . . . does it matter? "
"Coy on the subject, are we? So are most people. And no it doesn't matter. Next question: have you ever been married?"
“Twice. Two flops are standard for someone my age.”
"Now you sound cynical."
"Disappointed would be more like it. I'm not bitter, though. I'm sure my exes were disenchanted with me."
"Well, I'm sorry about your failures. If it's any consolation, I'm not disappointed in you."
"Yet."
"Yes, but I could have been disillusioned by now. I might have found you boring or boorish or self-absorbed or any number of other unlikable things. But I haven't."
"That's nice, but the way it goes with men and women is that, after they've been together awhile, the other shoe falls. Because then they lower their guard and let it all hang out, including their defects. So they split up or get divorced, then go through the process all over again with someone else."
"What a dismal picture. Why don't we take it one step at a time and agree not to get married today."
Randall had to smile.
Just then the waiter delivered their food, gazed longingly at Irene Wyler and left.
She dug in and cleaned her plate before Randall was halfway through his Pad Thai. "As you can see," she said, "I've decided not to starve tonight."
Rather than comment on her meager dinner, Randall switched subjects. "I've been meaning to tell you, I love your work . . . all of it. In addition to . . ."
“In addition to what?” Irene Wyler asked, grinning.
“Well, you know, in addition to your looks.”
“Oh, they're not that much.”
“C'mon, false modesty's not allowed here. You must be aware of how gorgeous you are.”
"Thanks to the makeup and camera people. Amazing what they can achieve."
"Some actresses may need Revlon and fancy camerawork, but I'm sitting right across from you and they have nothing to do with what I see."
"You sure about that? You don't even think I'm real."
"Well, you're not, but within this dream . . . you know what I mean. Right here, right now, you look amazing."
“That good, huh?”
"That good. In fact, as long as I can say anything I want . . ."
Randall hesitated.
"What?" Irene Wyler smiled encouragement.
"Well, I'd give my right arm to sleep with you. No, let me amend that. I'd give my right arm and left leg to sleep with you.”
"Rest assured, you won't have to sacrifice any limbs to do that."
"So you're saying you want to have sex too? With me?"
"Obviously."
"See, that proves this is another one of my fantasies. In real life, it doesn't work that way."
"And just how does it work in real life?"
"Well, usually a guy's gotta date a woman awhile before she'll go to bed with him. And even today, with feminism and all that, she probably won't tell him she wants to have sex. He's gotta read the signals and make sure the timing and room temperature are right, then he has to take the initiative."
"Is that so?"
"It's so. For most of us, anyway."
Irene Wyler sipped her iced coffee while Randall picked at the remainder of his meal. He wondered if anyone could overhear them. No matter; everyone else was a figment too.
"I'm sorry carnal knowledge of a woman has been such an ordeal for you," Irene Wyler said. "But tonight you can relax. I want you and you want me, so we'll both get what we want without a lot of effort."
"I don't understand. Why would you—"
"Do you want understanding or me?"
"No contest."
The waiter appeared and asked if they wanted anything else. Randall shook his head and requested the check.
"Sorry . . . I'm being rude,” he said after the waiter had gone. “You want dessert?"
"Yes, but not here." That smile again.
Eager to depart, Randall left more than enough cash without waiting for change.
#
Their moderately priced hotel room came with the usual trappings: queen-sized bed, chest of drawers, glass-topped table and thirty-inch television. Also a stuffed chair and five-foot floor lamp.
The room had one drawback: its only window overlooked the hotel parking lot.
"Sorry," Randall said, peering out at rows of cars basking in the moonlight.
"What're you apologizing for?" Irene Wyler sat on the bed, bouncing several
times as if to test its strength.
"The view. It's not very scenic."
"I didn't come here for the scenery."
"No, but it would've been nice if—"
"You're nervous," she said.
"It shows, huh?"
"Yes, definitely."
"I get nervous around beautiful women. Always do, probably always will. And now you and I . . . you being the most beautiful woman I ever met . . you and I are about to . . . you know. That makes my jitters doubly embarrassing. You'd think at my age—"
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why're you so nervous around beautiful women? They're just flesh and blood."
"That's what they are to other women and some men, I guess. But to guys like me they're the impossible dream. And believe me, the only reason I'm in this room with you is because I'm dreaming."
"You still think this isn't real."
"I know it isn't."
She stood, walked over to him and kissed him lightly on the lips.
"Was that real?"
"Yes . . . no . . . I mean, dreams always feel real when you're having them."
She put her arms around him and kissed him harder.
"Was that real?"
"It felt genuine, but—"
She placed a hand over his mouth. "Hush. What say we go to bed and see what's real and what isn't."
They went, and by dawn's early light Randall believed.
Almost.
#
Irene Wyler exited the shower, dried herself off and wafted back to bed, where Randall Stetler lay staring at the ceiling. She got under the sheets and snuggled next to him. He turned to her, then tried to hide his dismay. He'd seen women without makeup before, of course, but the sight of Irene Wyler's pale, unexceptional face was a shock to his system.
"You can't say I didn't warn you," she said. Then, "Well, now that you've seen this much, you may as well see the rest."
"But I've already—"
"Not with the sun streaming in."
She pulled her portion of the sheet aside, revealing her unclad body, then pointed at the stretch marks.
Seeing them clearly for the first time, Randall said, "You've got kids?"
"One. A son, Daniel."
"Um . . . how old's—"
"Eleven."
"You're not . . . I mean . . ."
"No, I'm not married. Not anymore."
She bent her left knee, the one nearest him, and traced a path along her entire leg, smooth, firm and flawless except for the spider veins decorating it from thigh to ankle.
"Other leg's the same." She displayed it in the same manner. "Courtesy family genes," Irene Wyler said. "My mother and grandmother had even worse cases, if you can imagine it."
Randall remained silent.
"Do my legs bother you?"
"No, of course not. What kind of man would—"
"Oh, you'd be surprised how many men lose their enthusiasm once they see me in the buff."
"The thing I don't understand is how . . . in the movies . . . when, you know, you're in shorts or something . . ."
"The miracle of digital airbrushing. I keep begging them to show all my warts but they just laugh, as if I've said something funny."
"I--
"But thank God you don't mind them, my lovely veined legs."
"I . . . uh . . ."
"Oh good, but there's something else you should see." She turned on her stomach. reached behind her and patted her buttocks.
"They look like prunes, no? Even working out doesn't get rid of the cellulite. You should hear the comments. One guy said . . . well, let's just say men can sometimes be
cruel." She played with Randall's chest hairs. "I'll admit, though, in the light of day I'm a mess."
"No you're not."
Irene Wyler scooched over and brought her face close to his. "You lie." She sounded puckish and solemn at the same time.
Randall turned on his side, facing away from her.
"See, I was right," she said.
He thought he heard a sniffle and turned back. "Are you crying?"
"No, just acting." She looked at him with watery eyes.
"I mean it," he said. "What's the matter?"
"I'm sorry. It's just that I thought you'd be the one."
"The one what?"
"Don't worry. You'll be fine . . . for someone."
"But not for you."
"I'm afraid not."
"What'd I do wrong?"
"Nothing, really. You did what men do."
“I don't understand.”
“You will someday. Maybe.”
For some reason, Randall felt incredibly sad. Gathering his courage, he told her so.
“Me too," Irene Wyler said. "I always am.”
“You don't strike me as always being sad.”
“That's not what I mean.”
Randall felt confused.
Dry-eyed, Irene Wyler kissed him on the nose.
"Did you have a good time last night, meaning all night?" She grinned impishly.
"You know the answer to that."
"Good. Now I have to go."
"Where?”
"Back."
Randall sighed in exasperation. "Back where?"
“You know." She got up and started to dress.
"No, I don't know."
"You'll figure it out."
Irene Wyler finished dressing and Randall started to get out of bed.
"Stay here, my love," Irene Wyler said. "I'll catch a cab.”
She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.
Then disappeared.
#
Irene Wyler looked out at the audience sitting in the cloistered darkness of the movie theater. She could tell this new one, like all those before him, was fantasizing what it would be like with her.
She popped out of the screen, descended the stage, strolled down the center aisle and took the seat next to him.
"Don't worry," she whispered. "You're not hallucinating—I'm real."
She offered him her hand.
"Feel."

Fools (?) for Love

By Angela Camack

It was a blinding-hot day in Ellinia Kingdom, the Eastern and Western suns blazing. Harvest was in progress despite the heat. The threshers, large wheels with blades between them pulled by huge tusked oxen, gathered graingrass to be sent to be milled for bread. Workers pulled fruit and vegetables from trees. People on tiny steeds buzzed swiftly around the fields, bringing water to the workers.
The hardest work was reserved for prisoners and those out of favor with the kingdom, removing the rock trees from the perimeter of the fields. The rock trees were almost impossible to cut, and the wood was useless, but the hard roots of the trees grew into the fields, choking new growth and sapping the ground of water. Around the fields, overseers watched the workers’ progress. A percentage of all crops and goods were sent to the palace and council “for the good of the kingdom.” Should anyone spend too long mopping a brow, or enjoying a fine spring day, they would be noticed, and their productivity watched.
The kingdom had always been there, watching. All that ever changed was the balance between benevolence and harshness shown by the king. The family in power now, the Hevers, tended toward harshness and capriciousness. What was accepted and who was favored could change without notice or reasons given.
Attempts to rebel were small and easily extinguished. Ellinia was large and sparsely populated; groups eager for change could not easily communicate. Working the land and trying to establish trade left people too tired to plan rebellion.
Lenae and Madolyn met at the large tree at the forest’s entrance, as they had done since childhood. They had been committed to each other since then.
They both had the pristine beauty of the Ellinians; slender, small-boned, with large, almond shaped eyes tilted at the corners, mirrored by tilted ears. Both were dark-haired and dark-eyed. Lenae straightened the collar of his tunic and leaned against a tree, his lap harp slung along his shoulder. His left leg, injured in a childhood game (but in Ellinia no games were games), was troublesome today.
Madolyn knew without asking. “It’s bad now.”
“No, I’m just lazy,’
“Still want to get away for a while?”
“More than ever.” Madolyn was looking particularly lovely. She was simply dressed for a royal, in a white dress, a blue band holding back her hair. Her only jewels were blue earrings and the birth-sign necklace that Lenae gave her, and that she always wore. Only the sadness in her eyes seemed out of place.
“Glide?” she asked.
“Glide.” In Ellinia, on hot, windy days, the air was so thick that the light-boned Ellinians could be airborne. It was common to see men gliding home from the fields, or women sailing from the market, parcels in hand. Poles with metal handles were scattered
around the kingdom, to allow gliders to settle back on earth. Madolyn and Lenae ran a few steps and let the wind take them further into the woods. grabbing branches to let themselves down as they came to a bench in a small clearing.
Madolyn was a princess; Lenae the son of the ambassador to Felaria. They had always been together, but everything was upended now. Ellinia and its neighbor, Franks, had been at war over boarders for over 100 years. Fifty of those years ago, to stop the fighting, the kingdoms’ lands had been divided in equal proportions. However, different resources were in different areas, and the countries now fought over sharing them.
Now much of each country lay in ruins. Countless young men had died, or came home missing parts, or too quiet, with shattered pieces loose inside them. It was said that some of the land was so blood-soaked that nothing would grow anymore. Women took over some of the farms and trades, but who would be there to father sons to come after the missing men? The King of Franks came to Madolyn’s father with a proposal. One of his sons had died in the last siege. His wife had died two years ago, leaving him with only one son. If King Lesto would give him Madolyn, they would be families, Madolyn was young, heathy and certainly fertile. She would produce more sons, insuring his lineage. Once the rulers had grandchildren in common, surely, they could work toward peace.
This would solve many of King Lesto’s problems. Madolyn was a princess of the blood, but as bright as the Western sun and as stubborn and unyielding as the wood of the rock tree. She might not be as strong as a man, but she could argue you to death. He bitterly regretted allowing her an education. The gods had blessed him with one son, now visiting Ellinia’s allies. Why could he not have another with Madolyn’s intelligence and passion, all wasted on a woman?
Lesto could make several excellent matches for her, but he knew who she wanted; the ambassador’s son. Lenae was a teacher, a poet and troubadour, skills of lesser value in Ellinia. Madolyn should have known better. Fools, both, wasting time instead of negotiating the best matches possible.
But she had talked herself into the marriage with King Hugo. She had begun to argue with her father about the war between the two countries, and against jousts, mock battles and demonstrations of strength, which she saw as symbols of war. She even dared to suggest diplomatic proposals to him.
Having argued for peace at such length, she could hardly refuse to be part of a plan to bring it about. She agreed to marry King Hugo. He was a hard man who treated the people who tended his lands and castle miserably. He was given to drunkenness and adultery, but Madolyn would marry him. As luck would have it, Lenae had been offered a post at a university in Felaria. By the end of harvest, it would be over. Madolyn would be married and Lenae in Felaria. They were taking every moment possible in the time they had left.
Once they reached the clearing, they clung together, but could go no further. Madolyn’s purity and fertility were currency; her virginity was proof that any sons would be of her husband’s lineage. Even a princess of the blood would be severely punished otherwise.
“How many days now?” she asked.
“Don’t think about it. Let’s just use the time we have.”
“I have to do this. It’s a chance to stop the fighting. If it can save lives, save land – “
“I know, Madolyn.” Lenae paused. “Look, I don’t need to leave. I can stay if you need me. I’ll be closer to you here than in Felaria. I can go on teaching here.”
“It’s such a chance for you. You know that poets are loved in Felaria. And it could be dangerous for if you were suspected of interfering in my marriage.
“I don’t care.”
“It hurts enough to let you go. I’d rather see you safe in Felaria, teaching and writing.” She smiled. “I’ve heard about those Felarian women. They’re a charming lot. You’ll have plenty of reasons to write poems ….”
“Oh, Madolyn.” He took her in his arms again. She pressed her face into his tunic. She made no sound, but he could feel her shoulders trembling and his tunic was soon soaked. In Ellinia, even royals learned in childhood that you did not sob. You did not display tears. You let nothing show.
Madolyn calmed and they talked. Lenae played his lap harp. Madolyn made up poems, terrible poems, but sharply descriptive of the people they knew. She could always make him laugh.
Finally, it was time to leave. They walked, feeling too heavy to glide.
Madolyn’s parents watched her plod back to the castle. “Out with the little lame genius again,” grumbled her father.
“Should we do something?’, asked her mother, Queen Jinna.
“No, the time to act was years ago. Let her see him. We need to keep her steady until the wedding.”
“She’d better go through with this.”
“She will. She sees herself as the peacemaker. That’s too much for her to resist.” He paused, looking out over his land. “Peace will be a relief.”
“We need the bride price Hugo will pay even more.”
Madolyn entered the castle. Her mother met her as she headed for her room. “Go and change, Madolyn. We’re having guests.”
“What’s wrong with what I have on?”
“Why you persist in dressing like a schoolgirl confounds me. You forget who you are.”
“How can I forget? I’m the prize cow at the marriage fair.”
Her mother sighed. She was counting the days until the marriage too. “Just, for once, do as I say! It can’t be too much of an ordeal to put on a silk gown and some jewels. And take off that stupid birth-sign, it’s juvenile.”
“Not likely,” muttered Madolyn.
“What did you say?”
“I said, I’ll tread lightly.”
Things were miserable between Madolyn and her mother and had been so even before the wedding was arranged. People whispered that her mother’s hostility arose from jealousy. She was a famous beauty, but Madolyn was young, and showed every sign of becoming more beautiful than her mother.
Lenae met with his Master of Swords after seeing Madolyn. All men in Ellinia who had any funds at all trained in the fighting arts. Lenae’s Master was one of the oldest and most respected. He was named judge, to oversee disputes and crimes dealing with battle. But he no longer took new pupils. He was tired to death of fighting with no cause, of soldiers who hurt those who were not soldiers, of those who took resources and women after battle.
Lenae worked with another former student, using swords, maces and lances. Master taught them how to compensate for shortcomings, to watch their opponents for clues and missteps and to work against their opponent’s strengths. “Sometimes it’s the muscle between the ears that helps you win,” he often said. He asked Lenae to stay after the session.
Lenae slowed his breathing and drank water, as Master’s assistant put away equipment. “You’re coming to me more often, son,” said Master.
“I feel I’m going to need it. I don’t know why.”
“And these are hard times for you. Lady Madolyn is very brave.” He laughed. “Do you remember when she kept asking why girls couldn’t go to fighting class?”
“Oh, I remember. She’s not so keen on fighting now. I just hope something comes from this marriage.”
“So do we all.”
There was feasting the next night, the first celebration of the match between Madolyn and Hugo. Madolyn was pale but composed, deftly dodging the paws of her betrothed and his proprietary embraces. Lenae was there, of course, representing his parents, who were in Felaria. His absence would have been noticed. But he could no longer watch the charade. Having made his
appearance, he left the hall and stepped into an alcove, almost stepping on a small, bedraggled bundle.
“Tippa?” A girl with tangled bronze hair, swollen eyes and a tears-and-paint smeared face pulled out a knife so swiftly it seemed to come from the folds of her dress. Tippa was a childhood friend who had family in Franks. They worked in Hugo’s castle; while staying with them she had become his mistress. She was mistress still even though his wife was dead.
“You.” She put away her knife. “What are you doing here?” Her words were slurred, and an empty wine bottle was beside her.
“I’m sorry, Tippa,” Moon above, she loves the brute, he thought.
“Save it. He’ll be atop your honey before you know it.” She paused. “I’m sorry, Lenae.”
“You can ….” He almost said that she could go on with Hugo but knew that would not console her.
“Yes, I know. He can still bed me, but not marry me. Still the whore. What do I have to give him?”
“Yourself, Tippa. In a fair world, that would be enough.”
Tippa howled, then crammed her fists to her mouth, stopping her sobs. Lenae took her in his arms. For the second time in as many days, a woman silently soaked him with tears.
“I’m going home now.” Tippa stood up unsteadily.
“I’m taking you.”
“Don’t want anybody to take me home!”
“Plenty of rudies leaving the party drunk. You don’t need them bothering you.” He wrapped her cape around her. His arm firmly around her waist, they plodded out, two people in love left behind by scheming and carelessness.
A Games was held the next day to honor the couple. Madolyn and her parents sat in their box with King Hugo and reviewed the parade of steeds and contenders. The sun caught the banners and the steeds’ reins and burnished the sand in the arena. The crowd roared, and ladies gave tokens to the contenders. Lenae was there, part of the ceremony, wearing his sword as required for the show.
The fights began. Some contenders played by the rules of such combat, meant to demonstrate skill and power but not to intentionally inflict damage. This being Ellinia, some did not heed the rules. As the games wore on, the sand turned red as some contenders hacked at opponents, thrust swords at men already down and aimed at hearts or livers. The game could be beautiful if played as a game; it could be a graceful dance that showed the power and intelligence of the fighters. Played for brute force, it was simply carnage. Some of the crowd roared anyway.
The games that were not games wore on. The air grew hotter and dustier, the crowd noisier and discontented as the wait for the last battle grew unusually long. Finally trumpets sounded and the Games Master came to the parapet. One of the final contenders had fallen in the preparation area and broken an arm.
The news spread through the crowd as the Games Master conferred with the King and Queen. They agreed to allow the Queen to choose a replacement. She stepped to the parapet.
“Let’s have a new champion,” her voice rang out. “Let’s see how far poems and songs can take us in battle today. I call on Lenae Bouldon to fight the final battle.”
The crowd buzzed. Lenae’s Master questioned a point of rule. The Queen overrode him. Madolyn’s face and lips went white. She started to rise from her chair, but Lenae caught her eye and shook his head. He could be punished for refusing to fight. He picked up his sword and walked to the royal box.
“Will you give me a token, my lady?’
Madolyn’s face was taut with the effort to keep control. She handed Lenae a gold ribbon. He put it though a buttonhole of his tunic and walked to the center of the arena.
His opponent was Earle Vestrin, a fighter for a long time. He was known to be brutal and his tactics even in the arena skirted the rules of battle. Some of the contenders, those who still looked for honor and fairness in the games, left in protest of the match; for Vestrin to face an unseasoned, lamed young man carried no honor.
The contestants bowed to the royal box and to each other. Almost as soon as they arose, Vestrin struck a blow that swiped the side of Lenae’s arm, tearing a fold of skin and leaving a patch of blood. Lenae wavered but recovered in time to block Vestrin’s next blow. And the next. And the next.
Lenae remembered Master’s teaching. His chance to come out of this alive was to avoid a mortal blow and tire his opponent. He saw that Vestrin turned his face slightly in the direction his next blow would go. Lenae parried each thrust. He then sidestepped the sword and thrust his own. Vestrin sidestepped it but almost slipped. Lenae thrust again and Vestrin parried. And again. Again.
Vestrin was getting angry. He didn’t expect any fight at all. He stopped thrusting and swung his sword in a circle. Lenae guessed that when Vestrin looked straight ahead he was changing tactics. He dropped to the ground and eluded the sword. The crowd roared its approval.
Lenae thrust his sword but Vestrin blocked it, pushing with his greater strength against Lenae. He pushed back as hard as he could but began to falter. “Impossible,” he thought. He dropped to the ground, rolled away and bobbed up again, thrusting his sword. The move so surprised Vestrin that he could barely parry Lenae’s sword. They continued. Lenae’s lame leg cramped and his muscles stung. Blood was seeping down his arm, but he kept on. The crowd was with him now.
They continued alternating thrusts. Vestrin’s sword nicked Lenae’s arms and hands but did no major damage. Vestrin’s frustration caused mistakes. His thrusts fell wide of his target and his footing slipped. Lenae parried another thrust and moved suddenly to his right and backwards. Vestrin lunged but overbalanced. Lenae thrust again and Vestrin fell trying to parry.
It was the luckiest of strokes. Lenae stood astride Vestrin’s body and held his sword to his throat. It was a signal of strength and a call for a decision of victory. Queen Jinna had the right to decide, as she had named the contender. She looked as if she could plunge the sword into Vestrin’s throat herself but named Lenae as victor.
The crowd roared again. The contenders bowed. Lenae almost felt sorry at seeing the shame in Vestrin’s face, but any pity was swept away by the power he felt. The Games Master gave Lenae his prize purse. “I’m alive,” he thought. “I’m going on from here.” Exhausted and bleeding, Lenae limped to the resting room on the side of the arena so that he could be bathed and treated. An attendant gave him a glass of brandy, red and warm, which he
drank gratefully as his wounds were cleaned and dressed. Soon he heard noise at the door; Madolyn’s voice and the voices of attendants.
“Please my lady, the men are not dressed, my lady. Your friend is fine, he will be out soon.”
Lenae smiled and sipped brandy. His brave Madolyn. Then he suddenly felt cold.
What was Madolyn’s bravery going to do? Would it change anything? He thought of the bloodlust of the crowd. He remembered the Queen’s look of triumph as she sent him into the ring to possible death and smiled as she witnessed her daughter’s agony. He thought of the game that was not a game in the arena today, where his opponent would have gladly killed him just because he could. Time after time, the violence won out. Madolyn would sacrifice herself for nothing. The violence was etched deep in the bones here. Would it surface in him? He remembered the exhilaration he felt after the battle with Vestrin. Would he ever want to fight simply for the power of fighting? They had to get out and go to Felaria.
He met Madolyn in the forest clearing the next day and told her of his plan. She paced in a circle as she considered her responsibilities, to the kingdom, to herself, to Lenae. Finally, she stopped pacing.
“You’re right. Change will need more than one marriage to come.”
“So, you’ll come to Felaria with me.”
“Yes. Of course, yes.”
Once decided, they moved quickly. They packed as lightly as possible. Lenae gathered his winnings from the arena, his travel fund and savings. Madolyn took jewels that were not part of the royal treasure, good ones that would not be traced to the kingdom that they could sell if needed.
That night, they went to the Master’s home. As judge, he could marry them. He did so, not without reservations; he was thinking of the plan for Madolyn to marry Hugo.
“I know it will take much strength to marry King Hugo, and to leave Lenae, but have you thought what your leaving will mean?”
“If I thought my marriage would change anything I would do it, no matter what I had to give up. But it won’t.”
“Point well taken, my lady.”
“Master, why should peace depend on one marriage between two people? Aren’t the kingdoms tired of the fighting?”
“Many are. There have been rebellions, after all, always small, always quickly put down. Perhaps the drive for change will get stronger.”
His assistant took them, not to the nearest port but one farther from the city, where it would be less likely that Madolyn would be recognized. Without jewels, simply dressed and keeping quietly to herself, she was seen only as the poet’s lovely bride. They bought passage on the next ship to Felaria.
The early morning ship took them on their way, the poet and his new wife. They spent much of the voyage keeping quietly in their cabin, which caused only amusement among the other passengers (and where they spent most of the time doing what the passengers thought they were up to). Lenae and Madolyn sat on the deck each evening if they could, watching the sea and sky turn dark and stars move across the sky, counting the days as the ship moved from Ellinian waters
though open waters and to Felarian waters. Best of all was the night they moved into Felarian space. They talked quietly, glasses of brandy shining redly by their chairs.
Madolyn pulled the collar of Lenae’s cape more closely around his throat. “Don’t get chilled. And I worry about those wounds. Please have the ship’s doctor have a look.”
“You know they’re healing, you dress them so capably every day.” Madolyn looked at him sternly. “All right, all right, tomorrow.”
Madolyn sat back in her chair. “We are safe, aren’t we?”
“Yes, we are. We made it to Felarian waters, didn’t we?”
“Would they send me back?”
“No. Felaria wouldn’t return anyone who was facing an unjust treatment.” Madolyn was not the first refugee from Ellinian harshness. And knowing the Felarians, they would probably be charmed by the idea of escaping for love.
“The Master and his helper? And your parents?”
“I watched. We weren’t followed. Master is too old and renowned to be punished. And my parents are safe in Felaria”
“I think my brother will come to see us.” Madolyn sighed with relief. “Then we’re fine.”
“Princess no more,” he said. “Is this too much to ask?
Madolyn shook her head. “No. Ellinia is not the kingdom for us, or for our children. No, I want a real home and to make a garden, and weave tapestries and read. I want to talk with your students and the teachers at the University.”
Lenae smiled. “That’s our kingdom.” He pulled her into an embrace. The sailors on watch noticed and burst into rowdy applause. Madolyn laughed. “Let’s go below, we are not here to entertain.” They went below to their cabin.

The Lost Journals of Edgar Parry

​By Mason Yates


I do not expect these journals ever to be seen or read by the public eye- not only because the government would prevent citizens to acknowledge a failed manned mission to the planet Zorgen, but also because Edgar Parry’s discovered journals clearly depict many infractions against the rules of the United Territories of Earth. Free Speech is a conception of the past, and Captain Parry’s journals harshly criticize our so-called “democracy,” which even I admit is more of a totalitarian state. It is expected that Edgar Parry came to a state of contumacy after Eagle Bird IV- a spaceship designed for interstellar space travel- began to malfunction, creating the need for Captain Perry to disembark using an escape pod.
These written records were discovered on Zorgen fifty years after Edgar Parry landed. Although the public is unaware of the existence of these journals, I, James Conley, the head of the United Territories of Earth’s space program- and a secretive rebel myself, if I have the guts to admit- have the knowledge of Captain Parry’s journals. Perhaps in my old age when I have nothing left to lose, I will release these journals to the public, but as of right now, I must stay quiet and secretively abhor the rules and regulations set by the world government.
If these journals are ever released, I say to you, the reader, that these are completely real. When you gaze up at the empyreal night sky, please remember Captain Edgar Parry, and please, please refuse to be stifled by the system of government you have been born into. You, reader, are not a slave, but if you continue to be suppressed of knowledge, a slave is what you will become. If these journals ever come to the public eye, use them as an inspiration to break away the chains that the United Territories of Earth have wrapped around you.
***
Day 1.
There is no other way to describe the situation I have found myself in. There is nothing adventurous or audacious about what I am going to say. Instead, what I have done is necessary for survival. Eagle Bird IV began to experience malfunctions two days ago, and Eric Whim, our mechanic, tried to fix it, but he was unable to. At first, it was small malfunctions, but over the course of forty-eight hours, the malfunctions grew more and more worrisome. By the time Eagle Bird’s engines exploded, I had already prepared the escape pod. I am not a hero. In fact, I consider myself a coward for leaving Eric behind. As the pod shot away from the spacecraft, I stared out my window and watched as Eagle Bird blew to smithereens. I did not see Eric in the explosion, but I can imagine what happened to him. Jesus Christ, it was awful.
Hours later, after the wreckage of Eagle Bird became only a speck in the distance, I took care of acknowledging what I had to sustain myself until rescue. I found over four hundred nutrition pills, twenty gallons of water, and many toiletries. Thank God for the invention of nutrition pills; a pill the size of a dime is the same as eating a buffet, and best of all, it actually gives you the feeling of being full. I took one right then and there, following up with a sip of water. Then, I recapped the water and told myself it was time to conserve. I had no idea how long it would be until rescue.
The rest of the day was meaningless. I gazed out the window, daydreamed of getting back to Earth, and thought about Eric’s family. As I sit here now, I realize that someday I might grow insane by being in this tiny pod. Give it a few days or a few weeks, and I bet I’ll crack. I hope not.
For now, I need to sleep. The first day has come to an end, and I wonder how many more there is to go.


Day 2.
Nothing happened today that is very much different than yesterday. I took a pill in the morning and followed it with a gulp of water. Around lunch, I skipped a pill. However, I did take another gulp of water. I need to conserve, so I only take as much as a mouthful of water at a time. In the middle of the afternoon, I took another mouthful. By dinner, I took a pill and another gulp to swallow it.
Now, I sleep. Due to the lack of gravity, I find myself floating when I wake up. Sometimes it’s hard to sleep, but for the most part I grow used to it.


Day 4.
I had always hated arduous tasks, but now, as I sit in the pod and gaze out the window at the infinite darkness that is speckled with stars that reside trillions of miles away, I wish I could do some heavy lifting. I feel weak. All I do is sit around, and if you hadn’t noticed, I skipped day three. This is because there is nothing to do. I sit, I take a pill twice a day, and I drink three or four mouthfuls of water.
The only way I keep track of the day is by my watch. Luckily, it wasn’t damaged when I escaped Eagle Bird. With my luck, I thought I would have knocked it against a wall and broken it. However, I was proved wrong; it’s fully intact and working. As I write this passage, I stare at it, thinking of the day I received it. I vividly remember my wife- my beloved, beautiful wife- come home from work with a little blue box in her hand. I had been in the kitchen working tirelessly on a math problem for the very mission that I had been on just four days ago. As I sat focused on the half-finished equation, my wife placed the box in front of me and told me to open it. I secretly cursed the distraction, but I couldn’t upset her. I put my pen down and opened the box. Inside, the watch I have on my wrist.
Oh, how I desire to return to Aberdeen, my wife. I pause as I write and think about her. I see her long blond hair, her gentle lips, her skinny waist, and slender, perfect legs. She does have a few imperfections despite her glorious body, but every imperfection is just another reason for me to love her. As I write, I wonder what she is doing. Does she know about the Eagle Bird malfunction? I shake my head. Of course, she doesn’t know. The United Territories would never disclose such a failure. To speak of Eagle Bird’s destruction would be horrific. Eagle Bird IV was the epoch of history thus far. If it failed, the citizens would question its leaders, its government. Those bastards!
I need to put the pen down. I should rest.


Day 8.
I think the pod is starting to manipulate my mind. Sometimes, as I sit and stare into open space, I feel fine. Other times, I slip into a fugue that envelops around me. For a split second, I become unaware of where I am. My mind projects images that depict moments from the past. One moment I’m inside the pod, gazing out at the infinite black, then the next I find myself sitting in a garden beside my wife, staring at the red, white, blue, and yellow flowers. Another moment I find myself about to swallow water, then the next, I’m standing beside a lake with a fishing pole in my hand.
Although these moments are beautiful, they are also terrifying. Terrifying not only because I don’t know what’s happening, but terrifying because they bring a painful nostalgia along with it. I yearn to go home. I look around me and ponder why I’m even here. What led to this?
Isolation is starting to get to me. Imagine sitting inside a blank room with no one to talk to. Imagine doing that for a week. This is how I am. I’m alone. Nobody deserves this. Nobody. Not even prisoners who are held in solitary confinement. Not even them.


Day 14.
As I said before, there are days where I don’t write, because if I do, it would only be rambling on. There is nothing to do in the pod other than stare out the window, think, and cry. Yes, I’ve done a lot of crying the past couple of days. I started to cry when I first saw my wife in the pod with me. I know she’s only a phantasm, but she looks so real. She sits beside me
sometimes. She strokes my hair. She stares into my eyes. However, she never speaks. Maybe she does, though, for I never attempt to talk to her. I just sit in comfort whenever she comes. I love her so much, but I need to get away from her. She’s only making my heart break even more. I need to land somewhere. Eagle Bird IV had been on its way to Zorgen, but that is so far away.


Day 23.
In my last journal entry, I had spoken too soon. Travelling through an endless void of black, I had become unaware of my surroundings. Instead of knowing my course, I was a floating object with no destination. I had no idea where I was. Now, I do. Ahead, in the distance, I see Zorgen. I know it is the planet I am looking for; it looks the same as the photos I had seen.
Luckily, the pod has an engine capable of landing. As I write, I am guiding the pod to the planet. By tomorrow, I hope I shall land. Eventually, I suspect there should be another version of Eagle Bird- maybe Eagle Bird V or VI- that is going to land on Zorgen. Until then, I need to survive. Maybe in thirty or forty years I will be reunited with mankind. Just the thought excites me.


Day 24.
I have landed. I find myself in the middle of a grassy field, which looks very similar to Earth. Someday, I anticipate that mankind will find a home here. I imagine the same field that I currently reside filled with homes. I can already hear children’s laughter as they play outside. For now, though, it is only I. Alone, I look around me as I sit in the grass. In the distance, there
are large trees, similar to jungle trees, and in the opposite direction, there are many hills, which I can’t help but notice share a resemblance to the rolling hills of the Midwest United States, the place I once called home. Tomorrow, for I can already tell it is getting late, I will explore. As for now, I need to set my journal down and get some sleep; I have a big day ahead of me.


Day 25.
I have just returned to the pod from a day of exploring. I must admit that halfway through the day, I managed to get lost, and it is to a great relief that I am back to where my base is. Imagine being lost in a foreign place with no one to guide you. Seeing the pod after so many hours of stumbling around was amazing. It looked like a trophy in the distance. I ran to it and almost hugged the damn thing.
As for the day, it was filled with many sights. Early in the morning, I woke up and took a pill and followed it with seven or eight wonderful gulps of water. I allowed myself to drink more because I felt that I would need the hydration for the day to come. Also, I had no doubts that I would come across a lake or a stream in my travels, and indeed, I did. However, I am jumping too far ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning.
I emerged from the pod to see that the sun was just over the horizon line. I wondered to myself if Zorgen was a twenty-four-hour day or not, but I had no way of knowing until nighttime. From sleeping, I came to the realization that night lasted about eight hours, which is similar to Earth’s night. As for the day, I assumed it was similar to Earth’s day as well, so I stepped out of the pod, thinking that I should be out for no longer than ten hours. With that in my mind, I walked towards the jungle. With me, I carried nothing more than the shirt on my back. I had no clue if that was a smart thing to do, but from my overnight visit, I came to the
conclusion that there probably wasn’t anything dangerous on Zorgen. If there was, I assumed it would have heard my pod land and would have come forth to see what it was. However, there was nothing outside last night except for the landscape, and for that, I was glad.
The outskirt of the jungle was a twenty-five-minute walk away, and when I reached it, I became aware of how vast the ecosystem was. I was hesitant if I should enter the new biome, but after a few minutes of gazing into the jungle and staring at the massive trees, I stepped in, immediately immersed into a new landscape. I walked on without looking back.
As I continued through the jungle, I noticed that there were ferns that had dew on their leaves. It turned out that I was correct about Zorgen harboring water. I brushed my hand over the ferns, feeling the wetness. I couldn’t help but smile despite my predicament of being so far from home. It was no doubt a great feeling being the first person to walk on a planet not already home to humans. And it was no doubt a great feeling discovering water on a planet that I knew that humans would eventually make a home. I was the first! My name would be sketched into history, but then again, maybe it wouldn’t. I thought about Earth’s corrupt government and fell into a state of sadness. No one would know my name, and my wife would forget who I was. Me? I was just an illusion. The United Territories of Earth would make sure to erase my name, for they could never allow to admit a failure on their part. To the people on Earth, they probably assumed Eagle Bird IV landed. Well, I guess it was partly true. One person- me- on Eagle Bird IV landed.
I thought about this for a second and was greatly appreciative when I suddenly heard the susurration of water. At first, something whispered my name, dragging me out of my depression. Then, I heard what it really was. I dropped my hand from the fern and bounded through the jungle. As I grew closer to the water, it sounded as if it was all around me, but I
knew it was only an illusion because of how loud the water was. I guessed it must have been a fast current, and I was correct. I bolted through the underbrush and came to a steady, fast river. The water was brown, and it was surging violently. I stayed back, thinking that if I stepped into it, I would be grasped and tossed like a ragdoll, probably pulled under the current to drown. Boy, that would not be a good way to die. That way, I was for sure going to be forgotten in history. The three trillion humans- occupying Earth, Earth’s Moon, and Mars- would never know my name. Then again, they weren’t going to know my name in the first place.
I watched the water for a time, hypnotized by it. It was the first river ever found by mankind on Zorgen. As I stood there, I thought about how nice it would be if it were named after me. Parry River. Then, I thought about how dumb I was thinking and walked off, staying close to the river so I wouldn’t lose it.
I walked on for an hour or two. I saw nothing more than the usual ferns, trees, and water. At first sight of these things, I marveled at them, but as I walked on, I grew bored of them. I decided it was best to break away from the water and travel through the jungle again. I could hear the water for a long while after leaving the river, but after a half an hour or so, the susurration dissolved into the distance. Again, I was thrown back into the quiet. I continued navigating my way through the jungle. Every once in a while, I had to pause and go around a patch of thick underbrush, but other than that, it was easy going.
I believe it is crucial to write about the weather as well. As I walked through the jungle, I began to sweat and notice that the weather was hot. By hot, I do not mean a ridiculous, extreme heat, but it was very warm, most likely in the low hundreds- Fahrenheit, of course. It was bearable but uncomfortable. It was a good thing that my adventurous mind was taking me away
from the heat; I could barely feel the weather. There were a few times I wished it would rain, but the day was all sun. I continued forward, pushing against the heat.
After an hour or two of walking aimlessly, I noticed a piquant smell. The more I walked, the more potent it became. It reminded me of my youth when my father would take me hunting. During a quick flashbulb memory of my younger self walking through a forest towards a dead deer, I understood why the smell was familiar. It was the smell of a dead body. Although it was ripe, I hurried my pace, hoping to see what kind of animal it was. Then, it struck me that it could be a human. However, I knew that was unlikely. If there were humans on Zorgen, they would have investigated the pod. But what if they couldn’t find where the pod landed?
I shoved the thoughts out of my mind and stumbled forward, knowing the smell was close. I waded through a dense of patch of underbrush, and when I came out of the patch, I saw what it was: a cluster of many dead, distorted animals. They were so mauled to death that I could not understand what species of animals they were, but due to the brown fur that I saw, I think they were squirrels of some sort. That is my best guess.
I took one last look at the destruction and walked off, hoping to find what sort of savage beast had mangled those animals. If someone is reading this, they may find that I was stupid to try to hunt the suspect of the murders, and I would have to agree with you. However, I was possessed with so much curiosity that I had to see what had done the damage.
Another hour or so later, I came across a clearing in the jungle. In this clearing, there were multiple unique things: a shimmering pond that beheld the freshest-looking water I had ever gazed at, numerous large boulders, and a plentiful amount of grass that stretched at least the size of a few football fields in length. That wasn’t what attracted my attention, though, for I was much more amazed by a strikingly familiar creature that was in the middle of the field: a horse- 
or something that appeared very similar to a horse. It was brown, large, and had a mane that shined in the sun.
Is that what killed those animals? I asked myself that question as I stared at the creature. I thought I was going to step forward into the clearing and announce my presence, but instead, I stayed back and watched. The horse stayed still, not moving an inch. He was gazing upward and away from where I now crouched at the outskirt of the clearing. For some reason, I think the horse knew- or felt- that I was there. He knew someone was watching him, but I had no idea how, because I had not made a sound or an appearance. I was hidden behind a large fern, barely peeking my head out to see. How could the horse know I was there?
I sat there for over an hour watching the creature, then I moved off. It became evident that the horse was not going to move a muscle until it was certain that I had left. So, feeling defeated that I had not seen movement, I quietly crept back into the jungle, unsure if I would see the creature again.
It was after seeing the horse that I became lost. I wandered through the forest aimlessly. I came across nothing worth mentioning. Finally, after hours, I found the pod with a sigh of relief.
I should get some rest. Tomorrow, I plan to explore again. This time, I’m going towards the hills.


Day 26.
The hills were fascinating to say the least. The day started out with the usual pill and drink of water, but as the day went by, it grew more and more unusual. I started out by walking towards the hills, not really going in any direction, just meandering along, hoping to find
something of interest. The hills were grassy, but as the pod grew more distant, I noticed there were an abundance of flower patches. Red, blue, white, yellow, and orange flowers blossomed and caught my eye. A few times I went over to a patch and sniffed the wonderful objects. It reminded me of the garden that my wife and I had at home. After a few sniffs, I couldn’t bear to be dragged back to the past by the nostalgic smell, so I carried on with my journey.
I wonder what I would have looked like to native of Zorgen. What would I call them? Zorgians? I’m not sure. However, I wonder what they would have thought of me. Standing in the distance, watching me as I traversed the landscape, they probably would have thought I was on some pleasurable drug, for I was walking around with my eyes wide open, gazing at everything as if it was some extraordinary piece of art; while, in fact, the hills and the rest of the landscape around me was just one of the many features of Zorgen. Somewhere on the planet, I assume, there are many landscapes that would make me fall to my knees in tears. The beauty of Zorgen has yet to be discovered.
Now, mankind has created habitats on two other homes other than Earth- Mars and the Moon. I have seen the cities of Mars and the bases on the moon, but let me tell you, the reader- I assume that perhaps one day someone will read this- that Zorgen is beyond anything I have ever seen. Mars and the Moon have no comparison. Zorgen is like Earth 2.0, but I suspect Zorgen may be much more beautiful.
I kept traveling in my dream-like state, still gazing in wonder at the landscape. At the peak of a hill, I looked out and saw a sea of small rolling mountains. The hills were ample, never-ending. How far could they go? I don’t know, but I did travel a little further.
An hour later, I reached what I thought of as a valley, and in this valley, I was shocked to find the horse. I asked myself if it was the same horse that I had seen earlier, and I was almost
certain of it. I could not ascertain that it was, but I was close to positive that the animal was the same. Immediately, directly upon seeing it, I fell to the grass and tried to get to cover. When I felt hidden, I watched, but once again, the horse remained still. When I first crested the hill, I vividly remember the horse bowing his head to sniff or eat the grass below it, but now, it was a statue. I’m sure that it felt my presence again. He knew I was there. Nevertheless, I watched.
Minutes later, something happened. A phenomenon took place, something that I doubt anyone that reads this will ever believe. The horse started to shake as if an earthquake was rumbling it- back and forth, back and forth, then, up and down, up and down, something undulating it in a quick motion. I remained still and concluded that it was not an earthquake causing the motion. Something- I don’t know what- was forcing it to move furiously. Then, the horse began to morph. The creature was no longer a horse, but instead, it became a black shape floating a few feet above the grass where it had stood just seconds before. The black shape, which I thought more of as a cloud, began twisting in the air, forming a new creature. Red eyes peered out of the cloud and stared directly at me. Then, I saw my wife in the black mist. The next thing I saw was Eric. Then, it was the Eagle Bird blowing to pieces. A succession of random objects followed. What was once the Eagle Bird, shortly became the planet Mars, then the pod. I saw my wife walking through our garden. I saw the eyes again; they glared at me.
At that point, I got up and ran. I knew I had been spotted due to the red eyes looking in my exact position, so I felt there was no need to conceal myself anymore. Staying there and watching that morphing black cloud was a death warrant. I had no other option but to run back to the pod, but then, halfway through running, I remembered seeing the pod in the black cloud. Did it know where the pod was? Also, did it know about Eagle Bird blowing up? It couldn’t have; it was just a horse. But was it?
There is nothing more to say. I made it back to the pod, and I waited to see if the horse would follow. I sat outside the pod for an hour, staring at the hills, but it never came. Eventually I went back inside the pod, and now, I am writing this. As I write, I wonder what the hell the beast is. It’s still out there. I can feel it.
I now put down the notebook so I can watch for the dreaded beast. I don’t know if it will come or not. Wait. I hear a noise. I’m going to investigate.
***
I am sure that what Captain Edgar Parry heard was the horse. Although I do imagine that the horse was outside the pod that fateful night, I’m unsure if the horse was real. Perhaps Edgar Parry, frightened and hysterical from landing on Zorgen alone, hallucinated the horse and the black cloud that he described. Edgar Parry seemed like a smart and acute individual, but it is not unheard of that smart, wise individuals can crack under pressure. Pressure was exactly what Captain Parry was dealing with. Perhaps the horse was only a figment of his imagination. But then again, I’m not sure. I do know that the horse was definitely outside in his mind. Therefore, I believe the horse was there.
The United Territories of Earth eventually landed on Zorgen with something other than a pod. Otherwise, how could I be in possession of this journal? The space program launched another Eagle Bird- Eagle Bird V- that was completely destroyed for unknown reasons. The third time was when we got it right, launching Eagle Bird VI. Upon landing, the crew did not know that Edgar Parry had survived the Eagle Bird IV explosion, but after five years on the planet, the crew came across his pod. I can only imagine what they thought when they came across a manmade object.
The crew read the journals and tried to hunt for the horse Edgar Parry described, but they came up empty handed. For several years, I commanded the crew to search for this beast, but every time, there was nothing to be found. All that is left of Captain Parry is the pod; his body was also never found. Nonetheless, I still tell the crews to keep a watchful eye just in case the beast returns. I am still skeptical, but I believe Captain Parry was still a somewhat sane man even though he was under an immense amount of pressure.
It’s just too bad his legacy will not be able to live on, for I cannot release this journal to the public. I hope that someday I will be able to, but for now, his journey to Zorgen is a secret that is yet to be known.

Hand to Hand

by Gerald Arthur Winter

An excerpt from
The Artisan
a novel in progress

​
With three mouths to feed and another on the way, Chet got a draft exemption
in 1942 by working for the Department of Defense using his draftsman skills rather than
bearing arms against the Axis powers of Italy, Germany, and Japan. Though Chet never
gave much thought to his drawing skills, something that just came naturally, when World
War II ended, the late ’40s provided a window of opportunity. Though photography was
the media of the future as demonstrated by the black-and-white photo covers of Life
Magazine, illustrated renderings would remain the mainstream medium of advertising
through the mid ’50s.
Chet had taken his father’s advice after college—“If you want to get ahead in this
world, start by marrying a redhead. She’ll light your fire to success.”
Chet’s wife, Lilly, may not have been the Lucille Ball, flaring redhead that Chet’s dad
had in mind, but Lilly’s auburn coif ignited a passion for Chet that made her proud of him.
Work was hard to find with so many veterans returning from war, so Lilly checked the
Want Ads for Chet while she kept their three-year-old son out of mischief and nursed their
newborn daughter.
At his drawing table in their small apartment in Queens, Chet worked on his portfolio
of illustrations from appliances to food, drink, clothing, and cigarettes. His rendering of a pack of Lucky Strikes was his pièce de résistance featuring his understanding of perspective,
color, and lettering. But it wasn’t until an art director at Grey Advertising looked at his port-
folio presentation and posed a question that sparked Chet’s brilliant future.
“Where have you been working?” the art director asked Chet. “Your work is as close
to photographic as I’ve ever seen. How come I’ve never heard of you?”
“I’ve been doing catalog work from home the past year,” Chet said.
“Catalogue work?”
“You know, in Sears Roebuck, refrigerators, dishwashers, and the like. But I prefer
the bras and panties section,” Chet said with a wink that made the art director grin.
“Do you prefer to freelance or are you looking for a salaried position?” he asked.
“If I were single, freelance would suit me better, but I’m married with two kids, so a
salary would appeal to my wife to remove the uncertainty from our future. Lilly saw your ad
in the paper for an illustrator and got me this interview with you.”
“I need someone in our art department as soon as possible. Can you start now?”
“Well, I—” he started to stall, but Lilly’s face hovered in his mind. “I haven’t had lunch
yet.”
“We’ll order out . . . on me. Does pastrami on rye with mustard sound good?”
“That would be swell. Thanks—?”
“I’m Hal. What’re drinking?”
“Coffee’s good. Black—keeps me sharp.”
Hal escorted Chet through the “Creative Department” and introduced him to the
guys in the bullpen who made mechanicals for engraving guidelines and used a photostat
machine the size of a Chevy coup to make quick cheap copies of illustrations or photographs
for art directors’ visuals for print ads. TV hadn’t made its mark for advertising yet with less
than ten percent of homes having a television. There were no women in the bullpen. The
only women Chet had seen were receptionists on each floor as you came off the elevator
and as personal secretaries for the main department heads of Sales, Copy writing, and Art.
“We have a Pall Mall ad coming up this week and the copywriter wants to show a
man’s hand lighting a woman’s cigarette with a Zippo lighter. Time to show America that
the war’s over and it’s safe to have kids—lots of kids—ya know, like a Baby Boom.”
Chet gave Hal a no sweat shrug of confidence.
“Problem is I need finished art by tomorrow noon for client approval and the
deadline to get to the engraver without paying overtime is five o’clock tomorrow night.”
Chet gave Hal a look of confusion.
“Can do. But I was just wondering why you’ve got so many other men reading the funny
papers at their drawing boards? Why do you need me if you’ve got a deep bullpen with guys
lounging around with their thumbs up their butts.”
Hal laughed, giving Chet a pat on the back. “I knew I was gonna like you when you made
that crack about preferring to draw panties and bras. No BS, just straight to the point, which is
how I promise to be with you. These guys all lack one talent that only you’ve demonstrated in
your portfolio. You can draw hands, men’s and women’s, which have expression.”
“Can’t any of these other artists draw hands?”
“None like you can, Chet, so get to work and ask me for anything you need.”
Chet went to his cubby hole and arranged his palette. Within the next hour he had
a rough pencil sketch of a woman’s hand holding the cigarette between her index and
middle finger. There was a subtle profile of the woman’s pursed lips at one end of the
cigarette and the Zippo lighter’s flame at the other end. The man’s hand holding the lighter
with the expertise of a WW II vet showed a rugged masculine assuredness compared to the
slender grace of the woman’s smooth hand with long, but unobtrusive fingernails.
“I want to imply that she’s a doll,” Hal had instructed, “but not whore.”
Within two hours Chet was knocking on Hal’s open door that said “CREATIVE DIRECTOR.”
“I’d like you to approve the direction I’ve taken in my preliminary sketch,” Chet said.
Hal was on the phone and waved him closer and nodded for Chet to angle his sketch
towards the afternoon light from the window facing Madison Avenue from the 7th Floor.
“Hold on a minute,” Hal told his caller then his mouth dropped open. “Jesus, Chet!
That’s fantastic. I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing, but now I need the finish in color for
tomorrow.”
Chet nodded then as he went out the door he heard Hal say to the party on the
phone, “You’re gonna love this fuckin’ ad. I just hired an illustrator who nailed it.”



From 1948 to 1952, Chet’s commercial illustrations for top advertising print ads made
him a fortune with his special talent to render expressive hands. He didn’t stay on salary more
than a year before a demand for his expertise made freelance work more profitable than ad
agency bullpen assignments, even for clients paying $100,000 for a full-page color ad in top
magazines from The Saturday Evening Post to Playboy.
In the summer of ’48, Lilly told Chet, “You could eliminate the middleman, Honey.
Sure, this has been a great year for us, fifty thousand dollars and two weeks paid vacation,
but if you worked as a freelancer for hire, you could name your price, maybe earn as much as
the Yankees pay Joe DiMaggio.”
Chet said with a shrug. “But DiMaggo makes as much as President Truman.”
“With your talent, you could draw Harry Truman’s hand giving the middle finger to
Governor Dewey and everyone would know it was your creation. You have style, Baby.”
“I doubt that,” Chet said humbly.
“I made a call this morning, Chet. The Democrats are willing to come up with five
thousand dollars if you give them finished art for mass production by Friday—five grand!
Lilly flashed her green eyes and fluffed her shoulder-length coif recently died as
orange as Lucille Ball’s. She could afford a weekly manicure as well with Chet’s current
salary, but she wanted more. Chet realized his father was right about marrying a redhead.
What did ole Pop say? “Your gal Lillie’s got pizzazz! Marry her before someone steals her.”
Lilly followed through with her political advice and Chet quit his salaried job and
made the deadline for the Democratic Party, but better judgement blocked releasing the
artwork into circulation. Even though it was a perfect expression of the Truman legacy
that followed, censorship demanded that the illustration be destroyed along with any
rough sketches Chet had made in preparation for the finished art. Thanks to Lilly’s
negotiations with the DNC, Chet was still paid five grand for his effort.
Then Lilly told Chet to demand another $5,000 if his work was destroyed. He got
anothert $7,000 from the DNC to remain silent when the GOP started sniffing around
over rumors of Chet’s artwork’s existence. It was Chet’s first freelance contract, but to
protect the paper trail from scrutiny, Lilly did the billing simply referring to the artwork
on Chet’s invoice as the “Hand Job.”
When President Truman went to sleep on Election Day in 1948, Thomas E. Dewey had
been declared the victor. When he woke the next morning Truman learned, as the rest of the
nation had, that he had four more years as President. A Centennial celebration for the DNC
ensued.


Chet was later approached by GOP ancillaries. They asked Chet to reproduce duplicate
art so they could say it was the original illustration to discredit President Truman during his next
term for his vulgarity. Despite their offer of $10,000, Lilly declined in Chet’s behalf because,
now as his agent, she said he’d be too busy for the next four years working out of their home
in Connecticut to meet the illustration demands of five Madison Avenue advertising agencies
paying a combined total of a million dollars. Chet, Jr. and his sister Carol would be going to Ivy
League colleges.
With Lilly arranging Chet’s schedule and handling his billing, they rode on the gravy train
between New Canaan and Grand Central Terminal for the next ten years, but by the late 1950s
photography had become more cost effective with advanced means of reproduction. Eastman
Kodak took advantage of leadership in photo technology reproduction that challenged
commercial illustrators to lower their charges to ad agencies who were employing staffs of
a new breed of what Chet called pseudo artists—photo retouchers.
Chet was among a few fortunate artists who’d had a wife like Lilly to discipline him by
putting aside ten percent of his earnings into savings and investments. When demand for his
talent declined and was replaced by photographers and retouchers, Chet and Lilly could still
continue their lifestyle after their children had families of their own.
The unexpected often catches us short in life as was the case for Chet when Lilly died
in her sixties. Widowed at age seventy, Chet had no one to come home to from Manhattan
to Connecticut at night, so he sold their home for twenty times what they’d paid for it in 1950,
and rented a one-bedroom apartment on the eastside of mid-town Manhattan where most
of his working adult life had been spent in great demand for his artistic talent.
I ran into Chet in Manhattan on my way to The Studio Bar on Second Ave near the
adjoining corner of 44th Street near McCarthy’s Steakhouse and The Palm, which were too
rich for my blood as photo retoucher in a sweatshop studio typical of the ’60s. I was taking
a sandwich my wife had made for me that morning to have my lunch at the United Nations
Plaza where I could watch the East River water traffic in the park filled with flowers and
a bright patch of green grass to offset all the concrete and steel of New York City.
I’d just come through Grand Central Terminal toward Lexington Avenue but took
the short cut through the lobby of The Graybar Building so that, as instructed by my elderly
friend Chet’s wife to him a decade ago, “People will assume you’re working for J. Walter
Thompson in that building, which will raise the price of your artwork.”
So far that hadn’t worked for me, but I was only in my twenties that day when I saw
Chet coming out of Schrafft’s restaurant. He’d had his two martinis up and the fish platter.
He’d stopped eating red meat on doctor’s orders the year before, but had said to me at the
time, “Without Lilly, life is still worth living, but only if I can still have my two martini’s at lunch.”
Chet provided a wealth of wisdom for me in my early years working in Manhattan with
a commute from north Jersey. I was just an apprentice photo retoucher at Rialto Studio at the
time I met Chet with his bowties and suspenders and metal clips on his forearms to keep the
watercolors from getting on his starch-crisp, white dress shirts. He also wore a full denim apron
to protect his chest and lap from paint spatters so he’d always look his best in Schrafft’s. I’d
kidded him once, asking, “Do you think you might meet another redhead at Shrafft’s?”
I’d felt bad about the question when Chet got teary-eyed and said, “Lilly was my one
and only everything, not just a redhead. You know the cliché about there always being a strong
woman behind a great man. She was my tigress in animal kingdom of Manhattan. I called her
Tiger Lilly.”


I’d never kidded him about anything personal again, but he did have a sense of humor
about the profession that had made him rich and independent.
Chet said, “If I was asked by my relatives or highbrow Connecticut friends in the bar
car heading home about what I did for a living, I gave them the honest answer—I play the
piano in a whore house.”
He taught me to never sell my talent short, saying, “The best way to get a raise is
quitting to work for the competition. Your former employer will pay twice your salary if
you come back. If you stay in the same studio where you began, you’ll always be considered
just a beginner. Good fortune loves a moving target.”
Chet learned a lot from Lilly over the years. As an artist for detail he was a keen
observer. He didn’t just have his nose to the drawing board all day. He negotiated his
own deal with Rialto Studio for a four-day work week, unheard of at the time. Although
he couldn’t earn the kind of income he had in his prime, nothing close that, on an hourly
basis, he was the highest paid artist on staff because his work looked as realistic as a
photograph, which was in great demand at the time approaching the ‘70s on Madison
Avenue.
“The world has a way of stealing from you over time,” he’d told me. “What’s the
in-thing today is tomorrow’s garbage.”
Chet was right because the photography technology brought with it the demand
to work with chemicals rather than with watercolors on photographs. The Kodak dye-
transfer era of the ’80s required “bleach-and-dye” application on photos. Chet called it the
“bleach or dye” movement in photographic illustration. The need for his painterly talents
rapidly diminished.
“I’m like a silent film star after 1927,” Chet said. “Obsolete.”
The last time I saw Chet was 1988. In his nineties, he was just a shadow of the man
I’d known. I was in my professional prime as a bleach-and-dye photo retoucher with a
full-page ad in THE CREATIVE BLACK BOOK and a penthouse apartment to work from off First
Avenue. My studio was a nine-iron chip shot from the United Nations Plaza where I used have
a sandwich from home for lunch in the park. Now I could entertain my own ad agency clients
at The Palm for lunch or The Billy Munk Pub around the corner for my lesser clientele. The
food was great there, too, but the ambiance included Irish waifs with bedroom eyes that
beckoned for more than a tip. There were always a few choice redheads in the mix, but I
had my own at home.
I called Chet just to chat during a slow spell and he came up to my studio to meet
the seven other photo retouchers who worked for me. He brought a package under his arm
in a large, flat envelope the size of a 20” x 24” dye transfer photo.
I showed him some of our recent work and he just nodded silently with his chin
resting on his fist. He said nothing about the package he was carrying so I finally asked,
“Whatcha got there, Chet? You back to freelancing? If we get busy again soon I’ll give you
a call. I can always find a job for someone with your gift.”
“Thanks, but I’m done with working,” he said. “Before I show you what’s in the
package, you ought to read this article in The New York Times from yesterday.” He took
a crumpled page of newsprint from his suit jacket, handed me the article, then straighten
his bowtie.
The article was about a computer called the Sci-tech machine, which could retouch
photos by the use of pixels, computer units that can create image details and color variations.
The claim of the article was that this technology would replace both photographers and
retouchers who didn’t adapt and learn the new digital process.
I just shrugged then handed it off to be shared by my staff. “You don’t really think
we can ever be replaced by computers . . . do you?” I asked Chet.
“You might be in the same position I was thirty years ago—a silent movie star,” Chet
warned. “You have to put all things in perspective.” He motioned for me to open the large
envelope he’d brought with him.


As I unwrapped the package and set the artwork on our presentation table where art
directors viewed finished photos ready for engraving, Chet took me aside and told 
e aside and told me the story behind  the artwork.



“I want you to have this as a reminder to you years from now that nothing lasts forever.
The world is in a constant flow of change, sometimes for the better, sometimes not, but change
just the same. Though human, hand to hand we must pull each other up the food chain of the
animal kingdom. Only at the top can we look back to see how far we’ve come to survive. My
rendering is yours to do with as you wish, but I’ve kept it hidden for over seventy years and
now I’m ninety-five. The most I was ever paid for my talent was not to produce this illustration.
I trust you’ll keep it hidden as I have, but will remember the story I’ve told you about it. Think
of my gift to you as my hand to your hand.”
“So you didn’t destroy the original illustration in 1948 after all?”
“I had to give them the destroyed art to get paid, but Lilly thought it would be wise
for me to paint another one from scratch for insurance—redheads—go figure.”
I nodded in agreement as he departed. I never saw Chet again other than reading
his obituary at age one hundred in The New York Times. He’d survived his wife and both
children and his commercial illustrations had been compared to Norman Rockwell’s work.
What I think of most when I remember Chet, aside from his lifetime marriage to “Tiger Lilly,”
is that my bigger than life-size portrait of Harry Truman’s hand flipping the bird to Thomas E.
Dewey will be imbedded in my mind forever. Welcome to the jungle.

Lips Sealed

By Melodie Corrigall


Although they were sitting side by side she was as distant from him as she was from the animals at the zoo. Some scientists argued that other animal species could communicate with one another but Bimble doubted that was the case. As it was, she couldn’t even converse with this other type of human.

But there was no time for idle speculation. She had better act smart. Soon the hole in the fence, through which she had slipped, would be fixed. The menders were vigilant. They would already have reported the break in the barrier. At any moment, sirens loud enough to alert the forces on both sides would blare that a creature had broken through.

Naturally, they would not look as attentively on this side. The wild people often wanted to escape to her side but to date it was unheard of for an advanced person to come over here.

She had often wondered why the wild people wanted to come over to her side. Once there, they were unable to communicate with anyone and, when discovered, they were roughly returned to their proper place.

It was said that some did make it across, hid in back alleys and stole food to survive. Bimble had never seen one. Never, that was, until today. And that was not on the ordered side but on their side.

Curiosity had done her in or at least encouraged her daring decision to slip through the break in the fence. Curiosity compounded by grief at losing her uncle to the permanent third side. The side through which there was only one-way access—death.

The week, which now looked like ending in humiliation or imprisonment, had begun like any other. Every seven days, for as long as Bimble could remember, she had taken the SuperSpeed to visit her uncle.

Sadly, as she got older and stronger, her uncle got older and weaker. But until the last few seasons it had been a joy to visit him. Although his body was frail, his mind buzzed. He was the only one she could discuss taboo subjects with. The only one from whom she could find out about what it had been like before and how the future might unfold. He was the only one who never said bad things about the people who still talked with their mouths.

But today had not been like any other day. Today she had left the institute where her uncle had lived swimming in sadness, made worse by the grey rain-heavy sky.

It was unfortunate but no matter how advanced their technology, they could not control the sun and rain. The leaders insisted they were working on it and that and it was only a matter of time, but to date, the weather gods just did whatever they pleased and sometimes the result was unpleasant.

Perhaps sensing the future, that morning when she boarded the SuperSpeed, she had been so sad a man sitting next to her had messaged, “Perk up girl, today is good, and tomorrow is better.” The old folks, except for her Uncle, always said that but sometimes she wondered if that were true.

When she got to the door of her Uncle’s complex, the man at the door sent out a grey message, ‘He is not his old self today.’ That was an under-testimony she soon realized when she found her Uncle, prone on the bed, his arm hanging by his side.

“Bimble,” he communicated. “I was waiting for you.”

“I’m here,” she replied. “I’m always here on the seventh day.”

“But I won’t be,” he said and he sounded so small and miserable, she touched his hand.

“Be strong, be curious, do not be afraid,” he continued and then went silent. Immediately the alarms exploded and uniformed people burst into the room.

Before she could catch her breath, she was whisked into the hall and instructed to wait. She saw through the open door they were covering her uncle head to toe with a silver sheet and she knew that meant he was gone.

But she instead of waiting as they had instructed, she ran down the hall, and out the door. Dodging the people at the front entrance, she slunk around to the back of the property and scuttled towards the fence separating her uncle’s building from the wild county behind it. Then abandoned, she drifted along the barrier, her slender body shrunk in grief.

As she trudged along, her arm was roughly brushed but not with the excruciating zap she’d have experienced if she had tried to climb the fence. Like a drone her thoughts kept circling to the same place where suddenly she was alone. Her parents, who she seldom saw, were somewhere in another continent or maybe another planet. She couldn’t remember their agenda. The only one she had loved and felt tied to, her uncle, had left her.

She stared across the fence at the wild country beyond. In the distance she could see aliens doing something with the vegetation. She knew that this was where the products they ate, in a powdered state, came from but she was not sure about the process. On the ordered side, there was nothing living or green, such things were far too dangerous. As far as the eye could see, the vegetation moved in the breeze. It was almost beautiful but, of course, unkempt.

Suddenly the thin tingle in her hand stopped. Looking down she discovered a hole ripped open in the fence. Not a big gap, only large enough to let one of them come through. Or, she surprised herself to consider, to allow her to cross over.

What if she did slip through? Her uncle had always instructed her to be brave. He was criticized for having the vision: knowing what was to be. Had he known she would find the hole and did he mean she should be curious and go through?

She looked around, there was no one within sight on either side, and there were no drones in the sky.

What was the worst that could happen? She could slip back in a minute if there was danger and if she was found they would say it was just an adventure or she hadn’t known what she was doing.

Glancing furtively in all directions, she crouched and slipped through the hole, careful to avoid touching the metal. And there she was.

She stood and looked around. It was like that old story about the little girl Alice on drugs but she was quite clear-headed. She moved forward slowly. The field was not as wild as it had looked from the other side. There seemed to be some order. There was a pathway between the green stalks; the tall poles swayed high above her head. In a few minutes, she came to a path that veered off. A creature—an alien—jumped out at her. She was caught. They stood frozen and frightened, inspecting one another.

She sent a message “I am only visiting. I will not hurt you.”

He opened his huge mouth and a sound came out but, of course, she had no idea what it was messaging. The noise was much different than that of the little alien she had been shown at the learning center.

They stood for a long time and then started to circle around one another. Bimble moved backwards searching for the path to the fence, anxious to get back to her side and quickly. In her struggle to escape, she stumbled against a large green stalk.

The creature, bobbed up and down, and jutted out a hand. What did he want? Would he try to burn her?

He turned and signaled for her to follow. Too confused and lost to do otherwise she did so. When they turned the corner there was a bench in front of which was a mass of flowers, like in the market but not tied together, just flowing like an ocean of color. So many, hundreds all stuck in the ground.

He, for he seemed to be a he, bobbed a few times and sat down. His large red mouth, so soft looking, made a strange movement, and he touched the bench. Was she to be seated?

A strong intoxicating perfume drifted from the field; the flowers moved as if dancing. The smell made her dizzy. Why did they not tell her that flowers could be in the ground like this? Somehow, they appeared more beautiful than in a glass container.

The two of them sat there for some time. Bimble looked at her reminder and saw that her uncle had only been dead for three units but she felt she had lived much longer since his demise. She was having such an adventure.

But if it were three units then the menders would be coming along soon to check the fence and then there would be the sirens and they would immediately seal the gap.

She had better find her way back. Maybe the alien would help her but how could she ask for help? They didn’t understand brain messages only their loud noisy language.

He was sitting there quietly, the sun reflecting on his face, his head nodding. Maybe that meant something. She felt a sort of peace, a stillness, as if she had moved to another kingdom where even flowers communicated.

What if she stayed? Would he help her? Would he make her powdered food to sip through her mouth straw?

The sun was warm on her face as she sank into a gentle comfort. She would just settle beside the alien for a short while and then decide.
​

A Sight To See

By Leah Moynihan

​
The sun pelted down, like an oven heating the carcass, baking it. The odour climbed into my nostrils and made my stomach churn. I recoiled from the giant in the sand but the crabs did quite the opposite. Their red armour glistened as they devoured their prize. They climbed up the mountain of rotten flesh, battling one another. The winner scuttled to the top, his large claws raised in victory. The losers had to be satisfied with the scraps. It was a deadly battle but the trophy didn't seem to mind. He just slumped there, decaying and half buried in sand. His glassy lifeless eye stared at me, the other one missing and leaving a hole in the side of his fearsome head. His rough grey skin was caked in dried blood, deep cuts drawing patterns from where the nets clawed their way into him, trapping him and leading him to his sorry state. 
I knew everything there was to know about the local wildlife, but I had never once imagined a shark washing up on our shore. I had only ever seen the predators on television and narrated by David Attenborough's calm voice. Yet, even drained of life, the shark looked terrifying with his knife like teeth protruding from his pointed snout. Beneath the scavengers that were already enjoying their free meal, I could just make out his gills. They were like lines carved into his neck. Fascinated, I asked my father about the fish’s anatomy and he explained that gills help the sharks to get their oxygen. They have to keep moving to breath. I was only eight but I was smart enough to know that the net tangled around his fins and body wouldn’t have allowed him to do this. Salty tears welled in my eyes, either from the rancid smell of decaying flesh or the fact that such a beautifully fierce creature died so savagely. 
That evening, my father went down to the villages little pub to have a drink with friends. He enjoyed talking to the old fishermen, they were always the best storytellers. This particular evening, the topic of conversation was ,of coarse, the shark that washed up over night. One of the fishermen at the bar, probably after having had a few too many drinks, jokingly admitted to my father that the shark died because of him. I was retold the tale the next morning and it felt like a whole ocean was churning inside my stomach. He explained to me that the fisherman got the shark caught in his net and he was unable to cut him loose. The shark was too tangled so the fisherman had to let the net go with the shark still in it. As a little girl, my heart broke. To me, the fisherman didn’t even care. He seemed proud in fact, swirling his pint glass around, glad to be the centre of attention. In my mind, he sounded exactly like every villain and tyrant in my story books. He was just upset that he lost a good net.
The shark’s body had to be buried under the sand because the sea wouldn’t take it back. A digger came tumbling down onto the beach to do the job and all of the other children were excited to see such an impressive piece of machinery. I didn’t want to watch. Nobody seemed to care that an innocent animal was just killed. The shark suffered and nothing was being done to bring anyone to justice. Nothing was even uttered to the fisherman, who made no attempt at hidding his achievement. He got away with a crime and I couldn’t comprehend why. 
That was the first time I had experienced humans carelessness towards the lives of animals. But it wasn’t the last. Over the years, I’ve seen too many seals appear washed up on the rocks, my favourite animal. I will never forget the one that stole my heart. The waves rolled up like carpets, reaching up to touch the sky, until gravity took hold and sent them tumbling back down to earth. The sea whispered my name, calling for me to enter the wild cold water and never let my feet touch land again. The sun was beating down and I decided to go surfing, like I did every morning. I paddled back out, after catching a few good waves when I spotted something unusual. At first, I thought I was hallucinating. It looked like a person but then it would duck down into the depths and pop back up to the surface a few minutes later. I had always loved mermaids and it sure did look like one from afar. Intrigued, I paddled closer and spotted the little head bobbing just beyond the breakers. She stared at me curiously, not letting her big brown eyes lose site of me. The seal tilted its little head sideways as if to survey me. My heart pounded rapidly in my chest. Time stood still. We stayed like that, staring at one another, somehow understanding. Two souls met, I never saw anything so magical.
One month later, I was diving with my friends in our usual spot, when I smelt it. As black as tar, wedged between two rocks where it must have dragged itself, a seal. A weak later we found a malnourished seal pup that had no way to survive without its mother. 
The year after that there was a dolphin covered in fatal lacerations from a boats propeller and then, an otter drowned in a crab net with the cold look of fear never leaving it’s glassy eyes.
Ever since that shark on the beach, my view of the world has been turned upside down. That was the moment eight year old me realised that the world isn’t as perfect as I thought it was. I still don’t understand how the fisherman could laugh at his act, how someone could steal a seal pups mother, how someone could kill a dolphin and walk away. 
Animals remind us of how cruel humans can sometimes be. A wolf attacks only to protect itself while humans can just be cruel. I have learned that animals somehow have a complex simplicity to them. They live to survive and survive to live, no pointless drama. They have a kind of warmth that the human race seems to have lost. Animals don’t have time for bitterness or hate. They know what they have to do, they know their purpose. They have no ambitions, only to care for their loved ones and that’s where their beauty lies. They don’t destroy, only create. They aren’t selfish, malicious or enjoy watching others suffer. Some would say that’s due to their low intelligence but I believe it’s quite the opposite. They have a kind of loyalty that is unbreakable. We sit back and watch while we cause destruction, just like the fisherman with the shark. We just sit and watch our house burn. But I have not given up on the human race yet. Animals also remind us of the good in us as well. I’ve seen people fight their whole lives to set up animal reserves, to stop overfishing, to change the way people see nature and save lives. We should be proud of what we will do instead of ashamed of what we were too afraid to do. If that one fisherman saved that one shark, if one fishing company hadn’t caught above it’s quota and left some fish for the seal, if one country made its waters protected, then, perhaps we can still make a difference. Perhaps a little girl in the future won’t have to see animals washed ashore because of people’s mistakes, perhaps she will see an ocean that has never been more alive and thriving beside humans. Perhaps she will spot little brown eyes staring at her in the waves and think it’s mermaid too.

Exoskeletally

By Meg Smith


Meg Smith's new poetry books, Dear Deepest Ghost 
and This Scarlet Dancing, are available on Amazon!


I awoke and my room was a gray mass.
A thought of John, like some angry, sparking flame, erupted and died.
I remembered clearly: it's Tuesday.
My throat ached with a queer sort of pain, almost as if I had swallowed a thousand thistles.
John. I did not see him in my mind this time, but instead breathed in a hot slash, anger of my own.
My narrow dresser is across from the footboard, and above it a mirror, with some photos of friends tucked into the corners.
A gaudy lei of plastic yellow flowers. Not from John. Not even from anyone whose name I could place.
The gray began to clear. I arched forward with a start, and that odd pain crackled in my midriff.
I froze. I could see the top of my head, my face, in that dust-smeared mirror.
It was the face of a giant cockroach.
Or, some other insect. I don't know.
I'm not an expert on insects.
But maybe I should be.
Large, round eyes, like polished globes.
Imagine, your mouth opens from both sides, not up and down, and somehow, it's not weird.
Unless you're looking in the mirror, tasting the fetid air with timid, probing antennae.
Antennae.
Any moment now I would wake up, my groggy, human self --
the moment did not come.
I was not stiff and stocky, like those superbugs in atomic age science fiction movies.
Oddly, I looked sort of graceful.
Perhaps it was because now I was wholly insect, and thus, felt perfectly okay with my insectitude.
There was a sharp tap on the door.
"Your Uber is here." My brother.
Yes, Uber. A year without a license, thanks to driving more-drunk John home one night.
He was gone, and so my was license, along with court costs, and Uber costs.
I can't go into work like this, I thought. I wanted to laugh.
But I no longer could.
I could get my phone, and facetime my boss, Arben, who was on an Uber streak, too.
Arb, I have a good excuse. I'm a giant freaking cockroach.
Assuming a tap from a segmented limb covered in dark, comb-like hairs, could get the phone to work.
The tap erupted in a bang.
"Hey genius, get going!"
"Piss off," I yelled, but no sound came out. Just a wretched creak from mandibles.
What good is being a giant cockroach if you can't insult people.
With some effort, I heaved myself up, and over. Please don't let me fall on my back, and lie there like a simp with my giant insect legs kicking in the air.
But I managed to land correctly, though my feet skidded a bit on the hardwood floor.
Now, what.
There's no use hiding this, I thought.
Insect logic.
That's why there are billions, and billions, all over the Earth.
I made a labored, ungainly lurching toward the door, before realizing I had no way of turning the knob. I hooked the end of one foot under, and pulled it toward me. It was uncomfortable, but it worked.
There stood my brother.
There stood my brother, white and gray with shock, almost delirium, his mouth contorted as if fighting between a shriek and a laugh.
Even if I could talk, I had nothing to say to him.
With another, segmented, hair-spike leg, I thumped him aside, and plodded down the hallway.
I remembered the story. Metamorphosis. We read it in English class.
A guy wakes up and he's a giant insect, like me. His family laughs at him, ridicules him, and when he dies, all alone, a dry, sad husk.
Well, not me, I thought. Or, it seemed that I thought.
If I was going to be spending the rest of my life like this, I would do it in style.
I know it sounds odd, but, they day before, I was a person, immobile, and deservedly so, because I made a stupid decision on behalf of an even stupider cause -- a dead-beat boyfriend.
I was living at home, with my brother, older than me and also living at home, quietly nursing a painkiller habit courtesy of our mom and her myriad, phantom ailments.
Today, none of that mattered. I had a whole new life to live.
Yeah, I was starting to dig it.
I have to learn to be an insect, I thought.
Then: I don't have to learn anything. I'm a gigantic, hungry insect, and people will piss themselves when they see me, and either faint, or get the hell out of my way.
I can ransack grocery stores, thunder in the streets, and --
I wondered, can I fly?.
Most insects have wings, right?
I shambled toward the front hall door, which was not quite as easy to open. Ungracefully, I bashed against it, which I instantly regretted, as a slight, wincing tear erupted in my otherwise unflawed, dark brown armor.
I vaguely heard something, and then no longer heard it.
I'm sure it was my brother, screaming, a scream caught between fright and absurdity.
If mom's out of Oxy, he'll really be screwed, I thought.
The door was open. The air outside was sharp, and cold.
Shit, that's right, another revelation blared in my insect brain. Most insects don't like cold.
For a moment, I mused whether I should turn back around and use my trusty, hooked feet to grab a blanket off the couch.
Then I thought how stupid I'd look, an enormous insect in a fuzzy blanket with bright orange daisies printed on it.
More than that, I wanted nothing, not one shred of my life in this sad, narrow space with those two sad, narrow people and my father's ashes in a bronze urn on the mantelpiece.
A blessed insect logic took over: Just go. We'll figure this out.
I had a hundred sensing places -- eyes, legs, antennae, and something wonderful, nameless and alive inside of me, all directing me where to go.
I had to squeeze through the door opening. It was pinchy-feeling, and I had to stop and start several times.
I'm insect and still overfed in the middle, my mind sighed.
One last, subtle push forward, and I was out.
A sound behind me. I sharp, shocking sound.
If I swiveled my insect eyes a bit, perhaps I could see what happened.
But I didn't have to. I knew.
My brother had shot himself.
I plodded unevenly down the steps, the cold from snow patches in the withered grass stinging my feet.
The door shut behind me.


I could fly.
I gimped around a bit; the snow and grass clung together in uneven lumps.
This sucks, I thought. It felt a hundred thousand times colder. It felt, sounded, tasted, so much colder.
Insects are alive with every sense, whether they like it or not.
They. Me.
I stood for a few moments, my limbs a little achy from holding up my weight. I did not want my belly touching the cold snow and grass.
My eyes scanned, from left to right, and slightly upward to bare trees against incongruously cheerful blue sky.
Our house was situated in the town common. The town common is pretty and historic.
A memory came of sitting there for the Fourth of July parade, but quickly evaporated.
I understood. My newly-minted insect brain was making short work of memories that no longer meant anything, had no real context for, well, an insect.
Now was the only certain reality.
Strangely, traffic moved smoothly, stopping at the lights where a knot of quaint New England roads tangled in a traffic engineer's worst dream.
No one was looking at me, at all, and if they did, they seemed not to register much.
Then, I saw one person raise a phone. He wants to photograph me, and share it with his stupid social media friends.
The ironically-named, Hive Mind.
His brakes screeched, just a miniscule space between him and sand truck in front of him.
Picturesque New England winters bring big, grouchy sand trucks.
This is getting me nowhere, my insect mind told me.
Looking at the traffic, I realized a new problem. People might get distracted and crash, but that was their problem.
My issue was getting from one place to another without getting crushed.
My glorious, arthropodic debut should not end in a glob of smeared goo on the road, under the wheels of a speeding minivan.
My brain ushered some thoughts -- snaps of electricity, really -- to the large, weighty, bifurcated shell I knew was covering my back.
They lifted, slightly at first. With each try, I grew a bit stronger, and they lifted higher.
Cold air flooded what I knew was beneath -- more dedicated, translucent wings.
Could I do this, a human doubt pondered. Could I get this big, chubby body off the ground?
A flick of memory. Someone, really toked up in John's house but not John, musing through a cough: "Man, bumblebees are too fat to fly."
The retort: also not John, who was passed out: "Dude, bees don't read physics."
Some coughing and laughter.
Why was I even thinking of this, why wasn't this banished with all other nonessential human thoughts?
Then, just as clear, bright and wonderful as the winter sky: "Shove your human physics. I'm going to fly."
My hooked feet dug into the unyielding, frozen grass.
I push back, and then forward.
Icy air filled my wings, and brushed my back.
I stumbled at first, but on the second push, I thrust out, and up.
Shove your physics, humans, my triumphant insect mind churled.
A great buzzing sound startled me at first. Then, of course. Air in my wings. That's why flies and bees make that noise, high and urgent, while bloodthirsty, corpulent horse flies utter a lower, sinister drone.
My insect family, I thought. I don't know if mandibles can grin, but if they can, that's what I was doing.
And, something else. I was flying.
The trees brushed me rudely as I ascended, but soon they were beneath me. A stray twig broke from the end of one branch, caught beneath my shielding upper wings and the more fragile lower ones.
It was annoying as hell, but after a moment, as I gained speed, the same cold, thinner air, pushed it out.
Back to gravity, fuckhead, I thought. To a twig.
To my brother, slumped in a bloody mass on the floor.
To my house, the door opened, but no one going near it.
Maybe they'll see, don't freaking go in there. A guy blew his head to mush, and a girl turned into a giant bug and flew away.
If insect mandibles could laugh, that's what I was doing now.
Below, perhaps, people were finally looking, pointing, wondering, calling police.
Who would laugh at first, and advise them to put on tinfoil hats.
A stranger at the door might be danger.
A magnificent, soaring girl-insect, was not.
She's up there, and she can't hurt you, the dispatcher would say.
Then, the dispatchers, to each other: Must be some party. All these people calling.
I bet it's a kite, a dispatcher would say. People did fly kites on the common, all the time. Dragons, butterflies, so, hey, a cockroach kite is weird, but not out of the question.
After all, smiling dollops of pooh were a thing. I had even looked out to see a smiling pooh kite.
So a cockroach -- or scarab beetle -- or whatever -- at least it's not flying pooh.


I was getting tired. The weight of my body, though in some ways porous and light, was taxing my wings, and even my tucked-in legs.
I was going to have to land.
I scanned the rooftops -- now turning a strange, but not unwelcome, gray-green, registering to my new, insect eyes.
All the same, I could see it, know it, perhaps by rote.
If only I could have flown to work like this all these years.
Work.
It was not a whole thought in my mind, but something imprinted by pattern, repetition. You go to the same place five days a week for seven years, and that happens.
I had no introspection. I don't really think most insects sit around on flowers, or garbage heaps, pondering the meaning of anything except perhaps that it's great to be an insect.
Fly, eat, bite people, or sting them, send them running at the slightest angry wing-hum. Just don't get eaten by birds, or stepped on.
And neither was a risk to me.
I'm an insect. With benefits.
It was the last, whole thought I could feel as a human, and it tasted unpleasant, because it was a human thought.
The place that harbored the remnants of human thought was dying.
But I was alive.
There was an atrium on the roof of the building -- a sorry, delipidated corporate park.
Whatever, my insect brain pronounced.
I landed -- honestly, with much less grace then my takeoff. The roof was covered with pebbles, and I slipped, got one lodged between leg segments that refused to budge.
I kicked -- and finally, it broke free and fell on the rooftop, lost among its fellow pebbles.
The atrium would be warm. The winter sun would glide through the glass panels, shedding its love on the odd mix of real and artificial plants.
Only, there was no door.
Being an insect of well beyond normal size, this in itself was not an obstacle.
I jumped, stronger now, a bit, and pushed at the glass panes.
I felt a sliver of human surprise at how easily they caved.
I was inside.
Cold air was coming in, and glass was broken all over the poor real-fake plants, but I was in.
I floundered a bit, feeling like an escaped, bulbous balloon, bouncing against the intact glass pains, and along the waxy, foliage.
I'm here.
At work.
The window was broken.
I didn't care about the window.
I only cared about staying warm.
I folded myself neatly, compartmentally, and with perfect insect sensibility, into the warm spot, far on the other side.
The plants covered my underside nicely.
I glanced out, around and a bit downward, down at the reception area.
The building was half empty. They had trouble leasing the spaces.
Anyone who was there was probably inside their offices.
Someone would eventually discover the awful draft, the shards on the carpeted floor, and the outsized arthropod making itself at home in the office park greenery.
Someone. But insects are pretty much focused on now.
I went to sleep. Or, something like sleep. No dreams, though. Just an inert, perfect state of stillness.
I welcomed it.
If anyone had discovered me right away, really, they wouldn't be a threat.
My last conscious thought: I could snap their freaking head off in my mandibles.
The world turned into dusk, and overwhelming with calm.


Arbus Callen didn't like his name.
He didn't like his job.
He didn't like the sad atrium that looked like one in yet another dying shopping mall.
He felt like the last man on earth.
His one truly faithful employee,Sharon, hadn't come in.
He got worried. He called the police. He didn't understand why the dispatchers were laughing.
Things got pretty terrible after that.
Sharon was gone. Just, gone.
He called again. This time, he was told, we have a big situation going on. Please call back.
Something, about an incident, at a house.
Sharon's mother was at the ER, with nurses fitfully issuing naloxone, with no success.
The brother was drowning in his own scarlet pond.
And Sharon was gone.
Just, gone.
He sensed it, rather than knowing it.
He sat down on a chair in the lobby, and looked up.
I knew that would happen one day, he mused. Stupid cheap glass fitters.
He sat in the lobby, the chilly air trickling in, a stray scrap of cloud floating by.
Tragedy had hit a family he barely knew, apart from Sharon, peripherally.