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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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.


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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!


*
​
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.
And somehow, his world was turned over.
Arbus looked up again, and looked away.
And looked up again.
The leaves were rustling.
Great. With broken glass, sparrows and pigeons and squirrels will get in, fly in, fall in.
His head felt ready to burst. Blood thundered.
Why was he even sitting here.
Because home sucks, his mind answered him.
Home is empty. Home is always empty.
A strangely loud buzz, followed by some scratching, made him look up.
At first his mind told him: that's a blimp or some damn thing that fell through the whole. Or one of those stupid kites always getting away.
Except kites don't crawl on their own volition, up and over the staircase.
Stumbling, scratching, this absurd vision made its way down the stairs, to the lobby floor.
Arbus, still sitting in the chair, stared at it.
A terrible, knowing clarity flooded his brain.
"Sharon," he gasped.
He stood up, marvelling at the antennae, swinging to and fro, the intricate, hair-covered legs, the awesome shell. The armor.
Exo-something, the back of his mind said.
The eyes, the great, commanding, ever-seeing eyes.
He nodded, and a small smirk escaped his mouth.
He shook his head. Laughter was coming now, uncontrollable laughter.
"Damn, girl," he said aloud now. "Damn!"
The creature before him leaned just slightly forward, and its antennae danced with a new, frantic purpose.
"Damn!" More laughter, heard only by Arbus.
Another sound, unheard, filled the great open, sun-filled, foliage space.
It was a concise, muscular snap, as the sideways mouth, the robust mandibles, closed around his neck.
The snap lingered caustically in the air, without laughter.
A woman came out of the ladies' room and screamed.
Another came out behind her, and said, "What the actual --"
The rug was flooded with blackish blood, and a few fabric remnants.
One dandled just so, caught on a hairy, segmented leg.
A gathering was forming, but retreated, hugging the walls in terror.
Shaking hands reached for cell phones.
But not everyone's.
One man collapsed in fatal cardiac arrest into the artificial leaves.
A few people stood frozen, chilly urine on their pants leg or stockings the only thing signalling feeling.
A small band grasped at their composure, and burst through the door, outside into the frozen courtyard.
One of them finally managed to punch at a phone, to call for something -- anything.
Help.
Police.
The words did not come right away because they were so asinine.
"Get the hell over here!" someone finally yelled into the phone.
While all this happened, the insect, once known as Sharon, trundled over dead and fainted bodies, which registered no desire.
The antennae now leaned forward with purpose.
Parsing the wall. It was time to climb up it.
But this proved more of a task than anything had, so far.
The wall slid from beneath in a way that would have caused frustration to a human, just the day before.
Today, there was only movement and strain, until, finally, it proved too much.
It was followed by a weary lurch over the edge of the upper ledges of the atrium, now so much like a huge terrarium home to some exotic, displaced denizen.
Below was a mass of panic, shouting, swearing, running to and fro.
"Where did it go?" some bellowed in disbelief.
Yellow tape was going up. Someone was retching. More than one person.
But all this blurred into intangible noise, vibrations of disturbance.
These began to fall away.
A transformation was taking place, that no one below could see.
There was an opening, a yawn, even, from beneath legs, well worn by weight and so much epic exertion in so short a time.
In the shelter of the leaves, perfect, white, translucent lives were spilling out, out of the dark shelter that had ferried them from ground to sky to this green, hidden space.
Even if they could have projected anything like thought, they wouldn't have, and wouldn't have meant anything to their over-tired bearer.
Stillness covered stillness, and even the rhapsodic antennae began to curl downward.
In a white blur, they waited. They had nothing to do really, except wait, and grow, and change, as their genetic instructions had already bid them.
They didn't need to know what time it was. Their time would come.

Star-Crossed Lovers

by

Gerald Arthur Winter


Pulling up to the train station in the pouring rain, Sharon saw her husband Al running to
her Honda CRV. Al opened the door and his black umbrella blew inside-out—a dead bat with
limp wings. Sharon felt rain spray her right cheek as Al plopped into the passenger seat beside
her. The remnant smell of cigar smoke from the train’s bar car made Al’s soaked trench coat
smell like a wet dog. The wipers pumped blindly as he leaned towards Sharon for a kiss, but
his gin-tainted breath gagged her. She offered her cheek.
“How many martinis?” she asked.
“Three for lunch after the closing—big-ass client—then two more on the train home.
I was celebrating, so who’s counting, Babe? ”
She thought. When the hell have you ever called me Babe? You cheating bastard
—and now of all times and--
“What’s for dinner, Hon?”
Hon? She thought. Jesus, next you’ll be calling me--
Listen, Darlin’, I’m playing golf this weekend—an overnighter till late Sunday afternoon,
but I’ll be home in time for dinner . . . Giants are playing The Cowboys . . . can’t miss that.”
Her mind raced thinking, Listen, Darlin’ Honey Babe, you goddamn son of a bitch—but
she said, “Sure. You have yourself a good ole time, Sweetie.”
“Ya sure, Babe?”
“I know how much you need to unwind on the weekends, especially after you’ve been
stressed all week leading up to closing that big deal. Enjoy yourself,” she said, thinking . . . You
selfish prick.
“Thanks, Sharry,” he said, using a nickname he hadn’t uttered since they’d met in
college. He leaned close. “Baby, you’re the greatest.”
She blocked him with her right arm. “Shall I send you a postcard from the moon?”
“From the wha—?”
“Ralph Kramden—The Honeymooners.”
“Oh, yeah, but I’d never hit you, Sharry.”
Not that you’d recall, she thought. You’ve always been too drunk to remember.
* * *
Across town, Bill didn’t work in Manhattan like Al. They weren’t so much friends
as sports dads who’d had kids on the same teams, a brotherhood that a decade later still
warranted mutual exchanges at the bagel shop: “How ’bout those Giants.” Aside from
occasional nods of recognition, they each knew little about the other.
On week nights Bill always pulled into the driveway by 5 p.m. His son was twenty
and his daughter nineteen, but his wife, Abby, had her social obligations from aerobics to
tennis. Her great love was coaching cheerleading for middle-school girls on Friday nights
under the lights and on weekend mornings. This allowed little chance for Bill and Abby to
have much face-to-face time.
Twenty years ago in the ’90s Bill and Abby had met as teachers in the same high
school system, but when their daughter was born, Abby had become a stay-at-home-mom,
because Bill was promoted to English Department Head with a huge pay hike. Athletic, and
a health nut, Abby was always on the go, and never home when Bill arrived at 5 P.M. Unlike
Abby, Bill had a nagging cough, a remnant of his former smoking days and suburban pollen
became progressively immune to his annually prescribed anti-allergens.
Abby’s nickname for Bill was “Wheezer.” Though deeply offended by that negative
moniker, he never complained, though Abby often had used it in front of the kids. He was
made to accept that he was a troll wed to a princess with no right to feel anything but lucky,
As his colleagues as well as Abby often reminded him—a non sequitur.
One evening, Abby told Bill, “I’ve got to be up by six tomorrow morning to make sure
the girls’ new cheerleading outfits fit.”
Reclined in bed, he shrugged.
“The game’s at eight o’clock across town,” she said, taking Bill in hand. She seemed
oblivious to her practiced ritual. There was so little time in her busy schedule. Her vigorous
hand motion looked as if she were playing craps rather than manually peaking his arousal.
“Seven come eleven,” he said, but Bill’s reference went over Abby’s head. She was
raised a strict Catholic and the closest thing in the house that resembled condoms were the
party balloons at the kids’ birthday parties when they were younger. Unless Abby was certain
her time was right, only giving him manual gratification was on Abby’s menu for Bill.
Bill had a good sense of humor, which often came to the surface in his senior English
classes, with asides to his hormone-driven students, who by law were men and women, but
only physically. Mentally they were starved for instant gratification and couldn’t wait for the
notch up from high school to college. Bill often wondered, if Abby hadn’t taken time to do her
manual rituals to please him, would he have succumbed to one of those nasty tabloid taboos
of teacher-students crossing over the line of decency?
Never happen, he thought, feeling confident with his litmus test, their neighbor, Mary,
a drop-dead-gorgeous seventeen-year-old from his school who often waved to him from her
adjacent backyard before her parents or Abby came home for dinner—a two-hour gap of
opportunity from 5 to 7 pm Monday through Friday. Though Mary had an obvious crush on
Bill since taking his English class, and often asked for extra help, he envisioned himself as
Pope William and she as the Holy Virgin. He vowed that never the twain shall meet, certainly
not in any conjugal sense.
Bill thought it was a question of balance, and about the town’s kids growing up in a safe
environment with a good education that could send them to college, resulting in respectable
careers and happy marriages of their own—the American dream.
Abby was an industrious woman, smart, great looking, and fit, though she was even
more mentally tight-assed than physically. On top of that, Bill loved his job educating teenagers
for college and life, an honorable profession with great bennies. With Abby so involved in town
sports activities, Bill still had time after grading papers to pursue his dream above and beyond
all that other stuff called life. As trite as it may have seemed, Bill had been working on a novel
that no one knew about, not even Abby. It was those words from his inner consciousness that
had become his private stash of literary narrative—fulfilling, reassuring, and often foreboding.
It was those unshared words, some quite dark, which spoke Bill’s truth from within. Rebellious
in college , Bill was ow in his 40s, he was merely a closet rebel against conformity. His steadfast
exterior made his students consider him conformity’s poster-boy.
* * *
Sharon offered her cheek to Al at the front door before he headed to his BMW
convertible with the trunk open and his golf clubs lying inside. His small carry-on was well
suited for a weekend of golf. A few changes of clothes on hangers in plastic bags from the
cleaners were laid flat across the backseat. Al was already dressed to tee-off. He told Sharon
the name of the upstate New York golf course where his foursome would be playing, but his
words were like a foreign language with no subtitles.
As she waved good-bye to Al, she wept, not because she’d miss him, but because she
wouldn’t. She couldn’t remember what it had felt like to miss him. Maybe before the boys
were born, a past life she longed to visit, but she had no GPS yet to show her the way.
* * *
Abby was asleep, so Bill crept to his den and pushed his stack of students’ homework
aside and took his manuscript draft from a secret desk drawer. He shuffled the pages back
to the beginning of the last chapter and began to read forward to get himself back into the
rhythm of his narrative. His novel was about a woman in a bad marriage based loosely on a
woman he’d often seen in various situations in different parts of town. Bill knew nothing
about her real life, whether she was happily married, a widow, or even divorced.
He never tried to pair her with any real man in town because, in his mind, she was his
devout lover. This nameless woman served only as a physical manifestation of his fictional
character. Bill was the stand-in for a man she secretly loved. He’d reached the point in his
novel where he felt compelled to speak to this woman the next time he saw her in the
checkout line at Shoprite or the drive-thru at the bank.
Though Bill feared that the sound of the woman’s voice might shatter his fantasized
image, breaking the spell that he’d conjured of their passionate affair, he’d begun to long for
her intensely. Abby’s metronomic hand releases had become tiresome. Bill needed fulfillment,
but beyond just sexual gratification. He wanted someone with whom he could share his inti-
mate thoughts. With a Pygmalion fixation, he needed his mystery woman to come to life in
his embrace.
In his mundane life, Bill was ashamed of himself for wanting this newfound passion
outside his daily routine, which for years he had felt lucky to have with such a good wife and
mother as Abby. For some time, just writing about the mystery woman had been satisfying
enough, and his anticipation of possibly seeing this woman in town worked better to arouse
him than promised by Viagra TV commercials. He began to plot a way to find this woman.
For starters, maybe he could attach a name to her by sidling up to her at the bank to watch
her write a deposit slip. He might see her name on the deposit slip or on a check she was
depositing. Maybe he’d see her address on the slip and follow her home. Just the thought
of having her address at hand aroused him.
With his own busy schedule, he wasn’t able to sit idly by waiting for her to show up
on his radar. He drove slowly through the strip malls and around the Shoprite parking lot. He
nearly had a couple of fender benders from the distraction of looking around and checking
all his mirrors. He hadn’t seen her in at least a month, so his mind raced, wondering if she’d
moved out of town or had gone away on vacation with her family. Even if she had, Bill knew
there could be no substitute for this woman. She’d begun as the woman in his novel, but
now she was the woman of his dreams, and no one else could ever do.
Even if Abby could somehow, through metamorphosis, transform into the woman in
his novel, that would no longer satisfy him. Abby wouldn’t be that “she” of his secret novel.
Then it happened. In his side-view mirror, he saw the woman getting out of her car
and walking towards the entrance to the bank. She held a paper slip. Bill hit the brakes and
quickly tried to park, but almost hit another car vying for the same space.
“What are you doing here?” the woman driving the other car asked, rolling down her
window. “I thought you had to go to the library this morning.” It was Abby with a carful
of eleven-year-old cheerleaders. He felt like a twelve-year-old caught masturbating by
his mother. His face flushed with shame.
Abby looked like a stranger to Bill. His mind was fixed on the other woman. He
needed to see what she’d written on her deposit slip. He’d have to find a way to speak to
her, to learn something about her—anything.”
“Bill?” Abby called to him. “Are you OK?”
“Forgot to pay the electric bill,” he said. “Got to go to the bank before it closes.
See you tonight for supper!” he called to her and pulled into the space. He waved to her
and trotted towards the bank, but felt resentment towards Abby for interfering.
Abby shook her head with a frown and drove away.
Bill puffed from the short jog as he approached bank’s door, thinking, Wheezer.
* * *
Sharon felt a sense of urgency about cashing the check Al had given her to buy
groceries. She could’ve written her own check from the same account, or even from the
account Al was unaware of. It was her “just-in-case” stash, but she’d never had the courage
to ask herself—“Just in case what?” Al was such a control freak that she needed to create
her own space and accumulate the funds to build that wall of safety.
Her mind raced as she approach the entrance to the bank, then wondered if all her
daydreaming had made her forget to lock her car. She whipped around to go back and check
her Honda, but in that split second, a man coming towards her from behind slammed head
-on into her. The impact of her forehead against his face shattered his glasses and broke his
nose. Though Sharon’s head throbbed and her vision was blurry for a moment, she shook it
off and knelt beside the man to see if he was breathing.
Sharon’s CPR knowledge came to mind, so she began to push on his chest, which
seemed to have no effect, so she gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. She hadn’t
kissed Al on the lips in over a year, but now something kindled inside her. The taste of
this stranger’s lips and the scent of his aftershave stirred feelings she’d thought might
be lost forever. When his lips reacted to hers, she pulled back and saw his eyes were
wide open. Both stared at each other with curiosity, each seeming somehow familiar
to the other, yet they were total strangers, who’d never spoken to each other before.
“Are you, okay?” he asked her.
She laughed. “Am I, okay? You might need an ambulance.”
He touched his fingers to his nose and winced. He looked at his bloody fingertips
and passed out. She shouted for someone in the bank to call 911 for an ambulance. As
she waited five minutes before an ambulance arrived, the growing crowd gathered around
them. She studied the man’s face. Though battered, his face seemed kind. She felt concern
for him in a way she didn’t understand. When she put her hand on his chest to be sure he
was still breathing, she heard a wheezing sound emit from his open mouth.
She closed his lips with two fingers. The sound stopped though his chest continued
to rise and fall. She wondered what his name was. She ran several common names through
her mind, including “Bill.” The one name that never came to mind, or ever would, was
“Wheezer.”
* * *
When Bill’s clouded vision focused, he was about to ask the woman her name, but
then he saw it was Abby and he was on a gurney in the ER. He wondered, had he dreamt his
encounter with the woman? Had he had a car accident trying to follow her in his car mirrors?
“Did I have a car accident?”
Abby furrowed her brow the same way she had when he’d asked her to marry him right
after college. “You were running,” she said, “trying to get to the bank before it closed.”
“Running? Yes, I suppose I was.”
“That’s good. So you remember. Maybe you don’t have a concussion,” she said.
“What day is it?”
“What day?”
She nodded.
“Saturday.”
“Good,” she said. “Maybe you’re okay.”
“How did it happen? Did I walk into a glass door at the bank?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Vaguely . . .”
“You slammed into this poor woman on the sidewalk outside the bank.”
“Oh . . . is she okay?”
“Yes . . . they released her hours ago.”
“Who was she?” he asked.
“She’s the wife of one of your sports dad friends in town,” Abby said with a shrug.
“Never saw her before . . . said she never goes to the games . . . only her husband does . . .
like you . . . coaching soccer and Little League.”
“Who’s her husband?”
“She didn’t say. Let me ring the nurse to see if a doctor can check you out of here.”
“I should apologize to her.”
“She had a bump on her forehead . . . no blood, not even a bruise. Good-looking but
a little spacey.”
“How do you mean?”
Abby shrugged. “Preoccupied, you know, like her mind was somewhere else when she
spoke. At first I thought she might have a concussion too, but they checked her out. She’s fine.”
“I’d still like to apologize to her.”
“She gave me her name and phone number in case we needed her to pay for your ER
bill. I told her your coverage would pay for it. She asked me to call her anyway to let her know
you were okay. Spacey, but a nice woman.”
“What’s her name?”
“She didn’t say, but she wrote her phone number on the back of her bank slip.”
“Let me see it.”
“I stuck it in sun visor in my car on the way here.”
“Save it for me,” Bill said. “I want to send her a note of apology.”
“She only wrote her phone number,” Abby said. “I wouldn’t call her. She might think
you want to sue her.”
“No need for that,” he said, but as he closed his eyes as if that would be the end of it,
he could think of nothing but the deposit slip in Abby’s car. The woman may have written her
phone number on the back of the deposit slip, but the printed side could show her name and
address.
* * *
When Sharon got home from the ER, she tossed her shoulder bag on the sofa and
exhaled a deep breath that blew a loose curl from the lump growing on her forehead. She
poured a glass of chilled chardonnay and took it to the master bathroom and drew a bath.
She lit several scented candles in the bathroom, turned on the speakers from the Dreamscape
cassette on the eight-track stereo, then lowered herself into the soothing hot water scented
with white tea. With her eyes shut, she thought about the man’s lips that had touched hers.
She ran the tip of her tongue across her upper lip and felt an ache deep within her to be kissed
by him again. She wasn’t sure if it was just her need for affection or some greater need for this
man in particular.
What an absurd notion, she thought. Who the hell is he anyway—just some school
teacher?”
Though Sharon had thought her brief conversation with the man’s wife would have
ended any further thought about the man the woman had called “Bill,” she couldn’t let go of
her attraction to him, though without any reason she could fathom. Her husband was more
universally attractive with that GQ-cover look. Al was successful and charismatic, but he drank
too much, and couldn’t stop his carousing at work, even after the boys were born.
In recent years, with a Friday night buzz, Al had said nonchalantly, “We can’t help
help it, Shar. We prowl . . . it’s what men do. Our boys will do the same.”
But not this man, she thought, not this guy Bill. If he ever cheated on his beautiful wife,
Abby—quite stunning and smart—it wouldn’t be just a casual affair. He’d be all in.
* * *
“Tell you what,” Bill said to Abby next morning. “Your car needs an oil change. Let
me drive you down to the mall where I left my car yesterday, then you can take my car to pick
up the cheerleaders. I’ll take your car for an oil change and a wash.”
Abby shrugged. “Sounds like a plan. Sure. Let’s go.”
The sun glared in his eyes through the windshield as he was driving with Abby beside
him, but his sunglasses had been left in his own car overnight. Bill didn’t wipe his watering
eyes for fear Abby might tell him to pull down the visor where she’d kept the mystery woman’s
bank deposit slip.
Abby gave Bill a peck on the cheek before getting out of the car. “See you for dinner,”
she said over her shoulder as she headed to Bill’s car.
Bill watched the gyrating of Abby’s hips in her tight white slacks through which the
morning sun exposed her thong panties. Abby was what his fraternity brothers in college
would have called a fine piece of ass, even now at forty-three she still was. Bill knew that all
of their friends and acquaintances in town saw him as the lucky one in their match-up.
“What is it that you like about me best?” he’d asked Abby, questioning his own worth
in their marriage.
“Comfort,” she’d said without thought. “You’re like a broken-in, comfy pair of slippers.”
She’d even given him a long kiss after saying that with a flutter of the tip of her probing tongue
as reassurance or just a tease. That had been several years ago, but he’d clung to her gesture

until yesterday before his mystery woman had given him mouth-to-mouth.
That’s all it was, right? He asked himself. I’m just imagining something more . . . some-
thing worth holding onto.
He put his hand between the sun visor and the car’s roof then anxiously slipped his hand
back and forth. He felt nothing. He pulled down the visor—nothing. His pulse pounded and he
began to cough and wheeze.
Fall pollen, he thought, knowing how the change of seasons brought his allergies out
of hibernation, often giving him anxiety attacks. His chest felt tight and he became somewhat
dizzy, which his allergist had said was pressure on his inner ears from the pollen buildup in his
Eustachian tubes. His hearing would be like swimming underwater for hours until his meds
kicked in. He kept a supply of his prescription in his glove compartment for such emergencies
. . . his glove compartment.
He’d worked Abby perfectly to set up this opportunity to meet his mystery woman with
all of Saturday afternoon free to find her and speak to her, and now he was instantly converted
into Wheezer, as if Abby had sabotaged his plan. She said she’d put the woman’s bank slip in
the sun visor, but she must have lied.
Lied? That’s crazy. Abby would never lie intentionally. She must have thought she’d
put it there, but had put it someplace else. Maybe she’d even thrown it away—unintentionally.
Bill pulled over on the shoulder on a quiet local street and got out of Abby’s car. He
moved the driver’s seat all the way back then squatted to look under the seat. He found some
loose change, a hair clip, a crumpled shopping list, and a comb with missing teeth. He took a
deep, painful breath that made his chest rattle. He unfastened the floor matt to look under it
. . . more loose change, a paper clip, and a candy wrapper—no deposit slip. Damn it!
Resigned to defeat, Bill got in Abby’s car and headed home where he still had some
of his meds in the bathroom medicine chest and a prescription for autumn renewal. It was
a cloudless day in the high 70s so he took the scenic route home across a high local bridge
between two mountains separated by a river below. Maple trees were beginning to show
some autumn colors with a few flashes of red and yellow among the green on the
mountainsides. He opened both front windows of Abby’s car, then the sun roof,
which made a whooshing sound crossing the bridge.
Despite the beauty of the day, Bill felt a sick feeling in his gut, but his peripheral
vision on his right side caught a fluttering motion above the passenger seat.
The sun visor, he thought. Not the driver’s, but the passenger’s sun visor.
Traveling at 60 mph over the bridge with a crosswind, the windows open, and his
sunroof sucking wind out the top of the car like the eyewall of a hurricane, the bank deposit
slip had been sucked out from behind the sun visor and was stuck to the car’s ceiling. The
fragile paper fluttered out of his reach as if it were mocking him. He took his eyes off the
road for a second, but that brief distraction nearly made him crash into the median
separating him from oncoming high-speed traffic across the bridge.
He moved to the right lane and slowed down to 50 mph. With both eyes staring
forward at the road, he leaned to the right and felt the fluttering deposit slip with his
extended fingertips, but too far to grab it. He straightened up in the driver’s seat and
hit the buttons to close the front car windows. He slowed down to 40 mph and steered
onto the shoulder in the middle of the bridge. He brought the car to a gradual stop and
tried to take a deep breath, but it was painful. He turned slowly toward the deposit slip
still attached to the textured ceiling of the car. The fingers of his right hand trembled as
if he was trying to catch a frog before it sprang from his grasp.
A split second before he could lunge, a stiff breeze sucked the deposit slip out
through the sunroof. He gasped and jumped out of the car into oncoming traffic.
* * *
Sharon felt a sudden chill despite the soothing warmth of her scented bath. It
was that same instinctive feeling she’d had as an adolescent when she knew her dad
had died before anyone had given her the bad news. Though intense now, it wasn’t
a feeling that someone had died, but was rather in mortal danger, and with time left
to be saved.
Was Al going to have a heart attack on the golf course? She wondered, then felt
her sardonic sarcasm rise to the moment. Or was Al going to croak in a motel with the
new millennial Assistant Account Manager he’d hired last month riding him like a cowgirl?
But no, she felt for sure, thinking, It’s not Al—it must be Bill. Why can’t I stop thinking
about Bill? I must be losing it.
She pulled the drain latch and the bath water gurgled down the drain. She
watched with hope as the tub emptied, but then she saw what she’d prayed she
wouldn’t see again, blood staining the tub, not bright red, but almost purple.
Her oncologist had warned her this could be a first sign, that it could be the
beginning of what most likely would be the end. She’d kept it from Al because she
felt there was no point in telling him. She didn’t want his sympathy or pity. What
she’d wanted from him at the start, she’d never gotten. She wanted to be cherished
for who she was, nothing more. No lavish life of luxury, just a shared appreciation
of each other. But Al was always too busy with self-appreciation, needing accolades
for his achievements in business, realized by his wealth and social status.
She dressed quickly and dashed out to her car in the driveway. She backed out
into the street and took off with a chirp of the tires, but with no sense of direction, only
of urgency. Something in her subconscious led her back towards the mall. To what end,
she had no idea, but she licked her lips, redolent, if only in her mind, of another woman’s
husband, of a man in danger, like herself, of dying—Bill.
* * *
Bill dodged oncoming traffic on the bridge, but only peripherally, because his focus was
on the bank deposit slip fluttering like a butterfly with each passing vehicle.
“Get off the road, ya idiot!” a truck driver shouted at him.
With man and physics in a split second of perfect harmony, Bill dove at the elusive
slip of paper. With the object of his desire clutched firmly in his grasp, he somersaulted on
the highway and came up to a proud stance of victory. Holding the deposit slip firmly with
both hands to read the name and address on it, he thought he saw a vision of his mystery
woman. In that millisecond, he realized it was not a dream at all. It was “Sharon” as the
name said on the slip. She was behind the wheel of the vehicle that hit him. Even with its
screeching brakes, her car lifted Bill off his feet. He landed on the hood. Semiconscious,
through the windshield, he stared at his mystery woman’s face, dissolving and aghast at
the sight of him.
* * *
In the waiting room outside the same ER as yesterday, Sharon saw Abby coming toward
her. Sharon stood to greet her, but Abby, much taller and physically fit, shoved her back down
into the chair.
“This can’t be a coincidence, bitch!” Abby shouted, drawing the attention of a security
guard as others in the waiting room moved away from the two women.
“Whoa! Bill was in the middle of the highway, jumping up and down as if he had no
idea where he was. An eight-wheeler was in front of me and suddenly swerved to avoid him.
All I could do was hit my brakes to avoid hitting him. Is he OK?”
“He’s conscious, but having a complete MRI,” Abby huffed. “He could have internal
injuries, but fortunately he seems to have no broken bones.
“Please . . . tell him I’m so sorry,” Sharon said. “This time we really should exchange our
insurance information.”
“If Bill has extended injuries we’ll sue your ass,” Abby said.
Sharon shirked. “We have excellent insurance that will cover it . . . but truly, I am sorry.”
“Please, just go away,” Abby huffed.
Heading down the long hospital corridor toward the parking lot, Sharon still sensed
Abby glaring at her, like a chill wind at her back.
* * *
Bill’s choice of music while having an MRI was classic rock, though he didn’t dare nod
his head or tap his foot to the beat of The Stones’ “Get Off of My Cloud.” No one told him
what had happened, but the last thing he recalled was chasing after the bank deposit slip on
the bridge. He thought he had a recollection of his mystery woman’s face, but her expression
had puzzled him. She’d been aghast with her mouth agape, so he thought it was just what he
remembered from slamming head-on into her outside the bank. It had all become a jumble
from which he could make no sense.
He tried not to feel claustrophobic within the MRI tube, but if it weren’t for The Stones,
he’d have thought he was dead inside a casket. Every inch of his body ached to the bone, so he
wondered if he might be better off dead than to endure a lengthy recovery from whatever the
hell had happened. Though he still couldn’t block out the face of his mystery woman, as he
opened his eyes in his hospital room after the MRI, her face morphed into Abby’s, but her voice
sounded as if it came from a deep well.
“What’s with you in that woman?” Abby asked, but he didn’t know what to say.
He felt as if Abby could hear his inner thoughts of betrayal with the nameless woman
he’d tried to find. He closed his eyes to avoid any further questioning. Minutes later, he
squinted to see if Abby had left. With relief, he took a deep breath, but he began to cough
uncontrollably. A nurse came in to give him a snort of oxygen for relief.
“Take these,” the nurse said, handing him two pills. “Let me raise your head,” she said
controlling the bed remotely. “They’ll help stop your coughing.”
She handed him a paper cup of water. He swallowed the pills and sighed with relief.
“Thanks, Sharon,” he said, but the nurse gave him a queer look and tapped her name
tag with her finger to show him that her name was Jenny. “Sorry. I mean, thank you, Jenny.”
“Your wife, Sharon, can see you later,” Jenny said as she left the room.
My wife . . . Sharon? He thought. Where did that come from? Then he remembered
the name he’d seen on the deposit slip and thought, My mystery woman, my Sharon . . . .
* * *
It was Sunday morning and Al hadn’t come home yet from his golfing weekend. Sharon
was certain he was cheating on her. Even their boys seemed to have a sense of it, but like her,
they’d conditioned themselves to ignore their father’s strained absences and the negative
effect on their mother. But rather than unifying with Sharon’s contempt, they had each found
separate ways to deal with their father’s infidelity. Their sons were eighteen and twenty with
romantic interests of their own. They worshipped their father, not just for his success, but
Al was a guys’ guy, speaking a language to his sons that was as foreign to Sharon as Klingon.
Sharon often felt as if she’d been no more to Al than a receptacle to breed clones of himself,
which they may well have done.
She was, in some ways, relieved about the news she’d heard weeks ago from her
gynecologist. She’d had some brief hope that the news would be that at age forty she was
pregnant, hopefully with a daughter with whom she might bond, like the only child Sharon
herself had been. She’d be a kid sister to her two older brothers, but even though Al would
spoil a daughter terribly with lavish gifts and affection, she would be her daughter, her
confident, the sibling she’d never had.
But Sharon wasn’t pregnant, could never be pregnant again, and was dying from a rare
cancer. She had little time, perhaps months, but maybe only weeks left to live. She refused to
waste what little time she had on being pitied by Al or their sons. She’d been a dutiful wife and
mother since she married Al right after college, but the little time remaining would have to be
hers—all hers.
She was barred from the one recent joy she’d found, literally by accident. It was this
sort-of-goofy guy named Bill who’d lived in the same town for twenty years, but she’d never
noticed him before, not until he’d slammed head-on into her at the bank. Then she’d nearly
run him over with her car.
She thought. What the hell’s with that?
* * *
The next time he opened his eyes, Bill saw his ER physician holding his chart and
squinting at him.
“How do you feel, Bill?” the doctor asked.
“Like the operation was a success, but the patient died,” Bill said with a forced grin.
The doctor seemed to grab at that straw of Bill’s good humor by saying, “Well, Bill,
I’m afraid you’re not far off . . . I do have good news . . . and bad news.”
Bill raised his bed and sat up. “Shoot, Doc.”
“Your injuries from being hit by a car are miraculously minor . . . but in order to
detect any internal ruptures or even hairline fractures, we gave you a complete MRI and
we’ve found something far worse . . . a brain tumor . . . it’s inoperable, and there is evidence
that it’s cancer and may have already metastasize throughout your lymph system.”
“How much time do I have?” Bill asked.
“Impossible to pinpoint, Bill. We have some new wonder drugs that might prolong
the inevitable. We can recommend treatment for your symptoms, but with no assurance of
a cure.”
“Have you told, my wife?”
“Not yet, Bill. I just found out myself.”
“Then don’t . . . leave that to me.”
* * *
Sharon lied to her family about her illness. “I just need time alone,” she told Al. “It’s
probably premature menopause, but I can’t stand another day in that house with the boys at
school and you at work.”
“Where would you go?” Al asked, as if the idea of Sharon doing anything on her own
without him was implausible.
“Anywhere. Any place I want to go!”
Al and their two sons watched her throw her luggage into her car. They gave her no
help as if they were watching a film about a crazy woman and would have no part of it. She
didn’t bother to wave as she backed out of the driveway for parts unknown. The boys waved
with blank expressions.
Al just shook his head. “How about pizza, guys? The Knicks are playing Philly at home.”
* * *
Bill didn’t tell Abby about the doctor’s prognosis, so she believed him when he told
her that he’d need eight to ten weeks of physical therapy, but he’d be able to drive to the
therapist for his treatments. He assured Abby she needn’t be dissuaded from her busy
schedule with her flock of adolescent cheerleaders, her yoga sessions, and indoor tennis with
the colder weather coming. He’d taken a sabbatical from school till January. He convinced
Abby that he’d be fine in a few months . . . just fine.
Abby took Bill at his word and resumed her busy schedule. Bill went to his first
consultation with an oncologist. He was reading The New Yorker in the waiting room when
a nurse called his name, “Bill!” Before he looked up from the magazine, he heard another
“Bill!” but it was a different voice. Then he saw her standing in the doorway coming from
the examination rooms. It was his mystery woman staring at him oddly. Her expression was
unexpected, as if she were glad to see him, though in fact, they’d uttered only a few words
to each other before, he on the sidewalk with a broken nose and she with a bump on her
forehead.
“Bill . . . are you OK?” she asked.
“Sharon?” he said with uncertainty, wondering if with all the stress of his prognosis,
she might morph into someone else.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m so sorry. It really was an accident.”
“Bill, the doctor is waiting,” the nurse said.
“I know,” he said to Sharon. “I don’t blame you. It was my fault . . . both times.”
“No one’s fault,” Sharon said.
“I have to go,” he said.
“See you,” she said with sad eyes and a weak wave of her hand.
“Not if I see you first,” he kidded her with a wink, which made her smile. After Bill
waved back as he entered the examination corridor, Sharon went to her car and wept.
Nature seemed to cry with her in a sudden, blinding downpour. She watched for an hour,
hoping to see Bill when he left the medical complex, but it was a huge lot with many
sections. The rain kept her from seeing more than ten feet in front of her windshield.
After two hours, she went to the motel off the freeway where she’d rented a room for
the week after leaving Al and the boys.
She watched TCM’s old black-and-white movies on TV in her motel room and sipped
Chardonnay. As invigorating as seeing Bill for that brief moment had been, the emptiness
of the motel room made her feel even more lonely than with Al and the boys.
It was almost autumn and the leaves would be changing color, but she might be
dead by Thanksgiving. Taking the experimental drug to help others in the future who’d
be dying from her disease would commence tomorrow morning. It was the least she
could do, helping others after knowing her time soon would be up. No reason to be
selfish now, after she’d always put her husband and sons first. She’d enjoy this final
taste of wine before her chemotherapy would begin in the morning. No more wine
after that, maybe no more anything.
* * *
When Bill came out of the oncologist’s examination room and returned to the waiting
room, he hoped Sharon would still be there, but that would be too good to be true. He ached
to see her again, but what was the point? Once he’d begun his treatments, at best, they’d only
prolong his inevitable fate. With his time away from school there was the longshot that he
might at least finish his novel before Christmas when presumably, before the New Year, he’d
be dead.
* * *
“What’s in the briefcase?” Abby asked Bill, dressed in his sweats as if he were going to
physical therapy.
“I agreed to mark some term papers before the end of the year,” he lied. “Don’t want
the work to pile up around the holidays.”
The briefcase contained the first draft of his novel, which he planned to edit while he
still had the physical strength and mental faculties to do so.
He checked in at the oncology center and had his prep by drinking some godawful
solution which, ironically, was meant to deter his nausea, but it gagged him. The stress before
beginning his first chemo treatment stimulated his sinus allergies and he began to wheeze.
“I thought you marked down on your rap sheet that you didn’t have asthma?” the nurse
said.
“I don’t,” he said. “It’s the fall pollen. Nothing helps.”
“Just want you to know that with this chemo, your immune system is at risk and your
breathing will most likely become worse. A side-effect of this drastic treatment has been viral
pneumonia.”
“You call it breathing. My wife calls it wheezing,” Bill said with good humor, making the
nurse crack a smile. “Any other good news?”
“It’s all uphill from here, Bill. Are you ready?”
He nodded, noting seven soft reclining chairs just like his with IV poles next to each.
“Having a slow day?” he asked.
“The next patient starts in an hour,” she said. “We stagger them an hour apart so if
we’re short-staffed for any reason, we still can have everyone done by five o’clock.”
“I wish my high school could be that efficient with its scheduling.”
She smiled. “You’ll feel a burning sensation at first, but if it becomes too intense, just
pull that cord and I’ll come running. How is it so far?”
“Burning,” he said with a grimace. “Doesn’t matter . . . I’m probably going to hell in a
hand basket anyway. Might as well get used to the heat.”

* * *
When Bill came out of his initial doze, there was a curtain drawn around him for privacy.
The curtain opened just as he looked at his watch and saw he’d slept for three hours.
Nurse Lillian smiled and asked, “How’re you feeling?”
“Like I just got hit by a speeding car, but I’m getting used to that feeling.”
He hung his head with his chin to his chest, but lifted it when he heard, “Bill?” He
cocked his head and heard it again, but Lillian’s lips were closed.
“Are you a ventriloquist, Lillian?” he asked.
She jerked her head toward the curtain separating him from another patient. He
waved his hand for her to pull back the curtain and said, “Sharon?”
As the curtain slowly revealed Sharon hooked up to an IV, Bill recalled watching
Spartacus when the Roman guards opened the bars separating Kirk Douglas from Jean
Simmons so the guards could watch them fornicate from the open hatch above their cell.
In his mind a ceremonial horn trumpeted the preamble to their observed fornication. Though
his first reaction to seeing her was immediate arousal, her vulnerability with the IV dripping
poison into her veins made his heart sink.
Doomed, he thought. Together at last, but we’re both doomed.
Seeing Bill glaring at her, she asked him, “Are you feeling what I’m feeling?”
It was a loaded question, because even though she must be referring to the fire
pulsing through her veins from the chemo, his inner perception was about something more
than physical stress. He answered accordingly.
“I’m feeling that I never want to let you out of my sight again,” he said.
Sharon’s mouth dropped open and her eyelashes fluttered. “Wh-why?” she asked.
“If you don’t already know, there’s no point in telling you,” he said, feeling more
courage than he’d ever experienced.
“Do you love me?” she asked, feeling foolish the moment she said it.
“I feel as though I’d loved you before I’d ever seen you.”
“But now that you’ve seen me?”
“You’re someone I’d lost so long ago that, not only had I forgotten when, but also who
we were at the time. This week was the first time I’d ever seen you in this life, except in my
dreams.”
“You mean like reincarnation?”
“Maybe, but I’m not much of a philosopher,” Bill said with a shrug. “How about you?”
“I feel it, but fear it’s just desperation,” she said. “My life sucks . . . and now it’ll be over
very soon. What if it’s just wishful thinking . . . for you, too? Are you happy? You must be--
Abby’s beautiful.”
Bill felt a pang of regret like a hot coal in the pit of his gut. How could he leave Abby?
Men envied him for having Abby, but was that a logical reason to stay with her? Who could
marry such an attractive, smart woman, then leave her for someone else? But it wasn’t just
someone else, it was Sharon, the woman he would love forever in his mind.
“I love her as the mother of my children,” Bill said. “But I have little time left and want
to make every second that remains count, maybe to prepare me for what comes afterwards.”
“You believe in that—the hereafter?” she asked.
“I don’t know what comes afterwards any more than anyone else, but I feel there’s got
to be more than just this. Something much greater.”
“I feel the same way, Bill. Are you going home from here?”
“Not if I can be with you.”
“What will you tell Abby? Please, anything except that you’re on an overnight golf
outing?”
“I don’t play golf, too much pollen on the courses.”
“I’ve left my family,” she said. “They have no idea that I’m ill and dying. I have a room
at the Hampton Inn off I-95 five miles from here.”
“I’ll wait for you to finish your treatment and follow you there.”
Lillian came back to detach Bill’s IV from his port. “Is your driver here to take you
home?” Lillian asked Bill.
“I used Dial-a-Ride,” he lied. “I’ll buzz them from the lobby with my phone.” Then he
turned to Sharon. “We have to stop meeting like this.”
Nurse Lillian raised her eyebrows then shook her head, knowing from thirty years in the
cancer ward that The Big C often made strange bedfellows.
Jack waited for an hour in the lobby then he saw Sharon coming off the elevator. A
nurse was pushing her in a wheelchair. Jack got to his feet, and though he still felt a little dizzy
from the chemo, he recalled how he’d once faked sobriety at a DUI stop coming home from
a Little League victory celebration with his son. It had to start with the breathing, controlling
the oxygen intake to maintain balance in your stride. But he sensed that his words might still
become garbled and was relieved when Sharon spoke up in his behalf.
“There’s my husband,” she told the nurse, fortunately not Lillian. “Hi, Darling. Did you
pull your car up to the curb?”
Bill just nodded with Cheshire grin. It was pouring rain and almost dark. He gave his
hand to Sharon outside the entrance. They hooked elbows.
“My car’s just ahead,” he told the nurse, having told more lies in one day than he had
in a lifetime. He led her to his car and opened the door for her. Sitting side-by-side, they each
remained silent as he drove through the parking lot. Bill reached over and took Sharon’s hand
in his, both cold to each other’s touch. Bill’s car interior was heady with each of them inhaling
each other’s scent counterpointed by Bill’s rhythmic wheezing.
“I’ve made my peace about my sons,” Sharon said. “They won’t miss me. They’ll get
over my absence in a hurry. Al, too. Won’t your children need you? Of course they will.”
“That’s true,” Bill said with a shrug. “And I’ll miss them very much. Abby, too. But I’ll
be dead soon and they’ll have to move on anyway.”
“Maybe we don’t deserve this,” Sharon said.
“Are you afraid what we’re doing will send us to hell?”
“I feel like I’ve already been there.”
“It hasn’t been hell with Abby,” he said. “She’s been a good wife and mother, but . . .”
“But what?”
“She just isn’t you,” he said, squeezing her hand.
* * *
They pulled into the lot at the Hampton Inn. She led the way to her room.
“You first,” he said nodding to the bathroom. “I’ll shower after you.”
Though his gesture was gallant, he had to burst into the bathroom and kneel in front of
the toilet and puke his guts out. She got out of the shower without bothering to cover herself
with a towel and rubbed his neck and back to comfort him as he choked and vomited and
wheezed. No sooner had he finished retching than they switched places and it was her turn to
puke and groan.
The sheets were cold against their naked bodies in the king-size bed, and for the first
half hour they both shivered uncontrollably. But after an hour, with Sharon’s head tucked in
the crook of Bill’s neck, their bodies seemed to morph into one with a single heartbeat.
It was 2 a.m. when Bill sensed that Sharon was awake, too.
“Teri Garr,” he said.
“What?”
“Abby is like Teri Garr in the movies,” he said. “Remember her in The Black Stallion?
She wasn’t a bad mom, but she kept nagging the poor kid about the damn horse. She was
always disapproving.”
“Oh, yeah,” Sharon said. “I remember.”
“For decades I’ve felt like Richard Dreyfus in Close Encounters . . .”
“You mean you’re going to make a mountain out of our breakfast in the morning?”
“No, but Abby is like Teri Garr in that movie, too,” Bill said. “She just didn’t understand
her husband. Worse yet, she didn’t want to understand him or his inner needs. Tonight, being
here with you, makes me feel like Dreyfus, ready to leave everything behind to walk that ramp
into a flying saucer and seek new adventures with a new life in another world—with you.”
“Do you think of me as an alien?” she asked, but he could see in the dim light that she
was smiling with sparkling white teeth.
“I think of you as everything that’s been missing from my life, Sharon.”
She hugged him tighter beneath the sheets now warm from their naked bodies.
“But I’m just like Teri Garr, too,” she said.
“How so?”
“How ’bout a r-r-roll in da hay?”
“Young Frankenstein?”
“That’s Frankenshteen.”
He pulled her close as their noses touched and he ran his hands across her body. Then
he whispered, “Vot knockers.”
“No, I’m Frau Blücher.”
Bill whinnied like a horse and they both laughed so hard they had to catch their breath.
“Who wouldn’t believe John Denver can talk to God?” she asked.
“He does now,” Bill said. “So does George Burns.
“That’s dark.”
“Too dark?
“No, Bill . . . I like your darkness.”
“Show me how much.”
Each wondered how they could have been so close for so many years in their little town
yet never have met till this week. They exchanged deep searches into the other’s eyes realizing
they could never go back. They made love till sunrise with whatever strength still remained in
their minds and limbs as if it would be their last time.
* * *
Sharon’s chemo was scheduled to begin shortly before Bill’s and the third patient
wasn’t due for another hour. He asked Nurse Lillian if he could be seated beside Sharon so
they could talk during their treatments.
“Just remember that you’ll both need to rest,” Lillian said. “I don’t want you to disturb
any of the other patients with your jabbering. Keep your laughter and wheezing down to a dull
roar. After I hook you up, Bill, how about if I pull the curtains around you both to cut back on
the sound of your voices?”
Bill kidded, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
Lillian smirked. “The hell you will. You have very different cancers. What’s good for the
goose here,” she nodded to Sharon, “will not be good for the gander. And vice versa.”
Bill gave Sharon a knowing glance and she faintly grinned with understanding as Lillian
began Bill’s IV drip. He watched Lillian make the connections and insert the IV into his port
below his collarbone still bruised purple from the surgical insertion days before, as was
Sharon’s as well. All was going to their plan.
“I hope you two lovebirds have a nice trip,” Lillian said with a wink as she drew the
curtains around them.
Bill and Sharon gave each other knowing looks. He stood from his chair and squeezed
both of their IV tubes to stop the flow. He handed Sharon his tube to squeeze tightly and he
continued to do the same for hers. He did just what Nurse Lillian had warned against. He
switched their IVs. The effect of their decision took less time than either had imagined.
Holding hands, they leaned towards each other and kissed with mutual tastes of satisfaction.
In their minds, First Class flight attendant, Lillian, had brought them cocktails to begin
their journey. Not just a vacation, their shared trip had been their lifelong dream, so they
intended to make it special in every way, from their soft reclining chairs to every subtle detail,
as if this trek would be their final journey together.
From their smiling faces observed with shock by Nurse Lillian an hour later when she
found them, both Bill and Sharon were content to know it was their last shared experience,
but only in this material world. Both anticipated landing in another together and forever . . .
​

The Black Spot
by
Gerald Arthur Winter


Camp NO-BE-BO-SCO in the 1950s was the Blairstown, New Jersey
campsite for Boy Scout troops of North Bergen County. Bobby was a tenderfoot
scout in the Rattlesnake Patrol of Troop 52 in the Borough of Oakland on his first
autumn campout. In retrospect, it was surely colder than it is now in mountainous
northwest Jersey with Sand Pond already frozen on a late October weekend at
the base of the Kittatinny Ridge.
At age eleven, Bobby had already been through the summer hazing by
older scouts age twelve to fourteen. He knew that being sent to a neighboring
troop at a campsite for a smoke sifter or a left-handed axe was a trick the older
boys played on a tenderfoot scout to make him a fool to laugh at and mock.
On his summer campout he had learned to dig a latrine, pitch a tent, and
make a fire. But in the cold weather, a dozen Boy Scouts, three Explorer
Scouts in high school wearing their dark green uniforms, and Scout Master,
Mr. Katell would sleep in a log cabin with ten bunkbeds.
In the summer he’d encountered insects, spiders, amphibians, and
reptiles, including a six-foot black racer he saw swallow a squirrel. Now the
ground was already frozen and as hard as macadam at the end of October
with just deer, coyotes, foxes, opossums raccoons, skunks, bobcats, and
bears with which to contend. Sheltered by the warmth of the cabin with
a wood stove to cook their meals, the only time the scouts had to face
the elements and wild animals was on their short jaunts to the outhouse.
Or so the five tenderfoot scouts had been lead to believe.
The Cable Trail was always the first challenge to a tenderfoot at “NO-BE”
as scouts affectionately called the year-round campsite. The three-day weekend
included a Saturday hike up The Cable Trail, so named because a thick metal
cable had been implanted from the base of the ridge to the Appalachian Trail
high above. The cable had been installed in the 1930s so hikers could climb the
huge boulders of the escarpment by holding onto the cable to avoid a disastrous
plunge that could cause severe injuries or death. A fall from top to bottom was
what the older scouts called “ a three screamer” because of how many times
you had to scream before you would hit bottom.
The five tenderfoot scouts with no merit badges or sashes to display
them were the most talkative on the trail, unaware that two of the Explorers
as their only supervision on the adventure, were there to verify the tenderfoot
scouts’ fulfillment for their Hiking merit badges. This included a 10-mile roundtrip
trek among the autumn elements on The Appalachian Trail. The new scouts’
parents had not been told that this exposure to the wild was included in the
weekend’s activities because it was meant to toughen up their preteen sons.
“No mama’s boys allowed in this troop,” the two explorers said as
they departed on their hike up The Cable Trail.
The older scouts, one Explorer, and the Scout Master stayed behind
in the cabin because the older scouts had already had the 10-mile hike
initiation on previous autumn campouts. The older scouts would be passing
their Firs Aid and Cooking merit badges this trip. Though the five younger
tenderfoot scouts were told they would be back at the cabin to join the
others for dinner, in the hiking party of seven, each carried provisions for
an overnight stay in the forest.
“Why do we have to carry these heavy knapsacks?” one tenderfoot
complained. “It’s hard enough holding onto this cold metal cable without
gloves.
Another argued, “If we’re not gonna use these mess kits, shovels,
and axes, why carry them?”
“Stop complaining and pay attention to your footing, scout!”
Explorer Randy shouted to the others below him as he led the way over
the boulders. “Dave and I are carrying pup tent plus our other supplies.”
“What for?” another young scout shouted. “We’ll be back tonight
for dinner and sleep in the warm cabin! We don’t need our sleeping bags!”
Explorer Dave shouted from where he took up the rear, “What’s
the Boy Scout motto?”
Bobby shouted, “Be prepared!”
The other four tenderfoot scouts glared at him as if he’d farted
in a movie theater.
“Lemme hear a ‘That’s right!’ ” Explorer Dave shouted from the rear.
“That’s right!” Bobby shouted, but his solo response died in the cold
wind with glares from the other four tenderfoot scouts.
Randy shouted, “The Black Spot’s gonna sense your lack of enthusiasm
and keep us from getting back to the cabin tonight!”
“The what?” Billy, the chubby, least athletic of the tenderfoot scouts asked.
“How could you guys come to NO-BE without being prepared to deal with
The Black Spot?”
“What the heck is that?” Jimmy, another tenderfoot shouted.
“Dave!” Randy shouted. “I can’t believe how lame these tenderfeet are.”
“Piss poor!” Dave agreed.
Bobby figured these two Explorers were pulling the same crap on the
younger kids that he’d experienced last summer, thinking . . . Left handed axe,
jeez. Here we go again.
They reached the top of the ridge and counted heads.
“O.K. scouts!” Randy said. “We’re all accounted for, so now we’re gonna
hike four miles north along the Appalachian Trail. We’ll stop at the base of the
radio tower at the peak of the ridge and cook lunch. It’s a good chance for Dave
and me to qualify you all for your Camping merit badges. I’m a Life Scout and
Dave is a Star Scout. We both plan to qualify for Eagle Scout next year, so you’d
best listen to all we teach you.
When they reached the radio tower they made camp with a clearing
and used large stones to make a safe fire pit. The five younger scouts gathered
kindling and the two Explorers chopped firewood from fallen trees. Once the
fire was glowing coals they cooked hotdogs on sticks and the Explorers doled
out a large spoonful of baked beans from a pot they’d used to heat them.
The younger boys were busy cutting up and seeing who could fart the loudest
and longest after the bean fest complete with canned sauerkraut to step up
the game with their cajoling.
“Hey! It’s getting dark already with the time change.” Bobby asked,
“When are we heading back to the cabin?”
“Yeah, Randy. I’m getting’ cold with the sun going down,” Johnny, the
runt in the troop complained.
“Listen up, scouts,” Randy said. “We’re up here on a mission. Scout
Master Katell gave me strict orders to bring back you five scouts qualified
for your Hiking and Camping merit badges. Nothing short of that will do
because, as your leader, I’ll closer to becoming an Eagle Scout.
“You mean were not going back to the cabin?” Billy said with a shiver,
his jowls shaking.
“Got that right, scout,” Explorer Randy said. So while Dave stays back
here to tend the fire for safety, I’m taking you to learn about the legend of
The Black Spot.”
“Everyone up!” Dave said. “Single file with Randy in the lead and
Bobby taking up the rear. It’ll be dark when you get back here to camp,
so just take your flashlights.
“This is gonna suck,” Evan, the wise guy in the group of first-timers,
grumbled.
“Actually, it’ll be really cool,” Dave said with his voice fading away
behind them as he remained at the campsite.
The line of five scouts were led by one Explorer headed west off the
ridge toward another peak that jutted from the western horizon with the sun
setting behind it and the sky turning crimson . . . orange . . . then mauve.
“How far are we going?” Bobby asked from the rear.
“Less than a mile, but the terrain is rough,” Randy said. “Flashlights on!
Getting dark fast. Good thing it’s cold. In the summer we’d have to worry
about timber rattlers and copperheads. I’ve seen a few up here last summer.
Big suckers. Four feet long and thick as a fire hose in the middle.”
“What’s this Black Spot BS anyway?” Evan asked.
“You’ll see,” Randy said. “Let’s step up the pace.
Panting at nearly a jog, the boys in single file followed Randy. No
one could see more than the heels of the scout ahead of him within his
flashlight beam. Only Randy could warn the others what was coming ahead.
“Deep ditch! Sharp stump! Bramble bush!” Then, “Just ahead is the
wreck.”
“Wreck? What wreck?” Bobby asked, sorry to be last in line.
“Hey! Wow!” one scout shouted.
“Yo neat!” said another.
They gathered around Randy and flashed their lights at what
remained of a plane wreck.
“Jeez. This is cool,” Bobby added, last to see the crimped fuselage
of a Cessna 172 Skyhawk hanging with its wings broken from several oak
trees.
“Go ahead, scouts,” Randy gave the five boys the nod. “Check it
out before it’s too dark to see anything. You can climb right up in there,
pretend you’re pilots like the poor guy who crashed the plane.

The boys took turns in the cockpit with its two front seats. They
toyed with the instruments, but the gauges were rusted and the glass
was shattered.
“Gee, Randy, how’d it happen?” Bobby asked.
“I guy was flying his wife and teenage son from the Lincoln Park
Airport to Philly. Happened in ’55 almost four years ago.”
“Were they saved?” chubby Billy asked.
“Saved? Whaddaya kiddin’, fatso!” wise guy Evan scoffed.
“Look at how the wings are broken and the instrument panel is all
fucked up!”
“Yo! Scout!” Randy stood between them with his hands on his
hips. “Watch your mouth.”
“Come on. Ain’t no girls or grownups around,” Evan shrugged.
“It’s not that,” Randy cautioned, looking past the boys circled
around him. “This is solemn ground.”
“Ya mean like Indian burial grounds?” Jimmy asked.
“Even more serious than that,” Randy said. “Evan’s right--
no survivors, or so the papers said.”
“Whaddaya mean?” Bobby asked.
Randy took a deep breath then exhaled slowly.
“The mom and dad died on impact and their remains were
retrieved by the local Fire Rescue Squad. See how the fuselage is all
charred. Almost started a forest fire, but helicopters put it out before
the plane blew up or the fire spread. It was a miracle that it didn’t.”
“You said there was a teenage son,” Bobby said, intent on
Randy’s every word. “What happened to him?
“That’s why we need to be very respectful here.”
“Why?”
“The boy was never found.”
“Never?
“Never.”
“He must’ve burned up in the fire.”
“No remains were found, no bones, no teeth, no clothes,
no nothing.”
“Holy shit!” Evan blurted.
“Hey! I’m not gonna tell ya again,” Randy said. “A little
respect, huh?”
“You mean the cops didn’t have an investigation?” Bobby
asked, always the skeptic. “They had to find something.”
“Nothing at the crash scene,” Randy said.
“Then wh-where?” Billy asked with a blubbering breathless
squeal.
“The first sighting was at a farm a mile west from here,” Randy
pointed.
“Sighting? What kind of sighting,” Evan asked.
“Not really a sighting because all of the accounts have varied,
and all were at night.
“Was he dead?” Billy asked.
“Yes and no,” Randy said. “It was sort of a human form, but
not exactly.”
“What was it? Some kind of zombie?” Evan asked with a chortle.
“Nah. Zombies are made-up shit,” Randy said. “You see the boy
must’ve been burnt really bad from the fire and his body was all broken
from the crash, so the only thing left of him was this mass of amorphous
burnt flesh. That’s why the locals around here call him The Black Spot.”
“What’s a morphous?” Billy asked, his voice quivering.
“Amorphous, dummy,” Bobby cut in. “Shapeless. You know like
an amoeba in science class.”
“Jeez! That’s freakin’ crazy.” Evan said. “I don’t believe that crap.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to warn you guys about,” Randy said.
“It’s become a local legend these past few years that the kid who died is a
lost soul unable to join his parents. He shows up every full moon wreaking
havoc on the local farmers, even on their livestock.”
“Havoc? Like what?” Bobby asked.
“Sheep, cows, even a horse killed and gutted.”
“Your shittin’ us,” Evan laughed. “Sounds more like a bear or a cougar.”
“Yeah,” Bobby agreed. “What made anyone think it was The Black Spot?”
“No bear tracks or wolf tracks, only human tracks—barefoot, too, cause
the boy’s shoes were blown off in the crash or melted by the fire. Each animal
that was killed was gutted for food and half eaten. That was until last year when
a couple of kids had the same thing done to them when they were playing in
the their yard during a full moon and didn’t come in for dinner. Their parents
found them half eaten in these woods the next morning. ”
“Why would they think it was The Black Spot?” Bobby challenged.
“Because of what he left behind that the cops found.”
“What—fingerprints?” Bobby asked.
“A black gelatin-like substance, burnt flesh from the plane crash.”
“Jeez!” all five boys chorused.
“They’ve found that black guck at every death scene after a full moon
and also at the crash site here where he comes at night during a full moon to
search for his parents. Let’s see if he’s already been here tonight.”
“No way!” Billy shivered.
“Come on, scouts,” Randy pushed them towards the plane. “Be brave.
If The Black Spot knows you’re scared, he’ll shriek and grab you.”
“I ain’t going back in that plane,” Evan said.
“O.K. chicken-shits. I’ll go first,” Randy said then fumbled around in the
backseat for a minute before shouting, “Oh my God!” He turned to the boys
and beamed his flashlight at the palm of the other hand dripping with black
gelatinous guck.
The younger boys were dumbfounded till a loud shriek came from the
woods and echoed across the ridge.
“It’s The Black Spot!” Randy shouted. “Run like hell back to camp before
he grabs ya!”
Bobby stood frozen in his tracks as the others fled. Doubtful, he
turned back towards the lamenting howl coming towards him from the
woods. Then, silhouetted again the bluish-white full moon, a hunched
black glob moved across the horizon like a tumbleweed rolling in the
wind across the plains. Bobby gasped, which turned the figure in his
direction coming closer and closer as it shrieked and howled. Entranced,
Bobby couldn’t move.
The black figure came within ten feet from Bobby. He could
smell something like burnt wood . . . charcoal . . . maybe burnt flesh.
There was no face just the amorphous glob Randy had described,
which let out a shriek with a billow of smoke from its hood-like head
then thrust both arms at him.
Bobby felt his face getting splashed and, with a hand to his
cheek, felt a gelatinous gook dripping down his face. He screamed
and ran but, even though he heard the shrieking fading at a distance
far behind him, when he stumbled to the ground, a hand gripped his
ankle. Scrambling to his feet, Bobby lost a sneaker, but that allowed
him to get away. Hobbling with one stocking foot, he escaped The
Black Spot, but the shrieks and howls ceased as he found the campsite
where the four other younger boys and Randy were shivering around
a campfire kept burning by Dave until they returned.
“Thought we lost you, scout,” Randy said, standing and waving
for Bobby to join the others.
“He almost got me,” Bobby said. “I lost a sneaker getting away.”
“What’s that crap all over your face?” Evan asked.
The others chorused, “Yeah, jeez, look at that.”

“I don’t know,” Bobby said. “The Black Spot flung it at me.”
“Hold still, scout,” Randy said. “It’s that stuff I told you about. The
black guck left behind after a kill. You’re lucky The Black Spot didn’t gut
and eat you.”
Randy wiped the guck off Bobby’s face with a paper towel then
brought the towel to the fire to show the others.
“Jeez! Wow!” the others said.
“Get that crap away from me!” Evan said.
Randy tossed the towel into the fire and it flared. “Good thing Dave
kept our fire going while we were at the plane wreck. We’ll have to take
turns keeping it going through the night to keep The Back Spot away. He
hates fire.”
Their tents were pitched facing the fire pit. Although they took
turns tending the campfire, they all were sleepless through the night
with one eye open in case The Black Spot returned.
* * *
It was a crisp autumn morning when they closed down camp,
making sure the fire was out and nothing was left behind other than
memories of a frightful night. The boys cut up on the way down The
Cable Trail and back to the cabin to join the older scouts for breakfast.
The sausage and pancakes were a treat after a cold night in the woods.
The five tenderfoot scouts had qualified for their Hiking and
Camping merit badges, which they’d all receive at next month’s
ceremony with a sash for their moms to sew them on. Those
not riding home in the Scout Master’s car were picked up by their
parents. Bobby tossed his knapsack and sleeping bag into the trunk
of his dad’s 1956 Chevy Belair. Explorers Randy and Dave came up
to Bobby before he got in the car.
“You were the bravest scout on the overnight campout, Bobby.”
“Nah. I was just as scared as the others.”
“But you didn’t flinch facing danger on your own.”
“I ran too.”
“But you were the last to run.”
Another scout came up to Bobby and the Explorers. His name was
Eric and he was twelve, a year ahead of Bobby in school.
“Hey, Bobby,” Eric said. “Got something for you.” He reached into
his knapsack and handed him a black Keds sneaker, the one he’d lost in
the woods.
Bobby was dumbfounded, but glad his mom wouldn’t give him hell
for losing a sneaker.
“You’ve earned the right to be The Black Spot next year.” He reached
into his knapsack again and showed Bobby two fingers dripping with black
guck. He put the two fingers in his mouth with a slurp and said. “Blackberry
jam.”Though the modern legend of The Black Spot may just have been a prank
played on tenderfoot scouts, that eerie night in the woods evoked nightmares that
could stay with a boy his entire life.


​

What Goes Around, Comes Around
​
by Charles E.J. Moulton
 
Dear Mr. President,
Here is a copy of the mail Chao Guangxi sent to Mrs. Li.
Maybe it can shed some light upon how we deal with this newer situation.
 
Official regards,
B.H.
 
 
Yang-Tze Environmental Clinic Research Centre
March 11th, 2019
 
Dear Mrs. Li,
 
         How serious the situation actually was must’ve become obvious to Xiang only at the very end. Why he reacted the way he did is hard to say. He had been guiltier of more brutality than his colleagues. By now, the Pacific Ocean overflowed with dead sharks, dying slowly because he had cut off their fins for profit. After all, the wealthy Chinese landowners needed their shark fin soup to get the potency of the bridegrooms to soar sky high.
There was no sight of anything unusual at all at first. Neither Xiang nor the colleagues had thought it might be wrong until they saw the wounded and dying man floating up toward the ship, mutilated just like one of his sharks.
         At first, the UFO was nowhere in sight. What caught Xiang’s attention was only the body itself. It lacked arms, floating like debree on a lonesome wave. I think he realized he knew the man, a short and rough sea captain north of Shanghai. Strange thing, though. Xiang mumbled in my presence that he had met him a week before at the airport on his way to Singapore. He could impossibly be floating without arms somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. And yet, here he was, thrown away like garbage - just like a shark.
         An unbearable silence hit the deck, the crewmen all dropping their knives with loud metallic clangs, the sharks slipping back into the ocean and disappearing happily into the deep.
From where we stood, Xiang and I both heard the mumblings and cries of the colleagues as they helped the armless man up upon the boat, shaking him, trying to find out how he could be found alive floating in the Pacific without arms.
         When the spaceship landed on the water – I shall repeat that: on the water – the silence on the deck turned into a painful gasping awe. We all felt the atmosphere change from shock to terror, I think. Illegal types, trained fishermen, mafia mediators, unemployed guys, all of them now trained animal killers, all of them afraid and desperate, fearing they would be punished, not by the law. By alien visitors.
         I grabbed Xiang by his shirt, pulling him away, almost ripping the cloth in the process, telling him we should run to safety on the lower deck. He pushed me away, calling me a coward, insisting on facing the situation. Immediately after that, he ran over to the other sailors and started screaming at them that they were criminals and bloody murderers. “Give up, you morons,” he yelled. “Admit everything.”
The aliens would’ve found him regardless of where he went.
Instinctively, he knew that.
This time, there was no escape to speak of.
It might’ve been getting caught, as it were, punished by having one of his own kind mutilated like an animal by creatures higher than him, that transformed him. It was something he couldn’t escape. So far, he had always escaped the law. I know how much you suffered through the years through his behavior, Mrs. Li.
         When the spaceship doors opened, I pulled Xiang back, embraced him, pleaded for us to hide, wait it out, admit everything, change, whatever, for us to move with me back to Beijing and open a bookshop like we had originally planned. Xiang didn’t listen. He clutched that knife so hard, pointing it at his own stomach.
         The spaceship started vomiting out all these dead sharks without fins. It really looked like vomit, Mrs. Li. All of these dead sharks appearing out of nowhere, falling out of that thing. No one knew how so many sharks could fit into such a small UFO. In fact, there were so many that I feared that we would never be able to leave the region at all. The waves alone threatened to capsize us.
         Xiang started screaming that judgment day had arrived and when I tried to hold him back, he just shouted at me to fuck off, that he should have listened to you. For the first time in his life, he realized that his actions had had serious and lasting side-effects.
It’s hard for me to tell you this, Miss Li, but your son’s last words were to tell you that he tried to be a good person after all, just like you wanted him to be. He regretted killing so many sharks, so he killed himself, shoving his bowie-knife into his own belly.
         The aliens, big amphibian beasts with oversized foreheads and big fish-like eyes, told us to stop our shark- and whale-hunting or more people would suffer.
         Of course we stopped. We have told other hunters to give it up, as well, but they won’t listen. The Chinese mafia won’t, either.
Please forward my greetings to our friend, the sea captain. Maybe he can help us convince other poachers to stop. The aliens mean business, I think. Is the captain still in hospital? If he reveals the secrets of what really happened to him that day, please tell me about it. I believe you told me he has refused to speak, only uttering one word again and again: “Payback!”
         We will see each other at the cemetery tomorrow to lay flowers on your son’s grave. I look foward to speaking with you about my developments. I have no contact with my former criminal companions. The police have insured my safety under the “Witness Protection Programme”. It seems my former criminal companions are not a threat, not anymore.
I have been interrogated numerously by the law at the Yang-Tze Environmental Clinic Research Centre. They will not tell me why they brought me here and not to a prison and are very tight lipped about what they call “the alien problem”. I have heard the words “our aquatic origin” being mentioned.
         Obviously, the earthly-alien negotiations aren’t going that well.
They’re punishing the whale poachers now. I have heard stories of floating sea captains without eyes.
To the aliens, it does not seem to matter if you were or are a poacher. Former criminals have been punished just as severely as active whale- and shark-killers. I have not asked my interrogators, but from what I understand the aliens returned after a long absence and were shocked to find what they found.
I will be arriving at the cemetary tomorrow with three bodyguards. Please have the package ready. I will foreward it to the chief interrogator, who seems to be the one who communicates with the aliens from time to time. We need to show the aliens a poacher with a big heart, his childhood love for the sea, his early stories about marine life and his diaries about being lured into becoming a poacher.
Maybe we can convince the visitors there’s hope for humanity after all. I will sign off for tonight. Until tomorrow, Mrs. Li.
 
Chao Guangxi
Former Poacher
chaoguangxi@redflag.org
 
Administrator’s note:
Mr. Chao Guangxi was responsible for a serious negotiation with the alien visitors the following week, on March 19th, 2019, which caused the aliens to stop their murderings of humans.
These first alien visitors have not been seen again, for a while at least, although other sightings over slaughter factories worry the population anew.  Two slaughter factory CEOs were found hanging on spikes in their fridges yesterday. Are these new deeds committed by the same creatures or new ones?
156 billion animals are slaughtered yearly on our planet for mass consumption.
The aliens seem to be serious about protecting the animals.
How do we react?
.
Boqin Hui
Speaker of the Houses of Parliament
Beijing, China

When the Carnival Left Town

by
​
GERALD ARTHUR WINTER


Christmas had passed quickly for Tim at age thirteen. There had been no long list of toys
or board games for his parents to buy. He hadn’t believed in Santa Claus since age seven. This
was his last year before high school and he hoped to make the best of it before he’d have to
relinquish his top dog position in eighth grade to become a lowly high school freshman.
All the good looking girls from his class would be dating upperclassmen next September.
The older boys drove hotrods and had summer jobs that made enough to take a girl to the
drive-in theater to make out. The best Tim had to offer a girl was a half-mile ride on his
handlebars coasting at 50 mph down Long Hill Road. With her hair blowing in his face, she
smelled like Dentine gum, the precursor to a wet kiss at the bottom of the steep hill. A lime
Ricky in a tall, frosted glass would quench their thirst for something more than each other on
that long trek back up the hill to repeat the downhill thrill.
Tim was walking down that same hill on New Year’s Eve 1957 to bring his dad a six-pack
of Rheingold. Tim had tried a swig from his dad’s beer can once, but it tasted bitter. His dad
preferred Schmidt’s, but then Tim wouldn’t get to check out all the Miss Rheingold contestants.
In the 50s Miss Rheingold was a cross between Miss American and Playmate of the Year. No
nudity, but it was that “girl next door” draw to a horny teenager casting his ballot in a liquor
store.
He’d have to sneak the Sears catalogue into the attic to look at the panty ads by
flashlight, but he could just gloat at Miss Rheingold in the light of day using his prurient
imagination. Who’d know?
Tim’s mission that night took him to Hunklees’ delicatessen to buy a six-pack for
his dad. No proof of age was required. In a small rural town, if you told Mr. Hunklee your
dad sent you to buy him beer, but it was for actually for yourself, there was nothing local
authorities could do to you compared to the damage at home when your dad kicked your
ass. Back then, there was no such concept of “grounding” a teenage miscreant for crossing
a boundary. Up close and personal, corporal punishment ruled the day.
After Tim’s graduation from grammar school, the older high school boys were too
impatient to wait till September. The fresh flock of freshman girls scantily clad in bathing
suits were baking in the summer sun. The nubile teens smelled like fresh muffins out of the
oven buttered with Coppertone on their colorful beach towels at Crystal Lake. Upperclassmen
were ready to line up their dates for the Sock Hop with three months of summer foreplay. If
there was any air of frigidity in that equation, it could be broken by the time the first bell rang
to start the school year at Ramapo High.
Tim was doing his best to maintain his hold on Donna, his on-again-off-again girlfriend
since third grade, but like her girlfriends, the beep of a hot rod’s horn at the entrance gate to
the lake was like a duck call from a hunting blind. The girls left the boys from their graduating
class behind to ride home alone on their English racer bikes. This travesty to a fourteen-year-old
boy’s ego was devastating. Tim felt like Clark Kent competing with super-heroes flying above
and swooping down to steal all he’d accomplished with Donna, which was somewhere between
second and third base. He’d been short-stopped more often than he cared to count.
The last week in August always brought a wind shift when the carnival came to town.
Usually a black-topped parking lot overflow for the local church, the annual carnival took
up every inch of that reserved space. The local paper always warned with flyer announcements
stuffed in mailboxes: The Carnival comes to town next week.
Be sure to lock your homes and cars.
Don’t let your children go out alone
at night. Be wary of pickpockets.
Your local Police Dept.
Within walking distance, for old time’s sake, Donna agreed to go with Tim to the
carnival the first night it opened. He’d won some prizes for Donna at the games of chance
from the Wheel of Fortune to Whack-a-Toad. Among Tim’s bounty were a pair of lovebirds
in a cage, which he’d hoped would serve as a symbol of his long-time affection for Donna
from age eight to fourteen. She found it more of a nuisance having to ask the carnies
operating the rides to keep an eye on the love birds when she and Tim went on the Ferris
wheel, Scrambler, Tilt-a-whirl, or their favorite, The Octopus.
They’d had their share of cotton candy, popcorn, and falafel and had made the
rounds of all the rides three times as it neared 10 p.m., Donna’s curfew, and for anyone
under eighteen in the little borough of Oakdale.
“How about same time tomorrow night, Donna?” Tim asked at her front porch.
“Sorry, Tim . . . I’m busy tomorrow night.”
“Oh . . . how about the next night?
“Busy then, too.”
“Oh . . . any other night free to go with me to the carnival?”
“No, Tim. I’m going to be busy from now on.”
“How do you mean?”
“When you took that last ride on The Octopus alone, Danny Clifford, you know, the
quarterback on the Ramapo football team, he asked me to go to the Sock Hop first Saturday
night after the game with Fair Lawn. He asked me to be his steady girl . . . so I can’t see you
again after tonight. I promised Danny.”
Echoing in my head from dawn to dusk was—I promised Danny.
The only way I could get those words out of my mind was to spend all my time at the
carnival. I’d thought about becoming a carnie and running away as a high school dropout. I’d
gotten to know the operator of The Octopus after fifty rides that week. Sometimes I didn’t
even get off. I just nodded to “Red,” as he was called, and made a spinning motion with my
index finger.
Red nodded and took my quarter for my next spin. But if there was a group of girls
waiting their turn to ride The Octopus, Red would grab one by the wrist and put her in
the cab with me.
“Have fun with this one, Timmy-boy,” he’d say aside to me with a wink as he snapped
down the safety bar to keep us from falling out on the high swooping spins of the cab. Me and
the girl he’d put in the cab with me were locked in close with our faces pressed against each
other’s, especially on the spins.
Red had a freckled face, red hair like Howdy Dowdy, and on his neck, beneath a green-
and-yellow-checkered kerchief, I’d seen a tattoo of a five-pointed star the size of a quarter.
He had light-blue eyes that seemed to shimmer under the bright carnival lights at night. He
had a creepy grin like a Leprechaun with a pot of gold hidden where no one else could find it.
After so many rides on The Octopus with lots of different girls supplied by Red, I
noticed how he touched the girls very subtly, but intentionally as they got into and out of the
cab. After the first few times he gave me a nod as if to tell me—Hey, I’ve set you up, Timmy-
boy. Go ahead. She’s all yours.
Then on the last night of the carnival in the line waiting to get on The Octopus below,
I saw from the cab I was staying on that a group of older boys with their dates were next in
the queue to board. It was almost 9:45 p.m. so this was the last spin before curfew, my last
chance to soar before school started. To my amazement, Red grabbed the last girl in line and
left her date standing there dumbfounded.
“Hey! Whaddaya think yer doin’?” the older boy complained.
“Stuff it, kid!” Red said to him. “Stand back! Safety rules!” He pushed the boy, making
him fall to the ground. He lifted the boy’s date into the cab and slammed down the safety bar.
With that motion, Red’s knuckles brushed against the girl’s breasts. He grinned and winked at
me, then said, “Cream of the crop and she’s all yours, Timmy-boy.” It was Donna.
On the first swoop upward then on the downward spin, Donna’s face pressed against
mine. We turned to face each other, first with a peck of tight lips, then like candle wax melting
from the heat of a flame our lips oozed together with mutual pleasure. Though it cost me a
black eye from the varsity quarterback, I wore it proudly for many weeks until just a hint of
purple shown at the corner of my eye when it was too cold to ride my bike down Long Hill
Road with Donna on my handlebars.
Soon it would be winter and Long Hill Road would ice over after the first big
snowstorm. Then Donna and I would go sledding, she on my back or seated in my lap
as I steered my Flexible Flyer downhill. Just like on my bike, the sled would reach 50
mph and sometimes we’d end up in a soft pile of deep snow at the bottom of the hill.
Our noses, frozen red, would touch, then Donna and I would kiss, knowing our time
would come when I’d pick her up in my car to go to the drive-in theater. Only months
rather than years away, the on-again-off-again times together since we were eight years
old had become always on, now and forever.
When the carnival left town that summer, it returned each year and still does, but
someone else operates The Octopus, and we never saw Red again. I’ve often thought of
his tattoo concealed beneath his neckerchief and thought of him that summer as my bright
shining star. I wondered what my life might’ve been like had I left town with the carnival
never to return, just like Red.

Fangio’s  Pipe
 
By R.M.Clausen
 
 
The car was incredibly fast. The attached airflow vanes and diffuser devices made the seven-speed prototype aerodynamic in its purest form. One engineer called it a rocket ship without rockets. If it weren’t for the wheels, some believe the car might actually soar around the track without touching the ground. With its immense power and torque package, the racing machine seemed more air-worthy than anything constrained by stingy gravity.

The vehicle, of course, was not designed for the feint of heart. The engineers conceived this pulsating griffin for a gladiator. A crankcase-toreador who not only possesses the skill-factor and the unfaltering panache for competition, but  can unlock the mystique of speed. Once in the pilot’s seat, these contemporary charioteers then transport themselves to a natural euphoric realm where everything that was before, is forgotten. The common denominator is concentration and anything preceding, was just waiting. For them, the ultimate high is the launching hour, the immediate moment, because life begins when the green flag drops.  
                                
Josh Crandle is one of those throttle-jockeys who met the requirements.  A synchromeshed persona grata who had earned the recognition within the proprietary membership of the motorsports plunderbund. Ever since he could remember, Josh wanted to race cars. There wasn’t anything more important to him. Racing was his nirvana, his nourishment, and he lived for that moment, for there was nothing else on the planet that he would rather be doing.   
When Josh scrunched his wiry frame into the compact driver’s seat of this modified sports car, he was in the now, a stratum zone. A place like no other, where reality competes with the nonexistent. He is an elitist of that narrow partnership that believe excellence is expected. Once secure in the cockpit, the man and his vehicle are one.

Josh steered the racer away from the pit area and onto the race track. He then stabbed the accelerator to the floor, and as the engine roared to life, the vehicle’s burst of speed pressed him firmly back against the seat. He allowed the vibration and motion of the racing coupe to have the subtle control in the steering. Everything was in balance, and even though hurling down a straightaway at 200 miles an hour was exhilarating, he knew it was the deceleration and the braking at the sweeps and curves that would decide the outcome at the finish line.

As Josh approached the sharp right-hand curve at Arnage, the rear of the car wanted to go straight, but he corrected with a quick flick of his wrists. The machine answered and slid back to form, he was in control again. Smooth and proficient, he was like a leopard in the hunt. 
Although he navigated the apex safely, Josh knew the race car’s behavior was abnormal. He could feel the handling ebb away with each passing lap. The suspension was out of line, too loose, and it needed adjustment. Disappointed by the performance, he eased the machine into the pits and turned off the engine.    
As Josh climbed out of his car, the first thing that caught his attention was a pretty young blonde draping herself over the pit barrier wall. This was practice day and as always, it attracted many various spectators to the paddock area. Besides the eager crew members, there were the concerned sponsors, the perennial VIPs, assorted sexy women, hangers-on, and anyone who wanted to see a
race car and its driver up close.
With an autograph book in one hand, the young vixen waved furiously, revealing a deep cleavage as her breasts bulged against her T-shirt. Josh smiled, her intention was obvious, but he didn’t need the distraction. Something was not right in the handling of his race car. It was not in tune and he was determined to find out why. He began looking for Giff.
Entering the garage area, Josh’s eyes darted above the intrinsic commotion as he searched for his head engineer. Weaving his way past the mechanics who had now surrounded the car, Josh removed his helmet, and stuffed his earplugs and gloves inside. A bespectacled gent in dirty trousers with an adversely clean shirt quickly approached him. Before the man could speak, Josh churned in, “What the hell, Giff! The rear wishbones are out of whack. The car wants to drift in every corner. I thought we had fixed that problem!”
“We had,” said the engineer, with a  perplexity in his voice.  
“Well the problem’s back!” retorted Josh.     
Patience was not one of Josh’s virtues. To him, distractions seem to emerge from everywhere. The race was only a week away and the car won’t work. The 24 heures du Mans is an elitist motor race and draws top-calibre drivers and racing teams from all over the globe. It troubled him that he could trust an ubiquitous and saucy minx that haunts the paddock area, but not a technically superb and skillfully trained crew-member in the garage. He wished it was the other way around. Frustration was creeping into his bones.
With the practice session over, Josh left the track circuit and hailed a taxi back to the host town of Le Mans. The dilemma with his car bothered him. He would have dinner later with Martin and sort it all out.
Late that afternoon, Josh greeted his mister-fixer in the hotel lobby. Martin, a short, corpulent gentleman, was a mender-of-problems, a redeemer, and the executive of the race team’s largest sponsorship. He smiled a lot and laughed easily, and it was reassuring to the team that he thoroughly enjoyed being around the racing fraternity. Josh’s relationship with Martin had always been smooth, and he knew that if there was a problem, this hombre would take care of it.   

The weather in France was warm with very little wind at this time of year, and although it was overcast with a threat of summer rain, the two men decided all the same to take in a fresh air stroll together down the Rue Chanzy.
It was hard to ignore the charm of the little city, with the old Roman walls and the Gothic cathedrals, but Josh was not concerned with the old-world allurement. His mind was on his race car, and as they walked, the conversation became a conjecture of the up-coming race. 
“I’m down ten points, Martin,” exclaimed Josh. “I need a full complement of team members.”
“The team has three drivers for the race, and every member of the pit crew is top-notch,” answered his troubleshooter. “ You don’t hear Luigi or Jean-Paul complaining do you?”
“They’re not behind in points!” countered Josh. He was sore that the team was going to be missing one crew member at race time.
“His commitment is covered, besides the car will be ready in time,” explained Martin.
The discussion continued and Josh was still on edge as they wended their way back to the hotel.  “If I don’t have a complete team, the opportunity is lost,” said Josh. “What if. . .,” but his words trailed off abruptly. He had noticed a small gathering at the front of the hotel.  
As they were approaching the hotel’s porte-cochère, a sleek car pulled up. Josh’s curiosity turned to the intriguing vehicle.  To drive a beautifully designed car was almost as exciting as racing one. His love and fascination for the sexy contours of an automobile’s body, the intricate framework of the chassis, the potency of the power plant, the delicious colors of the paint, all gave purpose to his life and caressed his soul. To Josh, each marque in the auto world was art’s creation, a fundamental element, where indeed, form follows function. 
Josh’s vigilance was now piqued and it drew him away from his conversation with Martin. He didn’t recognize the vehicle’s manufacturer from where he stood, and as a cluster of people pulsated toward the new arrival, he knew he had to see this unfamiliar car that was meticulously drawing attention.
Josh left Martin behind and pushed his way through the gallery of milling torsos like a panicked lemming. Just as he gained access to the curb for a vantage point, the driver’s door opened and a woman’s shapely leg fell out.
Taken by surprise, his attention immediately went to the orphaned limb and the black high heel shoe that was strapped to it. The owner of the eurythmic appendage then slowly spilled from the motor carriage. Clinging to a sensual and supple, whisper-soft female form was a chic, dark green dress so tight that the slit up the side made everyone in attendance take immediate notice. Her naked thigh was revealed, but large round sunglasses concealed the vamp’s eyes. Her long dark, ebony-black hair glistened in the cloudy sky and gave accent to her refined satin-like face. Her lips were red and full, but they did not smile. Elegant and pretentious, the language of the voluptuous  woman’s body was all under the watchful eyes of the small crowd.  She didn’t speak a word as she surveyed the eager gathering, lingering for a few seconds in the direction of Josh, and then, graceful in her movement, seem to glide across the pavement to the hotel’s entrance. Josh’s eyes were transfixed as he followed her every move.  Someone then opened the front door and the lady vanished inside.
Josh suddenly felt euphoric, for he could not feel anything solid beneath his feet. He had no thoughts, no emotions, as his
consciousness was arrested by her spell. She had succeeded in completely mesmerizing him.
Josh felt the tug on his sport coat before he felt the wet drops on his face. He turned his head and noticed Martin pulling at his sleeve. A light rain had begun to fall and the crowd had dispersed. It was as if he were waking up from a dream.
“Are you alright?” asked Martin.
Josh shook his head not only to answer, but to question. He felt like he was standing in a fog, completely encapsulated. Snared by the woman’s magnetism, it was like a narcotic and he craved for more. He did not know her, yet he couldn’t understand this unsurmountable feeling that was enveloping him. 
“Who is she?” asked Josh, hoping he wasn’t stammering.
“Who is who?” replied Martin. “You mean that woman? I haven’t a clue.”
“Find out,” pressed Josh. “Please, I must know.”
Perplexed, Martin shook his head, and together the two men trudged out of the rain and entered the hotel restaurant. The unidentified automobile that was weathering the elements, now seemed inconsequential.
After dinner, Josh thanked his host, bade him good evening,
and left the restaurant. It was still a mite early for him and he
had the craving for a nightcap so he ambled toward the hotel saloon
just around the corner.
Dimly-lit, with pockets of amber lighting, it was an alluring lounge. He made his way over to the bar and sat down. Except for the bartender, he was alone in the room. There was soft music coming from somewhere as it bounced off the old stone walls and soaked into the lush carpet.  
He ordered a Scotch and then reflected back to the woman he saw that afternoon. It was haunting him. He couldn’t push her out of his head. Who was that ravishing vamp with the enchanted charisma that percolated lust?  Where did she come from, and why is she here?  How could this temptress lure him like she did?  He now had a thirst, a hunger even, that captivated him. He felt trapped, yet wondered if somehow he had been baited.
Josh took a long swig from his glass, and while drowning in thought, failed to notice a wistful, attractive, and curvaceous woman quietly enter the room. She moved effortlessly to the bar and took her seat not far from him. So deep in concentration, he was surprised by her entrance.
The woman did not speak as she drew out a colored cigarette within a flat jeweled case from her small purse. She slowly crossed her leg as the barkeep quickly moved over the bar counter to light her cigarette.
She was incomparably beautiful, with thick dark hair that fell gently past her shoulders. A sylphlike, faintly-colored methyl green dress that she almost wore, poured over her lithesome frame
and cascaded down her bosom, like a waterfall of dripping sex. Her crimson lips pouted, surrendering a smooth, silken face.
His heart almost skipped a beat. It was her, the women he saw earlier that day! Even without sunglasses, he knew it was the same woman. Curiosity seeped from his pores, as he meticulously watched her. More than excited, he scrutinized, eyeing all her smooth lines as if he were going to buy a new car.
There was a certain poise in her carriage. Observing her demeanor carefully, he noticed how purposely she moved, deliberately, deftly, like a violin’s bow. 
She took a long drag from her cigarette, blew the smoke out and then turned to look at Josh. Her gaze left him unsettled and spellbound. Beneath her thick nymph-like eyelashes, were piercing, green eyes. For a moment, Josh thought she was looking right through him. It was evident to him this lovely creature was a maelstrom with skin.
“Hello,” she said. The greeting was soft and concise. Her voice was velvety, somewhat husky, but had reassuring essence.
Josh smiled. Her tone was feminine and had the song of seduction. He knew he was smitten.
“Hello yourself,” answered Josh. “May I buy you a drink?”
“That would be nice, thank you,” she replied. She motioned to the barkeep, “Champagne cocktail, please.” She then took a drag of her cigarette and flicked a lock of hair away from her face. Her eyes were sparkling, as a deep smile formed on her mouth.
“My name is Josh,” said the man who now felt bewitched. “May I know the name of the lovely woman I just bought a drink for?” He was no stranger to flirting, yet the subject in front of him left him with apprehension.
“My name is Circe,” she said still smiling. “Would you like a cigarette?”
“Thank you no, I don’t smoke,” replied Josh. “That is a very pretty name.”
“Thank you, I like it,” she said.
“Do you live in the area?” asked Josh. He felt he might as well cut to the chase.
“No,” she answered quietly.
“Are you here for the race?” he queried.
“Oh yes, I’m a big fan of racing,” she enthusiastically replied.
Tantalized, Josh thought now we’re getting somewhere. A woman of charm and grace who loves racing.
“That’s good to know. I’m a driver myself,” he offered.
“Are you now?” she cajoled.
The barkeep then came over and placed her drink on the bar, nodding at Josh. 
“Yes, I drive the number six Mercedes,” Josh boasted. Then, with his drink in his hand, he rose and subtly slid over to the bar stool next to her, asking, “Do you know any drivers?”
“I do now,” she answered politely, a grin of perfect white teeth now displayed across her mouth. She took a sip of her drink and then asked, “Do you own any racing trophies?”
“Oh, I have a few,” he said. “They’re good mementos, I guess.”
“Umm,” she noted. “I have a very worthy racing memento,” the woman volunteered.
“Really?” said Josh. His interest was now at full hilt. “And what might that be?”
She continued to smile, and with a pause, took a drag on her cigarette. She shifted on her bar stool as she uncrossed her leg and then crossed the other.
“Do you remember a driver named, ‘Fangio’?” she questioned.
“El Maestro?” exclaimed Josh. He was thinking of the famous Argentine race driver who won so many races and championships many decades ago.
“Si,” Circe snickered. It seemed she also knew the moniker of the Latin racer. 
 “Juan-Manuel Fangio,” Josh reiterated. “Who doesn’t remember him? Why do you ask?”
“Do you recall when he raced in Cuba?” the woman queried.  
“Yes, somewhat, I think,” he pondered. “He raced there in
Havana, before Castro in 1957, I believe.”  Josh now began to burn with inquisitiveness.
“He was also there in 1958,” she added modestly. “Only he didn’t race then.”
“Yeah, now I remember,” Josh mused. His history was not top drawer, but he knew racing and its heroes.  Josh went on, “He was kidnapped by Castro’s goons for political reasons. He missed the entire race that year.”
“That’s very good, Josh,” she quipped. “You do know your racing.”
Josh took a deep breath. He suddenly felt fuzzy all over. My god, this woman is incredible, he reasoned. He could feel the goose-bumps crawling up his back. But where are we going with this, he wondered?
Fascinated, Josh gently demanded, “What has that to do with your racing memento?”
Circe grinned, taking a last drag on her cigarette before putting it out. She wet her lips and, tilting her head, looked deep into his eyes as she uttered, “I have his pipe.”
 Josh’s mind went vacant. He did not comprehend. While he was gazing into her eyes, he almost grabbed the bar as he had the sensation of vertigo. He could feel those large, deep, imperial emerald orbs pulling him into her. 
Circe faced back to the bar, took a sip of her drink and then put the glass down before she went on. “Many people don’t know that when they finally released Fangio,” she paused, looked down at her drink and dipped her finger into the glass to briefly stir it before continuing, “they apologized and offered him a box of choice Havana cigars for his trouble.”  Circe withdrew her finger from the glass and brought it to her lips. “Only Fangio didn’t smoke cigars,” she continued methodically, “he didn’t even like them. Instead, he asked for and received a hand-crafted meerschaum pipe.”
She paused again for emphasis, and turning to Josh once again, she leaned forward with her intense, penetrating eyes, lustily breathed, “I have that pipe.”
Her words hung in the air. To Josh it seemed like somebody pulled the pin on a hand grenade and he was waiting for the room to explode.  Fangio’s pipe!  Strange, he had never heard of it before. How did this woman get such a trophy, he wondered? He could not pull away from her ethereal web. He felt she was slowly devouring him.
Circe sat back quietly and sipped her drink. A smirk formed on her face as she reached for her cigarette case and drew out another cigarette. She tossed her head up, as the barkeep rushed over to light it for her.
Josh was in a stupor. He felt a mysterious fire growing within himself.
A passionate flame that was kindling his heart and engulfing him.
It was a distinctive flavor he had never experienced.
He knew it was now imperative that he know more about this enigmatic and inexplicable daughter of Eve packaged before him.  He wondered if love is indeed the true dream of immortality.   
Josh started to speak but found his voice had failed him. He hesitated to avoid embarrassment, and took a sip of his drink, letting the amber liquid slowly trickle down his throat.
“Yes?” she said, anticipatively.
“Do you have the pipe with you?” he asked. 
“Of course,” she answered proudly. “Would you like to see it?”
“Yeah,” Josh burst out. “I mean if it’s not too impolite of me.”
“Why don’t you finish your drink then, and I’ll show it to you,” she enticed.
Josh slugged the rest of his drink down, feeling a twinge of bewilderment, yet with a flare of anticipation. With a glowing smile, Circe put out her cigarette, gathered her purse and rose fluidly from the bar stool.
“I have it in my room,” she said. “Come up with me, I’m staying here.”
Josh slid off his bar stool and immediately went to her side.
They strolled out of the saloon together and around the corner to the hotel elevators. Circe pushed the elevator button and as they stood silently waiting for the doors to open, Josh unexpectedly
felt warm and flushed. He hoped it didn’t show as they entered the lift.
He was impressed when they arrived at the very top floor. Circe motioned to the left as they stepped out of the elevator and then sauntered down the corridor. When they stopped in front of the door to her room, she fumbled for her key.
“May I help?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. “I have it.”
She slid the key into the lock and after a quick turn of the wrist, pushed the door open. The room was inky-black, but it smelled of her. The intoxicating fragrance entranced him as he stood there before the dark.
“Come in,” said Circe seductively, as she slinked into the room.     
She flipped on the light switch and Josh stepped forward. The chamber took on a warm glow from a light sconce on the wall across the extraordinary large room. A spacious Persian rug covered most of the polished wooden floor. He spied a small dresser pressed against an adjacent wall near a closed door. An enormous four-poster bed was the most imposing fixture in the room.
Circe turned and quietly closed the door behind them. This must be the Emperor’s Suite, Josh thought. His room was nowhere near the size of this one.
As he turned around to face her, she suddenly reached out and wrapped her arms around his neck and passionately kissed him.
Unsuspecting, he responded vigorously, holding her tight against
him. She slowly released her arms from his neck, took his hand and led him over to the huge bed.
She then bent her arms behind her and unclasped her dress, letting it drift off her breasts and fall to the floor. Undaunted and naked, she pulled the covers of the bed back and slipped beneath the sheets. Her eyes were glazed as she smiled and beckoned him.
Somewhat astonished but eager, Josh knew the pipe was now an afterthought. He immediately followed her lead, shedding his clothes, and joining her under the covers. He heard her sigh as his arm searched for her waist.
She then gently exclaimed, “Oh my dear, we have left the light on!”
“I’ll get it,” he said comfortingly. 
“No,” she said softly in his ear. “Let me.”
She released her arm from around his shoulder and slipped it out from under the sheets. Her arm dangled loosely as her hand groped for the floor. Upon reaching the varnished boards, her arm then silently slithered across the room, stretching over the ornate rug toward the opposite wall. Reaching the baseboard, her arm slowly creeped up the wall and stopped just before the light switch.
Her hand located the toggle, and with a quick flick of her finger, the room went dark once again.    

Jetsam


by
Gerald Arthur Winter


“I didn’t know she was missing,” the estranged younger sister told him as he
flashed his TPD badge, clipped it to his belt then quickly re-buttoned his blazer. With
a casual shrug she continued. “Our parents died five years ago in an accident on I-4
coming back from Epcot while Jane and I were on Spring Break in Costa Rico. She was
a senior and I was a freshman at USF. Jane went on to grad school in North Carolina--
Duke—but I got a job here in Tampa the week after I got my Bachelor’s degree. Snow
sucks. I’m—like—a Palm-erania.”
He raised his head from his notepad as if his gesture were a question.
The strong silent type, she thought, evaluating his trim build and strong jawline.
“Ya know—like—palm trees . . . my degree was in hotel management . . . at
least that’s what it came down to by the time I was a senior. I haven’t seen or spoken
to Jane since my parents’ funeral. They were cremated and Jane and I scattered their
ashes in the Gulf off Indian Rocks Beach. That final hug was my last contact with Jane.
I’d sent her Christmas cards at the hospital where she was an intern in the North
Carolina Triangle, but she never replied. I’d called a half dozen times only to get
her voice-mail, but she never returned my calls. I gave up trying and moved on
with my life. So be it. Jane has always been The Ice Goddess, no close friends.”
“Sounds cold,” he said, pushing up his sunglasses on the bridge of his sharp nose.
They were at poolside on her day off at the new Plant Hotel where she was the
Assistant Manager. She remained reclined in a chaise lounge and was wearing a tangerine
bikini with beads of perspiration on her tanned skin. She shaded her eyes with her hand,
wondering if her wax job made her Venus mound more enticing. She sensed his stare
through his dark shades, his eyes probably rolling with her exposed abdomen rising
and falling as if her navel were winking at him, maybe teasing him with her intended
lure of sexual provocation.
“Truth be told, Jane is a royal bitch, even to me, her little sister. But I envied
her with that ice princess determination to make it in a man’s world. I’m sure Jane
took no hostages on her way to the top at that hospital in Cary. I understand she’s
become a top surgeon there.”
“She was reported missing forty-eight hours ago by her boyfriend—Hank
Perozzi. Do you know him?”
“Hank? Jeez, I can’t believe she got back together with him. They broke up in
college. He did show up to pay his respects at our parents’ funeral, but I never thought
they’d get back together . . . never.”
“What can you tell me about him? He’s not a suspect, but a person of interest.
Was Jane seeing someone else after their break-up in college? Could there have been
a love triangle? ”
She cocked her head with a swish of her shoulder-length blond hair. “As I said,
I haven’t spoken to her, but I figured she was too intent on her career to have time
for romance.”
“Romantic or not, your sister was sharing an apartment in Cary with Perozzi . . .”
He paused with his index finger to his lips.
“Whatever,” she said with a shrug then sat up and swung both feet to the
opposite side of the chaise and faced away from him. She unfastened her top and
held a tube of sunblock in one hand and cradled her breasts with the other. “Could
you?” she asked turning to look at him over one shoulder.
His shades allowed no clue to his feelings, but he tucked his notepad and
pen in his jacket and took the tube from her hand. There was a long pause as she
waited in silence until his hands touched her back, as warm from the sun as biscuits
fresh out of an oven. His hands felt huge as he made circular motions on her back
with both. Though warm and perspiring, her skin prickled with a chill as he kneaded
her back and shoulders. His thumbs were as skilled as her masseuse at the hotel
clubhouse. She wondered how skilled they’d be if she were facing him, a thought
which made her nipples taut in her own embrace.
“That’s enough,” she said. “Thanks.”
He closed the cap and handed her the tube.
“May I trouble you again?” she said. “Just a simple bow will do. I’m done
for the day.”
Tying her top between her shoulder blades, he said, “I have more questions.”
“I live at the hotel, but I bet you already knew that, Sherlock. An entire suite
of my own overlooking Tampa Bay,” she said, standing and putting on a white fluffy
robe that said “Plant Regency” with orange letters on the hip pocket. She took her
room key and a wristwatch from that pocket. She put on the watch and jiggled her
wrist in front of his face, sunrays bursting from the watch reflected in his shades.
“A gift to myself on my twenty-fifth birthday—Rolex—twelve grand.”
She noticed one of his eyebrows twitch above his sunglasses.
“I’m a loner, no boyfriends, so I like to treat myself right. You coming up to
ask me more questions about Jane?”
“Sure. That’s what I came for,” he said, following her across the pool patio to
the elevators.
In the elevator, instinctively, she sensed his inhaling her hairspray and body
wash scent, maybe something even deeper at her core. He was a cop, a bloodhound
at heart. That excited her. She hadn’t been that aroused for some time. She felt a little
dizzy as he followed her off the elevator on the 21st floor. In the corridor a housemaid
nodded to her with recognition.
“Good morning, Ms. Travers,” the housemaid said with a slight bow. “Fresh
towels in the bathroom as you requested.”
“Thanks, Hillary,” she said. Then opening her suite with the key, she motioned
for him to enter.
“Great view,” he said, walking toward the balcony overlooking the bay.
“Drink?” she asked.
“Coffee,” he said. “On duty.”
“Whatever. It’s almost noon so I’m having wine.” She prepared a coffee
drip, flicked on the switch, then poured herself a glass of chardonnay. “Help
yourself, while I shower and change.”
“Don’t change too much,” he said with a hint of flirtation.
She looked back over her shoulder as she let her robe drop to the bathroom
floor and said with an echo to her voice before closing the door, “Creamer’s in the
fridge, sugar on the kitchen counter! Help yourself! Won’t be long!”
She knew the hiss of her shower was muffled by the closed bathroom door
as he drank the coffee. He’d see only photos of her framed on the walls or standing
on side tables. No photos of her sister Jane or her parents. “Loner” called out from
every corner of her luxury suite. Great management perks would buzz in the mind
of anyone who entered. She wondered what this cop thought of her accommodations.
He turned to her as she returned with her wine glass in hand. “You said you’re
the Assistant Manager, could the hotel ‘Manager’s’ suite possibly be better?” He
asked, sipping his coffee black.
She was dressed for Tampa’s August swelter, a white cotton shift with
silver-dollar-size lavender polka dots, white sandals. Around her thin neck she
wore a white gold chain with a cross, a necklace purchased at the Gold and
Diamond Source to match her Rolex that seemed to shout Happy Birthday to me!
“Last week our manager was transferred by corporate to our new Miami
hotel,” she said, liking his baby blues as he removed his sunglasses and took in her
image head to toe with obvious mutual attraction. “I expect to receive my promotion
to manager by week’s end. This is the manager’s suite.”
“So it’s a given . . . you’ll be the manager. Congrats!” he said, clicking his coffee
mug against her wine glass.
“Nothing’s a given,” she said with a shrug. “Life has no guarantees.”
“That’s a grim outlook for a young woman,” he said.
“When your parents celebrate their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary at
Disney World and come back in an urn, it doesn’t turn you into Pollyanna. I’m not
a pessimist, just a realist.”
“So let’s get real,” he said. “You don’t seem upset that your sister’s missing.
That makes you a person of interest . . . possibly a suspect.”
“Suspected of doing what?”
“That depends on how you answer some more questions.”
“Is Jane—like—dead?”
“For now, just missing. Today’s your day off. Would you mind giving me a ride?”
“Where to?”
“A place mentioned by Hank Perozzi in my interview.”
“The winter rental?”
“Yes. Where your parents came down for the winter with you and your sister
until they died.”
“It’s across the bay in St. Pete. Jane wasn’t interested and asked if I wanted it.
But even with all its benefits, the house reminded me too much of Mom and Dad. I
own it, but rent it out during tourist season. I rarely go there, only when I have to.”
“I’m sorry if it will be painful, but I need you to show me somethings there.
Clues to Jane’s whereabouts . . . or demise.”
“Demise? That seems an old-fashioned word for a young man. What? Thirty?”
“Thirty-three.”
“Three’s a charm,” she said with a shrug, grabbing her bag and keys.
“Okay, Marlowe. Let’s go.
* * *
She drove her white BMW convertible. He seemed uncomfortable in the
passenger seat as they crossed the Gandy Bridge to St. Pete. Her long blond hair
fluttered in the wind and she felt exhilarated to be in control of an Alpha male of
the law-and-order persuasion. So far the weather held up at 93 degrees with a
breeze off the Gulf. When they arrived with the crunching sound of her tires
across the circular, gravel driveway, she pointed to the rental sign.
“That’s my number on the sign,” she said, watching him take note on his
pad. She expected after they’d put this yada-da-yada-da meeting behind them,
that he’d call her for a date. She’d decline of course. Much too busy managing
the hotel after her promotion. But once Jane reared her ugly head from the
shadows and his case was closed, maybe a brief fling with a stone-cold cop with
a hard-body would be amusing if not satisfying.
“It’s late August, so not much interest in Florida until October,” she said,
getting out of the car. “Ya know—too fucking hot.”
His expression seemed to echo that same assessment, but of her—too
fucking hot to handle. “Isn’t being the agent for your parents’ rental property a
conflict with your day job at the hotel?”
“I’m a multi-tasker. I’ve been the rental agent almost five years. Jane had
no interest or the time, so it fell to me. My parents’ life insurance paid off the
mortgage, so after taxes, insurance and maintenance, it’s all profit. Beachfront
brings me ten grand a month October through April. Jane got the rest of the
estate—for now, anyway.”
“Do you mind telling me how much you and Jane got from your parents’
estate?”
“You already know that, and you just want to see if I’m a liar,” she said with
a smug curl to her full lips.
“You’ve been watching too much TV,” he said. “I’m just a flat foot, not Robert
Mueller.”
“Still, you must know that my parents put my inheritance in a trust with Jane
as the secondary trustee if both of my parents were deceased before I turn twenty-six,
which is a week from today.”
“And if Jane is deceased before you turn twenty-six?” he asked as if leading
her toward a confession.
“That’s only a week from now, but the bank would serve as temporary trustee
until my birthday . . . then it’s all mine . . . no biggie—I was told it’s only three million.”
”Nice pay lode,” he said, lifting his sunglasses to prop them on top his head.
His blue-eyed stare felt like a laser. “A clear motive for murder.”
“My time is recorded at work. Until today, I haven’t left the hotel in the past
month. You said Jane’s been missing only forty-eight hours. On the hotel grounds I’m
pretty much on camera 24/7 and I haven’t been to North Carolina since I was a kid
traveling from New Jersey to Florida on I-95.”
“Then I guess that lets you off the hook,” he said. “But I just need you to clarify
something for me on this rental property that could help in my effort to find your sister.”
Relieved to be in the clear, she said, “I have the keys. Whadaya need to know?”
“I want to see the backyard.”
“Sure,” she agreed with a shrug and led him through the front entrance.
“It’s a bit musty, but I keep the A/C at 79 degrees to prevent mold in the off-season
because it’s furnished. The heat and humidity in the summer months are killer.”
He raised that distinctive eyebrow again when she said—killer. His reactive
reflex gave her pause, thinking—I am a suspect.
The furniture was covered with plastic and the air was much cooler than
outdoors in the sweltering driveway. She bent down to remove the bar on the
sliding patio doors’ bottom runner and unlocked the doors to lead him onto a
paver patio. A round table with a granite top and a center hole for an umbrella
had six chairs around it. The umbrella was down and rolled in a plastic sheath.
There was a large Green Egg ® to barbecue on the deck. Across thirty feet of
lawn was a dock with a pram to go fishing on the Intra-coastal Waterway
between Tampa Bay and the Gulf. It was very quiet except for an occasional
shrill of a heron, an egret, or a pelican. The surface of the lagoon was like glass
except when a fish jumped away from a cormorant. Spanish moss hung from
the trees along the banks on both sides of the lagoon.
He kept walking towards the boat slip as she said, “What—exactly--
are you looking for?”
Without turning back to face her, his voice was like listening to a newscast
from a distant room, and the light breeze off the lagoon was like a hairdryer set on
low and blowing in her face.
“This lagoon is brackish water,” he said, squatting on the dock. He skimmed
his hand in the water then touched his fingers to his tongue.
His tone puzzled her. “What’s brackish?” she asked.
“Not as salty as the Gulf, but not exactly fresh water like a lake or pond on
the mainland across the bay.”
She shrugged, wondering, where this line of inquiry could be going. “I guess
. . . but I’m a hotel manager—not an oceanographer. Why does that matter?”
“Like most new Floridians who weren’t born and raised here like I was, and just
got tired of ice and snow up in Yankee territory, you assume like most biologists would
tell you in general, that gators make fresh water their only habitat.”
“Gators? I’ve never seen any gators here,” she said.
“That’s because you’re here only in the summer when there are no tenants,
like now. This is when gators spend all day under water to avoid the heat, then they
hunt at night when it’s cooler.”
“So?”
“Unless you’re on a night vigil, you’ll never see their beady red eyes glowing
in the dark waiting for some stupid tourist to walk her lap dog along the banks.”
From the dock he looked up and down the serene lagoon. There were no
neighbors’ boat slips within view in either direction, north or south, or west across
the lagoon. That’s what her parents had always wanted in their eventual retirement
retreat, solitude surrounded by protected marsh that could only be sold off after
their passing. But hopefully one of their daughters would want to keep it.
“My tenants have never called me about seeing any gators in our lagoon.”
“Either they were oblivious and made too much noise that kept them out of
sight or they were curious enough to view them safely from a distance, maybe with
the binoculars I saw hanging on a hook in the kitchen.”
“Those were Jane’s from when we were kids and used to look for dolphins
and manatees,” she said.
“I know,” he said, still facing away from her where he stood on the dock.
“She told me.”
She felt a chill, even in the tropical heat, but asked the question she didn’t
want answered, “She told you? Jane told you?”
The serenity was shattered by the curt answer coming not from him, but
from behind her, saying, “I told Jeff all he had to do was get you to drive him out
here, so he could leave his car for me at the hotel.”
“Jeff? That’s your name? You know each other?” she asked, backing away
from them, but she stood precariously between him on the dock and Jane coming
toward her from the patio. Startled by Jane’s quick advance, she stumbled back,
falling onto the grass where Jeff held her down. She felt a sudden sting in her neck
then watched Jane remove the hypodermic needle from her jugular. She gasped for
air but felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience. She felt no pain and
everything she saw seemed sharper, the colors all around her more vibrant, the
words said to her so precise and curt like a spoon striking a crystal tumbler--
ting-tong-ting!
“Why-are–you-doing-this-to me?” she asked, her own words seemed to be
coming from her abdomen as if she were a cello. She was confused, wondering if
it was the injection that made Jane look like her, even wearing the same polka-dot
dress. She thought. What’s happening?
“It always has to be about you,” Jane said. “Now it’s about me for a change.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked with a tremor.
“You can scream all you like,” Jane said with that same icy glare she’d had
to face every day growing up.
“Scream? What do you want from me—my trust fund? It’s only three million.
I’ll be manager next week. I won’t really need it. Take it! I don’t want it.”
“You must have been eaves dropping on Mom and Dad talking about your trust
fund years ago, but you misheard . . . it was thirty million fifteen years ago now ninety
million—too much to slip through my fingers next week. I still have heavy student loans
from med school. I need that money more than I need a sister.”
“I always knew you were a monster, Jane. What are you going to do to me?”
“Me? Nothing but watch. That’s why I needed Jeff.” She nodded to the police
detective.
“He’s a cop! He wouldn’t—” she stammered.
“You mean this?” he said opening his blazer and unclipping the badge he’d
shown her earlier at the hotel pool, but now held directly in front of her face. She
saw it was just a dime store toy that said: “Sheriff of Dodge.”
She wondered. How could I
th a whir and a staccato rumble.
“No need to flinch,” Jane said. “You won’t feel a thing. But you’ll see it all. First
your hands and feet to draw the gators.”
She watched the saw sever each hand and foot with a spray of blood in her
face. How could she not feel it? What was in that injection Jane had put in her neck?
Jeff threw her hands and feet into the lagoon with four light splashes then
a loud heavy splash, then another, and another . . . gators coming for their appetizers.
Then the saw cut off her forearms at the elbows and her calves at the knees. There
was no one to hear or see the sanguine spectacle in the lagoon.
“We’ll leave her forearms and thighs attached so she can watch the gators
rip them off,” Jane said. “The drug will keep her conscious and we’ll keep her head
above water with a lifejacket from the boat. She’ll bleed out, but her mind won’t
know she’s dead. It’s a drug used on the Iraq battlefields to get information from
our soldiers fatally wounded who could still provide field intelligence even after
they were declared dead.”
She could smell Jeff’s nervous sweat as he dragged her to the pram and
put the orange lifejacket around her remaining torso. Less than two hours ago
she’d been leisurely sunning herself in a tangerine bikini. Now she couldn’t wait
to die.
Jeff’s pants were soaked with her blood. He tied a rope to the lifejacket
and tossed her like jetsam off the dock into the lagoon. He got into the pram and
started the motor. The pram dragged her torso across the lagoon then he tied the
rope to a palm tree on the opposite shore. She bobbed like a bottom-fisherman’s
float on the surface of the lagoon. She was beyond screaming, but totally conscious
as she watched four gators, none less than nine feet long, cutting across the lagoon
like battleships on the Pacific in a World War II documentary.
She called out to Jane and Jeff with her final words, “They’ll be evidence!
DNA! You won’t get away with this! You’ll pay with your lives!”
“You must have been too busy at the hotel today to watch the weather
report!” Jane called back to her sister. “Category 4 Hurricane Jennifer will wipe
out this coast in twelve hours with the next high tide and full moon. You’ll just
be a minor statistic of the disaster.”
Jennifer? She thought as she watched them get in Jeff’s car and leave
her BMW behind as evidence that she’d been there. How ironic—the hurricane
is named after me.
The alligators unhinged their sharp jaws and fought over her remains.
The sky darkened in a prelude to the approaching tempest.
There really are monsters in this world. Please, God, she thought, let
there be none in the next.

Bringing in the New Year


Six 6-Word Stories for 2019


By Gerald Arthur Winter





Mom’s legacy, faithfulness, breeds my tolerance.


My withheld embrace stores wondrous fulfillment. 


Loves me—pregnant—loves us not.


Honoring my committal he chooses another.  


My belly swells sapping freedom twofold.


Tears, a touch then kisses much.

Fireworks and Holiday Cookies

By Roy Dorman



“I think I’ll make some homemade cookies for the Trick-or-Treaters this year,” said Martha Evans to her husband Wilbur.
“Is it Halloween already?” asked Wilbur. “I thought it was just the Fourth of July. Time flies, don’t it? Seems like you just took me to the fireworks.”
Actually, it’s been three years since Martha has taken Wilbur to the fireworks. His dementia has spoiled all the fun in that type of outing, and except for grocery shopping, Martha and Wilbur mostly stay at home.
“I thought kids didn’t accept treats that weren’t store-bought anymore. Ya know, because of all the incidents with razor blades and poison.”
Martha sighed. Wilbur still had a good day now and then and it looked like this was going to be one of them. It only made what she had decided to do more difficult.
“Do we even get any Trick-or-Treaters anymore?” Wilbur continued. “It’s been a while since I remember any comin’ to the door.”
Wilbur was right. It had been a while since Martha had put on the welcoming porch light for the neighborhood kids. She had stopped doing it after the Halloween Wilbur had screamed obscenities at the Marston kids from down the street. He had insisted they were robbers dressed up like children so they could get into the house. Martha still apologized every time she ran onto Mrs. Marston.
***
Martha had seen the belladonna plants off the roadway earlier this fall when she had gone for a walk after sedating Wilbur for his nap. She admitted to herself that the sedation was more for her benefit than Wilbur’s; she had to have a little alone time now and then.
At first she thought she should call the county’s roadway people and report the plants; they were poisonous and very close to the shoulder of the road. Some kid could pick the berries and get sick or even die.
Martha didn’t call anybody. Instead, she pulled a couple of the plants out by their roots and took them home. She never really liked kids all that much anyway.
***
“That house on Maple Street is ripe for the pickin’,” said Bobby Woods. “It’s just two old people livin’ there who probably have some cash stashed away for emergencies.”
“What about all the kids on the streets?” asked his side-kick, Lenny Dawson. “We’d stand out like sore thumbs on Trick-or-Treat night.”
“So we wait until about ten o’clock; all the kids are back home before then, right?”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” said Lenny. “And we sure could use some easy money.”
***
Martha didn’t make dinner that night. If Wilbur asked she could just pretend they had already eaten and offer him the cookies if he was hungry.
She put a half-dozen cookies on a plate from the basket by the front door and led Wilbur upstairs.
“Time for bed, dear,” said Martha. “Have a couple of cookies with some milk; it’ll help you get to sleep.”
“Did we have any Trick-or-Treaters?” Wilbur asked.
“Not a one this year; must be that Halloween is losing its popularity as a holiday.”
“We’ve got a lot of cookies here,” said Wilbur, looking at the plate on the nightstand. “Are you going to have any?”
“Oh, I will,” said Martha. “I’ve still got a couple of things to do. You have some now and get into bed.”
Having missed dinner, Wilbur tore into the cookies with gusto. Martha watched him with tears forming in her eyes. She would have some cookies, but she would wait until after she was sure Wilbur was dead.
***
Martha heard glass breaking downstairs. It sounded like it came from the kitchen.
She cautiously went down the stairs with her cell phone in her hand, ready to call 911.
When she got to the bottom of the stairs, Lenny and Bobby jumped into the hallway from the kitchen and Bobby knocked the phone from Martha’s hand before she could finish punching in the number.
“Give us all your money and any valuables and you won’t get hurt,” said Bobby.
“I’ve got less than a hundred dollars in my purse for groceries; that’s all we have in the house.”
“You’re lyin’,” said Bobby, slapping Martha hard in the face. “You must have some cash here somewhere in case somethin’ unexpected comes up.”
“Geez, Bobby,” said Lenny. “Don’t be so rough; she’s an ol’ lady.”
“A lyin’ ol’ lady, “said Bobby, cuffing Martha again. “Where’s the money, honey!”
Martha was frightened, but she also was angry. “There is no money other than what’s in my purse, you stupid man.”
This time Bobby hit her in the jaw with a closed fist and knocked her onto an umbrella stand in the hallway. The circular stand had sharp ornamental spikes on it and Martha fell onto the stand face first, dying instantly.
“Are you nuts!” yelled Lenny. “Ya mighta killed her.”
Bobby spit on the back of Martha’s head. “So what if I did? Now let’s get her purse and get the hell outta here.”
“Ain’t we gonna look for the money they’ve got stashed away?” asked Lenny.
“Lookit this dump,” said Bobby. “She wasn’t lyin’; they probably live on the Social Security checks they get each month. There’s the purse over their on the table by the front door; let’s blow this pop stand.”
“We killed somebody for a hundred bucks?” said Lenny. “If we get caught I’m singin’ like a canary.”
“A hundred bucks and some cookies,” said Bobby, grabbing a handful of the cookies from the basket next to Martha’s purse. “Trick-or-Treat, right?”
“I want half the money, Bobby; you can have all the lousy cookies,” said Lenny. “Eatin’ something that was made by a dead person seems creepy.”
***
“Your labs guys did real good on this one, Harry,” said Detective Michael Storm. “There was a lot goin’ on with this one, more guilty parties than innocent ones, and finding that saliva in the victim’s hair put Bobby Woods at the scene. That was enough to get Lenny Dawson talkin’.”
“Yeah, Lenny sure lucked out when he didn’t eat any of those cookies. Martha Evans put enough belladonna berries in those cookies to kill a goddamn horse.”
“It’s a good thing no kids stopped at the Evans’ house tonight,” said Detective Storm. “That would have been a real tragedy.”
“You’re right as rain there, Michael. Some houses just don’t deserve to be on the Trick-or-Treat route and that house should have been taken off the list long ago.”

BROTHER FIDELITAS AND SISTER PRUDENCIA
A Fable Of Two People In Two Places

By Roger D. Hicks

Once upon a time, in a tiny river valley in Western Europe, there lived a man and a woman. They were known as Brother Fidelitas and Sister Prudencia. Each belonged to a small, strict, and very private religious order. Brother Fidelitas was a monk. Sister Prudencia was a nun. Their orders were located in two small branches of the river valley that were separated by a mountain. The members of each order had no contact with the outside world except as dictated by the necessities of obtaining the supplies they could not produce on their own. On some days, in winter-if the weather was right, members of one order could see the frail, dissipating smoke of the wood fires of the other order rising over the mountain that separated them.
In this way, the nuns and monks were aware that the others existed in a similar solitude just over the mountain. Their self-imposed isolation made these devotees seek to ignore the fact that others, in many ways like themselves, lived just across the ridge. The nuns and monks lived, worked, and sought enlightenment within a few short miles of each other and ignored the fact that it was so. Brother Fidelitas and Sister Prudencia were positive examples of their respective orders. Each worked to be accepted and admired by their comrades. Each did the work assigned to them and sought more to prove their commitment to the order. Their days were filled with work and neither thought of anything except being a part of the community in which they lived.
Sister Prudencia tended the gardens of her order and raised many of the vegetables they ate. Her work took her outside the walls of the convent on many days into the surrounding grounds as she dug in the good, warm earth to produce food for her sisters. She did this common work with a glad heart and smiled at her successes. A large crop of potatoes, abundant cucumbers, plentiful beans all could make Sister Prudencia smile. They were her achievements. They were the way she measured her success. Along the edges of her vegetable garden, Sister Prudencia also raised a few flowers. They were the only concession her order ever made to beauty or frivolity. A few of the flowers had a purpose in helping keep away bugs from the garden. A few others could be used to produce simple medicines for the nuns. But quietly, Sister Prudencia also raised her beloved pansies simply because she loved pansies. They rose up and bloomed at the edges of the garden and Sister Prudencia smiled.
Brother Fidelitas also worked outside the walls of his order to produce much of the food they ate. He was the caretaker of their chickens, rabbits, and ducks. Brother Fidelitas worked to protect the animals from the weather, the foxes, and disease. His good work also provided sustenance for the members of his order. In a small corner of the poultry house, Brother Fidelitas also kept a few pigeons. Like the pansies of Sister Prudencia, the pigeons had no real purpose. But, in their flights high over the monastery, the pigeons made Brother Fidelitas smile. As he worked among the animals, Brother Fidelitas would occasionally glance toward the sky to watch the circling, peaceful flight of the birds. It did not occur to the monk to think that the pigeons, in their flight, could see the pansies of Sister Prudencia.
As the nun and the monk continued to live and work in their cloisters, each gained more and more respect from their peers. Their faithful, simple work earned each of them accolades of the type that simple people give. An older nun might smile as she ate potatoes from Prudencia’s garden and say, “This is a fine potato, sister.” A monk might make a similar comment as he dined on one of the products of Fidelitas’ coop. The nun and the monk received these compliments in the only manner that was acceptable in their orders: silence. For them to have shown too much appreciation of even simple praise would have seemed unchaste and ungodly. Above all, the members of each order sought to be chaste and godly. Their lives, their very souls were dedicated to godlike chastity. The manner in which Brother Fidelitas and Sister Prudencia received these simple compliments was duly registered and approved by the members of their orders. Each was found to be worthy of the respect of their peers.
Each of the orders found it necessary to send a member to the small town near the mouth of the river once a week to purchase the supplies they could not grow. At nearly the same time, after years of dedicated toil, both Sister Prudencia and Brother Fidelitas were chosen to serve as the auxiliary supply purchaser. The orders viewed these as very serious responsibilities and the person chosen to fill the job was required to be an exemplary member of the order. By going to town on market day, these people both exposed their neighbors to the people of the orders and were exposed themselves to the temptations the town had to offer. These supply purchasers were carefully chosen by their peers and then trained in the position by the regular purchaser. No member of either order was ever sent to town alone for many months in order to make sure that they were not tempted by the allure of the community and its people. Sister Prudencia and Brother Fidelitas each made a few trips to town with these older teachers when the work of the orders was light and their presence not needed at home. In this way they learned what should be bought-salt, medicine, simple tools- the necessities of a simple life. They learned from whom they should purchase these things and whom they should avoid. The nun and the monk were gradually prepared for the time when they might be needed to do this job alone.
Finally, the time came when each of them was sent to purchase supplies alone for the first time. The winter had begun and the garden of Sister Prudencia was empty of work. The animals of Brother Fidelitas were safe in their cages. The valley was swept by a sudden influenza and many of the people were sick in their beds. Such was the case with the nun and the monk who had trained Prudencia and Fidelitas for just such a day. They left at nearly the same time on market morning and trudged toward the town with the meager products that each of the orders produced for sale-a few hand sewn garments, some baskets, some products of the fields. Each also carried a small amount of the money of their order to purchase the supplies for which they could not trade.
The nun and the monk arrived in the town and began to shop for the things they needed. Each moved through the stalls of the vendors silently, softly, speaking only to conclude a purchase. Each was striving and succeeding in being a positive example of their order. They both arrived at the stand of a dealer in medicinal supplies and began to search the shelves for the few simple remedies that might heal their brothers and sisters. Suddenly, Brother Fidelitas was stopped in his
search by the sound of a voice that asked the seller the price of a particular medicine. Brother Fidelitas had heard women in the town before. But this voice was different, softer, and compelling in a way that Fidelitas had not experienced since before he took his vows at the monastery.
The monk looked up and saw a beautiful, young nun dressed much like himself in the simple frock of the order. The clothes concealed her body. Only her face was visible. But the face was so special that Fidelitas could not explain to himself what he felt. He was somehow breathless, frozen, and could not have spoken if the occasion required. The nun looked only at the shopkeeper, listened to his answer, chose a small amount of the medicine, and left the shop. Brother Fidelitas wrestled with a sudden desire to follow her to the next shop. But he remembered the teaching of the old monk who had brought him to town before. Brother Fidelitas had been told that such a thing might occur, or that a town woman might even attempt to draw him into trivial conversation, or even worse. The young monk had been well prepared by his teacher. He controlled the urge to follow the nun, bought the few things he needed and left on the return trip to the monastery.
Brother Fidelitas did not see the nun again and concluded his business in the customary efficient and timely manner. He bundled the purchases and unsold products of the order in his hand sewn backpack and began the journey back up the valley toward home. As the monk walked, he watched the sky and realized that a storm was moving in over the ridge ahead. He prayed for safety on the way and realized that a similar storm was also moving in his heart and head. He remembered the face of the nun, the soft questioning voice, the chaste way she had shopped and left the town without his having seen her again.
Fidelitas struggled with his thoughts and walked on into the face of the building snow storm. He suddenly remembered a time when he was in the home of his parents in another valley more than a hundred miles away. He had been sixteen and his father had sent him to town on market day to sell a few rabbits and return home. Fidelitas had followed his father’s orders that day just as he had followed the orders of his abbot today. He had gone to the shop of the butcher and sold his rabbits quickly and quietly in preparation for leaving the town. But that day, so many years ago, another young woman had come into his senses.
The daughter of the butcher had followed the young Fidelitas out of the shop and spoken to him in the way he only now remembered. The soft insistence and offering of her voice had led him away from his plan and he had followed her to a shed in an alley behind her father’s shop. She had told him of things he had never heard explained. She had showed him emotions, sensations, smells, tastes, and touches a young farm boy soon to be a monk had never experienced. He had exulted in the rolling tide of sensations she brought him and left the shed with a collection of emotions he had never felt before.
But the memories of the butcher’s daughter did not bring pure pleasure to the monk as they had on that first day so many years ago. Now Fidelitas examined the memories both in the light of the teachings of his order and in the additional memory of having returned home to find the
pockets of his poor farmer’s pants empty. The butcher’s daughter had exacted a price for her teachings. She had stolen the coins from the sale of the rabbits to her father. Fidelitas remembered the beating when he told his father the truth. He remembered being brought to the abbot as a novice a few weeks later. He remembered the years in the monastery since that wonderful day in the butcher’s shed and the guilt rolled over the monk much as the snowstorm rolled over the mountains into his face.
The clouds had built rapidly, pushed by a steadily increasing wind. The temperature dropped quickly and the snow came in a driven fury as the monk pushed on against the building drifts and distressing memories. Fidelitas struggled against the storms in his world and his soul. He felt the sting of the snow and ice on his face where his hood did not reach. He felt the sting of his father’s words and lash. As he struggled to walk on, the monk smelled the coldness of the valley in his nostrils. He remembered the frigid goodbye at the door of the monastery so many years before. And yet, somewhere deep inside he also remembered the honest, soapy, work induced aroma of the young nun and realized that in the shop he had not even been aware that she had an aroma.
A quarter mile in front of Fidelitas, Sister Prudencia was also struggling in the storm. She pushed determinedly against the rising snow and also found turbulent thoughts and feelings pushing into her mind. Sister Prudencia remembered the face and voice of the monk in the druggist’s shop. As the shopkeeper had weighed the meager medicine for her, for a single moment the nun had glanced across the room and under the cowl which covered the head of Brother Fidelitas. Sister Prudencia had been warned by her mentor about the men of the town. She had never been warned about the men in the monastery across the mountain. She too pushed against the snow and wind while simultaneously pushing to force the unexpected thoughts of the monk from her mind. The storm was coming on more forcefully. The snow deepened quickly over the knees of the nun. The wind cut unceasingly through her hand-woven garments. She began to believe that she could go no further. Suddenly in front of the nun a row of three trees appeared and Sister Prudencia remembered an abandoned farm house and knew that she must seek shelter from the storm.
Sister Prudencia struggled between the trees and up the snow laden path to the open door. She pushed her way into the dusty room and continued to struggle with her thoughts as she sought objects in the room which could be used to save her life. There was no furniture but the door was secure and the windows were shuttered. Only a small amount of snow and ice had blown in the open door and between the cracks in the board walls. There was a fireplace in the rear wall and the nun instantly remembered that she had no matches or other means of creating fire. Sister Prudencia searched the room and her heart simultaneously.
Her encounter with the young monk had shaken her. She had not expected to see a man in the town who would arouse these feelings. She had not even believed that such feelings existed in her. Prudencia had come to the convent when she was sixteen after her parents had died in an earlier epidemic which swept the valley. She had been brought there by the farmer whose family
owned the labor of her parents. She remembered him and how she had hoped on that day that he would not leave her with the nuns. The face of the farmer crept into her thoughts just as the face of the butcher’s daughter had overcome the monk who struggled in the snow a quarter mile away.
The farmer had allowed the young girl to live in the meager home allotted to her parents for several weeks after their deaths while he considered his options. He had come to Prudencia each day and talked to the orphaned girl of her life, his farm and dreams, and the problems they both faced. Prudencia had come to believe in those days with the farmer that her life would progress in a different manner. And then, after the farmer quietly decided that a better marriage to the daughter of a neighboring farmer was possible, he had brought her to the convent and gone quietly away. Just as surely as the butcher’s daughter had robbed Brother Fidelitas, the farmer had robbed Sister Prudencia.
The nun searched the house for any object she could use to save her life and in the blinding storm the monk struggled on up the valley step by step until he managed to stumble into the line of trees and remember the abandoned farm house. As Brother Fidelitas pushed his way to the door, the nun was gathering a few small pieces of wood from the floor and found an aged cup which had survived the abandonment of the farm. She was searching her backpack for a few bites of food and an unsold blanket when the monk pushed open the door.
Sister Prudencia gasped but cut off the rising scream when she realized that the snow covered robe could only be worn by the monk from the shop in town. At the sound of her surprise, the monk stopped and said, “I am only a monk of the brotherhood nearby and I cannot go on in the storm. May I stay for the night in your home. I did not know this farm was occupied.”
Sister Prudencia overcame her shock and said, “I am a nun of the convent. I, too, am seeking shelter from the storm. Do you have fire?”
The monk did not reply verbally but dropped his backpack and shook the snow from his robe. Then the two worked quietly together to find the objects which might save their lives. They added a few more small pieces of wood to the meager pile near the fireplace. Fidelitas began to search his backpack and withdrew an unsold candle and a container of matches, one of few concessions his order allowed to modern convenience. Prudencia dug in her burden to produce an unsold blanket and a small chunk of crude goats’ cheese from her lunch. Fidelitas found half a loaf of bread saved from his noonday meal and the paper in which his purchases had been wrapped. Together the monk and nun worked to build a small fire and, as it kindled to life, both realized that they had been spared by the storm.
As the darkness of the continuing storm enveloped the house, the monk filled the cup with packed snow for water and set it near the tiny fire. The nun cleared a spot as near the hearth as possible and spread the blanket with the food nearby. The monk lit the candle and placed it on the mantelpiece. The warmth and light spread over the two, yet seemed to fill only a small portion of the room. A circle of light, soft, enveloping, pristine seemed to surround the couple on the blanket. In the eye of the continuing storm, Fidelitas and Prudencia were warm, safe, isolated, and alone
together. If either of the two ever realized the unnatural aspect of their sharing a room, a meal, and a blanket neither expressed it.
They shared the fire, the bare sustenance of bread and goats cheese, the chalice of water, the blanket. And as the night progressed, they shared their souls. The conversation, at first halting and unsure, seemed to swell and grow until it encompassed everything each of them had been or known before that night. It seemed that before the blanket covered them and the fire protected them they knew each other completely, unequivocally, and in a manner that was sacrosanct and sacred.
When the morning light awoke them, Prudencia and Fidelitas moved rapidly to leave the fire. The blanket was returned to the backpack from whence it had come. The candle was placed in the pack of the nun and became an unspoken memorial in a tiny collection of personal possessions. The cup moved to the pack of the monk and then to an exalted spot on a shelf near his beloved pigeons. They left the house in single file walking slowly under the snow laden nave into which the trees had been transfigured. The monk broke a trail up the valley and across the pristine land it had become. The nun followed silently and gradually fell behind to a chaste and acceptable distance before Fidelitas turned up his own little road to the monastery. Prudencia moved on the short distance to the convent.
Both would remember the storm and the night as having been natural, comfortable, and perhaps ecstatic. Neither ever spoke of that room, that storm, that night, that experience again. In the minds and hearts of the nun and monk, the room, the fireplace, the meal, and the blanket became a sacred moment. The ancient cup became a chalice used only once in a sacramental act. The candle on the mantle may just as well have been placed on an altar. The storm became the hand of the God they strove to please. The night became their most sacred memory. The house became a shrine.

​San Sebastian’s Ghosts

by

Gerald Arthur Winter


At age twelve I had a crush on Sally Baker, but realize now as an adult just how deep my
affection had been for her thirty years ago. Even from my preteen perspective, I’d been well
aware that Sally was the best looking cheerleader who all the senior boys at Apachalaca High
School wanted to take to the prom. But that one night long ago, Sally needed my protection
from the horrors we’d have to face together at the deserted O’Grady mansion and haunted
Fort San Sebastian on Gator Island just a mile off the Nature Coast of north western Florida.
With her good looks and straight A’s, Sally had been pre-pledged by a local sorority at
Apachalaca Community College where she intended to enroll as a freshman next September.
However, the key to her pre-acceptance for next fall’s sorority entry was to spend Halloween
overnight in the O’Gradys’ master bedroom with a clear view of the gallows in the courtyard
of the 16th century Spanish fortress.
The creepy antebellum mansion had been charred by fire a few years ago. Though arson
was suspected and investigated, no evidence came forth with the cause of that conflagration
attributed to lightning. The suspicion of arson had been based on the controversy over the
preservation of the historical site as a Civil War landmark in addition to the fort’s attribution
to the Spanish galleons who’d built the fort as protection from the French and British fleets
attacking from the Gulf of Mexico. The fort had been completed only five years after the
Spanish established St. Augustine on the east coast of Florida. There had been protests in
town against the restoration of the site, especially by the local African American community
because of the history of slave abuse by the mansion’s occupants’ who’d built the mansion
in 1850 beside the remains of the Spanish fort predating the mansion by 280 years according
to its cornerstone marked “1570.”
Spanish moss hung from the gnarled weeping willows surrounding the mansion’s
warped structure like head-dressed witch doctors prepared to raise the dead on All Hallows
Eve. On that the full moon October night three decades ago, locals still expected 16th century
zombies to rise from the adjacent slave cemetery. The graveyard’s moss-covered head stones
leaned at odd angles with the names of the dead worn away by hurricane winds and tropical
torrents over the past centuries.
The oldest date on a headstone in the cemetery was 1555 with the name of Jamuaja, a
fifteen-year-old girl enslaved by the Spanish who died in childbirth with her unnamed daughter.
The most recent date was 1865, a Negro boy of nine, as the headstone indicated, who’d bled to
death when his arms had been amputated for tapping the master, Seamus O’Grady’s daughter
on the shoulder to warn her about an alligator swimming toward the shore where she’d stood.
The controversy over the site as a Civil War monument sparked heated debate because,
toward the end of the Civil War, many slaves had been brought to Fort San Sebastian to be
hanged, as was often the case, but also to be mutilated first for any attempts to escape. When
word of the Confederacy’s surrender came to Seamus O’Grady, he sped up the process of his
personal genocide. It was this horror that gave the fort and the mansion the curse of wandering
spirits unable to resolve, even in modern times, any sustaining retribution for the atrocities
thrown on them.
The sorority to which Sally Baker wished to pledge her allegiance were all descendants
of the O’Grady clan and had to do their DNA due diligence for any consideration even before
GPA, talent, or good looks were considered. Though I had no clue at the time, they’d also
become an inbred lot with all marriages showing O’Grady DNA without any trace of what
they referred to in private as “NB.”
Sally was my next door neighbor and had agreed to watch me overnight while my
parents were still on a road trip for my ill grandmother being moved to an assisted living
facility in Atlanta, Georgia over 200 miles north of our sleepy Florida burg. After I’d gone
out trick-or-treating for the last time in my adolescent life, Sally and I watched some
horror movies from 5:00 to 11:00 p.m., which included the classic black-and-white flicks:
Frankenstein, Dracula, and The Wolfman. Then we capped it off with Burnt Offerings
in color, which was enough to make a grown man shrink in fear with Betty Davis eyes
popping out of the aged actor’s head.
“I can hear Mrs. Allardyce on the third floor,” Sally said, trying to scare me. “I’ll
have to bring her tea and crumpets so it’s bedtime for you, little man.”
Sally liked to call me that, but I felt a tingling sensation from somewhere at my core
that had become active only recently, but seemed to reverberate that night like a Buddhist
gong with the scent of Sally’s hairspray wafting every time she came within reach. But the
thought of a creepy old woman in our house, like Karen Black in Burnt Offerings, gave me
an icy chill like a cold steel blade through my spine.
When Sally noticed me staring at her she said, “Go upstairs to your bedroom now.
But don’t expect me to tuck you in. My how you’ve grown over the summer. How old are
you now?”
I lied, telling her, “Thirteen.”
“Oh, yeah. You’re too old to be afraid of vampires and werewolves, so you just go
and tuck your little-man self into bed.”
“How about a kiss goodnight?” I asked with disbelief at my courage, but she seemed
unfazed by my outrageous proposal.
“Have you kissed any girls in your class?” she asked, standing from the sofa and folding
her arms tightly across her bosom. “I bet you haven’t kissed anyone but your mommy.”
I blushed and stammered, “Well, I—that is, there was this one—”
“No one! Absolutely no one,” she challenged.
I just shrugged and hung my head until I felt her index finger under my chin, which
she used to tilt my head upward to face her. Wow! She smelled great and her eyes were
hypnotic, turquoise like the Caribbean.
“Wh-what are ya gonna do?” I asked, afraid she’d tell my parents of my bold
inappropriate behavior, which would surely prohibit Sally from ever coming over to our
house again.
“If you promise never to tell anyone—not ever—that this happened, I’m going to
show you how to kiss a girl the way she’ll never admit she wants you to.”
“But I thought you were gonna—”
“Shut up, little man, because this is the only time you’re ever gonna kiss me, so don’t
slobber and just do to me what I do to you. Got it?”
I thought surely I’d pee in my pants or fart, but the first taste of Sally’s lips and the
sweet warmth of her breath made me feel like I’d been drowning forever and she was
breathing life into me like a paramedic on an emergency rescue mission.
Once I got the hang of it, she pushed me away and said, “Whoa-whoa-whoa, little man!
That’s it. You’re on your own now. But you’re ready to thrill some high school girl before you
ecven finish eighth grade.”
Of course I was only in seventh grade, but what did that matter when that night would
already stay in my memory forever? But that was before I was watching from our second-floor
landing as she talked on the phone to one of her girlfriends. The conversation was about her
Halloween sorority initiation on Gator Island at the O’Grady mansion. Then I heard Sally sneak
out the backdoor. At the time, the only thing I knew about the O’Gradys or Fort San Sebastian
were rumors at school and overheard conversations between my parents about the Civil War
landmark controversy.
I couldn’t believe that Sally was going to leave me home alone on Halloween night
and take off for Gator Island. She was eighteen and I was twelve, so I figured there must be
some kind of rule or even a law against her leaving me on my own with my parents out of
town. Jeez. There was probably even some kind of regulation about getting kissed by a girl
her age—girl? She was a woman and I wasn’t even a teenager yet. Maybe they’d go easy on
her since I’d lied to her about being thirteen.
I quickly dressed in jeans and a polo shirt and slipped on my sneakers without socks
or tying the laces. Then I pursued her across the empty lot behind my house toward the
marina. No thoughts about the scary rumors of Gator Island, the O’Grady mansion, or Fort
San Sebastian even entered my mind—only Sally’s safety—with her kiss lingering in my mind.
I figured a guy should never let a girl who kissed him like that ever get away. Besides,
everyone knew Gator Island was just a joke on tourists. There hadn’t been a gator sighted
there in over a hundred years, or so I’d heard at school. Kids often dared others to swim the
half-mile to Gator Island, but I’d never heard of any takers. If there were, they’d probably
drowned rather than being attacked by an alligator.
I could hear Sally rustling through the scrub foliage in the empty lot just thirty yards
ahead, but I was gaining on her. When she got to the Marina on the Intracoastal Waterway
between Gator Island and Florida’s Gulf shore, she was met by two other girls, maybe a
couple of years older than her. I couldn’t hear what they were saying to one another from
where I hid behind a boat in dry dock. They helped her into an old 20-foot garvey, flat with
a covered area at the center as protection from, sun, wind, and rain.
The two girls waved to Sally and she waved back. The other two got into a car and drove
away. I thought they’d be going with her, but Sally started the engine with a cloud of exhaust
and a roar.
She’s going alone, I thought. Then, like Scooby-do, I barked, “Yoiks!”
I waited only a moment as Sally unfastened the lines from the moorings and pointed the
rickety craft toward the full moon on the horizon backlighting Fort San Sebastian and O’Grady’s
mansion silhouetted against the moonglow.
I ran toward the boat with Sally facing in the opposite direction and the engine’s
banging blocking out any other sounds. I leaped ten feet from the dock to the boat just as
Sally accelerated the engine, which masked the jolt of my weight in the garvey. The center
shelter concealed my presence on the boat, and there was a canvas tarp at the stern which
I used to cover myself and conceal my presence from her as she steered.
It was only a ten-minute ride to Gator Island where Sally had been instructed to
moor the craft till morning or to use for her escape if the O’Gradys’ or tormented slaves’
ghosts scared her off the island before daybreak.
Never mind Sally, I thought. What about me? Too late to turn back now and I can’t
let Sally face this scary stuff alone. I had to protect her tonight to prove that I deserved to be
called more than just a “little man.”
The other girls had given Sally a list of places on the island where she had to go and also
of certain things to bring back to show them that she’d followed their instructions. It was more
than just an initiation; it was a scavenger hunt as well. Now I knew I could be more than just
Sally’s protector. I could help her gather all she needed to join her sisterhood at college.
Maybe I’d earn another kiss. The warmth of that slim possibility kept me from shivering loud
enough to be heard by Sally steering the boat to the dilapidated dock between the mansion
and the fort.
I watched her tie the boat to the dock then squint at her written list by the shimmering
moonlight casting its silvery glow across the rippling tide.
“I can help,” I said, tossing the tarp aside.
“You little creep!” she shrieked. “How did you get here?”
“I followed you and jumped from the dock into your boat as you were heading here.
Let me help you, Sally.”
“You, help me? You must be kidding, little man.”
Ugh! There it goes again. I had to prove to her that I was worthy, that I could be her
hero that night.
“Don’t act so stuck-up,” I said, which made her cock her head and glare at me. “I’ll tell
all the guys on the high school football team that you French-kissed me.”
“You little creep,” she hissed. “They’ll kick your butt.”
“Come on, Sally. Let’s find the stuff you need on that list,” I said as if taking command.
“Okay, I guess,” she said. “But don’t think this will get you another kiss.”
“Don’t be too sure, Sally.”
“Ugh! I’ve created a little monster,” she said. “Come on. We have to go to the master
bedroom in the O’Grady mansion until midnight.”
I looked at my watch. “We’ve got only ten minutes. We better hurry.”
Sally’s list told her to enter the mansion through the wine cellar which was creepy
with spider webs tickling our faces in the dark and vermin scattering from our path to the
creaky wooden steps to the first floor kitchen where rats were on every counter and
scampered between our feet as Sally shrieked.
When we found the stairs to the second floor it felt with each step as if we’d fall
through the rotted wood into the basement. An oil portrait of Master Seamus O’Grady
hung on the wall beside a canopied bed. His shimmering turquoise eyes glared at us from
1865 when the Union Army hanged him from the gallows of Fort San Sebastian in the
courtyard below.
“I have to watch from here at the stroke of midnight,” Sally said, going to the
balcony with me right behind her.
Whether our imagination or not, we turned to each other as we heard the chimes
from the fort’s watchtower beginning the count to midnight—1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . .
When the chime came to 8 . . . 9 . . . 10, Sally grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight.
She was ready . . . so was I.
Below we saw a dozen men and women ready to be hanged. At the stroke of
midnight came the loud snap of the trap doors beneath the feet of the condemned and
their amputated corpses hung from nooses in the sea breeze. I shivered when I heard
what sounded like alligator grunts and hisses coming from the mote surrounding the fort.
I turned to Sally as the full moon cast its glow across my face showing her my
turquoise eyes. She leaned toward me as if she were going to offer me a tender kiss,
but she drew her fangs and sunk her teeth deep into my neck making me one with her,
and one with the O’Grady clan forever. My parents must have been in on it with Sally
from the get-go, all of us cursed with no rest for our weary souls condemned forever
to relive our infamous past.

---

When cats go missing
​
By Meg Smith


Wet leaves were plastered to the brick sidewalk.
It had rained for three days.
At a bus shelter, amidst an archipelago of graffiti, was a poster: LOST CAT.
The cat, named Sammy, was a plumpish tabby.
In a photo, Sammy was plopped on a cushion, his eyes closed, not appearing at all like the errant, adventure-going type.
The poster, rippled from the humidity, said Sammy was microchipped, had been missing since the beginning of May. The poster included a phone number.

It was one of several posters of Sammy appearing around town, in store windows, in a coffee shop, on the bulletin board of the library.

Many who saw the poster would snap a photo on their cell phones, and distribute to their friends on social media or email group.

This was not the first time many of them had done this for a lost cat or dog poster.
Sammy looked truly majestic and serene in his picture setting. The thought of such a content, easy-going cat out in a downpour such as this, away from a loving family, caused pain in more than one heart.

In a modest duplex home, Sammy’s owners, Carl and Beth, were rising, going to their respective jobs, and returning at night, greeting each other with spare words, the silence of their grief between them.

Sammy had been gone for two weeks now.

Sammy’s very being in their household was a significant milestone.

He arrived about two years earlier, then not much more than a kitten. He was one of a fluffy group of orphaned kittens, found abandoned in a box near the Collingsville commuter train station, and taken to a Caring Paws, a shelter.

Sammy and his littermates were bottle-fed by volunteers, and their availability for adoption announced in the local newspaper as well as on social media.

Carl and Beth had had a quarrel, a serious one, and not the only one in those fragile first months of their relationship.

It was hard now for either of them to remember much about the fight, except that Carl’s ex-girlfriend, Cindy, kept interjecting comments in their social media exchanges, usually when it concerned a restaurant.

Beth insisted Carl rid himself of her -- as a social media contact,
as a presence in his life.
Cindy and Carl, hadn’t seen each other in person since high school.

She was a remnant of the past, Beth argued. It mattered not that Cindy had been there when Carl’s mother had died of esophagus cancer.

That had been kind of Cindy, but that was in a different lifetime.

Let -- her -- go, Beth said.

With a sharp sigh, Carl did.

Then, at an office cookout, Carl’s coworker
Ben mentioned that Cindy had emailed Carl at work.

Beth told Carl to leave. He did for three nights, staying at his father’s house -- two men now without partners, in a dark, chilly ranch house across town.

Carl did not know how to make amends.
He could have asked his father, but his father was caught up in his own struggles, with solitude, with diabetes.
Cindy had remained a friend to his family. His ties to her were mostly of gratitude.
They went to the junior semi-formal, and that was when things ended between them.
Now, they were both in their mid 20s, both with adequately-paying but marginally satisfying jobs.
Their paths had diverged.

Carl’s life revolved around his work at Motor Dynamics, and around Beth, who worked in customer service in a department store.

He didn’t fully understand Beth’s discomfort about Cindy.
But he did remember his father’s one bit of advice about keeping a harmonious household: Choose your battles, otherwise you will lose the war.
He wanted the repair whatever harm he’d done. And, he wanted to win the war.
He knew Beth liked cats. He liked them, or could at least tolerate them. Seeing the Caring Paws’ post on social media, he went there, applied for adoption, and was accepted.

He went home with Sammy, now fully weaned and ready for solid food, in a cardboard, portable cat carrier, with a blanket and some toys.

To Beth, Sammy signified a milestone that made her heart overflow. Sammy spoke of permanence, of a commitment to the present. He brought the two dissonant parties together.

They could officially call themselves a family.

Two years passed, uneventfully but with stability and logic. Sammy grew affectionate, and, given more to naps than running around, he grew generous in girth.

Then, one night, Carl left his phone on the coffee table; it lit up, and Beth picked it up to answer it.

It was Cindy. Her name flashed on the phone screen. Beth grabbed it, answered it, and heart a shocked breath followed by silence.

Beth sat on the couch, feeling light-headed. She remembered how a coworker had grimaced, then forced a smile, when she said Carl had come back to her
and got her a cat.

She felt flushed, absurd, and amazed at her own short-sightedness, at her heart given over so quickly because of a cat.

Carl came into the living room, eating from a bag of pretzels. He then saw her face.

He turned, and went to the door. That’s when the rage exploded inside Beth.

Carl opened the door, and before either of them could stop him, Sammy, who never showed the slightest interest in the world beyond his warm abode, departed in a pudgy, gray blur.

The next day, Carl created the ‘lost cat’ poster at work, and put it on social media. Without alluding to the phone call fiasco, the post simply said he and Beth were heart-broken and wanted Sammy back.

Carl also posted the notice to a ‘lost cat’ group, and ‘help find my pet,’ among others.

It was only then he realized the scope of the problem. So many posts about missing pets, especially cats. Dogs could be leashed of course; cats seldom were.

So many posts said, “he/or she is an indoor-only cat, not used to the outdoors.”

Two weeks passed.

From time to time, someone would send one of them a photo, in a text message, asking, “Is this him?”

It never was.

Sammy knew all about missing. He knew all about missing time.

He knew all about grief, life and death, because he’d been through it all before.

He carried within him generations of names, and generations with no name.

He carried within him, dingy alleys, sunny meadows, a cold, bitter December with the clatter of horse hooves rushing by.

He carried time.

Sita, the missing gray-blue cat, also carried time.

As did Rina, the spunky calico.

And there were others.

As the rain fell, they sought shelter inside derelict buildings, under boxes, anywhere that held out the promise of a dry space.

As the rain ceased, they came out.

Some were very attached to their human companions; others were possessed of a preternatural indifference.

Sammy was not eager to leave Carl and Beth. They were, apart from the dimmest memory of his fellow orphan siblings, the only true family he’d known.

It was clear that they loved him.

But it was also clear that they were constantly rebuilding a house that kept disintegrating.

All the cats knew one thing: Every house would soon disintegrate.

They came to their gathering place. It was in a clearing, behind the former chair factory for which the town had once been known. There were shallow rainwater pools in the uneven, warped lot.
Cars splashed by on the road.

The cats gathered around a fire.

They had summoned the fire.

From the fire, they summoned their ancestor.

It was a truly primitive creature, more like a cat’s skeleton in the thinnest veneer of skin and fur. To a human, it may have looked like a proto-being, stepping out of a zoological display case to survey a world from which it was removed by about 33 million years.

The cats gathered around were all vessels of time, but not caught up in quibbling about the passing of years.

Houses were disintegrating, and rivers would start to stumble backwards.

Everything would start running backwards.

The clouded air above Collingsville, above what had once been a mid-state industrial hub, grew dense with the certainty.

A yellowed moon above glowed dispassionately.

Following their ancestor, the cats tred a narrow, sure path,
in the falling, yellowed light.

Cape Perpetua

By Levi Gardner Bilderback



Perpetual churning
Begs to be fed.
Crash after crash
Wishing you were dead.


She could only stay up for a quick breathe,
Struggling madly against a quicker death.


-Verses from a Sailor’s diary




Yachats, Oregon
12:23 AM Wednesday, October 3rd


Dusty Miller was a biker through and through. He had been part of the Gypsy Jokers until very recently, when his older brother Chip was gunned down
by the Portland P.D. Dusty currently resided in a town called Yachats (pronounced Ya-hats) where he had been getting loaded up on crank, going on drinking binges, and biking up and down Highway 101. This night had been no different, and Dusty barely stumbled out the front entrance of his favorite establishment in Yachats, the Blue Whale Diner.
He shouldn’t have been sneaking drinks, but his judgement was already fully impaired, so it didn’t matter to him at the time. What mattered was that he needed to calm his nerves. He ordered orange juice after OJ, and poured shot after shot from his vest pocket flask. He was pretty casual at first, for someone on meth, but eventually the waitress caught on and told him to leave for good. Dusty complied and took a few steps out of the entrance, put a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and brought the flame of his Zippo closer.
But before he could light his cig, he heard a rustling in the bushes near where his chopper was parked. The lighter, mere centimeters from the fag, paused in its ascent. Its flame flickered casually as Dusty scanned the bushes, the cigarette twitching as he muttered to himself. It’s the goddamned meth, he thought and lit his last cigarette. He climbed onto his chopper, strapped his Nazi-esque helmet on, and cranked his metallic beast to life. The headlights on the bike illuminated the bushes nearby, and for an instant, Dusty swore he saw a shadow dip behind a tree.
Goddamned homeless, he thought, though ironically he was also technically homeless.
Ignoring the shadow, he rolled his chopper to the edge of 101. South and to his left lay Cape Perpetua; north and right was the direction of the beach he had been staying at. However, as Dusty swiveled his head north, all feeling left his face and limbs. Fog had descended like a wall and it crept silently south, toward ol’ Dusty. The line of clarity on his path was slowly disappearing into the fog, and as he stared in shock at this seemingly natural phenomenon, he could see dark shapes like a crowd of cloaked humans clustered and creeping along with the mist.
Having earned a one-way ticket South, Dusty gunned it, his chopper cutting the silence that seemed to be swallowing everything up. He checked his mirrors once he was up to speed, and much to the dread of Dusty, the mist and dark figures seemed to be keeping up, even appearing to gain on him. Dusty had been through many terrifying moments with the Gypsy Jokers, but this was different. For one thing, he was absolutely alone. For another, he had never believed in the supernatural, and since this mist and the shadows appeared, his entire world of what he knew went kaboom and left a crater the size of his pituitary gland in his brain. It wouldn’t be long until this damnable fog surrounded him and then what? Dusty didn’t want to think of the conclusion, so instead he twisted the throttle until he was up to 75 before he checked his mirrors again. Any minute, he would be
hitting some serious corners along 101, and at the speed he was going, it would mean almost certain death for ol’ Dusty “Eat Dust” Miller. He snuck a glance at his mirrors and saw nothing. Fucking nothing! He eased off the throttle, to take the threatening corners coming up, cig still in the corner of his mouth, tip red and puffing. He let out a chuckle. This kind of paranoia happened when he was on meth, and he should have expected something like this to happen.
As he drew closer to the corner of the Devil’s Churn, Dusty felt something sting his left ear. Automatically his left hand shot to his ear and swatted at whatever it was that had stung him. Suddenly his right ear lit up in pain, followed by three stings in a row under his helmet. Then he saw whatever it was that was stinging him. What appeared to be large, black hornets were swarming all around his head, dive-bombing in and biting chunks out of his face. He could feel them crawling around in his hair, biting and stinging as they made their way further under his helmet. His right hand shot up and he struggled madly with both hands to get his helmet off. His speed had started creeping back up after the first barrage of stings, and now, with both hands off the handlebar, his speed was pushing 80. Having that cruise control throttle had saved his hands from going numb on many long trips, but this time it bit him hard as his speed went up and up, and his path took him careening straight toward the corner overlooking the Devil’s Churn.
He screamed while he struggled at his helmet, finding little success in removing it. Panic had taken hold and all good sense had disappeared. The helmet shifted over his eyes as he approached the corner, his trajectory aimed cleanly between two trees overlooking the Churn. His tires left the ground just as his helmet came off. Dusty’s body came off the bike, his helmet over his head by a foot, and as if in slow motion, all three flew in a beautiful arc toward the opening of the Devil’s Churn. The ground grew larger, his demise nearer. He saw the shadow creatures all around him again, and he could sense their excitement. They were hungry for him. His bike, now 6 feet in front of him, hit the edge of the ancient lava flow and bounced into the opposite wall of the devilishly narrow inlet, and was swept away into the greedy ocean. Dusty fell just short of the edge with a devastating crunch, not bouncing an inch. His helmet hit the rocks, cracking in two and spun off to join the chopper to be pulverized into oblivion.
Amazingly, Dusty didn’t die immediately upon impact. Blood poured from his orifices, bubbling up out of his mouth. He gasped for breath. Meth had caused a lot of problems for him, but this time it seemed to be extending the life of his mutilated body. As Dusty reeled from the ruin, a dark figure moved into his view and his panicky feeling returned full force. If Dusty could have looked around, he would have seen a crowd of well over 50 of these shadow demons all closing in around his body. This sudden shock of panic sent him into cardiac arrest, his heart
finally calling the quits, and the shadows took this as their signal. With a gust, the phantoms flew into Dusty’s body.
For a moment, nothing happened. Dusty’s face still had a concerned look on it. All was quiet, save the continuous pounding of the waves. Then, breaking the silence, crunching sounds came from Dusty’s body as it rumbled in the spot he had landed. Minutes went by before the sound and motion stopped. Sluggishly, the body of Dusty stood up. Its shoulders moved up and down as a rattling breath wheezed in and out. Shambling, Dead Dusty’s commandeered body walked further South along the beach where it found a big, concrete culvert. Piled up like bleached bones outside the drain, nobody would find a body here with all the driftwood. Into the dark opening the body crawled, the creatures inhabiting the body plotting their next move in this ripe and new dimension.

Our 100th Issue Winners 

The Autumn Melodies Short Story Contest


1st Prize


WELL WISHES

By Kent Rosenberger



Most people would have some sort of grand reaction if an amazing array of sapphire sparkles just appeared in the middle of the room and produced a full-sized human being, much less one with multihued butterfly wings, aquamarine hair and an all-too-cliché magic wand topped with a shiny silver star.
But for Evenly, such outlandish occurrences were pretty much an everyday practice lately. “Hello, dearie,” the ninety-two year old white-haired, wrinkled bag of bones stated with grandmotherly kindness as the pastel, life-sized fairy took full form. “Have you finally come to take me away?” Perplexed, the fugitive from a girl’s bedroom bookshelf wondered for a second why she was not being greeted with the standard amount of disbelief, but rather placid
acceptance, almost as though she was expected. It took a moment for her to understand her confusion. Judging from the woman’s age and condition, her anticipation of a supernatural being was not entirely unfounded. She was simply not the one the woman was looking for. “No, no, not at all. I am not the Grim Reaper.”
The senior citizen was unable to snap her bony fingers, but she tried anyway, failing to produce any kind of sound whatsoever. “Oh, drat. This must be another one of those delusions.”
“Excuse me,” the fairy asked. “Delusions?”
“Oh yes. I know you’re not real. My daughter says I suffer from…now let me get this straight…” she paused, breathing heavily as though talking this much was winding her, “‘dementia, amnesia, and bouts of vivid hallucinations.’” She grinned, the dentures she forgot to clean for the last few days providing a dingy, artificial smile. “Yesterday I played ping-pong with the mailman and a brontosaurus.”
“Oh, how fun,” the fairy exclaimed, twirling around in a shower of glitter, not completely understanding the disturbing complexity of what the woman was telling her. “Well, I assure you, I’m quite real, and I’ve come to bring you something even better.”
“You have?” Evenly asked, her round eyes amplified in her inch-thick eyeglass lenses. “Cotton candy?” she speculated hopefully.
“No,” lilted the fairy. “Hold out your hand.”
She complied without question. “Is it a button? I do so love buttons.”
“No. Better.” She pulled Evelyn’s hand out palm up and placed the shiny star wand tip in the middle of it. When she lifted it away, a small brown metal disc that looked like it was older than the woman was left behind.
“What’s this?” She held it up to her face until the tiny object came into focus. Her confused mind searched for the word associated with the item. “It’s a piggy. No, that’s not right. A princess. Oh, I get so confused.”
“It’s a penny.”
That word made sense. “Yes, it is. A penny.” Her excitement faded. “Why are you giving me a penny?”
“This is not just any penny,” the fairy exclaimed as excitedly as a child receiving an ice cream cone, “it’s your penny.”
Evelyn inspected the thing resting in her palm. If she did not know it was there it would have blended in nicely with her liver spots. “I appreciate the sentiment, honey, but a penny isn’t worth anything.”
The fairly gigged so much, a blast of sparkles shot out of her nose. “No, silly. I’m not giving you just a penny. I’m giving you what goes with the penny.”
Somewhere in depths of the codger’s muddled mind a golden moment of clarity shone through in association with her newly acquired treasure. There was nothing with it as far as she could tell. “I don’t understand, dearie.”
“Don’t you remember,” the fairy half-sang, “you and Calvin Roberts and the wish you made at the wishing well that summer evening before the first day of school?”
Suddenly, Evelyn did remember. The ancient, forgotten event unlocked from a dusty corner of her addled memory and was brought to the forefront with amazing crystal clarity. “Yes. Yes, of course. It was the day before seventh grade. We had just spent a beautiful summer together, full of picnics and fireflies and days by the pool. We wanted it to last forever. We never wanted summer to end. We each threw a coin in the wishing
well and made a wish.” She stared at the coin in her hand with renewed wonder. “My penny!”
“And your wish,” the fairy added. “I’m so sorry, I’m so far behind in my schedule, but better late than never, right?”
Evelyn scrunched her already deeply creased forehead. “My wish?”
“Yes, of course. Now as I recall, Calvin wished for summer to never end and you wished for the two of you to live forever.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, but Calvin died years ago, so his wish cannot be granted, but yours is certainly still available.” She waved her wand three times in a circle, producing a series of pink swirls in the air. When she finished, she thrust the colored cloud at her target. It exploded across Evelyn’s gaunt body soundlessly.
The woman dropped the penny and stared at her midsection, then up to the fairy. “What happened?”
“Why, you’re immortal of course. Now you can live forever and have all of your dreams come true.”
“Immortal? Who wants to be immortal when they’re ninety-two? I’m just ready for it all to end now. Don’t I get anything else with it? Youth? Strength? A new body? Do I get to go back to being twelve again?” “Of course not silly. Well, I’ve got to run. More long-overdue wishes to catch up on. Ta-ta.” The fairy began to fade the same way she entered, a shower of sparkles engulfing her frail form.
“But why not?” Evelyn cried out after her, the fragment of her common sense that remained unable to fathom a thousand lifetimes of enduring the constant aches, relentless tiredness, numerous medications and mounting financial problems she had. “For God’s sake, why not?”
“Because it wasn’t part of the wish,” the fairy answered.
With a spotted, wrinkled finger she pushed her coin back in the direction of the fading supernatural creature. “What if I wish for it now? Please?” She flashed her stained dentures as innocently as possible.
“Sure.” The starry tip of her glittering wand touched upon the coin, passing it back into her possession. “I’ll add it to the list. See you again in, oh, eighty-four years or so,” she chimed before vanishing completely.




2nd Prize

OFF THE GRID
by
 Teresa Ann Frazee




      In a chamber that resonated muffled rock music from the room adjunct to hers, a woman sat at her Victorian desk, awaking her imagination, just as she had 167 years ago.  Lace banded her wrists. Her alabaster fingers, jeweled with stones, held a writing instrument, a quill . It seemed an extension of her slim hand as she guided the quill across a sheet of  paper, while she created worlds where creatures are far more interesting than their masters. As she wrote, she rearranged her thoughts. Coiffure hair crowned her head, her face had an expression of sensibility, her eyes, of a woman with an intriguing past. She stopped writing, utterly satisfied that she had been sequestered by compulsion and her creative mind had succumbed to the diversity of her talent and she was unable or unwilling to give an account of her imaginations whereabouts.
     The drawn back drapery of the finest burgundy velvet, revealed the only window in her chamber, an ivy edged, large window, overlooking the east. Her gaze lingered as she peered out, as if to reward herself for just a moment. She seemed to look upon her view as if it had caught her attention for the first time.
      It was neither day nor night. Dismantled time had found it's place. Scatted summer yellow light, reflected the verdure of a spectacular English garden, along a canal with aisles of trees, where rootless branches grew cascading orange blossoms, bearing tiny topaz leaves that held their alignment with perfection. Like a pearl, a full moon illuminated winding cobblestone pathways, where granulated amber light was strewn.  In a boundless veil of fire ablaze in the realm of gold and sapphire, a starry blue sky radiated with synchronicity. Amid the aerial blue, a flock of doves cooed with chant of paradise. Bathe in the haunting back lit sky, like white smoke, they rose past phantasmal space into flight. Under an ineffable light that bore an ancient heat, their stray shadows flew in ghostly rhythm , stalking with  primitive certainty, before descending into thickets of wind swept grass where sparks from the  trampling hooves of white horses flickered.
     Far off, were scarcely visible mountains where summits with Sabbath white textures and the valley beneath, had eternally moving clouds curling into mysterious shapes  where thick ocherous mists rose from a distant river. Ebony silhouettes echoed the coast, reflecting on the water like crystal.  In the haze of the sun, the horizon vanished toward distant spheres of space where wisps of light had spun. A warm breeze dismissed the past, establishing the authenticity of the here and now.

     As if in slow motion, time ceased to meddle, here it never rained. Outside her window, it was always the height of summer. A vista  to fall upon your knees in awe. All like some fantastic scene, illuminated with the veil of elegance,  resonant of Romantic Painters.
     A sunny web of openwork from the draperies trim formed a shimmering, filigree pattern where reflective light  poured over a plush carpet. Like a mirage in heat, energy circled around blending into soft colors in the kaleidoscopic air.  The atmosphere in her chamber was filled with an ambrosial scent. Every now and then she would inhale and savor the aroma with a faint smile of pleasure. A quiet satisfaction radiated from her as if it was that of an infants first breath.
     The rock music had stopped. She picked up her quill and continued to write. As she wrote, her eyes skimmed over the written page to seek new translating words which best conveyed her ideas. She heard rustling outside her door but didn't bother herself to look up as she continued to write, using her imagination to form things unknown. Someone timidly knocked on her door. She stopped writing and glanced toward the door.
     "Yes, who is at my door?" she asked.
      Leather creaked when she rose from her seat . The accumulation of fabric that formed her dress fell about her. The pinched gathering which composed  the train of the heavy hem of her refined embroidered gown swept up a cloud of gold dust in the air as she walked to the door. You could see from her elegant manner, she was not lacking in culture. And the floating smoothness of her gait was as if the very lightness of the air was somehow relieved of gravity, making it difficult for her feet to move upon the ground.
     "I could us some help!" a young man, said aggressively from behind the door.
     The woman opened the door and said:
     "Ah! I presume the new arrival". She smiled and shook her head., "Not again"  With a deep breath she continued, "Did they not greet you at the gate?  You cannot make bohemians, especially those two beat poets, remain at their post.  We are such an unruly lot."
     A confused young man ,wearing a skimpy T-shirt with a blue bandana around his neck, balanced himself on his boot heels, stood in the doorway with an acoustic guitar slung across his back. He looked back outside.
   "Who,  at the gate?" he asked.
    He had a rock star's physique. His hair dangled around his face. In his gestures, there was a desperation that interrupted his thoughts as he hung on to his guitar, like a security blanket.. He had a intimate connection with his guitar that blurred the distinction between man and instrument, seemingly, there was no gap between the player's body and the wood. The woman looked up at him, pointed out the door and  tried to help him understand.
      "There on the road. Oh, the way those two renegades have relentlessly carved into the gate with their words. "
      The young man eyed her suspiciously and asked, "Who are you? What am I doing here?  What's going on?  I don't belong here !"

     "Please do come in and compose yourself!   For sir, you do deserve to be here. Let me assure you, you are in the right place. Do not let fear and confusion compromise your thoughts", declared the woman.
      The young man entered the room but he stayed near the door, left it open and looked around. He nervously shifted his guitar from side to side and replied:
     "Easy for you to say lady."
      The woman sat back in her chair, and said:
     "I can see your eyes express anxiousness and that you expect to be informed by me immediately of where you are and how you have arrived here. Most certainly, this cannot be done so quickly but listen patiently and you will easily perceive why you are here. I will not attempt to convey everything, that is not my role but will simply relate the circumstances. By no reason of  order do I occupy the first room.  It is merely by chance. I am by no means the Director of this community and can scarcely appoint myself as leader.  Here, we are all equals, aged, adult and youth, only those who have had the opportunity to develop their uniqueness, including all who are or not recorded in the book of fame.  Nevertheless, I will continue since you are now in my room. The explanation is not really difficult. It is simply this. In the order they have been asked, I will try to answer your questions. I am  a woman of the 19th century, the daughter of two prominent literary celebrities. Raised in the circle of my fathers advanced intellectual companions, I was supplied with the ability to transcribe the ideas of a cultivated mind. When I reached the age of potential I believed I must prove worthy of my heritage. Waned from waking dreams, quill at the ready for a spine tingling tale, I daily exhume from my imagination wretches and ghosts, the fulfillment of which I eagerly seek. Now, you know who I am, I'm------"
     She was interrupted by a knock on the door frame.  Both the woman and the young man  looked to see who was there. An older woman dressed in a black kimono and scarf around her head, saw the woman with a young man and shouted in the room:
     "Hello, Mary. Oh excuse me, didn't know you were entertaining guests."
     "That is quite alright Georgia,  please do come in.", said Mary.
      Georgia stood by the door as she spoke. "No, no, just wanted to remind you of my artist reception tonight. You remember the opening?"
 "Most certainly, I will be there. So where is Stieglitz this fine afternoon?" Mary asked.
 "Oh you know him, he's in the dark room with Man Ray.  I'll see you later Mary." Georgia said as she walked away from the door.
 "Farewell!". Mary said.
 The young man gestured to the door, "Wait a minute, wait just a minute. Was she---  
  Man, this can't be", he said as if asking a question, "your Mary Shelley."
 "My dear boy you have deduced correctly," Mary said.
 The young man asked, "And the music I heard before coming from the next room, suppose that wasn't a recording but the real thing."
    "Ah, the music that pulsated through my chamber wall, in a sphere of symphony, those echoing songs chase the shadow of the end of time. I dare say my boy, again you have guessed  right," Mary said.
    The young man slowly walked over and sat in a chair next to Mary who was still sitting at her desk. He  carefully set his guitar against her desk, covered his face with his hands and placed his head in his lap.
    "Do have a seat." Mary sarcastically said.  She looked over to the door and said a little annoyed now:
   "I wish those two would man their post." Mary composed herself and spoke more calmly. The young man raised his head as she continues to speak, "Forgive me, we do not gain all virtues when we pass through the gate. I know it feels much like a strewn puzzle with missing pieces as the ghostly ruins of memory are drawn into the quicksand of time. The sympathy of a stranger, such as I am can be but little comfort to one with such anxiety. But I also know the suspense is a thousand times worse than the actual events. The truth triumphs over all the curiosities one can invent.  It is with   considerable difficulty that I remember the origin of my own arrival.  Upon reflection, I do recall,  on examining my dwelling, I found that I had everything I could ever need.  A short period elapsed before I settled in to my surroundings. As you are now, I was extremely baffled at first but by degrees, the forgotten importance of how I arrived here, receded into a woven nest of midnights past."
      The young man started to pace the room and burst out angrily," OK OK, but damn it, just tell me where in God's name I am? What is this place?"
      Mary said angrily, " Please do not abuse the King's English in my room.  With my usual candor, I must express that I have no tolerance for the omission of manners. I will not have it.  I dare say, you will learn to respect our differences." 
      "What are you my mother?" the young man said sarcastically.
      "Thankfully not. I would indeed have to chastise myself for doing such a horrid job of child rearing. Now, as I have stated before I am doing you a courtesy my boy. I will remind you, it was I who was imposed upon by you, an unannounced guest in my room. Do sit down ! I will again,  try to widen the mental scope for you," Mary sternly said.
      The young man consented to listen and sat back down, "I need a glass of water."
     "You think you do out of force of habit. That will fade. Here, you don't need food, drink, sleep nor any of those human traits that interfere with creativity. I know it is customary to offer a glass of water to someone distressed but believe me when I say that water is the last thing you need." Mary said.
     "What's that supposed to mean, water's the last thing I need?", the young man asked.
     "You are not mentally deficient.  I will not spare you,  for eventually you will remember these events  yourself. Like confetti, memory will stream through, littering the haze of space. You met your demise wrestling for a  breath . Your air neglected lungs hoarded more water than a body could sustain." Mary replied.
     The young man tightly closed his eyelids as if to shut out a horrid memory and calmly interrupted Mary, "Stop. Yeah, yeah,  I remember now. Weird, my shoes are still wet. But how did you know?"
     "Alas!  I did not know but surmised the particulars after I saw the tracks of water you left upon my floor as you walked across to have a seat.  My beloved husband met his fate in much the same way.  He arrived at this community many years prior to my own and his hair is still damp. Hm! Quite the conundrum. I promise, you will hardly notice those little annoyances here above the skylight of floating dreams and think of it as once ago existing among the dregs of scattered thought," Mary replied.
     "I get it now. So is this heaven or hell?," the young man asked.
     "Neither, my dear fellow", Mary said, "you are home, rooted in a perpetual place among your peers, where the creative spirit is remembered always and never laid to rest, reborn above a hurling flame across the sky. We dwell in a resurrected  Bohemia where our immortal bones are no longer obsolete. You have entered a nameless world, radiated with synchronicity as disassembled time forms its own space."
     The young man resumed pacing, "But why me?" he asked, "I'm not famous like a star with one name. I don't deserve to be here. I'm just a singer/songwriter that plays guitar. Granted I was on that boat to sign a music contract but still."
      "Your attitude is immature but evidently your gift sufficiently impresses. As I have previously stated, famous or not, to creativity we are bound. You will soon understand that with precision we weave threads of infinity wound from a master spool vast and measureless. So  my young friend, you underestimate yourself, you are not finished.  Can't you see, you have a fire in the soul? Your best work is still ahead of you. There is nothing to distress you now in our aerial habitation, suspended in the spotlight of spontaneity.  Certainly, you would be misplaced cradled in eternities contrived rest.  For the true artist, lack of passion becomes a bore and ultimately fatal to the imagination." Mary said.
     As the young man sat back down he asked, "If this place is so great, why is there a gate to keep us in?'
    "You are mistaken. The gate is not there to keep us in. We are not held against our will and can choose to leave anytime.  But no one ever does. The gate is to keep spectators, for those whom it hurts to think, those contrived followers with sensibilities inferior as those apparent in  dullards, out. Basically those good people of heaven with the sentiments of greeting cards whose diversities are sound asleep. Without a doubt happiness is over-rated in a place where the unconditionally content call home. From the standpoint of art, the records prove their pedestrian lives have been absolutely without interest. Their legacy reduced to a sod covered box of dust and faded words on granite. But we sit upon the intellectual throne where actors live a thousand different lives and musicians such as yourself, bring enchanted music to our ears.  This resource for insight with an interconnection with the vastness of the universe, encourages the poet's wit and the painter to wet his brush. We renegades arise from our cold beds of corroded stone, once again move our cold feet, spared from monotonous rest. From secret entrances to a waking world, we the creators of our time leave our print, here in the place we reside. We slide homeward across a hundred years, while the idle with stiffened, sleep-worn postures lie in oblivion, we roam about with unaging grace, as our prophetic words fall from our tongues. So you see, the power of art can remake any world.", Mary said.
     "You  know a lot about this. Did you start the community?" the young man asked.
       "Oh, certainly not. The event on which this place was founded has been suppose by the earliest member, as a most intriguing occurrence. You must have serious faith in your imagination to fully grasp the paradoxical way in which it is told.  An artist had passed away and the circumstances on which the story rests was that there was not a place in heaven for someone so individualistic. So the person in question, understanding the nature of his own artistry, founded his own Utopia, therefore perusing ideals, for the continued development of  talent, offering a counter-voice that is spoken against anti-individuality. Rather than disrupt heaven and challenge its terms, values and practices, he thus founded a terrain to be inhabited by a new breed of denizens. In doing so,  embarked on a courageous course of action to redefine heaven, outside the realm of mortal view where myriads of swirling suns dance with systematic grace and all tomorrows bleed into the edge of perception. Serendipity realizes its moment", Mary replied.
    "Really? Is that true? "asked the young man.
     Mary rose from her chair, strolled around the room and said:.
    "Please do not interrupt me in the middle of a sentence young man "                  
     "You're right, I'm sorry."
      "Ah! I see we are getting somewhere. Apology accepted. In any case, I do not wish to dwell any further now on this truth or perhaps absolute myth."
      "Please tell me more about where I am," said the young man, urging Mary to comply with his demands.
     Mary sat down, took a deep breath and glared at him.
     "Please Mary."
     "Very well, as you wish."  sighed Mary, " In an infinite space not specified by the monitors of time, is where we live. Far away, off the grid, in an unrealized world. We are hidden in a membranous labyrinth of space, adrift in suspended choreography lingering on a passage held secret above the reach of weightless dreams in foolish men's heads. We are in our own Bohemia beneath the twisted inky shadows where Muses keep vigil. Encouragingly, they guide us from our restlessness and bring idle wits to their senses.  Stimulating our imaginative spirit, weaving the passions of creation with artistic concepts we had almost forgotten and lost to a waning memory. Through boundless stars of unexplored galaxies we found a direction in a corner of our own Eden.  If you listen very closely you can hear the whoosh of us colonizing collectively, transforming our expressions into perfect harmony. Down where the hollows overgrown by the sands of time the restless unleash a thunderous cry loose in which only the Bohemian born can relate. Eternally we thrive between the collaboration of madness and the divine. Such is the history of this community. "
  The young man rose from seat and rummaged through his jean pockets:
  "Thank you Mary. I don't seem to have my wallet or any money. I want to give you something for your time and trouble."
    Mary answered quickly, "Remember my young friend.  No money is needed here. You say you owe me something?"
    "Yeah. "
    "Then pay your debt by being brave, believe absolutely in yourself.  You have been deliberately chosen to be here. Remember, a true artist is bathe in undiluted light of the divine and is one who always finds his way in the dark, while those with little drama stumble aimlessly in the spotlight. That is the only way in which I can be paid in full," Mary said.
    "For someone who is so capable of creating monsters in literature you have a way of bringing out the best in someone. I walked in your room as a brute and have been transformed into a gentleman. I  will not fail you. " The young man paused and tilted his head:
     "You know Mary, if I didn't know better I'd think you enjoy having the first room and it's not by chance. That those two beat poets, they never man the gate. It is you who greets new arrivals."
   "Mary smiled and roes from chair, looked into the young mans eyes as she spoke:
    "You have a keen mind my boy. You are correct once again.  I do love it so.  Besides, it is impossible to have anyone here, especially those two beat poets, do anything they are told."
 The young man picked up his guitar and he and Mary both walked towards the door.
    Mary said, "My young friend, you have an advantage over me. I do not have the pleasure of knowing your name."
    "Oh yeah, sorry about that. My friends call me Johnny B," replied the young man.
     "Well, Johnny B.,  perhaps together, we can attend Georgia's opening tonight. I will introduce you to the other residence and we will continue to partake in stimulating conversation.
     "That's cool. I'd love that. What time should I come by?' replied young Johnny B.
                   Mary laughed and said, "I must say, sometimes your words are a bit bewildering.   
            But come now, you should know better than to look back to the old ways .
           There is no need  for time here, for we exist in the pace of dreams. Your instincts will inform you when to knock on my door."
       "Wow, there's a lot to take in and get used to. Oh yeah Mary, where's my room?"
He had been so deep in thought that Johnny B noticed for the first time the incredible view from Mary's window. He pointed and stared.
       " Out your window, that's unbelievable. I hope my room has the same view.  Hum, it's strange I don't remember outside looking like that when I arrived.
         " My dear Johnny B, you will not have my view from the window in your room. This view is formed from my concocted memory , therefore, it is  my view, only in my room. You will have your own version of perfection to gaze upon, for each guest renders their own paradise.
         Johnny B just shook his head in amazement.
         Mary opened the door. They both looked out  as Mary pointed in a direction and said:
        "There, past the gallery and amphitheater. Your room is next to Vincent's. His is the one with all the easels piled in front of his door. I might add, you will do well to embrace his impulsive episodes. Over there, see where Dante and Virgil are walking amongst  the young sunflowers that kiss their feet. That is your room.  Alright Johnny B., farewell my young friend, until we meet again."
          Mary and Johnny B hugged each other.
          " See you later Mary," Johnny B said as he walked out  the door with his guitar. He gently closed the door behind him.
            Mary walked back to her chair at her desk and sat down to resume writing. After a few seconds Mary heard another knock at door. Mary shook her head smiling.
            "Yes, who is it at my door?"
             A nervous voice of a young woman replied, "I think I must be lost, please, I could use some help"
             Mary stopped writing, she smiled, got up from her seat and opened the door.

Above: Charles E. J. Moulton as Elvis Presley

***
​

Excerpt from

"Remembrance of Things Past"

by Marcel Proust
​

I feel that there is much to be said for the Celtic belief that the souls of those whom we have lost are held captive in some inferior being, in an animal, in a plant, in some inanimate object, and so effectively lost to us until the day (which to many never comes) when we happen to pass by the tree or to obtain possession of the object which forms their prison. Then they start and tremble, they call us by our name, and as soon as we have recognised their voice the spell is broken. We have delivered them: they have overcome death and return to share our life. 

And so it is with our own past. It is a labour in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) which we do not suspect. And as for that object, it depends on chance whether we come upon it or not before we ourselves must die. 

Many years had elapsed during which nothing of Combray, save what was comprised in the theatre and the drama of my going to bed there, had any existence for me, when one day in winter, as I came home, my mother, seeing that I was cold, offered me some tea, a thing I did not ordinarily take. I declined at first, and then, for no particular reason, changed my mind. She sent out for one of those short, plump little cakes called 'petites madeleines,' which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted scallop of a pilgrim's shell. And soon, mechanically, weary after a dull day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid, and the crumbs with it, touched my palate, a shudder ran through my whole body, and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary changes that were taking place. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, but individual, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory--this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me, it was myself. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, accidental, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I was conscious that it was connected with the taste of tea and cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savours, could not, indeed, be of the same nature as theirs. Whence did it come? What did it signify? How could I seize upon and define it? 

I drink a second mouthful, in which I find nothing more than in the first, a third, which gives me rather less than the second. It is time to stop; the potion is losing its magic. It is plain that the object of my quest, the truth, lies not in the cup but in myself. The tea has called up in me, but does not itself understand, and can only repeat indefinitely with a gradual loss of strength, the same testimony; which I, too, cannot interpret, though I hope at least to be able to call upon the tea for it again and to find it there presently, intact and at my disposal, for my final enlightenment. I put down my cup and examine my own mind. It is for it to discover the truth. But how? What an abyss of uncertainty whenever the mind feels that some part of it has strayed beyond its own borders; when it, the seeker, is at once the dark region through which it must go seeking, where all its equipment will avail it nothing. Seek? More than that: create. It is face to face with something which does not so far exist, to which it alone can give reality and substance, which it alone can bring into the light of day. 

And I begin again to ask myself what it could have been, this unremembered state which brought with it no logical proof of its existence, but only the sense that it was a happy, that it was a real state in whose presence other states of consciousness melted and vanished. I decide to attempt to make it reappear. I retrace my thoughts to the moment at which I drank the first spoonful of tea. I find again the same state, illumined by no fresh light. I compel my mind to make one further effort, to follow and recapture once again the fleeting sensation. And that nothing may interrupt it in its course I shut out every obstacle, every extraneous idea, I stop my ears and inhibit all attention to the sounds which come from the next room. And then, feeling that my mind is growing fatigued without having any success to report, I compel it for a change to enjoy that distraction which I have just denied it, to think of other things, to rest and refresh itself before the supreme attempt. And then for the second time I clear an empty space in front of it. I place in position before my mind's eye the still recent taste of that first mouthful, and I feel something start within me, something that leaves its resting-place and attempts to rise, something that has been embedded like an anchor at a great depth; I do not know yet what it is, but I can feel it mounting slowly; I can measure the resistance, I can hear the echo of great spaces traversed. 

Undoubtedly what is thus palpitating in the depths of my being must be the image, the visual memory which, being linked to that taste, has tried to follow it into my conscious mind. But its struggles are too far off, too much confused; scarcely can I perceive the colourless reflection in which are blended the uncapturable whirling medley of radiant hues, and I cannot distinguish its form, cannot invite it, as the one possible interpreter, to translate to me the evidence of its contemporary, its inseparable paramour, the taste of cake soaked in tea; cannot ask it to inform me what special circumstance is in question, of what period in my past life. 

Will it ultimately reach the clear surface of my consciousness, this memory, this old, dead moment which the magnetism of an identical moment has travelled so far to importune, to disturb, to raise up out of the very depths of my being? I cannot tell. Now that I feel nothing, it has stopped, has perhaps gone down again into its darkness, from which who can say whether it will ever rise? Ten times over I must essay the task, must lean down over the abyss. And each time the natural laziness which deters us from every difficult enterprise, every work of importance, has urged me to leave the thing alone, to drink my tea and to think merely of the worries of to-day and of my hopes for to-morrow, which let themselves be pondered over without effort or distress of mind. 

And suddenly the memory returns. The taste was that of the little crumb of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before church-time), when I went to say good day to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of real or of lime-flower tea. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it; perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the interval, without tasting them, on the trays in pastry-cooks' windows, that their image had dissociated itself from those Combray days to take its place among others more recent; perhaps because of those memories, so long abandoned and put out of mind, nothing now survived, everything was scattered; the forms of things, including that of the little scallop-shell of pastry, so richly sensual under its severe, religious folds, were either obliterated or had been so long dormant as to have lost the power of expansion which would have allowed them to resume their place in my consciousness. But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, still, alone, more fragile, but with more vitality, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their moment, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unfaltering, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection. 

And once I had recognized the taste of the crumb of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-flowers which my aunt used to give me (although I did not yet know and must long postpone the discovery of why this memory made me so happy) immediately the old grey house upon the street, where her room was, rose up like the scenery of a theatre to attach itself to the little pavilion, opening on to the garden, which had been built out behind it for my parents (the isolated panel which until that moment had been all that I could see); and with the house the town, from morning to night and in all weathers, the Square where I was sent before luncheon, the streets along which I used to run errands, the country roads we took when it was fine. And just as the Japanese amuse themselves by filling a porcelain bowl with water and steeping in it little crumbs of paper which until then are without character or form, but, the moment they become wet, stretch themselves and bend, take on colour and distinctive shape, become flowers or houses or people, permanent and recognisable, so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann's park, and the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings and the parish church and the whole of Combray and of its surroundings, taking their proper shapes and growing solid, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, all from my cup of tea.

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?&r