

### Of Words and Water – 2013

an anthology published in support of WaterAid

published on Smashwords by

Words and Water

Cover design by humblenations.com

Copyright 2013

Each contributor retains full copyright

Thank you for downloading this eBook. Each story, poem and song remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoyed this book, then encourage your friends to download their own copy.

Your support and respect for the property of these authors is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors' imagination and used fictitiously.

#   
The River

copyright Peggy Seeger

"The river

It began between the asphodel and the bog cotton.  
I saw it.  
Between the deer grass and the heather,  
Below rocks and peat  
A tiny capillary.  
It sang down rivulets,  
Liquid flute and fiddle  
Into larger bed and path,  
Over, between, around,  
Singing down glass runways,  
Waterfallen and sandy bottom.  
When you walk beside it now you cannot converse  
For its passion drowns words.  
There is no way to leap over it.  
It cannot but come to rest in the valley  
Among the monkey flowers and watercress,  
Where the waters are calm and deep  
And occasionally treacherous.

Like love."

<http://www.peggyseeger.com/about>

We'd like to thank Peggy for her support of Words and Water. She has generously allowed us to include this lovely poem and her song, Love Call Me Home. It means a great deal to us to have on board a folk music legend and activist of her stature.

#   
A message from the Editor

The seed that grew and finally matured into this book was sown when I joined Goodreads. Somehow I was persuaded to co-found the Review Group for indie/SP authors and gathered a rather amazing group of members. I suggested a group anthology for charity, an idea that was taken up with great enthusiasm, and this is the result. We chose WaterAid as we want to help them achieve their 2009 global strategy – getting clean water and sanitation to 25 million more people across 30 countries by 2015. With your help it can be achieved. At the end of the book are more details about the incredible work done by WaterAid.

Each author has donated their work for your enjoyment: all we ask is a donation to support WaterAid's efforts to help communities help themselves to a better life. Please give whatever you can, or visit their website and consider how you can help in other ways. Just telling the people you know and asking them to spread the word will make a difference.

As you read this book you may think we have failed with the proof reading, for instance you'll see 'favourite' and 'favorite', but rest assured this is deliberate. We are an international group and the spelling is correct for the country of origin. We could have unified it, but it's our differences that make the world interesting. It would be a much kinder world if we all accepted each other for who and what we are, if we cherished those differences rather than use them as excuses for applying 'us' and 'them' labels.

Right now, though, I'd like to share with you a story that has done the rounds on the interweb in many forms.

§§§

An elderly Chinese woman had two large pots, hung from each end of a pole which she carried across her neck. One of the pots was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water. One of the pots had a crack in it. At the end of her long walks from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

For a full two years this went on daily, with the woman bringing home only one and a half pots of water. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments. The poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, miserable that it could only do half of what it had been made to do.

After two years of what it perceived to be bitter failure, one day by the stream it spoke to the woman. "I am ashamed of myself, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house."

The old woman smiled. "Did you notice that there are flowers on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side? That's because I have always known about your flaw, so I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back, you water them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table. Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house. Each of us has our own unique flaw. But it's the cracks and flaws we each have that make our lives together so very interesting and rewarding. You've just got to take each person for what they are and look for the good in them."

§§§

So, to all of my cracked pot friends, who have given so generously of their time and their talent to make my idea a reality, have a great day and I hope you will always be able to smell the flowers on your side of the path.

Jay Howard  
June 2013

Table of Contents

The River by Peggy Seeger  
Message from the Editor  
Oreille by Marie-Anne Mancio  
Formless Like Water by Dax Christopher  
Battling Waves by Jason Parent  
A Nice Cup Of Tea by Jay Howard  
By The Mill by Ali Isaac  
Boo – Part 1 – Appalachian Spring by Mark Bell  
Le-ina's Sorrow by Jaq D Hawkins  
Fortunes by Neel Kay  
my brother, Her husband by Mike Duron  
Sea Bright by Ali Isaac  
Prime Directive by Mona Karel  
Boo – Part 2 – Hell Hath Fury by Mark Bell  
Love Call Me Home by Peggy Seeger  
Treading Water by Sylvie Nickels  
Dreams by Kathryn O'Halloran  
FWISH by Mike Duron  
The Day It Snowed In The Body Of Christ by Kerry Dwyer  
The Other Jamie by Annie Harmon  
River Girl by Dax Christopher  
House Under Water by Anthea Carson  
The Natural Seize by K.A. Krisko  
Old Waves, New by Patrick de Moss  
Boo – Part 3 – Rock Requiem by Mark Bell  
WaterAid – their vision and mine  
Special Thanks

# Oreille

copyright Marie-Anne Mancio

Inspiration for the story:

Oreille is an extract from Marie-Anne Mancio's forthcoming novel, Bouche, which is about the eighteenth century French rococo painter Francois Boucher. The inspiration to write Bouche was the Wallace Collection in London.

§§§

It is early still. Later, Marie-Jeanne will scold me, just as a wife should scold a husband after so many years, for being up before dawn. "You are never still," she says, and this I cannot argue with. In one hour, less probably, the studio will be chattering with painters and assistants. Today we must paint water and lots of it. Sea nymphs emerging from teal waves. A fountain of love. Diana bathing.

I say to my pupils: I have no time for theory; I do not know how to teach unless it is with a brush in my hand. Yet they come, as they should, to the atelier Boucher. And then there will be hot chocolate to sip from the porcelain cup with the harebell pattern; and sketches in red and white chalk to peruse; and conversations to be had about whether the angle of the drapery is too severe or the fleece of a goat is sufficiently thick, and then, after those conversations, drawings to be altered. Mannlich will ask for the hundredth time how a woman's body should look and I answer it should be so soft one struggles to believe it has bones.

After that, the assistants will begin mixing colours, laying them out on palettes, for always we require a good quantity of rose. My favourite model, the little goldsmith's daughter, will arrive – can she really be married now? – and arrange herself, as directed, on the sofa amongst once-white pillows. And I will remember that of all the thousands who have undressed for me, she is the ideal.

From eleven, there will be visitors to be welcomed and, if one admires a drawing, then what can be done? I may give it to him for nothing because we have drawings here aplenty. If I tell Marie-Jeanne, she will say, with a smile, that I am too generous, but what is a man if he cannot bring pleasure to his friends? And sometime soon, tradesmen will deliver water and flowers and there will be no time for perusing what the young man has promised to bring.

The ormolu clock on the mantelpiece strikes six. Where is he? He swore he'd be here at dawn. I picture him in the Louvre, making his way to the northwest corner of the Cour carrée, and following, as directed, the aile de l'Oratoire. Coming up the staircase to the first floor.

No, still no one. I shall distract myself with my composition. With imaginings of rounded Syrinx, fending off Pan at the river's edge. Let water tumble from a vessel and reeds fold into flesh... Where would I be without an imagination? For left to its own devices nature is too green and too badly lit.

A bell rings. At last! He is here, a drawer in his arms, cheeks as flushed as one of my putti. So youthful. Is there anything more appealing than youth? With his clear eyes (how I hate that age makes mine bleary) and pointed nose. Not a bad model: a shepherd, perhaps. In paint, I could wipe the grime from his fingernails. In paint, I can do anything.

"Monsieur Boucher..." he says.

"Come, come."

He must sense my impatience as I usher him through spacious rooms, past marble mantles and mirrors I installed. Light, light, and more light! How else to work ten, twelve hour days if there is not light?

Usually, I savour the first-time visitor to my studio. How a lady squeals at my stuffed eagle, poised to devour prey in its talons. Or sighs at polished solitaires. Or at butterflies pinned to yellow silk boards. How a gentleman presses his face to a jar all the better to see my serpent from the Indies.

Not this boy though. He barely notices my silver candelabra or my Chinese fireworks or my framed displays of seaweed. He wrinkles his nose at the whiff of lavender from the mounted, porcelain pot pourri. I want to laugh. To tell him I lose count of the gentlemen who covet my miniature pagoda, who applaud my black lacquer shield with the gold dragons. I hear their whispers whenever I am in the auction house: François Boucher: un homme de goût. But what does he care for my kind of beauty? He hasn't a painter's eye. Does not know what it is to sit and study a plaster figurine beneath the scrutiny of the north-west light and to make it gambol and smile.

I motion to the mirrored table by the window. This too I had made specially for just such occasions. "Set them down here, please."

He begins to unwind the cloth from around the drawer. Beneath are layers of padding and, as he picks through them, I can smell damp straw. He dips into it, oblivious to the mess he is making, and then we catch a glimpse of them: the shells.

What is it about a shell that can drive a man to the brink of bankruptcy, to ruin himself for something a child could harvest from a beach? It is not even coral (I have branches of those on display; how beautifully they complement my jade). Is it because the shell holds the sea in your ear? Could that have been me, I wonder, ruined, if it were not for the constant flow of demands for engravings, and overmantels, and pastels and pastorals that keep me and my painters employed? I know what some say: that, producing in such quantities, I devalue my art. There is always something else to be acquired though. Another ivory-handled fan. Another case of minerals.

"This belonged to Monsieur de Jullienne once," he says.

"A good man. Show me."

I turn the twisted shell in my spotted hands. "Ah, the auger. Borromini the architect collected these. He conjured them into the lantern of St. Ivo's."

"St. Ivo's?"

"In Rome."

But the boy has not been to Rome. May never go there. I was not much older than him. Such an adventure. And those long years to pay for it. Those disappointments. And after all that, how sick I was in that city, in that small room. Good days too when we took pencil and board into the Roman countryside and drank wine in roadside inns. And there were other pleasures.

"There are many more here," he says, tipping the drawer so fast shells hammer the parquet like hailstones. How is it none shatter?

"Gently. It is not a question of more."

He frowns again, bending to pick the shells from the floor. He cannot know how to sift and select, he is only the messenger. I finger a cockle. It has a chipped edge. Pity, then: not the cockle. The conch, though... I lay it down in the centre of the table where the mirror gives up its glossy pink interior.

He holds up yet another. "This is the better one, Monsieur."

"And how do you know that?"

"It is the most expensive for one thing."

I could tell him I have shells which, without being rare, cost me more than 600 livres and that I bartered them over and over for better specimens, giving each time one or two louis in addition.

"It may be that it is of a better quality but one does not always choose by quality." I laugh. "That surprises you? You have listened to gossip about Monsieur Boucher. Come, who has been telling tales?"

He forgets himself. "How would you choose then?" he says, annoyed as a child denied a dessert.

I have made him look foolish and it was not my intention. Where to begin? One must be organised. Class. Species. This type of ordering is commonplace. It can be found in the frontispiece of any natural history book. My sixty odd years have seen their share of it. But there is something else. Another way of seeing the world.

I upturn the conch, expose its pink lip. It is all about placement. Line up an unfurled shell like so next to a shard of slate. A rhythm builds. Shapes accumulate. Then beneath the shell and the slate, a stone sliced pink and amber, and then a speckled pebble picked up on the street. I like the hint of grey, a blue-grey that seems bluer still when placed next to a moss.

"Do you see? Now do you see? It is like a painting. The more natural it appears, the more orchestrated it is..."

He does not see. Still the incomprehension. It saddens me a little but I do not dwell on it. Not when there are so many more shells to inspect.

"And what is the finest object in your collection, Monsieur Boucher?"

His question interrupts my concentration. I could speak of what was almost mine – the white Pourpre and the Scalata sold at the marquis de Bonnac's sale in '57 (they lie wrapped in fabric, arranged on the satin beds of someone else's coquillier – a regret) but the names would mean nothing to him. Instead I gesture around the room.

"You will never surpass my most prized possession. If you guess what it is, I shall give you an engraving. What do you say to that?"

He is no fool. I see from his expression he knows precisely how much one of my works will fetch. He looks about him. Shrugs. A glimmer of interest, and then he points at a small Dutch landscape in an ebony frame.

"It is a fine painting," I say. "But not the answer."

"This then." He indicates my silver samovar, a rarity in Paris.

"Again, you are correct that it is of value. But still not the answer." He looks bored. Even with the promise of payment, this game will not hold his attention for long. "Try again. One more guess."

"I don't know. Nothing's perfect."

"You think perfection is impossible?" I smile. He is staring beyond me. "What, no reply?"

When I follow his gaze, he turns away. In our haste we left the door open and from this room there is a view up the gilded bannister to the stair landing. Marie-Jeanne is in her morning negligee. I know her body so well I could trace its contours blind onto canvas. She is as attractive now in her forties as she was at seventeen. He would not be the first to fall in love with her. Anyone looking into her grey eyes, grey as that shard of slate on the table, would be composing odes. This kind of beauty even an ignorant man cannot help but appreciate.

"Bravo!" I say.

I buy two conches from him, tell him to return next week with another drawer if he has them. And, as he makes to go, I hand him an engraving of Venus perched on a wave.

§§§

Bio:

Marie-Anne Mancio is an art historian and author of historical novel Whorticulture. Oreille is dedicated to the memory of David Christie, a keen sailor and a man who dedicated much time and money to charity.

<http://www.hotelalphabet.com/>

# Formless Like Water

copyright Dax Christopher

Inspiration:

Formless Like Water is an arrhythmic poem that serves up a metaphor. It can be read from the first person perspective of a broken heart or water, depending on how the reader chooses to see it, drawing its inspiration from the Taoist concept of adaptation. Each of the four verses attempts to point out the parallels between the abstract quality named in the chorus and the reader's chosen subject.

§§§

Take this gently, now.  
Just a soft trickle of a reminder, a nice piece of friendly advice, if you like.  
Or, a desperate plea, if you like that better.  
I suppose it goes that it depends on how much attention you pay to your own well being.  
I don't wish to be forward, so let's start quietly.  
Now, with the days getting long, I can feel something wrong at my outer limits;  
A slow, dull, nagging, unsettling pull.  
You've paid more attention to your rockets, rings, and other pretty things than you have to me.  
I don't blame you; I can be easy to forget.  
You use me, change me, dress me up, derange my chemical makeup to suit your tastes.  
I allow it because resistance goes against my nature.  
But taking me for granted is a mistake too heavy-handed even for you.  
Like it or not, you need me to survive.  
I'm everywhere – around you, above you, below you, in you – but without a form to call my own.  
But that doesn't mean I'm not alive.  
I am formless like soul, and I'll play my own part  
Just as surely as tides track the beat of my heart.  
I can weave like a story through all that I see;  
I am formless like soul, and it is formless like me.

Let me help you remember.  
Think of your fondest memories, those summer evenings when the sun is bronze and your hair is just a touch blonder from exposure to the day's rays.  
Take me out of a single frame, and the entire movie changes.  
The lemonade turns to powder and you cry just a little louder for shade, and your flowers are wilted because your garden hose just coughs up dirt.  
My fluidity, my influence, my magic, are gone.  
Take me out of a single frame, and your entire world turns to grey; there's absolutely no shame in admitting this and there's no point in blaming me for it.  
Your animosity wouldn't change the facts.  
Remember when you wanted to be healthier? You made me an even bigger part of your life, and everyone else said it was too much work, but not me.  
It was obvious that you couldn't do it without me.  
I've been there to help cure what ailed you, helped you clean up your life when other methods failed you, I've never asked a favor or tried to derail you.  
Because we're not so different, you and I.  
Trying to get by in the same world, swirling in and around ourselves aimlessly until we find the path of least resistance.  
Fate delivered us to each other, for better or worse.  
I am formless like love, and I pour from your eyes,  
and I'm there every day as you cry those eyes dry.  
I can comfort you, warm you, and do it for free;  
I am formless like love, and it is formless like me.

Show some respect.  
Generations of warriors have lived and died trying to emulate a way of life that comes naturally to me, yet you take my effort so lightly.  
I don't pretend to be perfect.  
I know I have a furious temper, but I'm calm at my center and try to remember that it isn't necessarily all bad.  
Some things in this world need to be broken.  
And I don't regret my ferocity, because that's what gets all your big plans to come to fruition, and makes the world check itself when it matters.  
It's good to remind people you're not a doormat.  
Give me enough time and I'll move mountains for you; learn how to ask and I'll create fountains for you; I've trusted you not to overstep your bounds.  
But some things need to be said more than once.  
I never intended to cause trouble; I have no intention at all, but your face keeps invading my space like there's no other place in the world it could be.  
Are your sand castles really that important?  
I am formless like strength, I was here long before  
The great wheels of your mind had begun to keep score.  
I can crash with a hurricane's force on the sea;  
I am formless like strength, and it is formless like me.

Give me the chance.  
Give me the chance to show you what I can do when you treat me as an equal and together we can write a sequel, instead of a finale.  
It takes a collective effort to make it better.  
But once we do, I can wash away pain, our new domain will be this brave new plane and we can put a little more sane back into this world gone crazy.  
So what do you say?  
You've never given me a sign that you're paying any attention, but my contention is that eventually the reality will be too urgent for you to ignore.  
Because like I said before, we both know you can't live without me.  
Stay prideful if you must, but I trust that over time the rust will get rinsed out of that hustling mind of yours, too busy to see the long term.  
And on that day, I'll be waiting.  
I'll be waiting, in season or out, good reasons or bad, pleased to see me or not, teased about coming back, and together we'll ease back into the natural order.  
On that day, I'll be waiting.  
I am formless like hope, I can right all the wrongs,  
We can make this a world where you want to belong.  
People say it's too late, but I'll never concede;  
I am formless like hope, and it is formless like me.

§§§

To hear the poet reading this work:

<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2AgySWLNJMg>

Bio:

I'm an author of poetry and fiction, ranging from the fantastical to the tragic. I jumped at the chance to contribute for the anthology because I've spent the last decade of my life working for a heavy construction company, and I feel as though it's past time I started repairing some of the damage to the Earth I've helped cause. I know this is a small step, but if we all take small steps together then we have a real chance to help others, and ourselves, live in a cleaner, healthier world.

<http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2922051.Dax_Christopher>

# Battling Waves

copyright Jason Parent

Inspiration for the story:

The events of our pasts shape who we become. Courage, fear, confidence, uncertainty... all are manipulated by experience and understanding. Sometimes subtly, sometimes drastically, life can awaken our innate imperfections in unwanted ways, usually when least expected.

This story remembers such a time, as truth often conceals itself within fiction. It is a story of maturing. In growth, we are altered. From change, there is no return.

§§§

Emory once thought of the beach as something magical. Its miles of beautiful landscape; gentle waves lapping upon the shore; the swelling of the water, soothing the body and elevating the soul: what wasn't to like? Even its sounds, that repetitive rumble-powerful serenity carried upon a gentle breeze. To Emory the beach was a place where the worlds of earth and water became one, and he one with them.

That was a long time ago. He chuckled quietly, but his laughter poorly veiled his uneasiness, a feeling of loss he couldn't shake each time he visited the coast. His lawn chair was firmly entrenched beneath the sparse shade of a parasol. Emory sat shirtless, his hairy belly flopping over the tight elastic band of his swim shorts. He tugged at the curly hairs on his chest, wishing they were still atop his head. Back when his stomach was flat and his chin as bare as a babe's, Emory craved the sun and sand. Back then he didn't know better. But education can come swiftly and unexpectedly.

He glared at the landscape surrounding him, a hateful place where sun was intrusive and sand downright invasive. Where Emory wasn't burned he'd reddened from irritation, course granules finding their way into his most tender regions. He adjusted the umbrella above, cursing at it, never able to find that fabled spot where his entire body found shade. Seabirds squawked above him, defecating on everything and everyone, now and then diving into the swelling crowds for some choice garbage.

Between Emory and the water's edge lay a vast desert of blistering hot sand, partly blotted with scantily clad fools willingly absorbing harmful radiation. And beyond that an expanse of craggy rocks and broken shells, gleaming like blades, stabbing at feet – Joseph's feet.

Be safe, Emory thought as he stared at his son. Be smart. A skinny, brown-haired, brown-eyed boy crept ever closer to the water's edge. With each step Joseph took, Emory's anxiety grew. He's so much like me, like I was at that age. Not a fear. Not a care. The simple life of boys.

Joseph tip-toed deftly across the rocks. Reaching the smooth mud shoreline he paused, testing the water with his feet. The remnants of once mighty waves fizzled like soda over his feet. A wave, as big as Joseph's ten-year-old frame and frightfully more powerful, crested several meters in front of him. He ran into the water to greet it, diving into white foam and disappearing beneath the surf.

Emory held his breath until his son emerged from the depths. The waves were intimidating enough, Emory knew. But the real danger lurked below them, that sly undertow, sweeping away any control over the massive expanse of poisonous water Joseph's quixotic mind may have thought he possessed.

What a contradiction, to be so fragile yet think himself invincible. The frailty of the human condition was no mystery to Emory. He had learned that truth long ago, when youthful ideals still seemed realistic goals. How easily idealism and strength falter beneath life's lessons. He remembered the day vividly, the day when his life sadly became a more serious matter.

Nine years old, Emory stood barefoot on a freshly-tarred driveway, immune to the immense heat emitting from the boiling pitch. The driveway seemed to flow beneath him, through him, with a thermal energy, hot tar melding with the soles of his feet. But the heat was no match for his excitement. Impatiently, Emory waited for Dad to unlock the car. Every second he waited was a second wasted, less time he'd have at Horseneck Beach.

Inserting his key into the lock, Dad opened his door. Then he reached behind his seat to pull up the metallic, golf-tee-shaped lock separating Emory from the inside of an oven. One by one each family member piled into the beat-up, wood-paneled station wagon, a relic long since discontinued. Dad sat behind the wheel. Mom sat beside him. Ralph, Emory's eleven-year-old brother, squirmed to Emory's right.

The tan vinyl seats seemed even hotter than the driveway. Emory's flesh clung to the seat, turning blood red almost immediately. He held his pail and shovel and slid his towel under the back of his knees. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. His dampening tee-shirt stuck against his chest. He rolled down the window, anxious to be on his way.

As the car backed away from the house, nothing could bring Emory's spirits down. He glanced at Ralph, who was bouncing in his seat like he needed to urinate, a huge grin spread across his freckled face. Then Emory closed his eyes, hoping the drive would pass more quickly if he paid it no attention. It didn't.

"Are we there yet?" he asked.

Dad glanced at Mom, his usual sternness visible in his side profile. Glasses clutched the bridge of his nose, the eyes behind them piercing. With jaw clenched, Dad returned his gaze to the road and said nothing. Instead, Mom turned in her seat.

"Do you see sand?" she asked, her voice filled with patience.

"No."

"Do you see water?"

"No."

"Then we're not there yet."

"How much longer?"

"As long as it takes."

Emory frowned. The answer was not satisfactory, but it was all the answer he would get. He stared out the window, hoping to find something that would inspire his imagination and help him pass the time.

When he had at long last reached paradise, Emory's excitement was no longer containable. He burst from the car and darted toward the sandy dunes. Mom, clad in her pink-flowered sundress, her face filled with understanding, latched onto his arm before he could get too far.

"Humph," Dad murmured, but he left disciplining children to Mom.

"Where do you think you're going?" she asked, smiling. "Go help Ralph with the cooler."

"Aw..." Emory whined, but it went ignored. Objecting would get him nowhere. After all, he couldn't leave the rest of the family to carry a mountain of beach supplies by themselves. Chairs, umbrellas, blankets, spare clothes, and more variations of sun block and tanning lotion than a family of four would ever need, were tucked beneath arms and stuffed in plastic bags. But the most cumbersome of it all was the cooler, an over-crammed monstrosity of the herniating-disc variety.

Emory watched as Ralph pulled the cooler from the hatchback by himself. When it hung halfway over the bumper, it started to tip. Doe-eyed, Emory gaped as Ralph struggled, refusing to admit he needed help. His legs buckled beneath the cooler's weight.

"Emory," Mom's voice was scolding and her smile had vanished, "grab the other end of that cooler. We don't have all day."

Emory shrugged and lifted the cooler by the handle opposite Ralph. His brother gave him a sneer, but neither complained. Mom didn't just threaten to pack things up and leave whenever they misbehaved: she acted upon it. Emory wasn't about to risk her wrath on beach day. He hoped Ralph would keep his mouth shut too.

The walk across the parking lot seemed to take a lifetime. Hauling a fifty-pound cooler on a gravel path crossing an acre of sharply curved sand dunes was no easy task. The dunes were followed by soft beach, sand shifting underfoot. At last, after several short breaks, they reached a small area of beach that seemed to pass Dad's inspection.

Mom pulled out a Star Wars bed sheet, and each family member grabbed a corner. Tugging his corner tightly, Emory thrust it into the sand at his feet, kicked off his sneakers and placed them over the blanket to hold it down. Dad set up a lawn chair beneath a nearby umbrella and had already sat down to read the latest Stephen King novel.

Emory tore off his shirt, ready to sprint to the water at Mom's signal. Ralph stared at her too, cross-armed and shirtless, seeking approval. What was she waiting for?

"Did you put on lotion?" she asked.

"It's just going to wash off as soon as we get in the water," Ralph protested, but Mom was already digging through the plastic bags.

"I bought the water resistant kind." She pulled a white and blue bottle from one of the bags. "Come here, and I'll put it on you."

"I can do it," Ralph said.

"Me too," Emory added.

"Just let me get your backs. I'll squirt some into your hand so you can get your face, chest and legs. Don't miss any spots, or you'll end up two different colors."

Mom's smile had so much warmth in it that Emory almost didn't mind the delay. Almost. He gave his arms and legs a quick once over with the lotion and smeared the remainder on his face. A large glob sat on the bridge of his nose.

"Can we go now? Please?" he begged.

"Okay, but first, you two must promise me that you'll stay together."

"We will -" Ralph began.

"And that you won't go out too deep or stay out too long. I don't want you cramping out there."

Ralph nodded. Emory did the same. With a hand wave from Mom, they both took off running, kicking up sand on anyone unfortunate enough to be in their path. Just barely Ralph beat Emory into the water, but Emory was first to dive under. There was nothing he loved more than being in the water, riding waves into shore. The ocean was his turf as much as any other. He cared nothing for the seaweed, undertow or wildlife that everyone else seemed to fear, not a worry in the world.

Swimming side by side, the brothers ventured out deeper. Emory swam with confidence. No stranger to the ocean, he was certain he'd conquered the worst it could throw at him. The inviting saltwater smell and the crashing of the waves beckoned him out, farther and farther. Swimming lessons at the YMCA had turned him into a fish – a first-rate, nine-year-old aquanaut, who felt as though he could swim through a tsunami.

Out deep, the waves were high, some over four feet. But they were smooth and placid, breaking violently somewhere closer to shore, there a mere rise and fall, ebb and flow. Emory leaned into them, letting the cool water run over his warm shoulders. He peeked over his shoulder, searching for a point of reference back on shore. Whenever he remembered to he tried to reposition himself in front of their blanket, countering the will of the water that slowly shifted him along the coast.

It's too crowded, he thought, unable to locate his parents. They're there somewhere. Giving it no more thought, Emory puffed out his chest and let the waves rock his floating frame whichever way they wished. It was a good feeling, to just drift. He smiled, knowing full well that he and Ralph were out farther than they had ever been.

"Do you think you can touch the bottom?" Ralph asked. "I still can... barely."

Not wanting to be outdone by his brother, Emory sank below the water, his toes seeking the ocean floor but never finding it. Below the surface, the water was much colder. He opened his eyes, the salt burning into them, but saw nothing but navy blue darkness. It sent shivers through his body. What lurked in those dark depths, so cold and lonely?

The sun, once high, began its descent. Yet Emory swam on. Soon, hunger hit him hard. He had been swimming for nearly two hours. His limbs ached from the constant strain to stay afloat. The time to return to solid earth had come.

He glanced toward the shore. The last time he had looked it had been much closer. How had he strayed out so deep? No matter. Emory was invincible. He met the challenge with an egotistical pride. Tucking his head, he started back in.

His arms moved through water with skilled strokes. His legs kicked with musical symmetry. When he lifted his head from the water he gasped. Emory could swear the shore was no nearer. If anything he was now farther from it.

Droplets ran down his cheeks. His face was warm, but he couldn't tell if he was sweating or just wet. The shore still seemed so far away. Why? He slapped his hand against the surface, releasing a growl. Then, he bowed his head and began to swim, this time stronger, harder, faster than he'd ever swum before, this time determined to make headway.

After an eternity of struggling, Emory paused to regain his breath. Looking at the people walking the beach, playing Frisbee, building sand castles – happy, oblivious to his struggles – he realized they were still barely more than specks on the horizon. The movement of the water taunted him, flimsily jostling his tired body forward, only to demonically wrench him back again. He was at the mercy of a juggernaut, domineering and unrelenting.

A wail escaped his throat as panic seized his thoughts. His heart raced. His lungs expelled short, rapid and painful breaths. Am I going to die? he wondered. He faced the possibility with terror and disappointment. Today was supposed to be a good day, my perfect day. It can't end... it won't end like this!

Emory swam with all his strength and ability, hopelessly trying to overcome the forces that had dragged him out there in the first place. His efforts did not avail him.

A glimpse of hope came and went with the swell. Ralph! Surely Ralph would rescue him? His eyes darted left and right, but it was hard to see with his chin skimming the water, dipping often. "Help," he tried to scream, but the word came out soft, breathless. His lungs would offer his voice no more support.

Ralph! he prayed again. Where are you? Help me! His ears alerted him to splashing not far off, ahead of him and to his right. There, only few meters away, Ralph paddled fiercely, arm circling over arm. His legs kicked without form, bending at the knee. They made a lot of noise, but that was about all they were good for. No, Emory thought, sensing his brother's failing. Ralph would not be his savior. The notion came with a bitter taste, fouler than the salt in his mouth.

Clinging to a faint hope, Emory would not forfeit his life so easily. He gasped for air, his lungs burning from exertion and the water he swallowed. Again and again the ocean concealed him and he fought to resurface. Water flowed faster in and out of his lungs. He coughed, then choked. Saltwater tears streamed from his eyes. His eyelids hung heavy; he refused to let them close. If they did, he feared it would be for good. Again he went under. He didn't resurface.

Time passed, although how much he couldn't be sure. All fight left him. The sound of the ocean rolling above grew duller. His ears popped as he sank. The ocean's movement was gentle again, like sitting on the porch swing back home. His thoughts took him back to that swing. He could see it before him, slide his fingers across its smooth wooden armrest, feel its seat give just a little beneath his weight. Was it real? It seemed real, real and inviting.

Sinking into the depths, surrounded by a dark abyss, Emory felt as though he were being swallowed whole. He let the vision of home take him. He welcomed the comfort of his parents' porch, its peacefulness and security, far away from the sea. Now, his eyes did close. He was lost to the world.

Something tugged on his arm, wrenching him from fiction. An arm, bathing in sunlight, breached the surface above. The last of a trail of bubbles exited Emory's nostrils. All air gone, his eyes bulged. He screamed behind pressed-tight lips, all the while his body rising, higher and higher still, as if weightless. Then, everywhere went white. An angel? Is this -

Returning to the air, Emory wheezed loudly, refilling his lungs. They hadn't room for the oxygen they required, and he spewed out the water that had infiltrated them. His coughs came with sharp pains beneath his ribs, but he couldn't stop them. Dizzy, he drifted beneath bright sun and vagrant white clouds, uncertain who or what held him and too weakened by his ordeal to oppose.

When his eyes adjusted to the sun's shimmering rays, casting a glare across the ocean, Emory realized the pathetic circumstances of his resurfacing. A stranger had saved him, a lifeguard, where he had been too feeble to save himself. Even as unfamiliar hands dragged him to shore, shame overcame him as quickly as the undertow had. Part of Emory wanted to retreat to the ocean floor, to bury himself beneath its cold clay. Part of him was thankful.

Half-unconscious, he collapsed into the hot sand, refusing to acknowledge the crowd that had formed. Water gurgled from his mouth. Sand caked his body and sprinkled his hair. Loathsome, humiliated, he hugged the earth.

Slowly, his senses returned. With them came gratitude. Emory was happy to be alive, but his shame lingered. Mom had warned him not to go out too far. How could he explain to his mother, who stared at him, smiling while weeping, that he had been too proud for caution? That the portrait of infallibility he envisioned himself to be was, in fact, bound by human limitation?

Emory remained silent for a long while after that. Even then, he knew he would always remember that day. The ocean had taught him humility. It taught him to value life and guard it at all costs.

Has the cost been too high? Emory wondered, watching his son battling waves. Life had become a cost-benefit analysis, calculated risks taken only when there was a high probability of success. He shuddered. Even the ocean represented risk. He hadn't swum in it since that day. Truth was, the beach had never held the same enchantment. Not for Emory.

When he looked at his son, Emory saw that same youthful naivety that he once had, that he had lost so many years ago. He had given Joseph every warning Mom had given him, had even taught him to swim along the shore for a safer route when the undertow was too strong. But Joseph had that look, the look of the invincible, a fearlessness derived from ignorance and inexperience. He was happy and untested, carefree and careless. Life was what it was meant to be: fresh and bold, not yet tiresome and taxing.

As long as Joseph enjoyed the beach, Emory wouldn't take his eyes off him, not even for a moment. He wished Joseph would never be forced to relinquish that unconditional smile, never have to follow in his sandy footprints. But he couldn't protect him from the world's infinite perils forever. How long could he shield his son from the curse of learning?

Perhaps another day? A month? A year? Each day he'd consider a blessing. Emory was battling waves of his own, a fruitless undertaking. Joseph would continually grow, experience more every moment. Emory had relinquished part of himself to the ocean. Would Joseph one day cringe before some needless life restriction? Would he learn to fear the fearful?

Maturity is a form of regression. Emory sighed, his eyes scanning the great blue beyond. When that nine-year-old boy went under all those years ago, only a shell of him resurfaced. He imagined his childhood self still out there, laughing as he frolicked across an endless sea. Emory yearned to take back even just a little of what he'd lost, to once again believe he could conquer the unconquerable. Was it possible to cast away his uncertainties and recapture the joy and bewilderment that the ocean, that childhood, that life once spawned within him?

With understanding came restraint, and with it the death of blissful ignorance. Am I better off for it? What else of me was swept away with the undertow? As the sun blistered against his skin, weathered by decades spent ashore, Emory cried for someone he could never again be, someone lost within the brine.

§§§

Bio:

Jason Parent is the author of the psychological thriller/horror novel, What Hides Within. Writing primarily thrillers and speculative fiction, Jason will have several short stories published over the course of 2013 and 2014. He plans to release his next of three upcoming novels in 2014.

You can follow Jason at his website http://www.authorjasonparent.com or on Facebook:

Jason would like to thank his family for all the support they have shown him, the Review Group for suggesting this anthology for such a wonderful cause, and the good people at WaterAid for doing all the fantastic things they do on a daily basis.

# A Nice Cup Of Tea

copyright Jay Howard

Inspiration for the story:

I needed a new short story for the Bridgwater Home-Start competition and water was on my mind at the time as I'd just seen a WaterAid poster of filthy water, the sort of water that is all many people have available to drink. I got to thinking about the taste of water and how it always seems better if percolated through one's native soil type, especially in a cup of tea. From that I found the spur that would take Laura back to her birth place.

§§§

Laura parks in front of the sprawling farmhouse and walks back across the yard to close the five-bar gate. The metal spring catch is warm in her hand, the air suffused with the scent of apples ripening on a half dozen sun-dappled trees.

Against her will her eyes are drawn across the valley and the gentle contours of the Chilterns towards Ivinghoe Beacon. She feels her heart start pounding. That's where it had happened, with the Harvest Moon silvering their bodies and the chalk landscape glowing a ghostly white. That memory is all she's had for so long now she finds it hard to remember the wonder, the joy.

She grips the top bar and closes her eyes, raising her face to the soothing early evening rays.

"Go on!" The voice in her head is as loud as the voice she heard on that fateful day nearly forty years ago. "Get off this land, you lying whore, and don't ever come back!"

She takes a deep, steadying breath, reminding herself that the scene has changed in two important respects: his parents are dead and she is no longer a helpless, naive teenager. But she is still unsure she's done the right thing in coming here. Her feet are refusing to move.

"Whatever you're trying to sell I don't want it, so you might as well leave now." The voice booms across the yard, its owner approaching from around the side of the house.

Laura turns slowly and looks him up and down. "You sound just like your father, Joe."

The years have not been kind to him. Most of his once luxurious hair has gone and his big frame has accumulated fat. She wrinkles her nose in distaste at his filthy trousers and a plaid shirt that should have been added to the rag pile.

He hesitates, squinting against the sunlight to get a better view of her. "Who are you?" His voice is irascible, challenging.

With a wry smile she wags a finger and shakes her head. "Tut, tut, Joe. Your mother was a dear, kind soul and she taught you better manners than that. You might have had a happier life if you'd followed her example rather than your father's."

Joe frowns. She can see him trying to reconcile the mature woman before him with his memories of her voice. Many expressions flit across his lined face before the years melt away.

"Laura?"

He steps to her side, turning away from the sun. Laura stands proudly, knowing her appearance passes muster. Tailored light brown trousers and a crisp white blouse are cool and smart. Her jewellery and watch are elegant, subtly expensive. As a confidence boost she'd even gone for a chic new hair style.

"You still look like Katherine Hepburn," he says, a trace of awe in his voice. He reaches forward to touch her arm, as if not quite believing what he sees.

"I hope not – she's long dead."

She notices him trying to suck in his belly. Caught in the act he flushes, tugs on his wide leather belt and shifts his gaze beyond her shoulder. Painful memories hold them both in thrall, immobile, silent.

A blackbird's liquid trill breaks the spell. Laura takes a step back.

"It used to be the custom in these parts to offer visitors some refreshment after a long journey."

"What do you want, Laura?" His voice is harsh and a small muscle below his left eye jumps repeatedly.

"Well, a cup of tea would be nice."

He scowls at her, opens his mouth to speak, then changes his mind. He turns abruptly, flicking his fingers at her to follow him indoors.

Laura pauses in the kitchen doorway. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust after the brightness outside. The windows cast a checkerboard of sun and shadow across the room and she can hear the buzz of a bluebottle somewhere nearby.

For three centuries wood smoke has permeated the ancient beams and walls. The aroma takes her back to the last time she stood on that spot. The big wooden slab of a table was where she had done most of her homework with Joe's sister, Jenny, her best friend all through their school years. Echoes of their girlish voices sound down the decades. She looks around, half expecting to see the young Laura and Jenny playing there still.

Her roving gaze halts on the fireplace. Laura feels a strange giddiness and supports herself against the stone door jamb. She remembers the night, sitting with Joe in the inglenook, when he had kissed her for the first time. For months he had gone out of his way to make her feel special. His wooing had the desired effect: she fell in love and yearned for his ever more passionate kisses. While she accepted that it must be kept secret from his father, his mother became their ally.

Laura looks across the kitchen. Yes, even the hob and sink are unchanged. In her mind's eye Laura can still see Joe's mother scuttling between the two. She takes a few deep, controlled breaths to slow her hammering heartbeat. She doesn't want to take a pill, not with Joe there to witness her weakness.

She clears her throat. "You know, I don't recall ever seeing your mother anywhere but here in the kitchen or in the pantry. Did your father ever allow her out?"

"You're still fond of saying bloody stupid things, then," he says and turns his back on her.

"It's a long time since I've said – or done – anything stupid, Joe."

He turns the hot tap on full and pulls dirty crockery out of the sink while the water gets to temperature. The sink is deep and the growing mountain of china and pans on the bench bear witness to how long it has been since he's bothered to wash up.

Laura does not try to speak over the din he is making. She checks there is enough water in the battered kettle and puts it on the hob. She knows exactly where the brown earthenware teapot will be, the cosy, the tea caddy, milk and sugar. Not a cupboard has changed, and everything lives where it always used to.

Joe fishes in a drawer for a tea towel. He wipes two cups and saucers dry and puts them on the table, then sees what Laura is up to.

"Make yourself at home, why don't you?" he says.

Laura just smiles and warms the pot. She opens the caddy and her eyes widen. "Tea bags, Joe? You mother wouldn't like that."

"Well she's not here, is she?" His colour is rising rapidly.

"Nor is Babs," Laura says, "or your boys."

He makes a guttural noise like a wounded animal. "Have you had your spies reporting back to you, then?"

"Your mother told me. It broke her heart when you just let them go."

"You weren't here," he shouts. He stops, seeming shocked at his own vehemence. He half raises an arm towards her. "You have no idea what it was like," he says.

"I know what it was like for us, but we were so young, we had so few options. It was different for you and your wife. Why didn't you stand up to him, Joe?"

He glares at her, fingernails tight into his palms, his knuckles white.

"Your mother understood about parental responsibility. She loved you and Jenny so much – she stayed here for your sakes. Your father ordered you to stay here for the farm."

He stands in front of her, shaking his head. "Woolcotts have been here since 1705. That's worth something, too."

"And will a son of yours be prepared to take over?" She shrugs, pretending indifference to his pain. "Your mother kept in touch. She thought that one day I might need to know what my daughter's father is up to. You know, the daughter who would have been aborted if her grandfather had had his way, the daughter whose father was too scared to fight her corner."

She gives herself a moment to let the ancient anger subside. Sharp chest pain tells her clearly that her heart will not take more confrontation. She gestures around them, feigning nonchalance. "Anyway, I don't need 'spies'. A woman would just need to look at the dirt in this kitchen to know only a man lives here." She takes a dishcloth between two fingers, gingerly sniffs it and changes her mind about wiping the table.

He grabs it from her, slooshes it through the washing up water and defiantly wipes the table himself. "I'm a farmer, not a housewife." He throws the cloth back into the sink and the water splashes over onto the windowsill.

"I wasn't surprised when I heard she'd left you," Laura continues. "It would take a saint to live with your father."

She turns back to the hob and pours the boiling water into the pot, pops the lid on, snuggles the cosy over it and carries it to the table. "My grandmother swore that only tea made with water that had percolated through your native soil ever tasted quite right. Mum hated going to an area without our chalky water for the same reason. She used to check the area's geology before deciding where we were going on holiday. Tea just doesn't taste the same in Somerset, but I've got used to it over the years."

Joe slams his hand on the table. "You didn't come here to discuss cups of tea, Laura! Now answer my damn question: what do you want from me?"

Laura puts her elbows on the table and steeples her fingers. "I realise I had a lucky escape, not getting landed with you as a husband." She holds up a hand, palm towards him when he starts to speak. "And you've taken no interest in your daughter – do you even know her name?" She pauses, eyebrows raised. "No, I thought not. Anyway, despite that, she still wants to know about you. She wants you to know you'll be a grandfather next month." She stops and looks across the table. "Could I have a teaspoon? The tea needs a stir."

Joe turns back to the sink and suddenly thrusts his face towards the window. "It's that bugger back again!" He dashes to the wall rack, grabs his rifle, then stealthily opens the back door.

Laura goes to the window and sees a stag down at the edge of the wood. As Joe raises the gun to his shoulder she barges against him, sending him reeling. As he falls the gun goes off and the stag leaps away, back into cover.

"You stupid cow! That's how accidents happen." He gets to his knees and jabs a finger towards the wood. "I've been after that one for weeks. I'd have had him this time, but no, you come swanning back and find another way to screw up my life!"

Laura raises her chin, her eyes disdainful as she watches him clamber back to his feet. "I'm telling you about your grandchild but a stag is more important to you?" She turns on her heel.

He watches her walk away then goes to replace the gun in the rack. His work-roughened fingers caress the stock.

Laura sits back at the table, cradling her temples with both hands. She looks at him sadly. "Your father turned you into a clone of himself. Why did you let him do that, Joe?"

Joe stands hunched over in front of the gun rack while the wall clock loudly ticks off the relentless, painful seconds.

"Elizabeth," he says. "Her name's Elizabeth, but she prefers Lizzie."

The words sound wrenched from him. He hides a sniff in a loud harrumph and fishes around in the drawer underneath the rack. He returns to the table and sits down heavily, shoulders slumped.

"She's a bit old to be starting a family, isn't she?" he says.

Laura doesn't tell him of Lizzie's anguish each time she miscarried: it is too painful, too personal.

He watches her for a while then pushes a pad and pen towards her. "Put her address and married name down there," he says gruffly. "I'll think about it."

"You'll think about it?" She crosses her arms and sits back in her chair, studying him with narrowed eyes.

He squirms sideways, making the beech stretchers creak within the chair legs. "You are going to tell me, aren't you?"

"All these years you've made no effort to contact me, no effort to get to know your daughter. Can you give me one good reason why I should let you into our lives now?"

"Because that's why you came here? Isn't that what she wants?"

Laura sits forward and stares at him for a long time.

"I've kept my promise to Lizzie," she says eventually. "Now then, shall I be mother?"

She reaches for the teapot and holds it aloft, letting the questions hang between them in the dust mote laden air.

§§§

Bio:

After decades of writing short stories I published my first novel in 2011, surprising myself as much as my family. I have since written #2 in the Changes trilogy, with #3 due for publication at the end of 2013. As The Sun Goes Down is an anthology of short stories I published in support of Saluki Welfare Fund.

My garden in Somerset, England is where I let my mind drift in company with the people who live in it with me. They are all clamouring to have their stories told but will need to be patient with me while I work to pay the bills.

<http://www.jayhoward.info/>

# By The Mill

copyright Ali Isaac

Inspiration for the poem:

I wrote it in my early teens in homage to Preussler's 'The Little Water Sprite' which I read and loved so much as a child.

§§§

When the sun is warm,  
And the grass is cool,  
Then I will sit by  
The old mill pool,  
And watch, and wait the while, until  
A movement parts the waters still.  
The water sprites are again at play,  
To idly pass their time away.  
Their funny antics make me smile,  
And shake with laughter all the while,  
Until the noise brings their attention  
To this strange, large being beyond comprehension,  
Which to them must indeed be very frightening,  
For suddenly they scatter,  
Quick as lightening!  
And within seconds the pond is empty,  
Except for weeds, and fish in plenty.  
Yet I can just imagine those little sprites,  
Cowering in their homes,  
Wide-eyed with fright,  
Until soon, the moon, herself shyly shows  
And the landscape with gentle silver light glows.  
Then out will creep those cautious sprites  
To dance and play in the soft moonlight,  
While I lie sleeping in my bed,  
Little silver people running through my head.  
And when the next morning I awake,  
Myself to the mill pond I will take,  
And watch, and wait the while, until  
A movement parts the waters still.

§§§

Bio:

I grew up barefoot and carefree on a Greek island with only my books, my sister, a dog and a donkey for company. I always had my nose buried in a book, and started writing seriously at fourteen. Now, I'm a mother, wife and owner of Ireland's most lunatic labradoodle!

# Boo  
Part 1 – Appalachian Spring

copyright Mark Bell

Inspiration for the story:

I confess: one of my favorite authors is Mark Twain. In keeping with the best Twain traditions, this tale contains a boy, who is an unlikely main character, a frog and an ample supply of wry humor. I hope you enjoy Boo's story.

§§§

Boo hated water. He hated carrying it up the hill, he hated it for killing his father, and he hated the incident that caused them both. The mine opening was on the other side of the mountain. It just didn't make any sense to him that the water that fed the house spring could be related to the water that flooded the mining shaft. One big dynamite explosion and the world as Boo knew it came to an end, and in the process convinced him that water was sneaky when it went underground.

The company man had come to the house to fetch his Mama. Boo didn't see or hear him coming; he was too busy at the spring watching the water stop flowing, and suddenly the water in the spring box got sucked back into the ground. Even the frogs that hung around the little overflow creek looked dazed. Boo's daddy had taught him never to pass up a chance for a free meal. He stopped wondering and got busy collecting donors for a frog leg supper.

Even the largest and slickest bullfrog, Jasper, looked perplexed. Three years ago, Boo had named him as he unsuccessfully tried to entice him to come to supper. In the ensuing years, Jasper had eluded capture. Not only did he refuse to be caught, he was the cause of Boo eating mud and washing it down with brackish water countless times.

Boo had tried everything. Headlong diving grabs came up empty. Stealthy backdoor swoops were unsuccessful. And if failure was not shame enough, Jasper always made it worse with his sanctimonious croaking as he jumped out of Boo's grasp. Boo sometimes swore that he flashed him a froggy smile as he sailed away. But today was different. Jasper was finally confined in the gunny sack.

With a sack full of frogs and a story to tell he ran as fast as twelve-year-old legs, loaded down with supper, could. He turned the corner and was startled by the sight of a man half dragging his Mama toward a car.

"What the hell you doin' to my Mama?" erupted from his mouth.

He knew that he would probably get a whippin' for cussin' but he thought, it wouldn't be the first or last time. The man turned and Boo saw that it was Mister Johnson, his Daddy's boss. Boo knew for certain that the ass whippin' was coming now. His Mama had tears running down her face and Mister Johnson was scowling. Won't like he ain't never heard cussin' afore, Boo thought.

"Get in the back seat, boy," Mister Johnson growled.

Boo knew better than to hesitate, let alone open his mouth. Even at his young age he knew and understood the hierarchy in this part of the country. The mine was the giver of wages, the only local source of hard currency, so Boo sat quietly in the back of the car. Occasionally a frog would croak or try to jump, only to be reminded of the constraints of the sack. Boo wondered why they were in Mister Johnson's car. No one bothered to tell him why they were racing around the curves to the other side of the mountain.

When Mister Johnson finally slammed on the brakes they were in front of a large, noisy pump that was spewing water down the mountain. Several miners were standing to the side and Boo's Mama and Mister Johnson walked past them. Boo was forgotten but his curiosity forced him to follow. With his sack in tow he followed until he saw what the miners were shielding. A tarp bulged with the outline of a man lying beneath it, and Mister Johnson was pulling the corner up to allow Boo's mother to see who lay underneath.

Boo dropped his gunny sack and frogs immediately covered the ground, hopping in all directions. The miners, not knowing what else to do, tried to catch them and put them back in the sack. Boo raced to his mother as she crumpled to the ground, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Jasper heading for the mine opening. His mother let out a sob that was audible over the drone of the pump. Even Jasper paused and looked back. Then as one of the miners closed in, he executed a mighty leap that carried him into the mine opening.

The return trip home was somber and quiet. Even the frogs had had enough: the sack lay still at Boo's feet. The only sound that made it over the road noise was Boo's mother sniffling into a handkerchief. They arrived home and Mister Johnson helped Boo's mother into the house.

That was the last time anybody from the mining company came by and the only help they received. Boo was now the man of the family and the sole provider for his mother. He did what any man would do. He skinned out the frogs and got the fire going in the kitchen stove. Left-over biscuits and legs might not be the best meal in the world but it was a lot better than starving.

His mother half ate one or two legs and a piece of biscuit before she fell back into bed. She had married at the age of fifteen. For the first time in her life, she had no one to tell her what to do. Under the covers was the only place that felt safe so she took to her bed.

The next day several of the miners arrived with Boo's father's body and a handful of picks and shovels. Boo picked a spot right above where the spring used to be. In less than an hour the hole was dug. The preacher arrived with a gaggle of local women, bearing dishes of each one's specialty: beans, chicken, corn bread, and even a couple of pies. Boo's mother was brought to the grave. The preacher said a few words and finished his little speech with 'ashes to ashes, dust to dust'. Boo wondered how his father was going to be ashes or dust seeing as how he was waterlogged, and that reminded Boo that he hated water.

It started when he was a little boy, four or five years old. He hated to stand in the foot tub and have his mama pour hot water over him and then scrub his hide with hard soap. Then it was his chore of totin' water every day from the spring. It didn't end with his father's watery death either. He still had to lead the milk cow to the creek at the bottom of the hill for a drink. He had to do this twice a day and on the way back up he was burdened with fetching a bucket of water back to the house.

The two pigs could not be led to the creek. Boo decided that he would let them go and when the weather turned cold he would use his daddy's old rifle to hunt them down and kill them. That way he could avoid carrying water to them and still get the benefit of fresh meat. They would carry him and his mother through the winter.

He dutifully led the cow to the creek and let it drink. Boo noticed that the water was not as clear as it used to be and it had a faint smell of rotten eggs. He knew the lay of the land. The water being pumped from the mine was flowing around the mountain and into the creek. The cow was not that eager to drink, but given the choice of this water or no water she took a drink.

Once the cow had her fill, Boo would take her home and milk her. He didn't much care for milk but it was about the only thing that he could get his mother to drink. Boo was thankful his daddy had stored several jugs of apple cider in the root cellar. Boo drank a cup with every meal.

Every once in a while a neighbour lady would stop by and see how Boo and his mother were getting along. Each time the gossip was the same: "His Mama is grieving herself to death and something is going to have to be done about the boy."

Rumors of his mother's malady grew and the visits became less frequent. They stopped when it was decided that she was crazy. Boo was no fool. He knew that if his mother died, the 'good' people from the county would try to put him away. Boo thought otherwise: orphanages are for babies and I'm a man.

As fall started to show itself, the leaves began to turn and so did the milk cow. It died the night before Boo's mother did. He had left the house intent on leading her to the creek, but it was a journey he'd never have to make again. He ran to the house to tell his mother and found her in the same state as the cow.

Boo did not mind that the buzzards would have the cow, but his mother was going to have a proper burial, or as proper a one as he could muster. He knew better than to let anyone know about his mother's demise. He fetched a shovel and headed to the old spring, intent on burying her next to his father.

It was not as well done as the grave that the miners had dug but it served its purpose. It was deep enough to keep the wild animals from digging her up and Christian enough since he made her a cross. When he had finished his task he walked past the old spring box for old times' sake.

Jasper sat next to the hole that used to be the spring. He was no longer the spunky adversary of old. There was no cocky joy of the game. He just looked tired. He had come back to the place of his birth to hibernate, but with the lack of water came a lack of mud suitable for burrowing. This was the same dirt that used to be part of Jasper's muddy kingdom, but without water he was no longer a king.

He looked up at Boo and instead of his taunting croak, he flicked his long tongue and a large stone plopped in the dirt. Boo picked up the rock and noticed that it was clear and shiny. He stuck it in his pocket so that he could use both hands to pick up Jasper. His intention was to dig Jasper a hibernation hole. Jasper looked up and gave Boo a froggy smile and then collapsed. Lesions were all over the frog's skin and Boo knew that it was the damn water.

His father's old rucksack was big enough to hold a couple of jugs of cider, an extra pair of overalls, and his new shoes. Boo put on his coat and his father's old slouch hat, slung the rucksack over his shoulder and walked out of his house for the last time. He thought that maybe he should let someone know that he was not dead but he had nothing to write a message on. As he walked onto the porch he had an idea. He pulled Jasper's rock out of his pocket and decided that he would scratch the message, 'Boo Gone' on the front window panes. The B made the pane fall out. He had cut clean through the glass. Damndest rock I ever seen, thought Boo. He put it in his pocket and headed down the valley.

He had made it about a mile when the rain started, just a fall drizzle at first, then more of a steady winter rain. He turned his coat collar up as a shield and wondered how long it would be before rainwater would start to kill.

§§§

Bio:

My conception on a hot, muggy night in Alabama was predicated on my father's forgetfulness and his lack of restraint. For that I am eternally grateful. Other than the nine months that followed that night, I accept full responsibility for my actions and output.

I am credited as a screenwriter and short story author but, in truth, I am no more than a teller of tales, a weaver of plot threads, and a practitioner of dry humor. My aspirations are to entertain, educate, and never ever become a bore. After reading my work I hope that you can say, "He passed muster."

Wadleypub.com

<https://www.facebook.com/MuddledMindMarkBell>

# Le-ina's Sorrow

copyright Jaq D Hawkins

Inspiration for the story:

When I was writing Dance of the Goblins, Talla's back story stood out as something that would be worth exploring in another story. I thought about writing a novel about Le-ina and life amongst the Kol'ksu, which could possibly still happen someday. But when I decided to write some short stories related to the series, the poignancy of Le-ina's loss cried out to be written with the singular focus that a short story could provide.

§§§

Le-ina sat on a large rock just off the Isle of Apples, enjoying the dim light of dawn. It was bright to her white-irised eyes, so accustomed was she to the dark pools beneath the deep places of the earth. She shook her long, white hair and chewed a bite from the golden apple in her hand, contemplating the different sweetness it held than the meat that comprised most of her diet. Her hand dropped to her extending mid-section, above the scales that led to her double fish tails, as an old memory crossed her thoughts. It had been the talk of her kind that she had not eaten her lover.

Now there were few who remembered the human pirate who had come to the island so long ago. There had been signs that great changes were coming to the earth, so Le-ina had invoked the ability of her species to keep her pregnancy in stasis until better conditions provided an adequate environment to bring another of their kind to birth.

She splashed her double tails in the water, playing with the reflections of dappled light where the morning sun shone through the lush trees of the tropical island. The white sand where the water met the beach of the lagoon was shaded still. Le-ina enjoyed the surface of the water most before the sun glared high in the sky.

She turned her face towards the scant clouds and breathed in the fruity-scented mist that wafted gently across the water, testament to the ancient volcanic origins of the island and the sweet fruits that grew in the nutrient-rich soil. She felt the growing warmth on her exotic features and wondered at the effect that her high cheekbones and hypnotic eyes had on human men. They called her kind mermaids, or Melusine if they saw that the tails were split. Her people called themselves Kol'ksu. The double appendages, somewhat useful for shuffling on land, were what marked Le-ina as one of the psychic race of water goblins.

Her white eyes with their dark, reptilian-like slit pupil had enticed many a sailor to his death. It was the way of her people. The song lured the prey, but the mesmerizing effect of Kol'ksu eyes held them in thrall. Occasionally, one might dally long enough to know pleasure before he died.

Le-ina knew that the time had come to return to the deep places where little Talla could be born in seclusion. She had chosen the name for her spawn that morning in the dawn glow. She mentally said her goodbyes to the soft light of day and splashed into the water to find the underground tunnel that would lead to her chosen pool. There her daughter would come into the world.

She knew as a certainty that she carried a female youngling. Her mind touched the innate thoughts of her unborn spawn and felt a strong spirit with a feminine touch. Those among the water-goblins, and even the land dwellers of the caverns who occasionally mated with the Kol'ksu, had been too many generations inbred. Females were rare, and highly treasured. It was the reason she had chosen a human to seed her offspring in the ancient manner. Le-ina already loved the daughter that she would soon know in her arms.

She swam through the tunnel in darkness, relying on her sonar-like spatial awareness to know where the rocks held sharp edges. She had travelled the passage many times and almost knew her way without any external senses at all, but her changing shape in the past month had made her cautious. The time was near: the spawn weighed heavy even in the flotation of her watery environment. Le-ina was no salmon to swim blindly from nothing more than instinct. Her youngling had a great destiny before her. It was something of which Le-ina was sure, even though she did not know the details of little Talla's future.

The Kol'ksu hunted in schools, but they gave birth alone. So was Talla born with none but her mother to witness the horror revealed in the reflected light of the colourful stone caverns as she examined her spawn for the first time.

Though Kol'ksu spawned much more easily than land-dwellers gave birth, Le-ina had been wearied and was languishing in the hormonal euphoria of new motherhood as she cradled her newborn in her arms. The custom of the first inspection had become ingrained over many generations of deformities amongst all species of goblins. It was the mother who must first determine whether the youngling was whole and would live.

Le-ina smiled at the green-tinted, nearly white skin and the shock of white hair that marked her spawn as Kol'ksu. She looked into the white-irised eyes... and the smile fell. Le-ina saw round eye pupils where she had expected the slitted ones that marked her species. She began to wonder if the deformity would affect Talla's underwater vision as she examined what should have been double fishtails and quickly realised that the double appendages were legs, like those of a land-dweller, ending in curled toes instead of fins. It was something that Le-ina had not anticipated, even with her future sight.

Further examination established that Talla had no gills and therefore would not be able to breathe in the water. Le-ina felt as if something had broken inside her chest. The human pirate who had seeded Talla had given her too much of his heritage.

The custom demanded than a youngling who would not be able to survive independently must be refused by the mother and allowed to die. Though the tradition seemed cruel, it was intended to save both resources and the greater pain of losing a young one who had become known and beloved of many. But Talla was viable to live, and this gave Le-ina hope. She breathed only air and would have to swim near the surface, always. It would be Le-ina's task to help her daughter to adapt to a life in the water. She projected a mental image of dolphins and whales to her daughter, visualising them swimming to the surface frequently for air.

Le-ina taught Talla to swim. When they joined the others of their kind, the other Kol'ksu indulged the need to keep the spawn close to the surface at all times, but sometimes Le-ina could see one or another of them looking at her sadly. Every birth amongst their kind was cause for celebration, especially a female. Le-ina knew their concern, that Talla would one day drown and bring them all grief beyond imagining.

One day the feared tragedy came too close. The Kol'ksu were going to the feed. Men were swimming in the river and meat would be plentiful. The Kol'ksu sense of the future told them that none of the men would be missed in the history of the world to come. Better yet, the incautious humans had told no one where they were going. There would be no trace of them within minutes. Their memories would be swallowed up by time.

The feed had already begun. Le-ina swam into the fray, holding Talla close as they swam together. Countless silvery bodies darted just under the surface, partially visible in the dappled light of the sun on dark water. The powerful thrusts of doubled tails propelled them through the water as Le-ina and Talla joined into the melee.

The fastest swimmers had shredded flesh from bone with an efficiency that brooked no escape. The smell of blood excited Le-ina's senses. She ripped at pieces of floating meat wantonly, her acute sense of smell and psychic facility determining which creatures in the water were other Kol'ksu and which were the prey. The mental voices of men thrashing in pain and panic as their stripped lower limbs failed them were as muted as the sounds of their screams through the water. The ecstasy of the frenzy filtered their thoughts of agony, and that moment when they resigned themselves to death, pleading only for the pain to stop. The clarity of the thoughts of the other Kol'ksu in frenzy resonated loudly in comparison.

The exhilaration from the scent of human blood took over Le-ina's conscious thoughts. She danced within the narcosis and pure elation in the weightlessness of her watery environment, a dance of death. The thrashing of clumsy land dwellers stopped as they were quickly stripped of flesh down to the bone. Le-ina feasted with the others, instinctively passing morsels of flesh to her youngling.

Suddenly she became aware that her spawn was not moving of her own volition. They had been under water too long.

Le-ina ripped her consciousness from the euphoria of the feeding frenzy. She struggled against the passion of the feed and focused her thoughts on pushing her daughter towards the surface where she could breathe the air. There were so many others that they became momentarily entangled in a swarm of fishtails and could not see through water made dark by blood, but Le-ina's instinctive sense of direction helped to disentangle them from the still frenzied Kol'ksu rolling euphorically in the river currents. At last they breached the surface, but Talla did not breathe.

Talla had turned bluish from lack of oxygen. Le-ina squeezed her spawn's lungs and turned her over to slap her powerful webbed fingers across the youngling's back. Water ejected from her mouth, but still she did not suck in air. Le-ina struggled against a wrenching in her stomach as she feared the loss that no mother could bear. She turned Talla over and breathed air into her daughter's lungs with her own mouth pressed over that of her spawn as she projected her thoughts into the youngling's mind, willing her to breathe.

Suddenly Talla sputtered and coughed up more of the river water that was life and breath to her mother and her people. Le-ina closed her eyes and breathed a heavy sigh of relief as she held her daughter above the surface, consciously resisting the urge to hold her close lest her embrace should tighten and smother the spawn that she realised now that she was destined to lose.

Le-ina did not need precognition to see that this would be the only warning she would get. Talla could not live in the water. It was unheard of that a mother would part from her spawn, but Le-ina could not live on land for long. They were creatures of different worlds. As much as it was against nature to part from a spawn before weaning, Talla's life depended on a sacrifice that Le-ina knew would haunt them both throughout their long lives.

Le-ina resigned herself and sent a message to the land-dwelling goblins for help. There was only one among them who was permitted to enter the enclosed space of Le-ina's underground pool cavern without becoming meat, the one called Haghuf. Le-ina took Talla to the pool where she had been spawned to spend their last moments together in solitude as they waited.

Le-ina held her youngling, memorising every detail of her. Remember your people, Le-ina impressed on her daughter in the psychic communication of her kind. You will learn to walk like the land-dwellers and to speak in words that any might hear, but you are Kol'ksu. Visit your people in the watery places and share their thoughts, as I share mine with you now.

Le-ina knew that Haghuf would see that Talla had a good foster mother amongst the goblins. So many young ones amongst them were lost at birth. Her imperfect spawn would bring comfort to someone who had lost their own youngling.

Haghuf stepped carefully into the cavern through a passage opening that had stood for aeons. His expression was well controlled, but Le-ina could see that he shook slightly with fear. He looked towards the pool, unaware that Le-ina sat very still behind him in the shadows of the rocks.

"I have a gift for one of those who mourn amongst your kind."

Le-ina's deep, dulcet tones echoed within the enclosed cavern. Haghuf turned, startled, to see her sitting casually on a rock. He approached slowly, fearfully. Le-ina was reluctant to lay the child on the ground. Such a gesture was used to indicate a child given over to death. Le-ina intended to give her daughter to life.

"You may take her, Haghuf, there is no danger for you today," Le-ina assured him.

Haghuf visibly fought against his instinct to flee as he approached, taking the youngling that was offered to him by the predator. He looked Le-ina in the eyes as she passed the child into his arms. She saw both fear and sympathy reflected in his expression. Le-ina wondered if he was sensitive enough to feel her heart as it broke into a thousand pieces. Haghuf looked down at the youngling in his arms. Le-ina watched his eyes as confusion stole over his features.

"She is Talla, a child of the Kol'ksu. Look at her."

Haghuf looked at the naked infant to see two perfectly formed legs kicking into the air.

"You must take my spawn. She cannot live in water," Le-ina said formally.

Haghuf's eyes shot back up to lock with Le-ina's again as he suddenly comprehended the impossible decision that Le-ina had been forced to make.

"Rest assured, Le-ina, she will be well cared for. I will watch over her myself."

With that assurance, Le-ina nodded once and jumped into the water. No land dweller would see her tears. Amongst her own people Le-ina would not be able to hide the despair that ripped deeper into her heart as she swam further and further away from the spawn that she would never hold again. She felt the deep chasm of sorrow opening indelibly within her heart as she forced herself to swim forwards, deeply into the darkest subterranean cavern that she could find, defying the impulse to turn and reclaim the child of her body and of her soul.

Haghuf stood on the shore alone with the youngling. She was just old enough that she might begin to walk soon. The strong muscles she had begun to develop from swimming would make the task a little easier. Haghuf remembered a female amongst the Betweeners, the goblins who lived near the surface in caverns partly dug by ancient men building tunnels, who had recently been bereaved of her stillborn male child. A female infant to care for would surely bring her some relief from her mourning.

Haghuf turned to climb the carved steps back to his own caverns, far from the ravenous teeth of the Kol'ksu. On impulse, he looked at the child's newly growing teeth. They were sharp but thick and conical, like his own. The needle-sharp teeth of the Kol'ksu had not been passed to this young one. Haghuf wondered what insanity had driven a land-dweller to couple with a Kol'ksu, and whether the one who seeded little Talla had been eaten as was the custom of the water-goblins. It was a secret that he would never know.

Talla looked up at him with her round pupils and white-irised eyes. He smiled back at her despite his resolve to remain detached from the abnormal spawn. He found himself entranced by some magic of her eyes and felt as if he were being drawn into them. He wrenched his attention free and back to full awareness. He vowed to himself that he would keep his promise to Le-ina and would watch over Talla as she grew. Perhaps he would even teach her to read and study the books of magic that he kept preserved. If the child retained the psychic gifts of her mother's people she might become a powerful magic user, or even follow him as Librarian.

"I have much to teach you, little Talla," he said aloud in the silent cavern. "But for now, it is time to meet one who will be mother to you."

He held the youngling close as he climbed the rest of the steps to the familiar caverns. He knew that Talla's story would travel fast. He decided that he might as well start it with his own version at the next Storytelling.

§§§

Bio:

First there was Dance of the Goblins, now Demoniac Dance! Power of the Dance coming soon. Keep up to date with the Goblin Series at <https://www.facebook.com/GoblinSeries>

http://jaqdhawkins.co.uk

# Fortunes

copyright Neel Kay

Inspiration for the story:

Fortunes was inspired by a colleague who went on vacation to India. There she met a wise man who told her that if she could avoid travelling across water in the year she turns 67 she would live to be a very old woman.

§§§

Elisa jerked awake and sat up straight in bed as if she had been pulled. She didn't even have to look at the mobile phone to know who it was. She grabbed it from the nightstand with her eyes still closed.

"What is it now, Nat?" Elisa said.

Her voice was slurred and hoarse. It bore evidence of her red wine-infused late night in the company of the seamstress and the complete lack of sleep she'd suffered ever since her duties as maid of honour had commenced.

Last night it had been the bridesmaids' dresses that Nat just didn't think were quite right, even though they had passed her thorough inspections both the first and second time. Having them altered the night before the wedding had made the seamstress say, "She's the worst bridezilla I've ever had to work with."

"Ellie!" The voice was high-pitched, worse than ever. It made Elisa pull the phone from her ear and twitch an eye as if she was biting into a particularly sour lemon.

"Kate is going to ruin my wedding. She'll ruin it!" Nat screeched, her voice breaking.

Elisa could hear her suck manically on a cigarette, exhale loudly and then cough. If Nat was smoking then things were really bad.

"Are you there?" Nat continued. "You have to do something. Do something or I'll fucking kill you. This is all your fault; you and your great ideas."

"My fault? Whose bloody idea was it in the first place? You're as much to blame as I am." Elisa glanced over at Joe in the bed next to her. His breathing was slow and steady, suggesting that the phone ringing hadn't woken him. He would have got used to it by now, Elisa guessed.

"But it's my wedding," Nat wailed, changing tactics from incredibly aggressive to whining annoyingly. "Please, Ellie, fix it. You have to. Do you hear this? This is the sound of my knees hitting the hard wooden floor. This is the sound of me begging you to put a stop to this madness. It has gone too far, Ellie. Now she's refusing to go on the boat. She's downright refusing! And the whole freaking party is on a boat!"

"I know..."

"She's one of my bridesmaids. I can't be one bridesmaid short. I can't. It has to be perfect. Perfect!"

Joe twitched in bed and rolled over onto his back. As quietly as possible, Elisa untangled herself from the covers and tiptoed over to pick up her jeans. With the phone between her shoulder and her ear she began to get dressed.

"Do you hear this?" she whispered into the phone. "This is me getting dressed. This is me going out to fix things for the last time." She added the last bit with particular teeth-gritting emphasis. It was so unfair that she had to take the blame for it all just because Nat was getting married and then for some reason was protected from having to deal with any unpleasant tasks. It had, in fact, been Nat's bright idea. Elisa had just made it happen.

"You mean it?" Nat gasped, completely ignoring the hard tone in Elisa's voice.

"Yes," Elisa sighed, thinking it was just one more day.

"You'll be there on time? Both of you?"

"Mm."

"Clean?"

"Of course."

"Make sure she showers, Ellie. It's pivotal that she showers."

"Trust me." Elisa let the phone drop and cut off the connection. It was 7:07 a.m. She'd only had a few hours' sleep.

"Who was that?" Joe mumbled. "It sounded like one of those calls you get your friends to make if you are on a bad date and you're suddenly called away to an emergency." He held up his arms and made quotation marks in the air. He looked like he was a horizontal sleepwalker.

"We live together. It's a little too late for the emergency backup plan, don't you think?"

"Right. So where are you going?"

"I have to go and fix Kate."

"Why? Is she broken?" He turned over and dug his face into her pillow, smiling contently, still with his eyes closed.

Oh god, she wanted to jump right back in there. If she could just learn to mind her own business, she wouldn't have to go out at shit o'clock in the morning on just two hours of sleep to sort out insane women.

"Sort of." Elisa pulled on a blouse, grabbed a scarf and wrapped it around her neck three times. She twitched when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the washstand. "She's gone off water," she explained.

"What is that? Is that some kind of a metaphor for going psycho?"

"Kind of. She's gotten a bit OCD about water, in terms of crossing it. She's even stopped bathing."

"Sounds psycho," Joe asserted, yawning. "Could be dangerous. Maybe you should stay here instead? I'll keep you safe."

Elisa moaned and groaned. "Can't. Sorry. I'm still Nat's maid of honour slave."

How could it have come this far? Kate wasn't supposed to take it so literally. They should have been more careful with the wording. But being too specific might just have made her suspicious. Instead they'd made her go crazy.

Elisa didn't get very far, though. When she opened her front door Kate practically barged straight into her. Her hair was gathered in a dirty ponytail, and her makeup-free face made her look pallid.

Stunned, Elisa allowed herself to be hugged. She was surprised that Kate didn't smell as bad as she'd feared.

"What are you doing here?"

"I couldn't go home, could I? I don't know how to get to my flat without having to cross Water Street one way or another." Kate pushed past Elisa and disappeared into the kitchen. "If I walked down that street I'd probably get brutally assaulted."

Elisa followed and gawked at Kate for a second, before she started to stutter all kinds of strange sounds, not sure of what to say. Finally, she settled on a cross-sounding, "Are you kidding me?"

"I don't want to die, Ellie," Kate said, getting teary-eyed. Even her chin started to wobble slightly as she leaned against the fridge. "And the wording was very specific: Avoid travelling across water or you'll die before New Years'."

"It didn't say die," Elisa argued, sighing and rolling her eyes. "It said you'd be hurt."

"Hurt means die," Kate wailed.

"No, it doesn't. Besides, I'm sure the fortune meant larger quantities of water, like oceans. Not bloody Water Street or the boat Nat is getting married on, or even your damn shower."

"I can't risk it, can I?"

Elisa had to come clean. She had to tell Kate the truth. Tell her that they'd deceived her, played a trick on her, and meddled in her life again even though she'd asked and later continuously demanded they mind their own goddamn business.

Kate was now shaking her head adamantly. The greasy ponytail almost didn't move. Elisa watched it with curious disgust. Then she caught the amused glimpse in Kate's eyes, just before she made a high-pitched wail and buried her face in her hands, her shoulders bobbing up and down.

It couldn't have been faker even if she'd tried.

Elisa's shoulders dropped. "You know!"

"Of course I know." Kate looked up grinning widely, no tears in sight. "I'm amazed it took you this long to realise. You really think I'm that stupid?"

Elisa shrugged and kicked one of the kitchen chairs. "Stupid enough that you wanted to leave everything behind and go abroad in pursuit of a man who obviously is bad for you."

"So you write up a fake fortune for me, telling me to avoid travelling across water because you are such a good judge of what is best for me?"

"And you go overboard."

Kate shrugged. "I wanted to teach you a lesson. And in particular Nat. Man, she's turned into a psychotic bridezilla."

Elisa could kick herself for not realising what was going on. If Nat hadn't had her on such a tight maid of honour schedule, Elisa might have been clear enough in her head to figure it out sooner. "You've stressed her out to the brink of a heart attack," she said.

Kate threw her head back, flashed her silver fillings and laughed out loud so excessively that Elisa started to worry about her air supply.

"So I take it you're not moving across the Atlantic?" Elisa mumbled.

"No, I didn't need you to tell me he wasn't right for me. I actually realised that all on my own. I do have a bit of common sense, you know."

Elisa could feel her ears warming. Slowly, she untangled the scarf from around her neck. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"God, I need a shower." Kate's wide smile faded into a frown as she held out her ponytail with the tip of her fingers. "And you look like you could use a few more hours of sleep. So if you'll just give me my dress, I'll be on my way."

"Your dress?"

"Yes. My bridesmaid's dress. Why else would I be here at this time of the morning? Oh, by the way, you never got your fortune, did you? I saved it for you." She dug into her tight jeans pockets and pulled out one of the tiny scrolls that the supposed fortune-teller at Nat's bachelorette party had written to each and every one of the guests, including the fake one they'd paid her extra to write and hand over specifically to Kate.

"You are the star of your own life. Don't spend so much time worrying about the supporting cast," Kate read out loud.

"Oh, very funny."

Kate winked and blew her a kiss as she strode out of the flat with the dress over her shoulder. "See you later, baby."

§§§

Bio:

I am a Danish author whose writings in English are under the pen name Neel Kay. I have enjoyed writing contemporary/chick-lit for years, but recently dipped my toe into the fantasy genre and find that I absolutely love it.

My works in English include the contemporary novella Out of Context and The Witch of Luna Hill – my first attempt at the fantasy genre. The sequel and final instalment The Witch's Storm will be available by the end of 2013.

Read more about me and my books on the blog: http://www.neelkay.wordpress.com

# my brother, Her husband

copyright Mike Duron

Inspiration for the story:

This was an experimentation of visual writing and character sketch vs story. Believe it or not, the inspiration for this was Lawrence. I wanted to capture the sort of conflict arising from forbidden desire he captures so well, but do it in a new, experimental way that condensed the novel into the shortest form possible – what most now call flash fiction. The main visual writing component is the narrator's refusal to capitalize words according to conventional rules of grammar. This obviously represents his amelioration not only of Beth, but of women (and their beauty) in general.

§§§

when i saw Her coming out, after Her shower, i saw Her purely as a Woman; the highest manifestation of beauty. Her hair was wet; each golden ringlet darkened, its bounce dampened slightly, by the water; the water that still adorned Her sun-haloed skin, like so many liquid diamonds or dew-drops, gathered in little groups, or forming tiny rivulets to travel along the mysteries of Her body – to travel to the places i could not visit, but could see now, for the first time, and only from a distance. She wore nothing, thinking She was alone; unaware he'd left Her vulnerable; front door unlocked; Her safety forgotten for an instant.

She moved swiftly into Her bedroom, as eerily and gracefully as a ghost. i stood there, in the kitchen, in my silence, one hand on the back of a chair, the other at my side, watching Her move through the shadows in the hallway, my heart imploding softly in my chest.

the front door opened. i sat at the table quickly. my brother, Her husband, entered smiling, saying, "hey, richard! i wasn't sure you would make it."

i smiled back, trying not to think of Her; trying not to see Her move through my consciousness, as She had moved through the shadows of the hallway. even now, as my brother stood opposite the table from me, Her beauty seeped into my heart. i told him he'd left the door unlocked, not stressing the danger he had left Her in; told him She was in Her bedroom; said i had decided to sit and wait.

Beth entered, wearing a robe and pushing Her hair into the thickness of a white towel. She squeezed the water from the ringlets with the fabric, as She moved across the kitchen and spoke. Her beauty once again haloed by the sunlight. "Oh, hi richard..."

She didn't stop or slow down to see me. She only moved to him; tiptoed when She reached him; kissed him briefly. they parted momentarily, looking at each other, smiling; then kissed again; deeply; passionately.

my heart ached because She loved him; i was angry at myself for wanting her; angry for not having Her. i stared at my hands as they kissed, thinking of Her; waiting for the moment to end.

§§§

Bio:

Mike Duron lives in a dark, dank cave, somewhere in Texas. He survives on a diet of pork rinds, pumpkin seeds, Busch beer, bologna, bread, and the occasional dollar burger from McDonald's. Beyond that, how does one say what this author was, is, and may someday be? Will the great St. Francis de Sales intercede as a patron for this flagitious fiend of fiction? Likely not. Will the sad, raging beast, Grendel, return for his cave some spooky night while the author is tapping away at his keyboard? Perhaps. Still, the author will tap, tap, tap, tap away ... as he tries to ignore the faint conversations of Nona, Decima, and Morta echoing in the darkness above him.

<https://www.facebook.com/mike.duron1>

# Sea Bright

copyright Ali Isaac

Inspiration for the story:

Having a child with a rare syndrome was the kind of thing that only happened to other people. But then Carys came into our lives, and suddenly it was happening to us. At first, we mourned the daughter we had lost. We were only human, after all. But gradually, we learned to celebrate the special child we had been gifted.

We were inspired by the ocean beside which we lived to name our daughter Carys Morgan. The former comes from the Welsh word meaning 'love'; the latter means 'Sea Bright'.

Writing our story helped me to accept this unexpected deviation in life's journey. I called it 'Sea Bright'.

§§§

Cai came first, reluctantly thrust into the world three weeks before he was ready. My glorious, flame-haired, first-born son. He lay on my belly, still covered in the mucous of birth, and looked at me, his dark unfocussed eyes swivelling. Overwhelmed by the full force of a mother's love, I stared back, bemused by this tiny human scrap of life. Just a few ounces and a few days the right side of being premature, his body was so small it fitted perfectly into his father's cupped hands.

Two years later Malachy joined us, five days late and so keen to make up for lost time he was almost born at a toll booth en route to the hospital. He arrived with a frown on his face. We wondered at it, but didn't understand what it meant. We soon learned. He lay in his incubator, a giant amongst his peers, a tangle of wires snaking from his body to a bank of computers and monitors. Tenaciously he clung to life, and we all clung to each other. His first year was touch and go, but he made it. My beautiful second-born, Mal the comedian, the musician, the stuntman, always with the glass of life half full.

Still someone was missing. We both felt it, Conor and I. So along came Carys. A longed for daughter and sister. Our family was complete.

Our sons had done their jobs well. They had prepared us for what was to come. We didn't know it at the time, but we were ready.

The pregnancy and the first years of Carys's life are cloaked in thick, white fog through which events swim briefly into focus before they are lost once again. These memories are painful, yet nevertheless precious. They are tenderly wrapped and locked securely in a dark corner of my mind, treasure to savour later. For the days after Carys is gone.

I don't ever want to forget how it feels to hold her, the brightness of her smile, the ripple of her laughter, the smell of her skin, the blue of her eyes. But I know I will. Time is cruel like that, and sly, stealing away the vibrancy of those beloved recollections whilst healing the pain of loss. Perhaps one is fair payment for the other.

I remember very clearly the day we first learned something was wrong. The day we were told our daughter would die before she was born. The day which changed us forever.

The midwife had frowned, leaning closer to the scanner. I had expected a smile, indifference at least. Not a frown.

"I just have to get my colleague to take a look at this," she said, patting my arm, and left the room.

The air seemed filled with the beating of my heart, faster and louder, as panic took hold and escalated. We waited a lifetime. Conor gripped my hand tightly, and I squeezed back, but neither of us said a word.

The colleague was older and probably more experienced. They both pored intently over the screen, faces carefully composed into identical neutral expressions. I stared too. What did they see that I couldn't?

Then it was over. They were helping me up from the bed, wiping the gel from my swollen belly, inviting us to sit at the table by the window.

At that point I knew something was seriously wrong. Only the couple who are about to receive bad news get to sit there. Everyone else is shown out as quickly as possible, to make way for the next set of parents. I looked at Conor, my question mirrored in his eyes. They can't mean us, surely? This kind of thing only happens to other people.

Automatic pilot took over as I switched off. Through the fog which enveloped my brain I was aware of a new voice added to the mix, a male voice, with the authoritative tones of a doctor. His answers swapped places with Conor's clipped questions. Strange words swirled through my consciousness ... 'foetal hydrops'... 'cystic hygroma'... 'fatal'... 'termination'...

At some point the conversation ended, and we were shown out.

Back into the corridor.

A bright and cheery corridor where only an hour earlier we had sat in the queue, eagerly anticipating our first contact with our new baby. A long line of happy, excited parents-to-be, all smiling at each other. Strangers waiting patiently, united by our common state.

The entrance to the maternity ward was located directly opposite. Right on cue, an exhausted but euphoric new mother was wheeled through, tiny precious bundle clutched in her arms. The line of happy parents-to-be melted, sharing her joy.

Only an hour ago.

How could so much change in so short a time?

We began walking back down that corridor. Past the line of happy parents-to-be. Into the lift. Down to the ground floor. Through reception. Out into the foyer. Across the car park. Out through the hospital gate. Along the main road to where the car was parked.

I didn't see any of it. When we stepped into the corridor grief seized me and became my whole being. I was aware only of Conor's strong arm around my shoulders as he negotiated our route, and steered me in the direction we had to take.

We couldn't go home. We had to make some attempt to get our heads around it first. We went somewhere neutral. We couldn't bear our usual haunts to be forever tainted by this moment. We sat holding hands across the table like new lovers, but really we were gripping onto each other so hard just for consolation.

"What will we do?" I whispered. Conor always knew how to make my problems go away.

"I don't know," he admitted.

That threw me.

Our conversation went round in circles as we drank coffee and listened to the soothing voice of Ron Sexsmith filling in the pauses. I still can't hear 'Tomorrow in her Eyes' without weeping. It always takes me back to that moment.

Those words were still bumping around in my head. Cystic hygroma, the doctor had explained, was a cyst containing lymphatic fluid usually found on the neck. It was often linked with foetal hydrops, which occurs when the heart has to pump a greater amount of blood around the body in order to supply the same amount of oxygen. This increased demand on the heart leads to an accumulation of fluid in the skin, scalp, abdomen, membranes of the lungs and heart, and ultimately to heart failure.

"The doctor mentioned... termination." I could hardly get the word out.

Conor nodded, golden-green eyes pinned on mine, his face drained of colour but suffused with emotion. I knew how he felt about abortion.

"I thought termination was against the law in Ireland."

"It is. But these are exceptional circumstances. We'd probably have to travel to England to do it."

I sipped my cappuccino. It had gone cold, but I didn't care. I hardly tasted it, anyway.

"I don't think I can do it," I said.

"We could fly over," offered Conor. "We don't have to go by ferry."

"I mean the abortion. I don't think I can kill my baby, just because she's not perfect."

Conor sighed and sat back in his chair, removing his hand from mine, and pushing it through his tangle of thick dark hair. I stared at my hand, resting empty on the table, feeling lonely without the warmth of his wrapped around it.

"No one would criticise you for it," he said. "It's more than just having a baby which isn't perfect. We'll have that child for life. What kind of existence will she have, if she is severely disabled? What kind of life will we have? Not to mention how it will affect the boys."

I knew he was right. There was no magical cure, no medicine, no surgical procedure which could help our baby. She was left to fend for herself. Live, or die. Or be murdered by parents too selfish and weak to give her a chance.

"I have never doubted our genetics," I confessed. "I just assumed our cells would always produce perfect children. Actually, I didn't even assume it; I just never even thought about it."

"Well, we managed it twice before."

"Exactly. So what's different this time?"

"Nothing's different. Same parents, same chromosomes."

"But a cystic hygroma and foetal hydrops. Something must have caused it. And you heard the doctor. They are often symptomatic of something else, some kind of syndrome." I shivered, wondering what our baby's demon would be, should she survive.

"Stop it, Ali!" Conor snapped suddenly. "You'll drive us both mad trying to make sense of it. There is no logical reason. Even the experts can't explain it. We have to be practical, and decide what to do next."

"There's nothing we can do, is there? Except wait. Week twenty six, he said. That's only eight more weeks of life left. Then she'll die."

"Might die," Conor reminded me. "Doctors aren't always right."

I might have smiled, but my face seemed to have forgotten how. So typical of him to always look on the bright side, no matter how weakly it shone.

He reached for my hand again. "Do you think you can go through the next two months, wondering every morning if today will be the day our baby dies?"

I couldn't trust myself to speak. I just hung onto him for all I was worth.

"You do realise if the baby dies at week twenty six, you'll have to be induced."

I shut my eyes tight against the vision of going through hours of labour to deliver a dead child. A dead, deformed child.

"If she survives, we may have to spend the rest of our lives caring for a handicapped child. Most of it will be down to you, as I have to work. You do understand that, don't you?"

I stared at him, a rising tide of anger sweeping aside all other emotions. "You sound like you actually want me to get rid of her."

He recoiled, as if my accusation had stabbed him through the heart. "Of course I don't!" he protested. "But we do have to consider every eventuality."

As I sat there fuming at the injustice of it all, my anger turned to blame. Perhaps all this was his fault. Maybe there was something hidden in his family's genetics that nobody would acknowledge. Perhaps it was my fault. After all, I had eaten that prawn last week, and sneaked a gulp of red wine when I knew I shouldn't.

I blamed God, Mother Nature, whatever larger entity had decided that this child was to be my fate. I even felt angry with the doctors, for whilst I couldn't blame them, it was they who were responsible for discovering this nameless thing which possessed my child.

But furiously apportioning blame changed nothing. I still carried a faulty baby within me, and we still had to decide what to do about it.

My choice: let nature take its course and endure the consequences, a prison sentence as long as the rest of my life. Or Carys's, whichever was the shorter.

Or abort, and live with an eternity of guilt, always wondering if the doctors had got it right or wrong.

How could we snuff out this faint little flickering candle, just because it didn't burn as brightly as all the others? How could it be right for the government, or the church, or groups like Pro-Life, to decide for us? What did any of them know of the impact bringing up a sick, disabled child has on a family? In the self-righteous pursuit of their cause, did they even care?

Having this baby could destroy us, yet not having her would rip us apart.

Amniocentesis did not reveal her syndrome, but it did reveal we had a little girl. We named her Carys, from the Welsh word for love, and Morgan, which means Sea Bright. We needed to think of her not as an embryo with a defective gene, but as a real person, our child, our special daughter.

And somehow, without even realising, our decision was made. We decided to let nature take its course.

Each morning was a treasured gift, as I awoke and realised that my baby was still alive within me. My body, wrapped around this child, was being granted another day of precious embrace. I desperately wanted her to be born alive so I could hold her, look into her eyes, and tell her how much we loved her. Just five minutes of life, that was all I dared ask for. If she passed away in our arms, at least we would have told her. She would know.

Yet whilst the experts urged us to accept the inevitable and discuss funerals, I could feel something else growing within me alongside this new, tragic little person.

It was hope.

I don't know where it came from. Not from religion, for I had proof now that God did not exist. But I could feel it, and in my mind's eye I could see it: a shining thread of light, so strong, yet so delicate it could easily be broken by a breath, or a careless word. It wound its way through every fibre of my being, from the tips of my toes to the ends of my hair. And whilst I could not at this point put conscious expression to it, it was to prove a constant and comforting companion. As time went by and Carys stayed with us, my slender ray of light became a magnificent dancing cord of raw energy throwing bright lassoes around every straw I dared to clutch.

And yet, I gradually felt myself fading away. I became a mechanical being, jerkily going through the motions, ricocheting aimlessly between the boundaries of emotion and reaction. Somewhere in-between, I tended my home, took care of my boys, and tried to be a wife to my husband. Behind the strong brick wall, I was crumbling.

Mal was unsettled, feeding off my tension. It took a long time to soothe him into sleep. I was tired myself, and my patience was wearing thin. As he dozed off, I tip-toed out of his room to be confronted with Cai running joyfully up and down the hall, half undressed, a trail of clothing strewn across the landing.

"Shhh." I put my finger to my lips.

"No!" His favorite word, the first he ever said.

"Be quiet," I exclaimed. "Mal is trying to sleep. Why don't you go and get your pyjamas on, and then I'll read you a story."

It was too much to expect a three year old to do as he was told.

"No!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, and darted off with a mischievous 'come and catch me' look on his face. The door slammed loudly in his wake. I winced as a weary wail sounded from Malachy.

I followed Cai into his room. He was bouncing happily on his bed, pyjamas in a heap on the floor, tousled red hair flying.

"Pick them up and put them on."

"No!" His big blue eyes flashed defiance.

I picked up the pyjamas. Sitting on the bed, I pulled my rebellious child towards me, and began stuffing his legs into the pants. He kicked wildly, enjoying the rough and tumble.

"Don't want to go to bed!"

My adult strength proved no match for his childish determination, for at that point in the struggle his foot connected hard with my chin. My head snapped back, eyes watering at this sudden jolt of pain. Before I even realised what I was doing, I landed him a sharp, stinging slap on his thigh. Cai immediately went still, clutching at his leg.

"I'll tell Daddy!" he yelled, shocked, his little face crumpling into a pink, angry ball.

"So will I!" I shouted back.

He began to cry.

Instantly, my rage dissolved into a muddle of sorry tears and regret. We each apologized and forgave the other. For Cai, it was soon forgotten.

But I couldn't forgive myself. I wanted to be punished, and it had nothing to do with hurting Cai. These days, people only ever looked at me with understanding and sympathy. It was not what I deserved.

"It was just a slap," Conor said later, when I confessed.

"Yes," I agreed, wiping away tears. "Just a slap."

But it wasn't. It was so much more than that. The red mark on Cai's leg faded long before the bruises on my heart.

Wherever I looked there were other pregnant women. Happy, smiling, pregnant women. And inevitably, they tried to draw me into their exclusive club.

"When are you due?"

"Do you know what you're having?"

"Are you all prepared?"

Too soon. Yes. No.

No one ever asked, "Will your baby be born alive?" Or "Will she be deformed?" Or "Will she be a retard?"

Happy, happy, happy. Everything about pregnancy and childbirth is so bloody full of joy.

Except me.

But I put on a good act. Only my friends knew how much I was hurting as my mouth stretched into its glad arc and told its lies.

My friends gave me the space I needed, but discreetly hovered around me, like planets going around the sun. They were always there, unobtrusive but steady, like stepping stones to hold me up out of life's mire, or posts to lean on when my burden grew too heavy.

We didn't talk about it much: I was too raw, too devastated to articulate. But friendships don't need words to bind them. They had eyes in their heads and hearts in their chests, these special women I hid behind. They looked at me, and they felt what I felt. What they didn't know they guessed. So between them, they built their wall of love and protection around me.

Although we had half expected it, had never been led to presume anything else, the day that Carys stopped moving inside me came as a shock. We rushed to the hospital, full of panic and a sense of fate.

The midwife allocated us a cubicle, and said the doctor would be with us shortly. Next door, the woman behind the curtains groaned and moaned her way through the first stages of labour, her efforts rewarded by her partner's murmured encouragement. It was the last thing Conor and I needed to hear whilst we contemplated the demise of our own unborn child.

We sat looking at each other, unopened magazines sitting on our laps. The minutes ticked into hours. No doctor came. The woman next door was wheeled off to the delivery suite. Hospital life revolved around us as if we were invisible, cocooned in some other dimension.

"I just want someone to listen for a heartbeat," I said to Conor, voice trembling.

Something in his face hardened. "I'll be back in a minute," he said, stalking off down the corridor. He reappeared some time later, sternly frog-marching a somewhat perturbed looking midwife to my bedside.

She placed her foetal stethoscope on my belly and listened carefully. I fixed my eyes firmly on Conor's, too afraid to meet her gaze and acknowledge what I might see there.

"There is a heartbeat. Your baby is alive," she said.

I couldn't stop the sob which burst from me then. I had held it back too long.

"That's all I wanted to know," I told her. "Why didn't you do that when we arrived? You have put us through the worst afternoon of our lives."

"I'm sorry," she replied. "We've just been so short staffed -"

Conor cut her off abruptly. "We're not interested, so save your breath." He began gathering up our things.

The poor woman sighed. "You really need to wait and see the doctor."

"We're not staying here a moment longer. We'll see our own doctor."

"If you want to make an official complaint -"

"We've actually got more important things to worry about," Conor replied stiffly, helping me off the bed.

Sometimes it felt like me and Conor against the world. We wrapped our arms around each other as we walked to the car park. Actually, I believe we might have skipped a little!

Our tiny daughter was alive.

The dreaded Week Twenty Six came and went. And another week. Followed by another. And so on into the third trimester, our baby still very much alive inside me and making her presence felt.

Conor and I dutifully attended our regular weekly scans, but something was different this time. I lay there quietly in the dark, Conor on a chair beside me. Dr O'Neil pushed the monitor relentlessly over and over my big round belly, staring at the screen intently. My breath caught in my throat. What was taking her so long?

Finally, she stopped and turned to stare at us, arms limp at her sides, her features softened with wonder.

"I don't want to get your hopes up," she said, "but today's measurements seem to show that the foetal hydrops could be resolving."

Of course our hopes sky-rocketed immediately. Conor leaped off his chair and began punching the air to shouts of, "Come on!"

Trembling, I had to smile through my tears. He only ever got this excited when Brian O'Driscoll ran the length of the rugby pitch and scored a perfect try.

He came to me then, scooping me into his arms, his body shaking with sobs. We laughed and cried together, not caring who was there to witness it.

It was unheard of. Hydrops was known to resolve sometimes during the second trimester, but never the third. Week by week, measurements consistently revealed a fading hydrops and shrinking hygroma. As they withered, so our joy blossomed.

Against all the odds, our feisty little daughter had fought her lonely battle for life and won.

Carys was delivered three weeks earlier than expected, on a cold, grey December afternoon. I was allowed to hold her for a few moments.

"Her skin's a little puffy," I commented, consumed with worry.

"It's just residue from the foetal hydrops," replied the midwife brightly. "She's very healthy. You have nothing to worry about."

"But there's a bulge of skin at the nape of her neck."

"That's what's left of the cystic hygroma. As she grows and fills out, her skin will stretch and that roll will disappear."

I stared at my daughter. She slept peacefully, safe within the halo of my arms, trusting in me to defend her. Unfortunately, the danger lay deep inside, somewhere my protection couldn't reach. Submerged beneath the surface, where it couldn't yet be seen. To the untrained eye she appeared perfect, normal.

Perfect, and so beautiful! Her skin was smooth and golden. Thick black hair curled round her forehead. When she opened her eyes, they weren't navy in color, like other newborn babies. They were the palest silvery blue, a shade I have only ever seen in the Skerries sea on a calm winter's morning. The same sea beside our home, where we had planned to scatter her ashes. The sea we named her for, when we called her Morgan, the Sea Bright child.

The midwife took her from me gently. I wanted to shove her arms away. "Time for Daddy's cuddle," she whispered, handing her over.

Conor looked tenderly into that little face, emotions working beneath his skin, shaping his expression into something I knew he would rather hide.

That was all we had, before she was taken from us to the special care baby unit.

The next day I was discharged from hospital, but Carys was not.

On Christmas Eve, a tangle of blood vessels began to bloom on her forehead. The haemangioma. The first sign of her syndrome.

§§§

Book One of The Tir na Nog Trilogy, The Four Treasures of Eirean, is available for your Kindle and in paperback from all good internet booksellers.

Coming Soon  
The Tir na Nog Trilogy Book Two, The Fenian King, due summer 2013  
The Tir na Nog Trilogy Book Three, The Three Waves of Eirean, due Christmas 2013  
Unique – upon which the short story, Sea Bright, is based

http://www.aliisaacstoryteller.com

# Prime Directive

copyright Mona Karel

Inspiration for the story:

As I finish Prime Directive I'm listening to the wind howling. It's been many months since any significant rainfall on the High Plains. So when the request came for a short story relating to water, my mind went to how critical water is to our lives. Wars have been fought for water rights and we need to continue to fight for the right to clean water. I hear a rumor of rain falling today and tonight... we can only hope.

§§§

Mel took advantage of the marginally cooler morning to walk around the hillside, shading her eyes against the sun and wind to peer in each direction for any changes. Parched dry land melded at the horizon into the stark bright sky on all sides. No softening of grass or tree or bush. No puffy white clouds. Even the blue of the sky seemed dried out and weary. Not even enough moisture in the air to dream about rain, and no other signs of habitation, even the windmills in the distance gone with the last wind-driven black cloud.

At one time this had been a verdant land, with deep-rooted grasses stretching over hilltops and gathering around ponds in the valleys. There had been clouds, big puffy clouds full of rain drops, with thunder heads piling on top of each other, occasionally letting off a grumpy rumble. Now the only sound was the slight squeak of the windmill turning. She might need to look into that soon. It had been too dry to worry about rust but lubricants didn't hold up as well as they once had.

She remembered when utter and total devastation swept around the globe at an unprecedented rate. She remembered the great thinkers, who were coming up with solutions, lost in an horrific swarm of electromagnetic pulses attributed to intense unprecedented solar flares. She doubted that explanation but those who might have said differently had all been in airplanes on the way to the huge save the world conference with the best and brightest from some obscure Eastern Europe think tank. Her father had been on one of those planes. Her mother would have also been were it not for her parents' precautionary routine of never travelling together, just in case. In this case their arrangement had proved necessary. Her mother survived to raise the children until grief took her away a few years later.

Mel remembered the day her father left, not completely sure of the legitimacy of the invitation but knowing his knowledge, and that of his colleagues, was needed. All had been drawn together by representatives of that Eastern European think tank to share their successes in turning around the world's problems. There'd been so many wondrous successes, so many people coming to understand the need to work together and overcome a long history of planet abuse. Then they were gone, and it seemed as though the inevitable was accelerated until what should have taken millennia to occur took slightly over a decade. In that time her mother died, and her brothers were killed by the vicious black windstorms, carrying once fertile soil across an arid land.

The man appeared between one breath and the next, walking around the edge of a rock as if he'd been waiting there. Perhaps he had, she thought, recognizing his height, his angular face, his arrogant bearing, his flowing robes.

"Have you come back to gloat?"

He hesitated, fine brows gathering together with a line of wrinkling before he smoothed his expression.

"You have me confused with someone else."

"I was sitting in the room when you offered my father and his colleagues a unique opportunity to gather together and help solve the problems of the planet, utilizing the research of your privately funded exclusive research facility." She drew a breath, tamping down her growing rage. "Eidetic memory."

"You were but a child."

"Years pass. We grow older. And we grow up."

"What occurred afterward was such a tragic accident. Such unprecedented solar flares -"

"Spare the drama. There were no solar flares. You and your brainiac buddies obviously created an EMP to stop all the engines of the world. See, my dad got to talking with his friends on the plane, and they realized they'd been sold a bill of goods. They started texting for as long as they could, and we received for as long as we could. Then we shut down our electric, until the pulses had past. You killed my father, you arrogant son of a bitch."

"A sad but necessary act, needed to save this planet."

"Those people you gathered together with your Judas goat offer were saving the planet."

"Too little and too late. Your people have been raping this planet from the beginning of their existence."

"The people of Earth have treated this planet like a drunken girl at a frat party, until they realized how much damage they'd done. And they had started to fix it -"

"Their fixes would not have repaired the damage done by generations before them. They would only have prolonged the inevitable." He waved his long-fingered hand to encompass the stark, dying land around them. "Now perhaps this world will have an opportunity to heal."

"What gave you the right to think you could interfere with our planet?"

"Planets do not belong to the people who live on them, particularly when those people are not proper caretakers."

"I notice you're not claiming to be from Earth. Where in the universe have you been hiding, and for how long?"

"My origin is of no importance. I represent a council responsible for ensuring the few habitable planets are not destroyed by the thoughtless acts of their denizens. We have seen too many civilizations rise and fall, destroying planets in their wake."

"I bet you and your buddies had all the information needed to help save Earth, to speed up the healing."

"That information is for those who have given up the rape of the land."

"Which my father had."

"Your father and his colleagues were seeking ways to continue supporting mass populations, most of whom would never advance beyond bare subsistence lives. They would work meaningless jobs accumulating artificial wealth, reproduce beyond what any planet could sustain, and be a drain upon humanity until their corpses polluted the ground they were buried in."

She tilted her head, studying his expressionless face as the words emerged in measured tones. "You have a negative view of life here."

"Here and on a multitude of planets in the universe."

"So Earth isn't the only planet you've decimated in your megalomaniac attempt to control the universe?"

"We do what we must to protect the inhabitable worlds."

"You consider THIS inhabitable?"

"It will be once the climate is brought into better balance. The excessive population and slavery to fossil fuels would have brought you to this point anyway."

"But not in just a few short years."

"The experiment with this population was finished, there was no need to extend the activities."

"Experiment? What, you think you put humans on Earth?"

"We found this planet inhabited, and observed."

"Were we some sort of social sciences project? Build your diorama and when you don't get a superior score you crush it? What about the Prime Directive?"

"What Prime Directive?"

"'There can be no interference with the internal development of alien civilizations.'"

"I have never heard of such a thing."

"Obviously. The Prime Directive has been a part of Earth culture for more than a hundred years. And you have also displayed your ignorance of the world you sought to destroy. The arrogance is beyond belief."

Now he hesitated, staring first at the vast dry landscape then back at her.

"Whatever occurred here is over. You, and a few others who have proven to be of superior mind and adaptability, will be removed to a place of greater opportunity."

"You're planning to take away the survivors of your little game? I've heard this story before. You put us all on a pretty little rocket ship, right to a disposal unit as part of your great master plan."

"No, you will be taken to a place of learning where you can extend your education as well as sharing what you know concerning survival."

He looked around at the windmill, the cabin built into a hillside, seeming to recognize the hidden signs of water harvested a drop at a time out of the sky, and crops grown inside with filtered sunlight. "Ingenious," he muttered. "If I could?"

Without waiting for her approval he ducked into the door. She knew he would encounter the immediate reduction of heat, caused by carefully monitored ventilation. She would not give him the courtesy of a guided tour, and after a while he re-emerged.

"You utilize water from a well?"

"There is still an aquifer but I'm leaving that alone. The windmills help pull water through evaporation, and I have been able to do the same with other devices."

"You created this yourself?"

"Are you thinking a mere girl child couldn't possibly understand the principles behind utilizing the elements? I was in my father's office that day because I'd just graduated from Princeton with a Doctorate in Environmental Sciences. We were going to celebrate after his return. This domicile, along with others in the area, were created as experiments in subsistence living."

"How many others?"

"You think I'm going to tell you? You, the Master Race with all the answers? Your equipment should be able to pinpoint each and every one in a matter of minutes." She allowed herself a quick grin, more a slash of white against her sun-darkened face. "You can't? I guess they were right."

Now his face showed the first sign of worry as he looked around. "Who was right?"

"You ever hear the story of the Ancient Mariner? 'Water, water everywhere?' Seems he was foolish enough to kill what was considered a lucky bird, an albatross, and he brought bad luck to his ship and crew."

The air stirred behind them, exposing an opening to another world. The robed man turned to run, but uniformed guards with strong hands grabbed his arms, holding him in place. A third man stepped forward to address the prisoner in a stern voice.

"The man in that story got stupid and killed an albatross. You... you were arrogant enough to kill a planet just to prove your warped theories about race superiority."

"Not theories. Facts, proven throughout galactic history."

"Spare me from your ravings, Radisson." At a gesture the guards subdued the man and dragged him through the portal. The third man, obviously a leader of some sort, turned to Mel.

"We can only apologize once more for the damage done to your planet and people. We had no knowledge of his escape."

She nodded, staring around at the desolation, her shoulders drooping as she finally relaxed from her defensive stance. Then she took a deep breath, and turned to him.

"You got enough from him for a solid conviction?"

"Absolutely. There is no possibility he will escape this time. Are you ready to leave? The sooner we can reverse what he did, the sooner your Earth will heal, and in the meantime we can help teach you survivors more about our universe."

As he spoke, the unceasing wind softened, carrying the promise of impending rain, and for the first time in years, Mel smiled. She turned to look one last time, now seeing clouds gather in the distance and the unmistakable silvery trace of rain falling.

"You'll be able to return. In the meantime, tell me more about this Prime Directive..."

§§§

Bio:

If you'd like to check out some of my books, or recipes (mostly low carb!) or personal life philosophies, you can visit me at <http://mona-karel.com/>

# Boo  
Part 2 – Hell Hath Fury

copyright Mark Bell

Inspiration for the story:

This is a story that I never intended to write. I had finished Appalachian Spring and was eager to work on other stories. Unfortunately, characters have a knack for survival. Boo would not leave me and in my heart I knew that he deserved to have his story advanced. It was my intention to be done with him, but here he is again.

§§§

Months and many small towns later, Boo finally stopped walking. His old shoes fell apart miles ago and what once were his new ones were almost gone. It seemed like the right time, if for no other reason than the obvious need of re-shoeing himself.

He had learned a lot. He knew how to look pitiful and get a free meal. He knew how to slip into a farmer's smokehouse and liberate a ham or packed sausage, and he had learned how to out-and-out steal and run. What he had not learned to do was coexist with his fellow humans.

Nothing good had ever come from interaction in the past. Even though he had reached the ripe old age of thirteen, most people would have considered him a boy and, 'for his own good', placed him in some type of home or orphanage. He could just imagine what some old matron would say about righteousness and leading a young sinner onto the right path. That path would surely lead to poor meals and long work days. Not that he minded work but he sure as hell hated being cooped up.

What he was soon to learn was his decision to stop walking occurred at the outskirts of a medium-sized town called Quaker Flats. It was so named for the residents that the Pennsylvania oil boom had pushed out. Before oil was discovered, a community of Quakers had farmed peacefully in the valley.

He made his camp on the banks of a little stream that used to be the home of fish and frogs. He could smell and see the sheen that slid across the top of the water. That was all right: Boo was not looking for a bath. He also was not expecting to hear a frog, but one was there and making it obvious by his song. It was a song that he had heard before.

Boom towns always follow a pattern. First the discovery, then, inevitably, the secret gets out and is followed by a rush of dreamers, gamblers, thieves, merchants, and whores. Merchants start off in tents and then build stores. Saloons are everywhere and "houses of comfort" build their stores on back streets. Lonely men with dreams squander money and energy trying to ameliorate the pain of failure. Card sharks and thugs relieve them of what money they have.

As the boom diminishes, the dreamers and their easy money slink away, and so do most of the grifters that feed on them. The town becomes two towns. Quaker Flats' two parts were separated by a creek. It ran through the middle of town and the two were linked by a single wooden bridge. One side operates in daylight and the other comes alive after dark. Quaker Flats had reached this point when Boo decided to sneak in for a look.

Traveling down dark alleys and peeking around corners was Boo's way of sizing up his options. His only problem was the bridge. He was on the night-time side of town and he needed to be on the other side. He could have forded the creek. It was not that large, nor was it running full, but Boo hated water. He especially hated water that smelled. In Boo's opinion the creek was filled with death and smelled like rotten eggs, just like the creek at home. He waited for his chance and when no one was around he hightailed it across the bridge and cut into the nearest alley.

Sliding around the backside of buildings, he found the window to the dry goods store. Everything seemed safe enough but when he took out his rock to cut the window he heard a noise. A pig or a drunk was stirring close by; he didn't know which, until the drunk shouted at him. He knew to slide on down the alley and get away. He had no choice but to head toward the night side of town and hazard another bridge crossing.

He heard voices echoing off buildings and music pouring into the streets until a gunshot echoed above the din. Silence followed, as if paying respect to the recipient of the bullet. Respect was short-lived. The music and noise resumed in about a minute. Men with guns and badges were marching a drunk down the street. They were soon followed by a couple of men pushing and pulling a cart, stopping in front of the funeral parlor and depositing their load. All of this made Boo decide to head back out of town. Daylight might be the better way to scout this town after all.

One stand of willow oaks had yet to succumb to the creek's death knell. One lonesome frog had also refused the invitation to die and he was making sleeping difficult. The noise didn't keep Boo from sleep so much as his thoughts. The eerie illumination from the wells burning off natural gas didn't help either.

He knew that Jasper was dead, he had buried him, but Boo also knew frogs well enough to distinguish their individual croaks. The frog in the cattails had to be Jasper. So, unnerved by the sound, Boo had no choice but to yell Jasper's name. One solitary croak followed – then silence. Appalachian folklore was more of a boy's education than reading and writing but now he was living it.

Daylight brought some relief. Boo looked at the landscape. The sun revealed a dead valley. No trees, only wooden derricks rising toward the sky. It was spring yet the whole valley looked brown. The town provided the only color: paint splashed on some of the buildings. Boo knew then that deadly water was present.

Daylight also brought the realization of hunger. Boo wanted to just start walking again but ragged shoes and an empty belly overruled that. He was going into that town, like it or not. It was simple logic: the part of town that came alive after dark must sleep during the day. His plan was to see what he could scare up while it slept. He slipped behind buildings, never venturing to the street. As he turned the corner of a small whorehouse he was discovered.

If you had told him that it was a whorehouse it would not have mattered. Boo knew frogs. He didn't know whores. A young girl, about his age, was hanging out laundry. Nothing on the line looked familiar to Boo. His Mama had hung out her dresses and undergarments but nothing like what he saw on this line. Some of it was so baffling that he could not tell if it went on the top or bottom but he was sure that it belonged on a woman.

"What are you, one of them panty sniffers?"

It was the girl. In his mesmerized state Boo had not realized that he was standing in full view of the girl. She motioned him to come closer.

"I'll let you see mine for a dollar," she said.

Boo didn't have a dollar but he walked closer anyway.

The girl pulled up her dress and something happened in Boo's pants, something so powerful that it scared him. Even Jasper could not jump that quick and powerfully, and it hurt in a strange, good way.

"All I got is a rock in my pocket," Boo stuttered.

The girl smiled and said, "I see that. Got a dollar to go with it?"

Boo could only shake his head. The girl pulled out a pouch of tobacco from her garter top, dropped her skirt and rolled a cigarette. Boo dug in his pocket and showed the girl his rock.

"I like both your rocks," she said and smiled. "I know what you wanna do with the other one. What you gonna do with this one?" she purred.

Boo hadn't given it much thought. The rock was good for cutting holes in window panes but not much else. You could hold it up and if the light was just right it would make a little rainbow, but Boo couldn't see where that was much good. But it was a magic rock; the last thing that Jasper had done, his last bit of energy, had been devoted to making sure that Boo had that rock. Boo just didn't know the reason why.

A mean-looking man with a scar on his face stopped any further conversation. Boo didn't know if he was her father or uncle or brother, but he knew it was time to leave, and quickly. He grabbed his rock from the girl's hand and ran.

"Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow," she whispered.

A couple of buildings over he found what he was looking for: an unattended sack of potatoes. They were on the steps leading into a large, poorly constructed monstrosity with loud, gaudy paint. Boo considered the liberated potatoes as payment for having to look at a building that resembled a gigantic rotten plum. Had he ventured to the main street he could have read the sign out front that proudly proclaimed the name, PLUM CRAZY SALOON.

Back at the oak grove he scratched out a hole and lined the bottom with potatoes. A layer of dirt on top finished the oven, save the fire. Twigs and dead limbs were plentiful and easily found lying under the trees. As the fire worked its magic, Boo lay beside the pit and looked up at the canopy of leaves. It was far enough into spring that the leaves should be displaying their richest dark green, but they had a jaundiced look about them.

His natural inclination was to blame the water. Willow oaks love water. That's why you always find them in wet lands or close to creeks. Boo could have told them that was a mistake. He knew well that water kills. His thoughts were ravelling back to a time before water had killed his folks and changed his life when a croak interrupted him. It was either magic or the spitting image of Jasper staring at him from a few steps away.

"Jasper?" Boo stood to get a better look.

A froggy smile was the frog's only response.

"I know you're dead. I buried you."

A booming, majestic croak echoed through the stand of oaks as the smoke from the cooking fire shifted and enveloped Boo. When he stepped to the side, Jasper was gone.

The roasted potatoes felt good going down his gullet. It was hard to think of anything else, but Boo had pressing issues to sort out. It was not whether Jasper appeared, but rather why. What impending doom was he here to protect him from? Important people get angels for protection. Boys from Appalachia get frogs. All things considered, Boo preferred a guardian frog.

If Boo had stopped and imagined how the valley looked before the discovery of oil, Jasper's presence wouldn't have been a mystery. He could have contrasted small groves of trees surrounded by green fields with what he saw today. Wooden derricks replaced trees and defeated weeds were the predominant colors of the valley's palette. Instead of a creek with fish and frogs, in its place was an outlet for wasted oil. Burning natural gas provided the bite to the air that cool, crisp mornings once did. Boo should have realized what was going on but he was afflicted with a disease that only old age cures.

He lay next to his little cooking fire all day as visions of the girl's legs and underwear danced in his head. Yes, it was new, something that he had never experienced before and he liked it. What he should have done was go to town and locate what he wanted in the dry goods store. It would have been of little trouble to slide in, look around and discover where things were. But Boo was too busy with legs to care about anything else. The young man had progressed from frog legs to girl legs in a matter of hours. What he was soon to discover was that frogs can't hold a candle to girls when it comes to wiles.

Jewel was her name and she was born and raised in a whorehouse. At the age of thirteen she was forced to earn her keep. She did the washing and if a high-rolling stranger came to town with enough money to afford a virgin, she serviced him as well. She had lost count of how many times she had been deflowered over the last two years. What she hadn't lost was her desire to get enough money to run away.

She knew that Boo's rock was her way out before he finished unfurling his fingers. She would have to be careful. She was in the middle, and that's a dangerous place to be. She would have to relieve Boo of his rock without Scar finding out. Liberating the rock didn't present a problem; Jewel figured that one sniff and a little romp would do the trick. The problem was Scar's ever-present eye and then finagling a quick exit out of town.

Plots and plans were still being worked out as the sun started its downward arc. Natural light was being replaced by the gas flares at the top of the derricks when Boo decided it was time to make his run into town. He packed up his gear and what was left of the potatoes and hid them in the fork of the nearest willow oak. He made his way into town and by slipping down alleys, dodging outhouses, and sprinting across the bridge, he slid into the alley that ran behind the dry goods store.

Light from inside the store was pouring into the alleyway. Most stores closed around dark and Boo was perplexed by the light. Keeping close to the building he eased his way to the window and peeked ever so slowly into the store. He could see the storekeeper standing in front of the main counter, holding a kerosene lantern. Two barrels of salt herring kept him from seeing who the store keeper was talking to. Boo did figure out that the person was either a child or a woman. He caught a glimpse of a small hand making a descriptive gesture of size. The thumb and forefinger spread to denote length and then it changed to a circle to show thickness. It was all confusing to Boo. As the hand was finishing its size description, the storekeeper dropped his trousers and blew out the lantern. Boo was further confused by the sounds that were coming from the darkened store. This interruption of his plans was beginning to nettle his patience.

Edging toward the main street, Boo heard the store door open and then quickly close. The lantern inside of the store was relit and light poured into the alley once more. Feet were moving in his direction and he needed to make his escape. The only place for him to go was under the store. He crawled behind one of the pillars that held the floor sill off the ground and crabbed around just in time to see two small feet.

Boo thought he was in the clear until the feet stopped in front of him. The dress hem that nestled atop the feet suddenly lifted out of Boo's sight. The legs exposed were familiar; they belonged to the laundry girl. It wasn't hard for Boo to recognize them: they were the only female legs he had ever seen, other than his mother's, and they had made an indelible mark on his brain.

Boo belly-crawled from under the building. It was not easy: the reaction to those legs was the same as the previous encounter and it not only made crawling difficult but painful. He withstood the pain and rose from under the store. The girl gave a little cry of fear but not loud enough to draw attention. A smile crossed her lips as she recognized Boo.

Jewel's smile was not aimed at Boo. It was an indicator that finally providence had smiled on her, tied her plan in a neat package and handed it to her with a ribbon attached. She had her deliverance at hand and in the alley adjoining where she could cash in Boo's rock. It certainly made what she had just done to the storekeeper more palatable. Not that it was any different than what she had done numerous times before but the storekeeper was an unsightly disfigured man. His face was cursed by a nose that looked like a pig snout and the disfigurement continued well into his trousers, which hid a disfigurement more of an equine nature.

The aforementioned disfigurements led to his banishment from the whorehouse and his abiding hatred for Scar. This and his contacts with merchants in the big cities made him the perfect co-conspirator in Jewel's plan. She intended to sell Boo's rock to the storekeeper for enough money to finance her getaway.

It was no small wonder that Jewel had smiled when she was startled by Boo's weasel impersonation. All that was left to do was liberate the rock from him. She knew from experience when a man is most vulnerable. She also knew how to help him reach that moment. She slid her left hand inside of Boo's overalls and her right into his pants pocket. What she had not anticipated was Boo's reaction to his arrival to manhood.

Boo was terrified. A strange pain began to rumble inside of him and suddenly it shot through him, rattling him to his very core. This was followed by an explosion that he imagined had destroyed body parts. When he felt something warm and wet against his skin, he jerked free and ran for his life. He turned and ran so violently that he dragged Jewel halfway down the alley, her hand still in his pocket, desperately trying to capture Boo's rock. The fabric of Boo's overalls could only take so much. The rip released Jewel's hand, causing her to bounce in the dirt, her hand still reaching outward toward Boo's fleeing pocket. It also caused the rock to drop into the dirt.

In his terrified state, Boo had lost his bearings. Instead of running toward the back of the store, he ran for the main street. Fear, devoid of caution, caused him to run full tilt into a man passing the alley. Taken off guard the man reeled to the side. Boo only caught a glimpse of his face but that was enough. It was the scar-faced man that had scared him earlier that day.

As Scar gathered his balance he realized that Jewel was lying in the dirty alley. He yelled at Jewel to get back to the house and began to run after Boo. Jewel crawled around, desperate to find the rock. She had not seen it fall but at this point she was grasping and hoping. Her search came up empty.

There would be hell to pay if she had to go back to the whorehouse and try to explain why she was in the alley: Scar was not known for his forgiving nature. Thinking that Boo still had the rock she rose from the dirt and followed the path that Boo and Scar had taken. The storekeeper was standing at the entrance of his establishment with lit lantern in hand. Jewel snatched the lantern from him and surveyed the area of Boo's collision with Scar. Still no rock.

Boo paid no attention to the storm clouds banking over the mountain top. He had his own personal storm that he was trying desperately to avoid. Fear is a motivator but it didn't compensate Boo for the difference in length of his legs versus Scar's. He made it to the bridge but Scar caught him in the middle. For a brief moment Boo was running on air. His feet were moving but he was not going anywhere. Caught by the scruff of the neck, he dangled in midair like a rag doll.

"Leave him alone!" It was Jewel standing behind Scar. "He's mine!" she screamed as she tried to pull Boo from Scar's grasp.

Scar lurched backwards. As he tried to secure his footing, something under his foot caused him to fall. Jewel didn't have a chance to get out of the way. She fell under Scar and in the process the lantern dropped, spreading liquid fire as it shattered.

The fire from below danced like footlights on a stage, while the lightning acted as spotlights. Boo scrambled to his feet as the flames began to devour the bridge. A keen lightning bolt pierced the sky and Boo saw the mashed body of a frog at Scar's foot. Jasper was the victim, the cause of Scar losing his balance. Refusing to leave Jasper a second time, Boo knelt to pick him up. Jasper just smiled his froggy smile and for the second time in Boo's life, Jasper flicked his tongue and presented Boo with the rock.

In the seconds that it took Boo to wrap his fingers around the rock, Jasper had crawled to the edge of the burning bridge. Boo lunged for him like he had a hundred times before. The results were the same. Jasper made a plopping sound as he hit the water. Peering over the edge, Boo could see nothing but black smoke. The bridge pilings had years of waste oil absorbed in its timbers and were nothing but oversized matchsticks. The creek was blazing.

Boo gathered himself and ran for his life, making it just as pieces of the bridge began to collapse into the creek. Smoke rolled upwards, cinders flew into the air, the fire raced upstream as well as downstream. As Boo looked over his shoulder, the lightning froze each moment like an old silent movie. No heroine was seen, only timbers falling and smoke roiling the sky. The fire moved upstream into the oil field and the cinders began to ignite the town.

It was not hard to find his way along the creek with the fire preceding him. When he arrived at the stand of willow oaks the heat was starting to curl their leaves. Grabbing his truck and potatoes, Boo headed out of the valley.

Large raindrops began to fall. When they hit the fire they made a sizzling sound. Big drops turned black as they pelted his face. Pulling his daddy's old slouch hat from his gunny sack, Boo knew that it wouldn't be long before the rain would be a killer.

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# Love Call Me Home

copyright Peggy Seeger

When the waters are deep,  
Friends carry me over  
When I cry in my sleep  
Love call me home.

CHORUS:  
Time, ferry me down the river,  
Friends carry me safely over  
Life, tend me on my journey  
Love call me home.

When the waters are cold  
Friends carry me over  
When I'm losing my hold  
Love call me home. (chorus)

When I'm weary and cannot swim  
Friends carry me over  
Open your arms and take me in  
Love call me home. (chorus)

Take the gift I bring  
Friends carry me over  
Deep within me life is singing  
Love call me home. (chorus)

Life offers a chance  
For friends to carry us over  
Time can stop or dance forever  
Love call me home. (chorus)

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If you'd like to listen to this lovely song click this link (it's the last track on the album):

<http://www.peggyseeger.com/listen-buy/love-call-me-home>

There's some fascinating info about Peggy, her family, her life and work on her website:

<http://www.peggyseeger.com/about>

# Treading Water

copyright Sylvie Nickels

Inspiration for the story:

Conflict and the results thereof interest me deeply. Such conflict can be played out on a global stage, or between a father and son at the local swimming pool.

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Marion sat on the edge of the pool. Beneath her the lines of blue tiles that marked out the lanes wobbled in concert with the movement of the water. The water felt tepid. Not like in her training days twenty – heavens, no, nearly twenty-five – years ago, when the initial shock made you catch your breath. She'd been good in those days. Not quite a champion, but good and getting steadily better. Until the car accident.

"I tell yer, I'm effing not," a voice, loud and petulant, protested close by.

She glanced round casually. The voice had cracked in the way it does when boys are beginning to become men. He was thirteen, maybe fourteen, and she'd seen him somewhere before: those angry green eyes, head lowered, chin down, like a cornered animal.

"Oh, but you effing are!" an adult male voice barked.

She saw a large hand grab the boy's shoulder, spin him round so that he almost lost his balance. She couldn't see the man's face, just his overweight upper torso leaning forwards, dominating the boy. He lowered his voice so that she missed his words but there was no mistaking the threat behind them.

What lives of quiet desperation some people lived. Or not-so-quiet in this case. To think she had taken her luck for granted: the luck of a Dad who had always been there for her, chauffeuring her hundreds, maybe even thousands of miles over the years to training sessions and contests around the country. Mum didn't often come. She was into watercolours and craft groups, a gentle presence in the background to their comings and goings. Later, Marion wondered if she minded the amount of time that husband and daughter spent away together, not consciously excluding her, though that's what it really amounted to.

"Cut that out, Rory!"

The bellowed words bounced against the tiles. Everyone turned to look. The boy had jumped into the pool, capsizing a younger child who now protested on full volume. The man had reached down and plucked Rory out of the water and Marion saw the boy's jaw clench against the pain of the meaty hand grasping his arm.

Then she remembered where she had seen him, slouching out of school, usually picking on the smaller kids. He wouldn't have noticed her. People, on the whole, didn't notice women with mops and buckets. So he's getting a taste of his own medicine, she thought now.

Of course Mum had come that evening to the County Finals for the under-fifteens. For months afterwards Marion's nights had been haunted by the sound of voices, echoing, cheering, calling out names in encouragement. Impossible to hear the names, only the noise rising and falling as her head rose and fell in the water. She had put her heart and soul into that swim, dredging down into depths she didn't know existed to claw back that extra metre, centimetre, millimetre. But it wasn't enough. She came second. A close second, but second.

"You were fantastic, Princess," Dad had said, ignoring the tears that went on streaming down her cheeks long after she thought she'd cried herself dry.

"And by far the most graceful," Mum had added because this was the sort of thing she would notice.

The accident happened on the way home that evening. No one's fault. A skid into a large tree on the road's verge. Dad was killed outright, Mum had back injuries from which she still suffered, and Marion had breakages that were repaired one by one, except for the unmendable one in her heart. She had not been swimming since.

She loved her mother, of course, but in a co-dependency way that was quite different from her love for Dad. For a long time after the accident all they had was each other, she and Mum. She went to school, Mum took a job in a dress shop. Otherwise they stayed at home where it was comfortable and there was no one else to ask questions. Still, she'd achieved good grades in GCSEs and there were half-hearted discussions about 'A's and University; but when she opted for a secretarial course there was no great attempt to dissuade her.

There followed a succession of jobs in a series of commercial outfits – secretary, assistant sales manager, assistant manager, before moving into social services where she felt more at home. From assistant managing an old people's home, she'd moved to a school for kids with learning difficulties, and eventually a hospital cleaning firm. Always assisting or deputising. Well, that was par for the course for someone who had only come second.

Marion slipped into the water. The large man had been claimed by a tall, thin friend at the far end of the swimming hall. Rory, left to his own devices, stood on the edge of the pool, surreptitiously rubbing his arm. Another twenty years and he'd probably be the spitting image of his Dad, browbeating some kid of his own. An endless repetition of cause and effect.

For the moment he was crying. It wasn't obvious and probably other people wouldn't notice, but she'd seen too many kids hiding their misery to be fooled.

It was the hospital cleaning job that gave her the idea of starting her own cleaning firm. Be her own boss for the first time. Sparklers, she called it, and it took over her life. She specialised in playgroups, community halls, schools, because she liked being associated with the young. Rory's school was one of them, only a couple of hundred yards from the sports centre.

A few weeks ago, on a whim, she'd started coming here for a good work-out in the gym after she finished work. The Centre was subsidised by the local Council and run by a cheerful, youngish team. She'd got to know them over a coffee or snack in the cafeteria, and taken on one or other of the instructors for a game of badminton or squash, or joined a session of yoga or pilates.

"You're a great all rounder," Pete the manager told her. "I'll be looking for a deputy soon, in charge of training. I imagine you swim too?"

"I can swim," Marion said.

It wasn't something you forgot, was it? Like riding a bike. Increasingly it was the pool that caught her attention, especially when it was empty and translucent and perfectly still. Go on, Dad's voice said with growing urgency in her head.

She thought she might rather enjoy working here.

Marion swam to where Rory still stood scuffing his feet on the tiles, heaved herself up on to the edge of the pool, and said conversationally, "When you want to get people off your back, the trick is to decide to do whatever it is, and really take 'em by surprise."

He looked surprised. Then scowled. Then sneered. "It's girls' stuff, innit? And boring."

Ignoring him, she went on, "Once you've got the hang of it, you can feel your whole body working like some marvellous machine: all the cogs and levers and wheels interacting like magic, with you in complete control."

Rory muttered something that sounded like an expletive, then he spat out, "Not me. I just sink."

For the first time Marion saw that behind the scowl there was the unmistakeable flicker of fear.

"That's because you're expecting to. Anyway you need to learn to tread water first. Watch."

She slipped back into the pool, pushed away from the side.

"See – you push your legs up and down, like a sort of gentle bounce. Use your arms to help keep your balance. Come on in." She came alongside him, and from behind put a hand on each side of his rib cage. "Right. I've got you. Give it a try."

When she was sure he'd got it right, she removed her hands. "You're a quick learner," she said a few moments later, approvingly.

As soon as he realised she was a couple of yards away, he sank with a splutter. He came up choking, scowled when he saw she was laughing at him, then reluctantly grinned, began choking again.

"If you can tread water, you don't ever have to be afraid of it again."

"Who's afraid?"

Marion didn't answer and he didn't repeat the question.

She saw, thankfully, the two men were still at the far end of the pool. She swam a few breast strokes. Thinking the movements through to tell Rory, she was suddenly absorbed in the flow of them herself. When she got back to him she said, "Concentrate on your breathing, and as soon as you feel you're losing it, tread water until you've got it back again. Or would you rather we went up the shallow end?"

"Nah," Rory said.

"Right..." She swam a few strokes, turned and trod water. "Now swim towards me."

He just made it before collapsing in the middle and floundered back to the edge of the pool.

"You need to keep your body straighter," Marion said. "And you forgot to tread water."

After several more goes he was more confident. They swam a full minute side by side. Marion became aware of a joy she had not felt for a very long time: the joy of power and control and knowing that you could do something really, really well. She glided on her back to the pool's edge, smiling inside.

"Is he bothering you, Miss?" a voice boomed from above her.

Marion grinned at Rory's oversize Dad disarmingly. "I rather think it's the other way round. Your son's got good potential."

"You're the first to notice."

Marion looked at him for a moment, wondering whether she dare. "Maybe shouting at him doesn't help?" she suggested, just loud enough for him alone to hear. She thought he swore at her as he moved off again.

A few yards away Rory reached, spluttering, for the pool edge. When he had recovered his breath, he joined her. "Nearly half a length." He paused. "You're OK."

They hung on to the edge, side by side, companionably, wiggling their legs horizontally out in front of them in the water.

Watching his feet, Rory said, "If you come here regular, p'raps you could teach me, like."

If she got the job, she would certainly 'be here regular'. And being deputy again could give her more time for other things, get more control over her life, including deciding what she wanted to do with the rest of it.

Marion nodded. "Why not?" she said. "I think you might say that I come here regular."

§§§

Bio:

I started writing at the age of ten, am now over 80, and don't plan to stop. In older age I have switched from travel to fiction writing, with a particular interest in the effects of war on subsequent generations.

<http://tinyurl.com/SNickels-books>

# Dreams

copyright Kathryn O'Halloran

Inspiration for the story:

The idea for Dreams came to me on the commute to work, feeling out of step with those around me and with the phrase 'tentative in her dreams' buzzing in my head.

§§§

There once was a girl who was lost and lonely in her job. She was tentative in her dreams.

Each morning she woke to the same struggle. Disturbed from her womb-like sleep reality came with a thud and then the rush began. She tried to make it on time, but her alarm clock didn't ring, or the shower turned cold or she couldn't find her keys.

As the train pulled into the station, she had that half-second – that moment of hesitation. She could refuse. She wasn't desperate for the money; she just didn't know what else to do.

She merged into the monochromatic crowd, hearing the clunk clunk clunk of their feet as they walked through the station. The sound felt wrong, evil. Like a memory from another place. Charcoal suit-encased, she tried to blend in, but her footsteps never were in time with theirs.

She was easily distracted. Patterns – patterns caught her attention, random patterns. The rhythm of a dripping tap, the dance of fallen leaves, the symmetry in a line of pebbles. Sometimes she could unlock their secrets and settle her mind.

She tried to find the patterns in people, but those patterns eluded her.

At work, few people remembered her name. They never seemed to notice her, but noticed if she was late or absent. Some of the work was repetitive, rhythmic and she found a comfort in it. But other tasks unnerved her – paper jammed; blades broke.

All day she wrote things on forms without knowing why. She sent them to people she didn't know. Once she had asked, but she'd forgotten to listen. A beam of light shone through the window – making strange patterns on the steel filing cabinets – and she watched that instead. She smiled and pretended she understood. It was easier that way.

One morning, she woke still clinging to the fragments of a dream. She showered then dressed in her black-grey suit. Sunlight sparkled in the kitchen while she waited for the kettle to boil. She picked up a pencil and made patterns on a sheet of paper. Power coursed through her, her movements strong and certain, as though something clicked in place between her body and her mind.

She only stopped when the kitchen filled with smoke. The kettle had boiled dry, the gas flames licking it's sides black. She turned off the stove then went back to drawing. When it grew too dark, she stopped to turn on the light. The sun came up and she rested, sheets of paper all around her.

There was no more paper, but she knew what she needed – paper and canvas and paints: colour and life.

Still dressed in the suit, now rumpled and dank, she left the house, exploring the shadows in geraniums and the cracks in concrete. She found a store and ordered everything she needed, surprising herself with her decisiveness, then returned home in a cab filled with her purchases.

She painted – large canvases – big sweeping patterns, small intricate ones – until she slept from exhaustion.

A ringing phone woke her. It was her boss – why wasn't she at work? She laughed, and told him she had found her work.

She dropped the phone but he continued yelling for several minutes.

After that, she ignored the world outside. She created her own world with no sharp edges and no discordant notes. The anguish flowed from her body.

Until a knock at the door.

Her aunt stood on the doorstep holding a bundle of letters.

"Are you all right?" she asked and thrust the letters at her niece. "You haven't collected your mail in days."

The aunt appraised the girl, still dressed in her suit – the colour now a sludge of paint and chalk, a piece of unravelling hem the only hint of original fabric. She shook her head and marched down the shadowy hallway. Turpentine and oil and neglect flooded the air.

"I'm fine."

"Fine? You don't look fine. This place is a mess," the aunt called from the kitchen. "When was the last time you cleaned? Are you sure you're well? You know I worry about you."

The girl worked on, ignoring the bang of pots.

"You look like you haven't eaten in ages. I'm going to heat up some soup then I think we should sit down for a talk."

The girl propped up another canvas and became oblivious until the lounge room door nudged open. The Aunt began to say something then looked up and halted. Her mouth dropped open and she reeled, slopping the soup onto the floor.

That puzzled the girl. Her aunt disliked strong displays of emotion. She disliked anything that was improper or awkward or clumsy. As the aunt gazed around the room, once her parent's lounge of muted blues and silvers, the girl tried to see things through her aunt's eyes. It had been days since she'd noticed her surroundings and now the cacophony of colour hit her.

Crimsons, vermilions and magentas vied for attention in a scramble of disharmony; indigo curlicues and jade spirals brawled then reconciled; oranges and violets thundered and shuddered into brutal detonation.

In places, the colours waltzed; in others, they sobbed.

It was as though she'd been caught in an act of raw obscenity.

The aunt rushed to open the window, inhaling the cold air that rushed in. As the oil-filled air dissipated, she tiptoed across room and sat on the edge of one of the overpadded and now paint-soiled armchairs. She sighed but still didn't talk. Eventually she picked up a cup from the floor and twirled it in her hand.

"Is this from the dinner set your mother left you?" she asked. The cup was chipped and filled with a grey turpentine sludge.

The aunt didn't say much more but she took several of the drawings when she left.

The aunt returned with groceries and news. She carried a spiced apple teacake – your favourite, dear – and told her niece to sit down and eat. The girl sat, tension sprung, on the edge of her chair and picked at the edges of the cake.

"I showed some of your work to my friend. He might want to exhibit your work. He seems to think you have an extraordinary talent." She reached over and brushed back a strand of her niece's hair but the girl flinched at the touch. She sprang up as though spooked at the touch.

"Are you okay?" the aunt asked, following her into the other room. "Remember when you were a little girl? You used to love it when I brushed and plaited your hair." And the aunt sighed.

The girl kept rubbing scarlet crayon on a canvas, pressing hard and sure, a rain of red dust falling around her. The aunt paced the room, her sturdy heels rapping a steady beat on the floorboards. Finally, she looked up.

"Don't you see? This is a wonderful opportunity. You could really do something with your artwork."

"I am doing something."

Rain dripped down the window of the gallery. The girl tracked the path of a single drop as it trickled down, reaching out with a finger to trace it. When it hit the bottom, she picked another. She wondered what stopped the drops from running straight. An imperfection in the glass or a predetermined path?

Inside each drop was a miniature world, a distortion of her face and the gallery, her paintings.

Before the drop hit the wooden pane, her aunt found her. It was time for the girl to meet people, people with questions about her ideas and techniques. But the girl didn't have the words they wanted. The paintings on the wall had lost their meaning to her now. They were tamed. She no longer connected with them.

People crowded around her, someone reaching for her arm, but she broke away. Their voices overwhelmed her and soon blended together. Clump, clump, clump. All in time. It felt wrong, evil. Like a memory from another place.

The girl rushed into the rain. It penetrated her hair, her jacket, her skin. It melted into her and she stood alone, realising this was what it meant. No longer tentative. No longer lonely. She dissolved. No longer even a girl, just another part of the pattern.

A child stops. She stirs the puddle with a stick and watches the swirl of colours – crimsons and magentas and purples dancing on the surface, lost in a world of her own making until her mother pulls her away.

§§§

Bio:

Kathryn O'Halloran is a writer living in Melbourne, Australia. She has recently released her first novel, The Bad Girls' Club, and writes about many things at

http://www.kathrynohalloran.blogspot.com

# FWISH

copyright Mike Duron

Inspiration for the story:

When I wrote fwish, I'd been babysitting my cousin's seven year old daughter pretty regularly and she loved for me to read stories to her, which I did almost nightly. During the same period, I'd been reading a lot of Joyce and experimenting with form. One day, I wondered what it would be like to write a story that couldn't possibly be read out loud, but, when read silently, made perfect sense on various levels simultaneously. One quick example of the techniques I used to achieve this is when I write: "Th.e.s.h.c.ape." to represent two sentences simultaneously – so, "...the escape." and "the shape." Of course, a person can't read both versions out loud at the same time.

At the time I wrote this story, I googled the term fwish and found nothing – zero hits. Now, of course, google returns tons of hits. The title comes from a simple combination of the words 'fish' and 'wish' though, that's all.

§§§

dunce upon a rhyme there was a fwish who spoke a thousand tongues without a word. no air flowing from her lungs (as none she had), but waterium fluid gone by gills did power synapse patterns, forming images that shuffle (like*as the words inside your head), and, by this, was bornE the image of Th.e.s.h.c.ape.

she darted sharply to the bottom, by the gravel, linger there, she did, for seconds only humans might endure, and then – uP! AND THROUGH The surface, antranscend her world she did (though fwishes cannot fly, really.|:CanThey?:|).

down she came then; the terminus of interminable plight; the waking tor the fiction.

she landed on the fluffy pillow'surface and, her mouth opening, staying open for a moment, shutting to touch lipless edges, then gaping wide again |-(OverandoveR)-| .. . . .

heriris (the only one visible now) glowed no more, and her dilating, darkened pupil admitted the world without limit or judgment.

*****)(*****

Eveline, she thought; then, surprised, she thought again, for only the second time ever in words. Water light, she thought; Bottom strong.

She stayed on her side, tired and unable to resist this new force of gravity. She tried to lift her right fin, but realized, suddenly, she was a monster.

Her eyes closed (she now had lids to shut out the light), and she slept, dreaming of floating in her old world ... her old body ... her water.

*****)(*****

Her hunger woke her. She looked at the clock beside the bed – five p.m. She rolled onto her right side and saw the aquarium. Her old world seemed small from here. Perhaps it was merely an illusion. Her eyes were, after all, bigger – weren't they?

She felt her hair against her forehead and cheek. A few strands of grey had slipped past her lips (these new lips – so fleshy and uncontrollable!). She nibbled on the hair in her mouth. There was no flavor.

She thought again, in a single word this time. Eat!

She slid her naked body off the bed and fell onto her four paws, smelling a cat – somewhere. As she walked into the hallway, past the full-length mirror on the door, her nails clicking on the wooden floor, she saw her Grey, curly coat in the reflection (Grrrrrr....); then, after peeking behind the door, realized she was growling at herself.

The hunger bothered her still, though, so she followed the scent of the cat. Her mouth watered at the thought of the cat's soft neck inside her mouth. She felt the cat's fur on her tongue and tasted the blood. She could hear the high-pitched "rrreeeeeeOOOOWWWW!!!" of her dinner's pain.

Her long, slender legs moved her quickly down the hallway and she followed the scent of her food, wagging her tail involuntarily in anticipation of the kill. The scent of the cat grew stronger and, as it did, she trotted faster and faster, until she was almost running. She moved downstairs and into the living room, her anticipation and hunger growing with the strength of the scent.

Then, she saw it.

In the window, beside the door, the shadow of her dinner sat licking its rump. The animal was outside though. She let out a high, whining moan and walked in a circle. Outside!

She slobbered spit and whined again; then, giving up, she lay on the floor and rested her jaw on her front paws.

She whined again and fell asleep, her hunger chewing her pleasure.

She dreamt of a cloud.

*****)(*****

Jason got home at eight. He walked upstairs and undressed in his room, wanting both to eat and sleep at the same time, if he could. Eat!

He moved quickly to the aquarium and looked inside. No goldfish.

"Ha-haaaa! Good girl!" he laughed, tapping hard on the glass.

A rustling began to emanate from the aquarium and he saw the gravel move.

"Good girl!" smiled Jason; "Did you like the little fishy?"

A turtle's head emerged from the gravel. The animal's nose was long and straw-like. Jason watched, his face animated with joy, as the turtle broke the surface of the water with the tip of its nose, took a few breaths and retracted its little head.

*****)(*****

She was now a bird, swimming above the neighborhood, feeling the sunshine on her back and the wind on her feathers.

§§§

# The Day It Snowed In The Body Of Christ

copyright Kerry Dwyer

Inspiration for the story:

In 2012 I met some colleagues, including one from the USA, at a business meeting in the north of France. We sat around the table, chatting and telling our stories after dinner, just getting to know one another. My colleague from the USA said, "I once lived in The Body of Christ." She told us about what life was like there, especially for someone who isn't Spanish. The best part of her story was about the time it snowed and people were just amazed. They didn't go to work even though there really wasn't much snow, not compared with what someone from the North of the country like herself was used to. I thought about that for a year and it became this story, written especially for this anthology.

§§§

"And that's your story is it?"

"Shhh! Let her tell it, it's her story let her tell it."

"But that's a stupid title, how can it snow in a body..."

"Hush! It's her story, you had your turn. Put some more wood on the fire and listen. Go on, Judy, please, tell us your story."

"Thanks, Joel. Do I start again? Right at the beginning?"

"Sure, start again, we're listening, aren't we, Prue?"

"Sure!"

"OK, so that's my story, the story of the day it snowed in the Body of Christ. That was the day I came. My mother told it, and my father too, and now I will tell it.

"The cold weather the night before was unusual, even for December. No one expected to wake to a world covered in a blanket of white and cold. Many people in the Body of Christ hadn't seen snow ever. Some of the kids didn't know what it was. They asked their parents, 'Is this what Christmas looks like?' Well, yes and no. Sure this was Christmas, and this is what it looked like on the greetings cards that came from England and the North, but this was not what Christmas looked like in the Body of Christ.

"Everyone was outside. The old women, from head to foot in black, crossed themselves and leant heavily on sticks and younger people as they shuffled their feet in their good black shoes, hoping not to slip on the way to church. They muttered and looked to the sky as if to berate the deity who had sent this curse to old and fragile legs on the one day of the year when attendance at His house was obligatory. The snow sloshed into their shoes, causing more muttered curses as the icy water crept up their legs, using the thick stockings to mount up to hemlines.

"Children, wrapped against the cold, rushed through the streets, all eager to get to the beach, so sure that even the ocean would be covered in white on this magical day. Their whoops and cries of delight could be heard all though the Body of Christ as they scooped up the snow and threw it at their delighted playmates. Their pink faces, unused to the freshness of the air, lit up at the new sights around every bend. Palm tree fronds, bright green and brilliant white, weighed down with snow, sprang up as their load slipped and toppled onto the delighted throng underneath.

"At the beach, families marched along the sand. The children ran in excited circles around the adults. Over-stimulated dogs yapped at their heels as the children cried to go back into the town, back into the snow. The salt on the beach had made short work of returning the snow to the ocean."

"But what about your mum? You said your mum told it."

"I'm getting to that bit."

"Taking your time about it."

"Hush, Prue, don't interrupt. If you don't want to listen, make some tea. Go on, Judy. Go on with your story."

"So that was the morning: the town woke and all was white and my mother woke and she screamed. She screamed seeing all that white outside her window and my father rushed to her _'¿Que pasa t-il poco pollo? ¿Tiens pena?'_ He held her hand and touched her head. She was white and her eyes wide. She stared out of the window and looked at the Body of Christ, all white, all the way to Grandma's house, all the way to the chapel, all the way to the beach. Only when she glimpsed the ocean did she calm. The ocean hadn't changed. The beach was still brown and the ocean still reflected the grey of the sky. 'No, I'm not in pain. I'm fine now. I thought my dream had come true.' She turned and held onto my father. He sighed, then smiled a smile that went all the way to his eyes.

"'It's just snow, _poco pollo_. The old women think it is a curse from God and you think it is your dream come true.'

"He hugged her and smoothed a hand over the big tight belly, feeling the life within it move. Then he made to sit on the bed next to my mother to hold her better. Putting his hand down on the bed he felt the wetness. He lifted his hand from the wet stickiness and said gently to my mother, ' _Es el tiempo_ , darling. I will call the ambulance'. "

"What about the dream? You haven't told us about the dream!"

"That bit doesn't come yet. I have to tell the story in the right order or I'll forget bits."

"OK, but don't forget the dream."

"No one answered the call to the ambulance station. No one answered the call to the maternity hospital. Everyone was outside looking at the snow, touching the snow, tasting the snow, playing in the snow. He rang the emergency number. There were no drivers free. Because it was Christmas day only a few drivers were supposed to be on duty and 'well you can see the snow, señor, it would be dangerous to drive'. Some of the drivers had called in to say they couldn't go to work. Then there were the old women who had slipped in the snow who had to be fetched. No, there were no drivers.

"My father helped my mother down the stairs and picked up the bag that had been ready for weeks by the front door. He helped her out of the house and into his car and drove her slowly to the clinic. My mother was calm and my father says she looked serene. At the clinic there were no cars and the car park was still a white iced cake with not one cherry. He parked at the door and rang the bell but there was no movement from inside. He turned the car around leaving a perfect circle of tracks in the sugar frosting. He drove along the Corpus Christi bay, keeping the ocean on his right, heading for the First Presbyterian. My mother steadied herself by staring at the Ocean.

"'I can't imagine not being able to see the Ocean,' she said. 'It is always there, always moving and always the same. Even this miracle today will not change it.'

"'Our baby?' whispered my father.

"'No, the snow.'

"At the First Presbyterian a nurse took my mother's hand and guided her into a wheelchair. ' _Note inquietas cuidaremos de usted,_ ' she said kindly, although who the 'we' were she didn't say. There was only her. 'She had a dream,' explained my father. 'She has had the dream often and this morning the snow frightened her.' The nurse nodded as though it all made perfect sense. 'Tell me the dream, señora,' she said as she wheeled my mother into one of the consulting rooms. She told my father to fetch the trolley and switch on the steriliser to boil the water.

"My father helped my mother climb up onto the examination table, too narrow for a birth but the nurse stroked my mother's hair and she knew it would be alright. My mother began her story as the nurse towelled off the steam from the instrument steriliser that had clung to her face, making it glisten. My father and the nurse moved around her as quietly as possible, watching for movements and listening to the story. For one a new story, for the other one he had heard many times.

"'My baby grows every day inside me and I grow too. I look at my belly and I see it pushed out as far as it can possibly grow. The skin is stretched so tight it must surely burst; my navel protrudes rudely. I feel like a pressure cooker coming up to steam. I can't lie down or rest. My belly can't stretch any more and yet the baby inside me continues to grow. It needs more room, and so I grow to accommodate its need. I push upwards and outwards, increasing in size and filling my bed. My belly relaxes and my skin is no longer taught: my baby moves inside me more freely and I can sleep.

"'When I wake, the baby has grown and once more pushes out against the wall of my uterus. I need to grow bigger and so I push up and out. And every time I sleep the baby grows, and when I wake I have to grow again to give it space and my body comfort. I grow like Alice to fill the house, with one leg sticking out of a window and another out of the door. The roof explodes off the house and shatters into gingerbread pieces which all the children come to eat. Then the windows explode into sugar frosting and the children eat more and more of my house. As they eat all the sweets the children get smaller and I get bigger. Eventually I am so big that my feet reach down to the chapel and my head is on the beach. My belly is now so swollen that it blots out the sun. All the children are as small as ants, but still eating my house.

"'Suddenly my waters break and they create a wave so strong and so plentiful that the whole of Corpus Christi is covered in the white sticky waters. It flows around the chapel and down to the ocean. It covers the beach and further, flowing over the sea, covering and stilling the tide. When the flow stops there is an overwhelming stillness and silence, almost unbearable. I look around me and all is calm and white stretching on forever. There are no people, no buildings, no beach, no trees and no ocean. There is nothing except me and the whiteness. I am so afraid to be alone in the white and I don't know where my baby is.

"'That is when I normally wake up.'

"' _Todo es termindo señora,'_ the nurse told my mother as she wiped her brow. My mother woke from her reverie and saw me for the first time, there in my father's arms, wrapped up like a parcel in a white blanket. 'It's a little _muchacha_ ,' my father said. He grinned at my mother and put me in her arms.

"And that is my story, my story of the day it snowed in the Body of Christ. It was my mother's story and now it is mine."

"I liked the dream bit best, that was one weird dream."

"I'm glad you liked my story, Prue: not so daft now?"

"No, not at all. Here, have some tea and come closer to the fire."

"It's your turn now, Joel. Tell us your story now!"

§§§

Bio:

My life changed tremendously when I moved from the UK to south west France with my husband. This was not solely due to the cultural differences between the two countries. I also moved from a city to a country life, became a mother and later an English teacher. In London I had worked in finance and my life was one big rush. They take things a lot more slowly here in a little French village. I have now slowed down several cogs and really appreciate the way of life I have here. I love nature and walking in the countryside around my home. If you would like to find out more please visit <http://kerrydwyer.com/>

# The Other Jamie

copyright Annie Harmon

Inspiration for the story:

Every year my husband and I choose one of our vacations to be on a ship. That's always our favorite. The endless body of water, the occasional glimpse of a whale or dolphin, and the night watch for the bioluminescence of the marine plankton whipped up by the ship. Oh, and no cooking! At All! So when asked to write a story involving water, my mind when straight to a cruise. And then the next logical question was, what would I do if I were on a cruise all by myself? Well, of course I would act like a famous somebody and whip up all sorts of attention! Well, my main character was quite a recluse to start with, so she didn't leap that high. But she sure did stick her foot in it!

§§§

Kari pulled away from her new admirer and squinted down at her phone. It had buzzed again and the bright sunlight made the surface of her screen a mirror. She tucked it between her knees and bent her head over the phone to read her neighbor Jamie's text: I wish U could see this - our balcony room is glorious! Rick just loves hanging over the side to feel the waves!

Although Kari was sick to death of hearing about this glorious balcony room, she tapped on her keyboard: I'm so happy for U. Wish I could take a cruise...

The text screen popped back: U'd be expected to have fun. U wouldn't like it...

A couple of weeks ago Kari's feelings would have been hurt, because a couple of weeks ago it would have been true. But now there was salt evaporated onto her skin, the tip of her nose was peeling, and her eyes were looking at life for the first time. She didn't need Jamie to tell her how wonderful this ship was. She had already experienced the comedy shows, and the casinos, and the array of handsome men on board. One in particular was keeping her very entertained. So instead she responded: What are you doing now?

Jamie texted: We're heading to the ballroom. There's a rumor that the first ones to sign up for a towel folding class will get a free bathrobe!

Good. Kari closed her phone, stood up and stretched until she felt the elastic of her bathing suit pull away from her skin. Then she faced the stern, away from the ballroom. "I think I'd like a dip in the hot tub. Care to join me?"

David watched her sarong drop onto the dry planking. Although his legs were stiff from sitting on the sun bleached deck, he pulled himself up and grabbed her hand. He smiled and his full lips spread wide. "I'd be foolish to let you stray too far. Someone else might catch your eye!"

Kari blushed. She almost floated along the promenade beside her dark-haired beau, running her free hand along the varnished railing that circled the entire cruise ship. To her left, the ocean glinted with flying fish and the waves moved leisurely toward eternity. Kari thought she could go on like this forever. She didn't even feel like she was pretending anymore when she tried out one of Jamie's lines: "Now don't you go falling for me, you'll only embarrass yourself!"

And it worked! She was sure if he'd had a tail, he'd be wagging it. He stopped to face her and ran his hands over her exposed hips, "Jamie, you tease, but it's true – I could absolutely embarrass myself falling for you. Yet, I wouldn't mind it one bit. It'd be like skydiving. I might fall and get hurt, but I'm still going to be glad I did it! Now I'm in the middle of an adventure with you... the way you just make life up as you go." David leaned in and rubbed his Grecian nose against her smaller snubbed one and whispered, "But you're not planning to let me fall on my face, are you?"

Kari grinned. She slipped out of his embrace and pulled his long, tanned fingers until they were entwined in hers again, and led him to the steps of the hot tub. "Adventures are tricky things, you know. There's so much planning that could go wrong, it seems senseless to think it all through. Take this trip for example. We would never have met if I had thought about it too hard."

"How's that?" David asked.

"Well, I was trying to decide on where to go this year and I just couldn't." Kari stood rooted at the base of the hot tub.

David dipped his foot into the water, "Perfect." He slid the firm mass of his legs through the chlorine foam that clung to the edge. "And how'd you decide?"

She giggled, surprised by the answer that suddenly occurred to her. She recalled Jamie sticking her head over their shared back fence, glibly stating that she and her husband would be flying to Jamaica. Kari, already impressed with Jamie's life right there in Houston, stupidly asked why Jamie was flying to Jamaica. Jamie had laughed: 'Because I'm sure not going to swim there!' Imagining Jamie's response, she said, "I wasn't sure where I wanted to go this time," she liked the sound of that, this time, as if she was so accustomed to exciting escapades, "so I threw a dart at a map of the world. It landed in the ocean and I figured, well, I'm sure not going to swim there!"

David laughed, his eyes turning more blue than green. "Jamie, you keep being so cute and I'm going to want to marry you!"

Kari's heart melted. "You can try..." she started to say, then she looked around her and realized she'd forgotten something, "...but it'll have to wait until I get back. I must have left my sarong on the promenade."

From around the corner of the piazza, Jamie sneered. She had spotted Kari on the ship on the very first day. That mousy, four eyed neighbor of hers had ditched her glasses, dyed her hair blond and cut it in a bob, but there was no mistaking her. Her mind raced to the possibility that Kari might have figured out the plan. Was it possible Kari came here to put a stop to it? Jamie's first thought was, 'I'll kill the stupid bitch.' But as she watched Kari flip her newly colored hair back and laugh with a throaty, "Oh, ha!", Jamie realized what was happening.

Now Jamie's grey eyes tracked Kari as she scurried away with her new playmate, and once she felt safe from discovery, Jamie returned to her husband.

"Honey, I think tonight should be special." She squeezed his hand and tried to look adoringly into his eyes without wanting to throw up. "I want to order champagne in our room and watch the waves on the balcony. It'll be so romantic!"

Rick made that constipated face that he often made when he thought his wife was killing his idea of fun. "I think they've got a card game starting at eight, so..."

Jamie sweetened the features of her heart-shaped face, and suggestively rubbed suntan oil onto her chest. She watched his expression switch from annoyed to curious, and then, 'thank you, Jesus,' his mustache twitched. She knew the idea that he might be getting lucky had finally clicked. Still, Rick looked up at her with a suspicious eye as he mentally calculated not only his chances at success, but also how long it would take.

Jamie took her cue and rubbed the lotion over the round of her left breast, and while Rick leered, she cupped her hand under the material of her bikini and squeezed the oil softly from the base of her breast to the tip. The putz smoothed his now rapidly twitching mustache, "We can get crazy for twenty minutes maybe... but when I'm done I don't want you trying to stop me. The poker game still starts at eight."

Instead of telling Rick to go fuck himself, as she so desperately wanted to, Jamie smiled and reached into his shirt pocket for the room key. She placed it in his hands. "Good. Now go get me a boat drink – what was the one that won the bar contest last night? The Sasquatch. Get one of those." She lay back down in her plastic lounge chair and closed her eyes.

Kari smiled as she fantasized about a new life with her hunky David. She picked up the sarong that was left forgotten on the deck, and now she thought she'd head to the Piazza bar and grab a couple of drinks to take back with her. But the same thought kept tickling the back of her mind. How could she continue to be like Jamie after she returned home? It was hard enough here on the cruise ship with Jamie here as well. It was the worst run of luck. Why had Jamie and Rick changed their minds and taken this cruise instead of flying?

Deep in thought, Kari rounded the corner of the Lido deck and stopped short. She pulled her hand through her freshly cut hair and looked across the piazza at the same haircut, the original cut from which she had shaped her own. Why wasn't Jamie in the ballroom? Damn it, she would just die of embarrassment if her neighbor saw her!

Kari ducked into the nearest hatchway. She pulled out her phone and typed: So, did U get the bathrobes?

Kari did a quick peek around the corner to see Jamie pulling her phone up off the wooden planks. Jamie's head started to swivel around and Kari pulled her own back. 'Oh, my God!' she thought. 'I can't keep doing this!'

Her phone lit up: Forget the bathrobe! U should see the cute elephant I'm making with just two towels and a wash cloth – I'm so buying the book!

Kari could actually feel her jaw drop. Jamie wouldn't fake having fun. Fun came naturally to Jamie. That's why Jamie was the perfect person to be while on vacation. But now that Kari thought about it, in what world would Jamie ever get excited about folding towels?

So, why would Jamie say she was playing with laundry, when she was actually doing something much more Jamie – lying in a deck chair looking gorgeous and soaking up the sun?

Kari backed away from the corner, until she finally felt safe turning to walk the other way. Did it really matter? As long as Jamie kept telling her where she was going to be, everything would work out fine. Except now she knew that Jamie wasn't always where she said she was. Jamie had lied – for whatever reason – and eventually they'd run smack dab into each other. And Kari's game would be up.

Kari felt a shadow of clouds fall over her. Up above, the sky was losing its blue. Kari thought about it as she walked closer to the railing and looked down. When the awareness hit, it shook her: she couldn't ever go back to being mousy Kari. Somehow, she had to keep Jamie out of the picture. Several stories below her, the waves took on a new energy, washing up over the hull of the ship as if they hoped to get on board. For a second, she thought... no, Kari shook her head. She wasn't that kind of person. There had to be another way...

Jamie saw Kari's head zip back around the corner. So now they both knew. So what? She could at least have a little fun with the idiot... the most important thing was that Kari's phone still had the texts that showed Jamie's happy marriage to an idiot husband who liked leaning too far over the balcony. She had actually laughed out loud as she texted her reply about how much she was enjoying the towel folding class. See what she made of that!

Then Jamie got up and met Rick in the bar. "Let's not wait for champagne. When you get my drink, just bring it down to the room. I'll be waiting." She stretched those last words out in a singsong voice full of promise.

The time was right, and she had to prepare the room.

A strong gust of wind pushed against Jamie as she opened the door to the interior rooms. She let the door slam behind her and pushed the elevator button for the third level.

Kari returned to David with her sarong gripped tightly in her hands. He was waiting for her, and she watched sadly as a porter pulled the gate to the closed hot tub. David wrapped his arm around her waist and guided her away. "They think we're in for a storm tonight. They're battening down the hatches, as they say."

"Is that what they say?" she answered absently.

She looked all around her; everything was grey. Whatever was coming, it was coming fast. It was just as well. She was tired of playing hide-and-seek with Jamie.

"Perhaps we'll just go to your room?"

Outside Jamie's room, the waves grew under the hull and threatened to tip the floating city onto its side. And that would make her story even more convincing; the timing was indescribably perfect. Jamie listened as Rick fumbled to open the door without spilling their drinks. She repositioned herself on the bed, calling out, "Hon?" as she watched him kick the door shut.

Rick braced himself against the roll of the ship, his elbows extended as he struggled to stay in possession of most of the fruity blue liquid he carted the last few feet to their bed.

"Let me help you with the drinks, darling." Jamie cooed as she reached over and accepted both of the curvy glasses from Rick.

Rick, thinking of the next twenty minutes – and that was eighteen minutes more than he needed – quickly peeled off his shorts. While he stripped, Jamie tipped the packet of Chloral hydrate into one of the drinks. Then she popped the pineapple garnish from the other one into her mouth, marking which was hers. Rick's clammy hands would not even get the chance to touch her body, not if she worked quickly.

Kari felt uncomfortable in David's room. Her bathing suit was wet, her sarong was wet, her hair was wet, and so was her mood. She wasn't about to walk around naked in his room – she wasn't that far along in being Jamie. But she couldn't quite tell him that. She laid a towel down on his bed and sat. She looked down at her hands and waited for him to say something.

When he did speak, it wasn't what she expected to hear. He sat down next to her and placed his hand over hers, "I think you've got another text from that number you've been chatting with." He spoke so softly it took a moment for the words to make any sense.

"Oh!" she squeaked, once she realized what he meant. And with all her heart Kari wished Jamie would just go away somehow. But still, she picked up her phone and looked.

Jamie tried and tried to force the balcony door open. It just wouldn't budge. It occurred to her that the stewards must have entered her room and locked everything down at the first sign of the storm. Why hadn't she checked the door first? She could just kick herself! Instead, Jamie decided to kick Rick. His unconscious body slumped farther over the chair, making him look so pathetic. He looked subdued... weak... feeble...

...Like Kari! When the idea took shape, she realized how lucky she had been with this whole trip. Instead of drowning, he would suffocate. She would just hold this pillow over his head and wait until his lungs stopped struggling for air. She giggled shamelessly as the images flashed through her mind and she began putting her plan together.

Rick's breath had been so shallow from the roofy, she hardly noticed when he took his last. When she was confident that it was done, she stepped away from her now ex-husband, and turned her attention to her room safe. Inside was every dime she had saved, every bit of which she refused to share with Rick. And her passport. She stuffed the contents into her carryon, then grabbed her keycard and her phone. Jamie gave the room one last look and decided to adjust the lighting. Then she slipped out of the room, propping the door open with her keycard.

I M IN UR ROOM

Kari gasped as she read the text. David's hand squeezed hers in alarm. "Jamie, what is it?"

"I need to go," Kari was reaching for her keycard even as she said it. "I need to go, right now."

Kari raced down the passageway, taking in the cabin doors as one big blur. Jamie was onto her, and was going to rat her out! If she could catch Jamie and shut her up before David caught up – but how could she shut Jamie up? What was her plan? Once she had crossed to the port side of the ship and passed the laundry room she slowed enough to read the numbers. She found her own, and her keycard fumbled to fit into the slot. When the green light appeared she pushed down on the handle and into the room. Her eyes darted around, looking for Jamie. She was in such a rage she could almost imagine hitting Jamie over the head and stuffing her under the bed. Almost.

But as Kari's eyes finished devouring the whole ten feet of living space, the only thing that appeared to have been disturbed was her wall safe. It was open. Kari walked over, almost relieved that Jamie had left, but her heart thumped wildly. She pushed the door the rest of the way open and looked inside. Her passport was still there, but it lay funny. Propped up like a tepee, like a book waiting to be read. She picked it up. Her picture was the same as when she boarded, but its position seemed slightly off. The thin layer of plastic that coated it was bubbled, but that wasn't the part that made her tremble. Under her picture was her name. Her vacation name:

Jamie Kilgore

3806 Nightingale Ridge

Houston Texas

That was not how her passport was supposed to read. As she stared at her altered passport in growing horror, the pieces fell into place. The abrupt change in vacation plans, the repeated comments about the balcony. She jerked her head up and scanned the room again. She knew she had to find Jamie.

Kari punched the elevator button over and over until the lift finally reached her floor. Jumping inside, it seemed an absolute eternity before the doors shut and lowered her to the third floor. She knew which room was Jamie's. From the looks of it, they both had spent as much time spying on the other as they had spent doing other activities. She reached Jamie's room and pushed the door open. A keycard fell to the ground; Kari picked it up and entered the room.

The storm outside had darkened the room and Kari felt for the light switch. Soft light touched down in the entryway and Kari thought she saw someone in the shadows over by the balcony. "Jamie?" she called quietly, letting the door swing closed behind her.

As she inched closer, she thought she heard a clicking sound from the door, but she was focused on Jamie. "Jamie, I can't let you kill Rick. You know that." She thought about it a moment, then she tucked her passport into her bathing suit band and reached out with both hands. "And I can't go back to being Kari." She knew if she got rid of Jamie, she would be saving Rick. She knew she wanted this enough to do it. But she didn't know why Jamie wasn't answering her.

She didn't waste time thinking about it.

Kari pounced on top of the shadow and pressed down on what felt like a rough face – again, no time to think about it – just as a flashlight beam caught her square in the eyes. As quickly as she lifted her arm to shield her eyes it was grabbed and brought behind her back.

"Jamie Kilgore, we're going to need you to come with us." Kari stared in horror at the officer gripping her arm. Then she looked down at Rick.

And being Jamie was no longer fun.

§§§

Bio:

Annie Harmon lives in Houston (specifically Atascocita) Texas,USA, but has lived in many of our beautiful states. She has one husband (all she can handle) three children (who are each more beautiful than she could have hoped) and one dog (who is still trying to claim a spot as one of the above mentioned).

Annie's writing credits include a novel, For Sarah; two children's books, The Night Before and The Argument; ghostwriting several chapters of a nonfiction book, The Black Years; publishing a local magazine, Zine, – directed towards the literary encouragement of young people; contributing to the Sun News newspaper with a regularly published humor column on raising children, "Raising New Mexico"; and editorial assistance to the Tucson Parent Magazine.

http://www.houstonchildrensbooks.com

# River Girl

copyright Dax Christopher

Inspiration for the poem:

River Girl is a somewhat frivolous account of a fictional encounter the narrator has with the residents of a small town. The residents believe that there are no consequences to letting their waste be carried away by the river that flows by the town. It's a not-so-subtle reminder that we, as a global society, can't afford to shirk accountability when it comes to caring for the only home we're ever likely to have...

§§§

I had been around the world, maybe once, maybe twice,  
I had seen hills of fire, I had seen caps of ice.  
My lungs had had the pleasure of breathing clean air  
And I had met a million people both dark skinned and fair.  
I had tried to climb Everest, I had walked the Great Wall,  
I had lived in the cities where the acid rain falls.  
I had spent my life roaming the Earth, and unwisely  
I thought that its people could no more surprise me  
'Til on my way home, when I passed through a town  
With a curious method to care for its grounds.  
A welcoming sight, this quaint little 'ville,  
It had put down its roots at the base of a hill.  
And off near the outskirts where flowers were growing  
A clear, gentle river was silently flowing.  
The people were friendly, and as I passed through  
I was asked if I'd stop for a minute or two.  
Seeing no reason to rush out of town,  
I decided it couldn't hurt to slow my pace down.  
I was offered a meal just before I would leave  
Of the finest ingredients your mouth would believe.  
I thanked all my hosts for the food and well wishes  
And asked them if I could help out with the dishes.  
I needed to know to where I should deliver  
The waste and they all pointed me toward the river.  
"Just walk to the edge, just a quarter of a mile,"  
I was told, "River Girl cleans it up with a smile."  
"I'm sorry," I said, "I don't think that I follow;  
Just who is this girl you claim likes to wallow  
In trash left by others after every such meal?  
Seems a little farfetched to be taken for real."  
"You'll see," they all told me, "just go out and drop it;  
The River Girl waits down the river and mops it."  
"Does she live around here?" I asked of my hosts,  
"Or are we talking about some unnatural ghost?"  
"She's as real as the dinner you just got done eating,  
But she's too busy cleaning to stop for a meeting."  
"Has anyone seen her? Does she ever come through,  
Or is this just a story your grandparents knew?"  
One of the oldest then answered my questions  
With a short but convincing local history lesson.  
"My daddy told me, and his daddy told him,  
That the River Girl lives in the river to swim.  
If she sees something stray getting swept by the current  
She cleans it right up like a good little servant."  
"Good enough," I then told them, "I won't make a fuss;  
In your Tolkien-like legends and folklore I trust."  
I carried the garbage straight down to the river,  
But my eyes couldn't find their mysterious swimmer.  
I looked down the bank and saw others from town,  
Having finished their meals, each one throwing down  
An armful of trash they had made at their feast,  
But not one had a care or concern in the least.  
With a sigh and a shrug I then followed my orders  
And watched all my trash float down the town's border.  
I couldn't quite make trash in the river belong,  
So I spoke to myself about what might be wrong.  
"The people who live here may not simply care,  
But I wonder if there really is someone down there."  
I walked for a day and a night and again,  
'Til I finally stood at the long river's end.  
And of all of the wonders I've seen in the world,  
It's this that stays with me: there was no River Girl.  
It emptied out into a large, vast expanse  
And I watched more trash slowly make its advance  
On the mouth of the river and then on forevermore  
As it all found its way to some poor, foreign shore.  
My suspicions confirmed, my hope torn asunder,  
I stood by the river and stoically wondered  
How many River Girls toil away  
In the minds of her locals who think her a slave?  
How many problems get dumped in a river  
And forgotten thanks to a supernatural swimmer?  
How many towns think this righteous and fair,  
Not knowing there never was a River Girl there?  
The River Girl is the most pleasant story around,  
And we can keep looking, but she'll never be found.  
When I made my way home by way of the sea,  
The first thing I did was set my River Girl free.

§§§

# House Under Water

copyright Anthea Carson

Inspiration for the story:

House Under Water is a story inspired by a dream.

§§§

I lived in this gigantic old Victorian mansion down at the bottom of the ocean. Don't even ask me how many rooms it had 'cause I don't know even now. I tried counting them one time. I got so lost it was seven hours before I found my way out. I had to leave the house through some mysterious side passage, out into the side garden, then walked around to the front and re-entered through the front door with the stained glass window.

It was hard walking through that garden, you know? It was so tough, keeping my feet on the sand, what with how I kept floating up, and had to fight and flap my arms to get back down again. I figured out that if you could get your feet tangled in the seaweed and weird ocean floor plants and junk down there that they could keep you grounded as much as anything else.

Anyway, I got back in, and just basically never tried again. Not that I didn't wonder. But all I really needed were the main rooms I hung out in. These included the front room, of course, which had nice furniture. It had a wooden table and chairs, and a bench next to a book shelf. And the stuff didn't float around in there like you'd think: it all stayed put and I could use it, and as long as I was inside the house the water didn't really bother me. I didn't float up to the ceiling like you'd think I would. I didn't get that drowny feeling like you can't breathe. I breathed just fine, and took deep breaths and walked around looking at the beautiful pictures on the wall.

There were pictures of relatives on the wall, old grandmothers and great aunts, and it pretty much showed that they'd all lived down here at one time or another in their lives. I wondered a lot of things, like I wondered what they did with all their free time. I know what I did. I walked around a lot, trying to figure out which room I was in. Like, if I went upstairs, how come it always seemed like a different set of rooms up there? And how did the hallways all seem to change shape and direction? Or was that just my imagination?

I know I made it sound like I was alone down there. I'm sure you probably figured that. But I wasn't. There were plenty of people there. I kept things going pretty straight with all of them too, you know? We didn't have any problems with each other. I'm sure it didn't hurt that none of the people seemed to be the same people from one minute to the next. They would be someone I worked with one minute, or someone I knew from the past, or just some random face like one you see in a crowd. They would appear, and yeah, sometimes they did look a little weird, like as if they couldn't breathe or something, even though I could. Or their eyes would look all huge and scared. And sometimes their hair was all wild around their face, flying like they were underwater, which they were.

But there was one problem though. Well, actually it really wasn't a problem, not technically. It was more like a glitch. And I didn't even notice that it was a problem until Sylvia, my cousin whom I hadn't seen in, like, 20 years or so, appeared suddenly, walking beside me from I think the kitchen, which was big and very intricate, to the back spiral staircase that went up to a different upstairs than the other stairs. She was holding on to the railing, or running her hand alongside on the banister, you know how people do? And her hair wasn't standing up or waving around or anything like that: it was just laying straight and black, long, past her shoulders like her hair does. And she still had her freckles on and her funny laugh and smart eyes like she always did. But she asked me something that really made me think. And that's when I noticed the glitch.

She said, "How do you manage this? How do you manage to do this?"

"Do what?" I asked, puzzled.

"I mean, how do you manage to breathe under water? And live at the bottom of the ocean like this?"

Now, the odd thing about this question is she wasn't having any trouble breathing down there. But I passed this off as, oh, she's not really down here, she's just asking as a passer-through, you know? Or not staying, or some explanation like that.

Because that's pretty much what Sylvia always was in my life, a passer-through. Not staying. Or you could say it was me that wasn't staying, since it was always us visiting them out there in California, which is right next to the ocean, and their house was near the ocean, or at least a lot nearer to the ocean than ours was growing up in freezing Wisconsin. So I think that explains the connection and what she was doing down there and all of that.

Why her and not someone else? Oh, that's easy. It's 'cause she was so smart and all, and so if I was ever impressed with myself it was probably because I had impressed her.

So I turned away from her and looked around at the swirling images in the old house. I could see through the windows the sea creatures that swam by and looked in. Big, some of them. With large, blinking stupid eyes and pursing lips. They looked like they might like to eat me alive, some of them, but they didn't scare me. Nothing did. At least nothing in here. Not in these rooms, or outside them.

But that brings me back to her question. So I looked back at her and said, "I'm fine, as long as I don't go in this one room."

"This one room? Which room is that?" she asked.

"Well," I said, and I had to think about it for a minute because I didn't like to think about this room. I wasn't sure where it was. And like I told her, I was fine, breathing at the bottom of the ocean, living in that underwater house, as long as I didn't go in that room. But I wanted to show her where that room was and let her see what I was talking about. I would have told her about it instead of showing it to her but I couldn't remember it, couldn't figure out where it was or what was wrong with it, since I tried to stay out of it.

I tried not to stumble into it as well so, like, those times when I was wandering through the passageways and hall, and up the ever increasing numbers of stairways, counting rooms, I was always a little bit nervous that I could accidentally open that door and end up in that room. So now that I was consciously looking for it do you think I could find it?

Well, we tried, the two of us, me and passerby Sylvia. We went through hallway after hallway opening doors and looking inside and me shaking my head and saying no and closing them. Sometimes there were rooms within rooms, and we would walk through those and look in closets too, in case those were rooms.

We saw all kinds of things, like those old fashioned bathtubs that stand separately from the floor. They stand on legs. But everything was already filled with water so they really seemed kind of pointless. Maybe not though, because I distinctly remember relaxing in one of them, just a few evenings ago. It was twilight. It was usually twilight, and the sound of birds singing sounded so soothing to me as I lay there, wondering where on earth the sound was coming from. Wondering vaguely, you know, not enough to get up and open my eyes or anything like that.

We turned corners, tried out beds and chairs, just like this was Goldilocks or something, and just when I was ready to scream in frustration she gasped.

"Here, how about this room? Is this the one?"

I grabbed her hand to stop her. I knew this was the one. I knew, but how did she know?

"Don't open it," I hissed.

"Why not? Can't I see what's in there?"

I held my breath. Suddenly I couldn't feel my breath. Suddenly I had this terrible feeling I was going to drown if I didn't swim up, swim quickly.

"Don't open it!"

"I have to." She had always been too curious, that Sylvia. "I got to know."

And with that she opened it.

The light from inside was both brighter than the rest of the house and dimmer at the same time: dimmer because it was a haunting light, the light of the past, brighter because it was the only place I wanted to be.

"The nursery," I said, and stopped the cry that began somewhere near the pit of my lungs. "It's the nursery."

And sure enough, I looked inside, and there was the rocking chair, still rocking, and the baby crib, and the little toys, and all her clothes, and her bottle and the Bo Peep lamp that sat so delicately on the round table with the very small table top.

I started to go in, and fingers like panic seized me around the neck, choking me.

"I have to go, I have to go up. I can't breathe!"

I struggled to leave the house but found I could no longer walk, and tried to swim to the window of the nursery but the windows were locked. I could still hear the tinkling sound of the wind up music box that played... what was that it played?

I tried to break the glass but it was impossible. I kicked and flopped around. I couldn't see her anymore and there was a glowing moon and stars painted on the wall. I could see them as I began to float up toward the ceiling.

§§§

Bio:

Anthea Carson is the author of The Dark Lake, a psychological suspense about a car that goes through the ice near the Great Lakes. She has several best-selling chess books, and has worked as a chess coach. Anthea lives in Colorado Springs with her husband and two children.

<http://antheajanecarson.com/>

# The Natural Seize

copyright K.A.Krisko

Inspiration for the story:

' _Natural Seize' was an opportunity for me to experience a story from the opposite point of view from the one in which I originally wrote it. I spent a lot of time standing on top of the cliff looking down; I wanted to go down and look back up. This was the result._

§§§

Jack Bright lowered his binoculars and glanced over his shoulder. The quick look provided him with a view of Kyle's backside. His cousin's son was draped over the aft port rail, retching into the Pacific.

Jack turned away quickly. He knew he shouldn't have brought Kyle. But the young man had begged him, partly to show his girlfriend a good time and partly because, he claimed, he wanted to see where his brother had died.

The Boston Whaler Conquest rolled in a figure-eight pattern in the swells that reverberated off the rocky cliffs. The girlfriend, Terry, sat on the forward deck, her back against the front of the pilothouse. Her expression was inscrutable beneath oversized sunglasses. She didn't seem to share Kyle's nausea.

Jack braced himself against the pilothouse on the starboard deck and raised the binoculars again. He followed the cliff face to the top, where the steeple of the castle's chapel poked into the sky: dark, Gothic and malevolent.

The castle. That damned castle.

"The end of earth as we know it," Jack muttered under his breath.

Kyle staggered over, face pale, and gripped the grab rail. "You think he's still up there?" he gasped, nodding briefly at the castle. "Maybe just held captive?"

Jack shook his head. "It's been too long, Kyle. Korrin's gone. We have to accept that. And this is the closest we're going to get to that thing at this point."

The hairs prickled along the back of Jack's neck, and he looked up at the sky. There was a big black bird up there, flying lazy circles, gradually working its way down closer to the boat. Jack wasn't fooled by the shape: that was no natural bird, but undoubtedly the castle's Lorecaster, its wizard, flying his shadow-form in the shape of a raven. After what Jack had done, or attempted to do, to the castle, the young Lorecaster was a sworn enemy.

Jack strode over to the pilothouse, ducked through the door, and started the boat's motors. He swung it around and headed further out to sea, partly to relieve Kyle's nausea. He slowed again just a quarter-mile south of where the castle loomed on the cliff. There a huge slump littered the base of the cliff with debris, including the remains of five houses and some of their occupants. All of them had been Jack's friends, co workers and employees of the environmental lobbying group Earth Natural, of which he was president.

Jack felt a twinge of guilt as the boat slipped quietly by the slump. After all, he had, at least indirectly, caused the slump when he'd tried to blow up that cursed castle on the hill. But all of the people who'd died had known what they were risking.

"Hey, there's a trail over there," Kyle said plaintively, pointing to the cliff near the slump. "Maybe we can take a little hike."

"That trail goes right up to the castle," Jack replied. But Kyle's pale face garnered some sympathy. Poor kid was still seasick.

"I can put the boat in around that outcropping past the slump," he acquiesced. "I've done it before. You can scramble up to the top of the rocks there, and it's far enough away from the castle to be safe."

"Maybe we can wait there, and you can drive back and pick us up after you bring the boat home," Kyle suggested miserably.

"The only road to this area runs past the castle, and the Lorecaster's house," Jack said. "Sorry. You have to go home on the boat."

They puttered past the outcropping and Jack swung the boat around behind it, bringing the bow up close to a big rock in a sheltered alcove. Terry threw the bumpers over and scrambled onto the rock, holding the bow-line. Jack cut the motors and followed Kyle out of the pilothouse. There were several trees rooted in the cracks of the rock, and he tied the boat off to one of them with a quick-release knot.

Terry scrambled easily over the rock and jumped down to a bit of sand behind it. Kyle, a little heavy around the middle, followed more slowly. Jack waited impatiently. He might be twice Kyle's age, but he was fit and agile.

Once off the rock, Jack led Terry and Kyle to the cliff and picked his way up through the boulders. He had visited this cove a number of times before. It was a way to get close to the castle, to observe what was going on there, without driving up to the isolated little neighborhood where it sat. He knew he could hike around the outcropping to the slump at low tide, but he'd also figured out how to scramble up to the top of the cliff.

Stunted firs clung to crevices here and there. Animal trails wound off through the deepening forest as they gained the top. The surge of the Pacific Ocean faded and the summer heat settled over them. A few insects settled on Jack's arms and neck.

They turned north at the top of the cliff. After a quarter-mile walk, Jack motioned Kyle and Terry to stop. He crept forward. A small neighborhood lay beyond, a few summerhouses in little clusters. Jack could see the raw edge of the residential road's pavement where the slump had taken the five houses closest to the cliff down to the sea below.

Kyle and Terry came up behind him and stood staring. The lower neighborhood, at whose southern edge they stood, was tucked in amongst the firs, drowsing in the mid-afternoon heat. The houses of the upper neighborhood were more exposed, and behind them the land rose steeply. On top of that rise stood the castle, sentient and malevolent.

Jack felt his pulse quicken. This was the closest he'd been to it in a long time, and he almost imagined it knew he was there. Involuntarily he stepped a little further behind the trunk of a tree.

"I can't believe Korrin walked in to that thing," Kyle whispered. "He had a lot of guts."

Or he was an idiot, Jack thought, but aloud he said, "Remember it wasn't as complete then as it is now. The bigger it gets, the more powerful it becomes. I'm sure Korrin wouldn't have gone in there if he didn't believe he had the advantage."

"He took the sword," Kyle said, his tone reverent.

"Yes. I wish we could get it back," Jack muttered. "One of the most valuable tools we had, and now it's in their hands."

Terry stood with her hands on her hips, a slight smile on her lips. She was not, after all, one of the Knights of Earth Natural, like Jack and Kyle. Kyle had told her about the castle, but Jack didn't know if she believed it.

"You want me to walk up there and get your sword?" she asked. She grinned as she said it. "I'm not one of you, your castle won't bother me. Right?"

"I'm not sure about that," Jack warned. "Besides, we have no idea where the sword is. Somebody would see you if you went wandering around up there and would want to know what you were doing. Most likely the Lorecaster."

"I've seen him before," Terry said. "Kyle pointed him out once in Seaside Heights. He's not so scary. Just a skinny guy with a unibrow and a ponytail."

"Don't underestimate him," Jack growled. "He's young and he doesn't know his power yet. But it's there, and he most likely knows you're connected to us, too. He was flying his raven-shadow around earlier."

Kyle and Terry both looked up at the sky, but the raven was not to be seen.

"You feeling better now?" Jack asked Kyle. "We should get back to the boat. This is risky; I don't know how far the castle's influence has spread, but we're probably at the edge of it."

"I guess," Kyle sighed. "Just get us back to the marina as quick as possible, okay? I feel better when you're going faster."

Jack led them back through the woods to where the trail dropped off towards the ocean. He paused a moment, his eye caught by motion above them. The raven was there again, circling lazily, high over the boat.

He let his eyes rest on the vessel a hundred feet below them. He'd taken the 27-foot ocean sport-fishing boat as partial settlement of a suit against a developer who'd failed to follow state environmental mitigation requirements. He'd named it the Natural Seize, a play on the name of his organization, Earth Natural. He smiled a little in satisfaction.

With a jolt of adrenalin, Jack realized that the Natural Seize floated free. It was no longer tied to the tree; the bow-line floated in front of it, and it backed slowly away from the shore, bobbing and rolling.

"Hey!" Jack yelled, as though the boat might respond. He scrambled down the cliff as fast as he could, slipping and sliding on the loose dirt. Several times he went down on his butt. His hands scraped against rough rock. Small prickly plants clinging to the barren cliff-side stabbed him. Finally he staggered onto the narrow gravelly beach at the bottom. He edged around the big rock on slippery stones. Waves washed back and forth, wetting his shoes. The boat floated just beyond his grasp.

Jack waded further into the ocean. The seawater was shockingly cold. He felt his jeans grow heavy. He thought for a moment that if he was going to swim, he should take them and his shoes off, but he didn't have time. The boat was picking up speed as it floated further out of the cove. He needed to get to it fast.

He sucked in a lungful of air, braced himself, and dived forward into the surf. He felt his knees hit underwater rocks and was glad he'd kept his jeans on. He made some forward progress into deeper water with a breaststroke and then switched to an overhand crawl.

He was a strong enough swimmer, but open ocean wasn't his preference. Swells splashed him in the face and he tasted salt. The cold sapped his strength quickly, and his heavy clothes and shoes dragged at him. He flipped over onto his back for a few seconds to rest. Kyle stood on the shore, Terry on top of the big boulder, watching him. The raven circled overhead.

He flipped back over and started swimming again. The rocking of the boat became more pronounced as it reached the edge of the protected water of the cove and began to encounter the larger waves of the open ocean. It was drifting southwards, too. There was another outcropping that way. Another couple of minutes and the boat would slam up against the cliff. If the motors were damaged too badly he wouldn't be able to start it and turn it in to the waves: it would eventually founder and break up against the rocks. The consequences would be dire. He was pretty sure he couldn't make it back to shore at this point. His only chance was to get to the boat and get aboard.

He poured the last of his strength into his efforts. Another two minutes and he reached the starboard side of the boat. The outcropping loomed, each wave washing them nearer. Jack grabbed one of the bumpers and hung on to rest for a moment, then he let go and dropped back into the water. The ladder was around the back. He worked his way aft.

The dual motors stuck out at a steep angle: he'd lifted them to avoid any rocks on his way in. The burred edges of the propeller blades caught at his arms as he went around them. For a moment he had a nightmare vision of the motors coming on by themselves, but he didn't think the Lorecaster could do that. He was in more danger from the cliff, now just feet away.

Finally he grabbed the ladder and heaved himself up. He staggered forward and yanked open the pilothouse door. The boat shuddered as the starboard outboard struck the rocky cliff. A moment later the port motor roared to life and Jack spun the wheel to bring the lolling Conquest around at a steeper angle to the incoming waves.

Jack brought the boat out into the ocean and swung around to make the correct approach to the cove. Bringing it alongside the rock was a little trickier with only one motor, but he didn't want to start the starboard one until he had a chance to take a look at the propeller.

Terry grabbed the rail and held the boat in long enough for Kyle to step aboard, then jumped on herself.

"You want me to drive?" she asked through the pilothouse window as Jack brought them out away from the cliffs. "You need to warm up."

Jack glanced at her. "You know how?"

"I'll be okay out here," she replied. "You'll just have to take over when we get to the marina."

He relinquished the wheel to her and stepped out into the sun on the back deck. He kept an eye on the castle, retreating on the horizon, as he stripped off his wet shirt and shoes. Kyle handed him a towel, and he roughed it through his hair and over his chest.

Drier and warmer, he stepped back into the pilothouse, away from the wind. Terry didn't seem to be having a problem driving. Jack leaned against the window to her right. He allowed himself to consider how close a call that had been. He realized he was shaking, from the exertion as much as from the chill.

"You think that was a coincidence?" Terry said after a few minutes.

"Hell, no."

"You think the castle's trying to kill you?"

"Me and everyone else it doesn't like." Jack glanced through the back window of the pilothouse, but they were too far away now to see the steeple. "Can't say I blame it. I tried to blow it up once."

A long moment went by. "So you believe the castle's alive, then," Terry finally said.

Jack ran a hand through his wet hair. "Not exactly. It's inhabited by some sort of entity that lives in its stones. And it's evil."

Terry shrugged, but she kept her eyes on the ocean in front of the boat. "What's evil, after all?"

"Well, I'd say some alien intelligence that wants to change the earth as we know it is evil," Jack said. "The castle's growing, and the more it grows, the more rocks it inhabits and the more powerful it gets."

"Me, I'd say that evil is something that can only be done to people by other people," Terry replied. "Maybe you should back off and quit pissing it off. Seems like it's got all the power in this relationship."

Jack sat down on the forward berth and rested his elbows on his knees. The Natural Seize cut the water smoothly up on plane. Backing off was one thing he couldn't do. There was Korrin to avenge, and all his friends who'd been lost in the slump he'd created himself. That was the most important, because he had to prove to himself that their deaths were both unavoidable and meaningful. He couldn't agree with Terry; evil had to be an external thing. And he knew where it lay: inside that castle on the cliff, not inside his own mind.

§§§

Bio:

I'm a fantasy-fiction and literary short-story author and a full-time park ranger, law enforcement officer, and emergency medical technician. I live in northern Colorado (USA) with my two cattle dogs. I enjoy outdoor activities and being with my dogs, as well as reading and writing. My previously published works include the Stolen trilogy (fantasy fiction), a book of short stories, a number of stories in anthologies, and Cornerstone: Raising Rook, from which 'Natural Seize' arose. You can find me at my author website:

http://www.kakrisko.com

# Old Waves, New

copyright Patrick de Moss

Inspiration for the story:

This story, or variations of it, has been kicking around in my head for quite some time. There was a period where I was fascinated with ghost stories, and the idea had begun as what I used to call "Ghost Ship Boy" – a story about a boy possessed by a whole ship of drowned pirates. Or something like that. It never worked.

When conversations started about putting together an anthology of water themed stories, for some reason I thought of it, but what really got the fire going underneath this (for a while anyway) very back-burner story I had was a recent visit to Nova Scotia, where I grew up. It was one of those "grafting" moments that made this piece grow.

§§§

There is a dream I have every now and then. It may actually be a memory, an air pocket deep in the liquid folds of my brain that keeps bubbling up to the surface depending on what I've eaten. In the dream, I am drowning, and there is nothing but white all around.

There is no chance to rise to the surface, to gasp for life. In the dream I am too weak, too frail and also there is someone holding me down. I know at that moment that before this part of the dream begins I have been crying. I am still crying, weeping underwater, scared out of my mind as salt tears mix with soapy water that is making its way into my lungs. It won't be much longer now.

The song I hear then is the song of my salvation and sounds much as they say it does in the bible – the voice of some God over the water. The song rises and falls, falls and rises – a wail that comes just at that last moment, at that moment where fear and oxygen and tears are about to be put aside, just as that drowsy dreadful warmth starts to spill all over my brain even as my body starts to feel so very cold, and all of a sudden I am being ripped out of the water – the song is now all around me, a celebration of air and life even though it sounds so frightened itself. A God who is as scared as I am.

Maybe it is a dream of being born, some sort of allegory. It's possible – this dream has been with me all my life. I can't remember a time before the drowning, or the rescue.

My father has been the Hermit of Evit's Cove for the last few years. How long, I don't know – we don't keep in touch that often. But once he found out that I was married, he decided we had to get together. That I had to come to see him in his hiding place, his sanctuary, his self-imposed prison.

"I'm an old man, who loves his kids," he had said, over the phone. He has a way of speaking that is like the spray of a machine gun – quick bursts that even in affection sound like barking. "Just going to leave your old man out of the loop here?"

That had been the intention. I could have gone a very long time without him being in the loop. Without looping a "U" into us – him, me, my wife. She had never met him in person, had never seen or heard from him before we were engaged, and that time was a honeymoon of sorts, a blissful vacation before she was drawn into the strangeness of my family by his phone call, when some awful traitor in my midst had slipped my father our number.

I don't even know why I decided I would go. Maybe it was that he was an old man. Maybe it was some awful need of mine that I hate talking about even here. It's not that I wanted him to approve of my life. There isn't much to approve of, to be honest. But I packed and took the plane back all the same.

I could say any number of things about going home. I say them often enough elsewhere: there are stories and stories out in the world about what I think of Nova Scotia, but that isn't really the point here. The point is that when I got into the airport, sometime close to eleven, watching all the burly walrus-men of the coast come and go with their iconic mustaches and slightly bow-legged strolls, my father shambled up and gave me an awkward hug. The key word in the previous sentence is shambled. He has not been well.

"My knees," he barks. "Poor old man's bum knees."

This is part of the whole thing. Part of the whole reason why I try to see him as little as possible. At some point (again, I don't know exactly when – we don't keep in touch) but far after he should have, my dad took up squash. He must have been in his mid-fifties. Squash. He had to retire from his job because his knees became absolutely destroyed from it. There were also other factors.

"Might have some trouble getting home," he says, as we make our way through the mist outside.

I keep trying to see if I can smell the ocean, to feel it against my skin even here. But it's just mist and more mist as of yet, and I can't even make out the old landmarks I used to use when I was seven, when we as a family, as a loop, as a unit, used to come out to the airport to meet him, or go on vacation. They could all have been torn down by now, for all I know.

"Trouble?" I ask. The jeep, a jeep he had coveted since I was fifteen, an actual Jeep, and not a minivan or a family sedan, an actual Jeep, is his. It's yellow, of all things.

"Yeah, well," he says, backing out with a jerky, hiccupping push of the brakes. "I can't remember if I took my pills this morning."

"Oh," I say, and hold onto the passenger side handle a little tighter as he scrapes against the car behind us.

"Yeah," he says, "Get funny sometimes, you know? If I haven't taken them. So I took some just before."

"Oh?" I say, as he weaves us out of the parking lot. "Well, that's good."

"Maybe," he says, and we roll right on through the stop light at the end of the road leading out to the highway. "Trouble is, I get funny if I take too many."

"Ah," I say, and my knuckles are white on the handle. He isn't driving very fast, just barely above the minimum.

"Missed you, kiddo," he says, and I can see by the lights along the highway that his hands are shaking and I don't know if that's because he's taken too few or too many.

"You too, Dad," I say.

I have never been out to Evit's Cove. My brothers have, sometimes staying with my father for months at a time. I have not really spent more than an hour with him since I was sixteen, since I left Nova Scotia, since my parents got divorced. There isn't really a lot of bus service from the Cove into the Halifax, and I don't drive. I have, in essence, locked myself in with my father for the next week, and I am starting to wonder if it was actually the best idea.

From what I can see of the cove in the dark it is a pretty isolated place. The houses are old, patchwork things that have sat here since the days when Nova Scotia used to mean something in the fishing world, when small fishing villages were still alive in the Maritime provinces. They dot the hill leading down to the water, and way out on the ocean are the flashing lights of a cargo ship, waiting to enter Halifax Harbor. The water is a good fifteen feet or more below my father's porch, but all the same I worry.

"What happens if there's a storm?" I say to him, as I get out of the Jeep, still shaken by the drive through the fog.

My father waves his hand. "Ah," he says. "You gotta take your chances sometimes, right?"

The sound of the dull roar of a wave smashing against the rocks as the tide comes into the bay makes me stop.

"But you're safe," I say. "Up here."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, pulling the sliding door open. "Water's only come up the porch maybe three-four times."

When my brothers had said they stayed with him here, when I had heard from him on random occasions about his house at the cove, I had pictured a small white cottage, a little bungalow, with the kind of yellow linoleum that always tears. This is a shack. An A-frame shack with exposed beams and rafters. It's like someone has taken the attic of another house, and plopped it right next to the ocean.

"The old man's cave," he says. There is a desk right beside the kitchen. An easel in the "living" room. A long couch, where I will be sleeping for the next week, right up against the long window that looks down to the gaping hole that is the ocean trying to make its way inland. The wind rattles the long window as my dad busies himself next to the fireplace.

"Don't you have..." I start to say, but there are about a million things I would hope my father has here. Heating. Insulation. Running water.

"Oh yeah, yeah," he says, blowing on the kindling, stopping, with one hand against the wall to rest for a moment, before blowing on the flames again. "But this. This saves me quite a bit on heating, y'know? Just need to get some more wood."

"I'll get it," I say, and he directs me around the back.

"Gotta watch out though," he says. "Think there's a racoon back there, or something. Heard him a few times."

Or something. Maybe a rat. Maybe a dog. His wood pile is behind what would have been a back hall, if someone had finished it. It's more a storage shed stuck onto the larger shed that my dad is living in these days. The whole place would maybe look very homey, sort of a fishing retreat, if it was... well, tidy. There are magazines spilled over most of the stairs that lead up to the small bedroom my father has. Newspapers.

And then there is the television, a massive, theatre-sized flat screen that he somehow managed to hang between two of the rafters. A whole bookcase devoted to his movies. Part of the twenty million things that drive me absolutely crazy about him. I could glare at that television all night.

He has these... moods, these phases. The television is the trophy of his poker phase. He got it into his head to play online poker, and since he was now "retired" he could give all of his time to it. Not that being retired meant very much, if anything at all, when a mood struck him. I remember one of his chess phases – when he wasn't away working, he would be at the kitchen table, with a little chess clock, his books, smoking.

I can picture him, here, in this little shack, day in and day out with an ashtray beside him, only getting up to go to the bathroom, only sleeping when he was about to pass out.

And the crazy thing is that he actually made a go of it. It would be easier for me to say he spent hundreds and hundreds of dollars and got nowhere. But he ended up winning. A hell of a lot. And then just... stopped. Bought himself this massive television, and stopped. He could have moved into a better place. Or fixed this one up a little.

"Oh," he says, when he realizes I've been standing behind him after putting a few logs in the bin beside the fireplace. "Got a sleeping bag for the couch," he says. "I gotta get to bed. Way past my bedtime."

"When is that?"

"Dunno," he says. "Usually take my night pills, and that's that. Six sometimes? Seven?"

"You go to bed at six o'clock?"

"What can I say?" he says. "I'm an old man."

But he's not. He's actually not. He'll be turning sixty this year.

"How many pills do you need to take?" I ask, and he stares down at the floor, concentrating as hard as he can before he shrugs.

"Lots," he says, and makes his way to the stairs.

I can hear his breathing from all the way across the room. Heavy, laboured, and he hasn't even gone up the stairs yet.

"Oh. Try not to drink the water," he says. "I mean, you can. But. I mean, I have. Lots of times. Nothing's happened to me, yet," and he heads up the stairs with a few very ponderous creaks. Leaving me alone beside the fire.

And it should be a comforting feeling: an old cast iron fireplace throwing a cherry glow against the exposed wood, while outside the rhythm of the waves rushing against the rocks continues. But I'm not comforted at all. How many pills is he taking?

My brother has told me that sometimes he calls, and my dad is absolutely incoherent.

"Not even words," he told me. "He can't even form words then."

And he's been alone here, the whole time.

When I was younger, I was terribly afraid of him. He's not a small man, and he had a way about him. A way that suggested, maybe not outright violence, but the threat of it. He was like watching a large cat in a zoo – you could see that cat in his eyes, pacing behind the bars of being my father. In between his chess phases, his fishing phases, his political phases, he would sit there, in his easy chair, and watch movies. And pace beneath his eyelids, back and forth behind his bars.

I would like to say he was still like that now. But it's not there. It's the same voice – dark and rumbling, like a summer storm coming, miles off. But the force, the push, the barely contained animal is gone, or sleeping. It would make it easier to hold onto everything I've felt about him if he still paced like that. But I can hear him, upstairs in bed, wheezing. Above the sound of the waves, above the sound of everything else I can hear my father struggling to breathe, and at times I worry if he is going to make it through the night.

"Have you two tried to kill each other yet?" my wife asks over the phone.

I am trying to keep quiet, calling her a full ocean away in Vancouver, but I don't think it matters. With all these mysterious long-named pills my father is taking I don't think a storm would wake him.

"Maybe tomorrow," I say, and she laughs, and I miss her all at once.

"Well that's good. At least you'll get some sleep first."

We can joke about it, because her father and mine could have been brothers. It's part of what drew us together: sometimes you look in someone's eyes and see part of the same story you've lived. We've only been married a few months, and I wish I hadn't left.

"He's family, baby. You do what you need to do there," she tells me.

But the thing is, I don't even know what it is I am doing here. I don't think there are any answers to be found, any patching up to be had. I was better off leaving him alone, and vice versa. It's been the tacit understanding of my whole family that unless some crisis has reared its head we sort of keep to our own devices, and expect each other to not intrude. Christmas gatherings have been strange affairs – my two brothers and I off in our separate former rooms, watching separate movies, reading. Close only by proximity. Something my wife, an only child, doesn't understand.

"It would have been so nice to have a brother, or sister," she tells me, and I just nod. I suppose it depends on the family you're in.

The following morning there is nothing in the house to make him for breakfast, apart from a lonely can of beans and a loaf of bread from I have no idea when.

My father once had a muffin phase – when he came home from work he would bake muffins for hours. Blueberry muffins. Cranberry muffins. Strawberry muffins. He had to buy two whole sets of Tupperware buckets just to keep them all. I've never been sure, but I thought he was on a mission to make the perfect muffin. I don't know if he ever succeeded, but I do remember having muffins for breakfast, for lunch, for dessert after dinner for months afterwards. The cupboards here in his shack are bare.

"Yeah," he says as he comes into the kitchen, seeing me pulling open door after door. "Don't really eat too much any more. Not much agrees with me, y'know? The pills make me all queasy."

I know he's on a low dose of Lithium, some pain killers for his knees – he had mentioned Percocet, but I'm not sure if it was in the past or present tense. Some sleep aid. His breakfast is uppers, downers, and all-arounders.

"We can go to the store," he says, munching on a stale piece of bread, just to settle all those little blue, white and red niblets. "Just give me a minute for everything to sort itself out," and he sits in his easy chair, out in the living room, and slips into a half-doze.

I can see this as his every day existence now. This is the cat in the wild – napping most of the day.

"So what was it that made you decide to come see your old man?" he says, and it sounds just a little like his old self.

So as I'm washing his dishes, dishes that have been sitting in slightly brown water rinsed with slightly red water, I tell him simply that I just wanted to. That it had been about six years since I'd seen him last.

"Oh," he says. "I thought it was because of the ship. Thought you wanted to see it."

"What ship?"

"The ship," he says. "Thought your brother told you about the ghost ship."

No. No he hadn't. This was altogether new.

"What ghost ship?" I say, and he waves listlessly to a pile of papers beside his chair.

"Thought he must have said something about it," and he is drifting again, slowly nodding off in his chair.

I wait until I'm sure he is fast asleep before I come over. There are piles and piles of papers beside him, all in a shaky shaky hand. Times and dates and tides and weather conditions. And sketches. Loose sketches of a dot on a horizon. As the dot grows clearer in every subsequent sketch, I feel myself growing cold, my stomach sinks. When did this start to happen?

There is the sound of footsteps along the deck, and I jump a little, spilling the yellow pages across the floor.

"Hello?" a voice calls. "Fred?" There is a gentle rap on the window behind the blinds. "You in, Fred?"

My father hasn't stirred. The tap at the window becomes a little louder, a little more insistent.

"Fred? It's me. It's Arnold."

I go around the front and open the door. There is an older man standing at the window, trying to peer in through the blinds in his hip waders and plaid jacket.

"Ah," he says, and he looks relieved as he pulls away from the window. "You must be the other one."

The other one. The absent son. That's me alright.

"I was just going into town," he says. "Just wanted to see if Fred needed anything." He takes a look back at the blinds.

"Do you... do you guys go fishing together?"

Arnold laughs and shakes his head.

"No, no. I'm his landlord."

And there's a lot I want to say about that, at the moment. How could he let the water get so bad? Why are there so many cracks in the caulking? A million questions as to how he could let my father live in such a place, but he cuts me off at the pass.

"I hope the place isn't too much of a mess," he says, looking down at the black tips of his boots. He keeps his voice low. "He won't let me in to do any of the work."

And that falls into place pretty neatly. I had imagined my father's landlord as some awful slum renter, but he asks me over and over again how my dad is doing, if I'm going to be taking him in to see anyone.

"Why don't you both come over for dinner?" he says, and leans over, as if my father was standing right there on the porch in front of us. "Give him a chance to get out of that rut in there, huh?"

I shouldn't answer for my dad, but god knows he has for me any number of times when I was a kid, every hockey team and baseball team and soccer team he could sign me into. One night is small revenge, but I still feel it just the same when I say we'll be there.

"Should come down more often," Arnold says before he leaves. "Bring your wife. Sure Fred would love to meet her."

I am trying to avoid that as much as humanly possible, thank you very much.

"Absolutely," I say, and smile and wave as he walks away. I hope he doesn't know about the ghost ship. I hope he hasn't heard of it.

"Ah, I can't go out tonight," my dad says when he finally manages to stir, when some of his sedatives have started to wear off. "I'm useless after six. I told you."

"But they want to see you," I say, looking at that can of beans sitting on his top shelf.

"Yeah. They're good people, I guess. Nosy though, jesus."

He hasn't had anything to eat except for that one small piece of bread, and above the sound of the incoming tide I can hear his stomach squirm.

"Every ten minutes I can't turn around without them on the porch, bringing food and stuff, you know?"

My dad's landlord brings him meals. I don't even know how to put into words how that makes me feel.

"They're concerned about you."

"I'm a tough old bird," he says. "Don't need people to be so concerned."

"But we are," I say.

"Mmm," he says.

And that's all he needs to say. I haven't called him in months.

"I'm only here for a few more days," I tell him, remind him, hopefully. "Wouldn't you like to go out?"

"An hour," he says. "We'll just go for an hour."

He looks down at his paint spattered pants, the shirt that is stretched all around his stomach. For a man who doesn't eat anything at all, he has kept a lot of weight.

"They'll just have to waive a dress code," he says.

Arnold's house is a strange, marvelous thing to me. The front hall is a flight of stairs from the dining room and kitchen, the whole house built up the hill in stages. There are large windows along two sides that look out onto the ocean, and a fire banked in the stone hearth, though mostly for show – the place is quite warm on its own.

I had expected Arnold and the rest of the residents of the Cove to be hold-outs, sons of fishermen who simply couldn't give up the places where their families had lived and died. But Arnold and his wife play in the symphony in Halifax, my father's neighbors are studying marine biology. I feel terribly out of place among them, these artists and scholars, and here I am with my dad, who is himself a brilliant painter. Or at least I've always thought so.

It was one of his phases that stuck, for whatever reason. He would pick it up, and for months at a time he would be in his study. The smell of turpentine has always been a complicated scent for me, at once homey and a little terrifying, because it meant he was there. Here, with Arnold and his wife beside their piano and their viola, he seems a little at home. They see him as I'm sure I would, if I didn't know him – Cezanne in the tropics, rugged, rough around the edges.

On one wall, I can see one of his pieces. I haven't seen any of his new paintings, but I can tell it's him. Like hearing a familiar voice in a crowded room I can see in it the whorls, the raised edges of his secret passions, the things he has never spoken of to me or maybe anyone else at all. A rough study in sienna of a desert tree, with dark grey clouds brooding in the background. I pass the future marine biologist a plate of sliced ham while staring at the canvas, as always trying to know what my dad had been saying in it. What he was trying to tell me or anyone.

"Fred tells us you're a writer," Arnold's wife Judy says.

As always I try to just smile, and nod, and keep out of the way of any conversation. I'm a writer in the same way that Stephen King is a chef – I'm sure he cooks, but it's not really what pays the bills for him.

"Came down to see if he could help with this ship story," my dad says. "The one I've been working on."

"Did you write me into it yet?" Arnold says, and Judy smiles at my father.

I sip at my wine, I don't want to look like a town drunk in front of my father by finishing it too fast, but this whole thing would go better if I was absolutely plastered.

"Course you are," my dad says. "Everyone is. Have to get the facts straight, right?"

Arnold laughs and nods. They're indulging him in this – a wild artist flight of fancy for them – but I could see it in his eyes when he was talking about it this morning. It is not a fiction story for him, not a ghost story. The ship is as real as they are sitting across from him.

"Did you tell him when you first saw it?" Arnold asks.

My dad shakes his head, and gets to his feet, and I groan in my head where no one can hear me.

My father has done this to me before. I remember one thanksgiving where he decided to read to us from Thoreau. I was twelve. We sat at the dining room table, the candles slowly running down, while my father read Walden's Pond to us and the turkey got cold. At least then we didn't have an audience – it was just another family photo of everyone trying to get away from everyone else, locked together by blood.

"I was out on the point, in the middle of a storm," my father begins, and everyone leans in as the story rumbles to life. "Just come home from town, watching the waves against the rocks, when I swore I could see a ship out there, out on the horizon. She was full sail, a tall ship, a three master and when the lightning flashed I could see she was listing to the side.

"Maybe she's trying to lay to, to make anchor?" He looks from face to face around the table. "That's what I thought, but then, just then, of a sudden, even without the lightning I could see her. Like she was in her own moonlight, and coming into the cove."

The wind howls against the windows, a gust coming up the hill that pushed through the cracks.

"I'd never seen her before, and I've been here in the Cove now ten years, but she knew the waters, and kept a steady course, listing against the wind as she came on. And as she got to the bay... As she came right into harbour she lit up." He spreads his hands open. "The sails catch fire, the masts, the deck, all come alight and I put up my hand, because it was so bright, and then she was gone. Completely gone. Like she was never there."

Nods around the table, and yet somehow I just can't keep my mouth shut.

"Maybe because she wasn't."

Eyes turn. My dad is still smiling, but there is that flash behind his eyes that tells me the cat in its cage is up.

"Well," he says, still keeping his voice mild, "you weren't there."

"No, I wasn't," I say. "But maybe you... you know."

"What?" he says. "I what?"

"Could have been a mirage..." I say.

"Mirage." He waves his hand. "She was a schooner. Three masts, slim hull."

"Da," I say, "what do you know about boats?"

"Would anyone like some more scalloped potatoes?" Judy says, brightly.

"Son," he says, and there it is: his blue-green eyes are level, cool, promising, "you know you shouldn't question your old man in public."

Is this what I've been waiting for? To actually have this out with him in a way that I am still safe? My stomach is turning on it even as I open my mouth. It's not fair – he is sick, old. And I still can't help myself.

"Dad, you've never been on a boat bigger than a canoe."

That gets a laugh from the marine biologist. And my dad's face gets tight, his jowls pulse out and in as he clenches and unclenches his jaw, the old warning signs, the old sigils of My-Father-Getting-Upset.

"Fred," our host says, and puts a hand on my father's shoulder, and I can see him flinch.

It's quick – I'm sure Arnold felt it, and in that shrug and the steady control that follows I can believe the story I've heard about my dad punching out his supervisor for grabbing his arm during an argument. Laid the guy out flat, as the story went, and then just went home, knowing he'd been fired. He is just about to haul off on Arnold, before remembering where he is.

"Fred," Arnold says again, and his voice is a lot more gentle than it needs to be, and I know he saw it too. "Can't take a bit of ribbing?" and he turns to me. "Still. It's a good story, right?"

It is. If my dad didn't believe it was true, I would agree. But he does. I can see it as he tells it. He believes it.

I nod, and I watch my father's whole frame ease, relax, and the top of my head is burning with anger. Once again the threat of violence saves him.

"Should probably be getting home," he rumbles, passing a hand over his face. "Getting a bit late."

"Sure thing, Fred, sure." Arnold helps him to the door, leaving me, the other son, the questioning son, to thank Miss Judy for the dinner, to shake hands with the marine biologists. To apologize for there almost Being a Scene.

He stumps along back to the shack in a snorting silence. The wind has picked up, and there is a storm coming from off the ocean. The waves are capped with white as they foam into the narrow bottleneck that is the Cove.

"Don't believe your old man," he says, yanking the sliding door open so that the wind howls into the kitchen.

"No, Dad, I don't," I say. "You made it up."

"Did I now? When did you get to be the expert on me?"

"You made it up. You read a story about a ghost ship and made it up."

He shakes his head, still snorting, making his way to the sink for a glass.

"Shouldn't talk about things you don't know anything about," he says. "You don't know what your old man's seen. What he's done."

"Like Woodstock?"

There is a pause. His hand is still over the sink.

"Yeah? What about it?"

"You were never there."

"I was," he says. "I was working for -"

"A recording company, I know," I say. "Except you weren't. You were going to go down with some friends, but you changed your mind at the last minute."

"Your mother tell you that? She making stories up about me?"

"She said you changed your mind, and didn't go."

"Yeah, well." He fills his glass with slightly muddy water, his hand still shaking. "She wasn't there. She doesn't know."

"She was there," I say, taking another step forward. "She was there when you came back into town."

"Making it up," he says.

"Da -"

"Son," he says, and the glass in his hand is shaking so badly with the effort of keeping himself under control that the water slops against his wrist, "don't try and correct your old man. I might be getting on, but I'm still your father."

This is the father that Arnold and Judy don't see. This is why I am the other son, the one who doesn't come round. This hand, shaking water onto his slippers, is the hand that held me down, so the story goes. I straighten my shoulders, my back, and stare straight into the eyes of the creature behind the cage bars. I really don't want this to come to blows, to any show of force, mostly because I know as well as he does that he would still lay me flat. I'm not a big guy, I never have been, but I'll take it just to prove my point – Woodstock and the Ghost Ship never happened.

"Pills are getting to me," he says at last, and shakes his head. "Sorry."

"It's okay, Da," I say. But I wonder how much of it is a pill with a long name and how much of it is him.

"Better get some sleep," he says and walks out of the room, creaking up the stairs.

I wait until I can hear him getting into bed before I allow myself to shake. To brace myself against the sink, and let the panic of the moment pass.

My parents used to call me "The Grey Ghost", a quiet, mouse-like presence that was always in a corner, off in another room, reading. I feel that way now, in the creaking cracks and shifts of the shack in the storm, the rain dumping down on the deck and roof, huddled up close to the fire, waiting for the sound of my father starting to snore so that I can come out of my hole of inertia.

The notes that he has beside his easy chair are a spew of nonsense peppered with moments of clarity. The ship he talks about is either always here, in the harbour, or coming and going with the tide. It is crewed by Atlantaeans, crewed by pirates, by American Patriots. Crewed by the damned. The story changes with every page and only the handwriting – a spider-scrawl full of shakes and tempests of its own – stays the same.

The story goes that my mother was out, on an errand. I don't know where, I don't know why. Those details are not important. My father was to give us a bath.

The ship is out on the horizon. It is in the harbour. It is coming around the cliff when it catches fire. Or it never catches fire at all, but merely drifts into the bay and is gone. The fine points, its hull, its colors, or how it drowns seem to matter less than the fact that the ship is a cadaver. How it died is less important than the corpse of it.

So my brother and I are in the bath. I am three. Or two. I have no memory of this event. It is a daydream for me, this story – someone tells me the tale and I can picture it, vividly, but it is not coming from my own head when the image comes. It is words taking shape and form, materializing into the scene of my father trying to give two young, unruly children a bath, and the soap gets in my eyes. And it keeps getting in my eyes and I keep crying, screaming because even though it is baby shampoo, it does burn, just a little bit.

As I look from the yellow legal pad notes out into the black of the Cove at night I know what I'm doing and I try to stop myself. But I can't help it. I can't help but search the horizon for the daylight glow of a dead ship rearing to life from the waves. I want to see what he sees. I want to see it how he sees it, where it comes from and how. If I squint, maybe, if the flicker from the freighter out on the water were blurred a little more, it might be there. It might be true.

Here the story shifts to the perspective of the teller – my mother bursting into the bathroom after hearing me scream in panic from the landing of our old house. My father is holding my head under water. For a very dangerously long time. She yells, screams, and pulls him off me, and I come up for air, crying coughing up water and my eyes red from the shampoo. It is a tale I have heard so many times it has become fact – the night my father tried to drown his mousey child.

Half of the shake in me is from tales like that – I have been told I am a bundle of nerves – a mouse with a loud mouth and a propensity for twitching. There are many other stories that can turn a man into a mouse. My handwriting is actually worse than his. When I am sketching out the strange half-fantasy pieces that obsess me day in day out my hand jerks, twitches, and it seems, when I notice it, that it is less like I am writing and more like someone has stuck a live wire against my skin.

I had to go into therapy when I was around twelve, just to learn how to look people in the eye. It was hammered into me as being so necessary on my path from mouse to man that now it's had a reverse effect – I am able to arouse disquiet in others because of my steady eye contact. I want to tell them when I'm speaking that it's not that I'm crazy, or strange: it's just a voice in my head demanding that if I don't keep looking into another person's eyes, they'll never hear me.

And this is what I'm doing now, in this fishing hut-cum-living room as the weather clears. I am trying to practice staring "the old man" in the eye, through the blink and flash and flare of the light on the harbour. And I hope to god I don't blink because I desperately need him to listen to me.

I stay awake the whole night, because I don't know when he'll wake up, and I want to make sure that I talk to him before Lithium and Percocet and all of his other crazy roommates do. Smoking out on the deck, as the sun starts its way up along the ocean behind the cliffs, I can see the light pink of Mars, the sky after the rain so sharp and clear out in the middle of nowhere. The cherry of the cigarette and that soft twinkle are both keeping me from pacing restlessly, waiting for him to come up from his strange dreams so we can actually talk.

As much as I might not want to admit it, his life still keeps affecting me. Like Jupiter, he brings such a profound pull of gravity that his slightest changes of mood have always affected mine. When he drew closer to our family, winding his way home to the Sun that was my mother, when he was actually home, the whole solar system that was our family would wobble in our accustomed orbits, would turn and twist and rotate to make room for his presence. And then he would be off again, in that elliptical line, and things would settle once more. My older brother, more charming, smaller of build, our Mercury flinging himself around his own orbit at breakneck speed, always in danger of colliding with the heart of our little family. My younger brother I can see as Pluto – distant, mysterious, full of powerful forces he barely understands that nonetheless threw shadows over the whole system, and from his own relationship with my father time and again being thought of as part of our little unit and at times not a planet at all.

I would like to think of myself as Saturn – a brilliant fling of scattered stones blazing holy auras in the dark, a smaller, yet more brilliant Jupiter. But to be honest, I felt more often like Chiron. It's a big asteroid, maybe a demi-planet, between Saturn and Uranus, but if you've heard of it it's probably only because you know a lot about astrology: Chiron, the perennial middle child.

These are the things that occupy my brain while I am waiting for him to wake up and the waves below me, moved by the tide, push against the rocks in senseless suicidal rushes. It's enough to make me want to keep my mouth firmly shut, and twitch in my corner in the dark.

But finally, just as the sun pokes its head up over the cliff, I hear him grunt, and shift, and make his way slowly down the stairs on his shattered knees. He makes his way into the kitchen and seems happy to find coffee on the go because he grunts again. I have to be quick as he's already opened his little pill box and counted out the daily dole. If we can talk, actually talk in this small window of time before the pills wash him away, it might be worth it. If it's worth anything at all.

"So are you ready to apologize to the old man?" he says. It's the first thing out of his mouth since I've come in, and it's between munches of bread.

"Apologize for what?" I say

"It was quite a little scene you caused last night," he says, "back at Arnolds."

"I'm amazed you remember," I say.

"I'm old," he says, "I'm not stupid. You still can't forgive your old man."

This is not hyperbole – he does actually talk about himself in the third person this way. It is sometimes this frustrating.

"You've never really said you're sorry."

"I have," he says. "I have. I'm kind of getting tired of it."

He is lucid. And I have to keep looking into his eyes, even though the cat is right up against the bars.

"Your brother came down, and I apologized. Your younger brother came down, and I apologized. How many times am I going to have to say I'm sorry for everything until you kids can believe me? Until my own sons believe me?"

"You've never really said it to me."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry," he says. And then stares out onto the water for a moment, watching the waves roll in. "I thought I wouldn't have to. Not to you."

"Not to me?" I say. And my voice has gone up decibels and a pitch or two. "Not to me? Didn't you drag me down the stairs by my hair so you could get your drunk friends to hear me play guitar?"

"I wanted them to hear you. I thought you'd want to play."

"You dragged me down the stairs -"

"I said I was sorry. How often do you need me to say it?"

"Until it matters," I say. "Until it matters and it's gone."

"Well that's your problem," he says. "That's something you have to live with."

"You have to live with it too!"

"I do!" he says. And then, "I do. You don't think I do, but I do."

The sun is up, the sky is clear. The waves don't seem to ever want to stop.

"I'll tell you something," he says. "One day, you'll have kids. I hope you never have to be sitting here like I am now."

I can't really find a word to say in response to that except, "I'm sorry, Dad."

And he nods. And that's probably going to be that. That's as far as we're going to get on the whole thing. His eyes are already glazing over, and he has made his way to the easy chair.

"See you read my notes," he says, and his voice is slurred. "What do you think?"

"It's good." I lie. "It'll make a good story."

"It happened, though," he says. "It really happened."

And he drifts off again, just sitting there, staring off into space, into the paintings he made when he was younger, when he wasn't on so many pills, when he was doing something brilliant with his own life, and once again, even though I'm right in the room with him, he leaves me alone.

I go out onto the deck for another cigarette and I want to curse and swear like a drunken sailor. The whole point, the whole reason I've been here, has been meaningless. The waves against the singular rock jutting out in the center of the Cove keep throwing themselves against it, again and again, and the sight of it makes me sick to my stomach. Sea sick in a peculiar way. All the waves look alike, some of them bigger, some of them smaller, and each one of them ending the same way – hurling themselves against stone and gone again. It's not really a metaphor for everyone's life, just maybe mine I suppose. This is the new wave – pretty much the same as the old wave, pretty much lined up for another spectacular smash and disaster.

And that, I think, is what I've wanted to stop. Why I came here so soon after I got married. I don't want the tide of my father to push through into my new life. I don't ever want it. But he pulls and he pulls, and I keep hearing him say those last few words "I hope you won't have to sit here like I am right now."

Who does he see himself as? What does he see himself doing? Does he see himself as Jupiter at all?

He has always been shocked when I tell him he terrified me, that my friends were uneasy when they would come over to hang out, tip-toeing around the house while he brooded in front of the television. "I always wanted to be just one of the guys," he says.

Was he trying to kill me in that bathtub, or was he fed up and frustrated and poor and used to the violence of his own father, a wave long smashed and gone against its own rock that brought him to that moment with a screaming child? I don't know. The story could be one of a million things, the facts of which seem to be – my father pushed my head under water and held it and my mother saved me. But what it means to him and to my mother are two different things. And both of them tell it, and they seem to forget that I was even there to be held under water to drown.

I don't know how much "I'm sorry" covers it. I have been afraid of him my whole life, and this is terribly new to me, this pity. I shouldn't pity him. At all. But I can't help myself. He is alone here in this place, completely and totally alone, with only fragments of memories of things he did to keep him company. I don't blame him. I would hermit myself too, and I have from time to time, only to escape the world of things I have been. Things that have happened. I'm afraid that what he thinks of me is true – that I am a planet too close to his own kind to be mistaken as anything else but his son. And watching him shrivel up, close up and brood, looks to me like a scene from my own life beamed back to the past for me to watch.

I call my wife, and tell her I'll be coming home soon. She wants to know if I don't want to stay just a little longer, but I don't. This point in my father's and my own elliptical orbit is done. I tell her I love her, but in truth I am terrified. I don't want this tide to drag her through the wrecks of my life any more than I want to even think about being where my father is now – sitting there in a Spanish Inquisition from each of his sons in turn, demanding mea culpa.

The rest of that day passes with me playing solitaire, listening to the waves and worrying while my father rises to the surface, takes his medicine and drowns again. The next morning I am on the plane back to Vancouver where the water is much calmer.

§§§

Bio:

Patrick de Moss lives, works and writes in Vancouver, Canada a whole ocean away from where he grew up in Nova Scotia. While he has been a hotline psychic, a gravedigger, and is currently a line cook he has always been writing. You can see some of the works he has out at <http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6585518.Patrick_de_Moss>

With any luck, more will be on the way soon.

# Boo  
Part 3 – Rock Requiem

copyright Mark Bell

Inspiration for the story:

This might not be a surprise to you, but it was to me. Boo still refused to go away. In the middle of other projects, a story snippet of Boo would rear its head and disrupt my thoughts.

I hope that you have enjoyed Boo's growth as much as I have enjoyed telling you about it. He's stubborn, but I have become quite fond of him. This is Boo's last installment. His story is complete.

§§§

Boo had recuperated from his visit to Quaker Flats, except for the scar. He had new overalls, a fresh supply of cider and two pairs of shoes. The burn marks on his arms and legs were negligible. The scar that bothered him was left by the girl.

Not knowing what you don't know is dangerous. Boo did not know Jewel's motivation. To him she had died trying to save him. At least he "figgered" she was dead. He had not tried to find out. He remembered those words, "He's mine." That made it worse. He was taught to protect women and when it was time for him to stand up and be a man, he ran like a wet-tailed puppy. He was a curse to anyone who tried to help him. Look at Jasper, he had perished twice. He knew that cats had nine lives but he wasn't sure about mystical frogs. It could have been Jasper's last one and Boo's carelessness had forced him to squander it.

Movement was Boo's answer. He continued to walk and avoid human contact as much as possible until the severity of the winter's snow forced him to take up residency in a cave above the town of Applegate. The town was a skeleton of its former self. Not a ghost town, although Boo was sure that there were a few of those running around. It was what was left over when the iron ore ran out. The skeletons were real: made up of deserted blast furnaces and twisted steel conveyers.

Boo was comfortable in his mountain recess. He set up housekeeping in the front chamber of the cave. He could hear water plopping into a pool further into the recess, but that and the possibility of disturbing a sleeping bear kept him in the front chamber.

Several night excursions into town were required to outfit his grotto. Lanterns, kerosene heater, blankets, and a cured ham hanging from a stalactite made it a comfortable winter home. He learned that when the grey clouds came over the opposing mountain, snow was soon to follow. He planned his excursions around the clouds. He would slip into town, procure his necessities, and walk out as the falling snow covered his tracks.

That winter of record snowfall allowed him frequent visits. Boo became quite familiar with the town. On occasion he would walk down the mountain to the stables located at the edge of town. He enjoyed talking to the horses and rubbing their noses as he gave them a little taste of stolen sugar.

He had a favorite. She was spotted on the rump and gray everywhere else. He would talk to her and tell her about the girl and his Mama: how he had to leave his home and start walking. If he could steal an apple or two, she would even let him ride on her back. Using the stars for light, they would walk around the corral with his head lying on her neck. It was comforting to him to be near something living and giving off warmth. He thought it strange how the warmth of another living thing could be so soothing. Any heat made your body warm, but living heat penetrated the soul.

Boo was settling into a melancholy routine. When the snow came he went into town and when it didn't he stayed in his cave. It gave him time to think, but mostly to mourn. The more idle time he had the more he dwelled on what he had lost. He thought of his Mother some, but mostly he thought of the girl. Sometimes it was difficult because he didn't even know her name. He settled on calling her Girl. And since he had no other girls to reference, the generic worked just fine.

Boo believed that his existence was unknown by any of the human inhabitants of Applegate. He was wrong, potentially dead wrong. The stable boy not only knew but was predisposed to usher Boo to his demise. Malice comes in many forms. This one was a boy of about the same size and stature as Boo.

Hatred had risen and nested in his craw the first time the stable boy saw Boo on the back of the appaloosa. The fact that Boo was on the horse was enough to goad him. The appaloosa was a fine, spirited animal but not given to allowing riders on her back. She was the first animal that the stable owner had put the boy on when he first came to town. A test of "equine aptitude" he said. It had resulted in a sore back and bruised ass, not to mention the guffaws from all the derelicts hanging around the corral. The other reason was a shared history. The people of Applegate were not privy to this history and, sadly, Boo would prove too innocent and lacking in imagination to make the connection.

It was his physical deformity that made the stable boy seethe with deadly malice. His face was marred on one side by a patch of wrinkled, burned flesh. That's one of the reasons that he always wore an oversized hat pulled low to the brow. His voice was also squeaky and, after more shaming by the derelict gallery, he ceased to talk. But he didn't stop thinking and hoping for the day that he could avenge his misfortune.

The object of his revenge was Boo. For his part, Boo never considered that anything that he had done in his past would warrant hatred, at least by anyone still living. His thievery was for existence, not gain. He had felt the pain of loss and he had seen suffering but none that, in his mind, was directly caused by his actions. So it came as a surprise when he landed in jail for trying to liberate a couple of jugs of cider.

Boo had always been careful and prudent when he stole, yet somehow this time when he tip-toed out of a cellar full of cider he was met by one of the local constables. He had a jug under each arm and no excuse for being there. Thirst was not an excuse and the constable hauled him to jail.

It was a rustic hulk of a building, cells and a little office inside a pile of rocks. Nestled next to it was the stable's manure pile. Sadly, even after living in a cave, the jail cell was a step down. It was cold and damp and the window was covered with bars and nothing else. Boo's cell was located on the first floor. If he climbed up on his bunk and looked out he had a scenic view of the corral and manure pile.

The second day of his incarceration, Boo was escorted out of his cell. He thought that he would be going in front of a judge, but Applegate had a streamlined justice system. He was found guilty and sentenced to sixty days hard labor before the cell door slammed shut. Applegate's way of paying one's debt to society was by joining the work crew. The city rented prisoners for five dollars a day.

Boo was shackled to an older prisoner and loaded onto a wagon. The only comfort was one of the four horses pulling the wagon was the appaloosa. They silently rolled out of the city and up the valley. Boo could see his cave as they moved toward higher ground. It didn't take long to arrive at their destination.

It amazed Boo that something so large and looming could have escaped his notice. A dam stretched across a narrowing of the valley. All these weeks he had been living below a dam that held millions of gallons of water. Killing water, all bunched up by a man-made wall and Boo knew that the water must be plotting destruction. He wondered what idiot would do such a thing. Didn't they know the evils of water? Didn't the townspeople understand the folly of locating below it?

The old man that Boo was shackled to offered up the history of the dam. It was the only thing that he would talk about. It seems that at one time in his life, he was an engineer, the very one who had warned against expanding the height of the dam. He was so adamant that the spill pipe not be raised that he had resorted to vandalism. Even with his intelligence and knowledge, he was unable to understand the power and influence of the man who lived above the dam. Nor was he smart enough to know when to shut up. What had been a mild attempt at sabotage and protest turned into a twenty year sentence.

The job at hand was to shovel the snow off the road atop the dam. Shovel and toss. The old man would moan. Shovel and toss and the old man groaned out tales of despair and how this could be the spring that brought the apocalypse. As they were finishing their work a touring car pulled onto the road. The work crew was hurried to finish and get off the road.

They accomplished the task and everything would have been fine if the old man had not picked up a rock and busted the rear glass out of the automobile. The automobile window belonged to the most powerful man in several states. So encompassing were his holdings, he owned the dam, the damn rock, the mountains and for all practical purposes, the prisoners. Guilt by association usually leads to pain and this time was no exception.

Ten lashes was the payment for not stopping the old man from throwing the rock. Boo was stripped to the waist, chained to the bars of his cell and whipped. The pain was bad enough but the whistle of the whip was the most unbearable. When you have no chance of avoiding it, advance notice only adds to the misery. This was true for the whip as well as the dam.

As he lay on his cot, waiting for the blood to dry, Boo eased his rock from its secret pocket. If Quaker Flats had taught him anything, it was to secure his rock. While he was holed up in his cave he had sewn a little pocket inside his overalls. Holding the magic rock in his hand, he thought of Jasper. With the water sitting above him and danger all around, Boo could only wonder where Jasper was. Had he used his last life saving Boo in Quaker Flats? Perhaps Boo was no longer worthy of Jasper's help.

He stood on his cot and looked through the bars. Steam was rising from the dung heap as the stable boy shoveled fresh manure onto the pile. The boy pulled up his pant leg and idly looked toward the jail. For some reason that he did not understand, Boo had the same reaction that he had with the Girl. He didn't take the time to think – only react. He plopped face down on his bunk. The initial pain of falling on both rocks made one of them melt away. Boo just couldn't fathom why he had reacted that way.

Slowly he raised his head to peek out of the window. The stable boy was gone but the appaloosa was standing next to the corral fence. Her nose in the air and her nostrils flared, she tried to locate the boy with the apples. Boo's low whistle let her know his location and she nodded her head before lowering it. She seemed to understand that now they shared a common fate: destined to be relieved of confinement only when they worked. Boo wondered if that was how his Daddy felt when he went into the mines. Was the average man no more than a glorified beast of burden? At that moment Boo certainly felt akin to a jackass.

He took his rock and began to idly whittle at the bars. To his surprise his magic rock made metal shavings fall. He tried another with the same result. It was slow but he made progress. Back and forth he moved his rock against the bar. Slivers of metal piled up on the window ledge. Boo was careful to remove them and he started to work on the backside of the bar just in case a jailer decided to inspect the cell. He was lucky: the only thing the jailer did was to give him his meals, make rock jokes and tell Boo that he had two days before he went back on the work gang.

Boo was standing on his cot, looking at the appaloosa, when a voice made him jump.

"Still got them two rocks?" the stable boy whispered as he leaned close to the wall.

Boo could only stutter, "I don't know anything about no rocks."

The stable boy pulled up his pants legs and asked Boo if he remembered these. Boo said no but the bulge in his overalls said yes. Lucky for him the Girl couldn't see his deception. She pulled her hat off and hair spilled out but didn't manage to cover up the burn scar.

"You damn well owe me that rock," she hissed. "Now give it up. I put you in there and I can keep you there. All I got to do is let them know it was you that burned Quaker Flats and ruined my face. The man above the dam owned half of them fields. You might end up like that engineer fella."

Boo was glad that the jailer yelled for him to come away from the window and get his dinner. With his plate of beans in his hand, he slipped to the edge of the window and looked for who he now knew was the Girl. She was scarred but not dead and obviously didn't care about his predicament. He could hear in the distance a man yelling and supposed that it was the stable owner yelling at the Girl.

The beans were not all that Boo had to chew. It was obvious that his wellbeing was not the Girl's first concern. It was the rock, and sadly Boo realized that it always had been the rock. He thought about how she looked now and he remembered the night in the alley. This time he remembered the torn pocket and the reason that it had ripped. "He's mine" didn't have the same ring any more. He had been a fool all these months. Hell fire. I been a fool longer than that, he thought.

He knew that the Girl would be back. He saw the greedy gleam in her eye. He refused to think of her as the Girl anymore. The Girl died in that fire; at least the one he manufactured in his mind had. All that Boo had left was his rock and the possibility of escape. He concentrated on combining the two. He worked feverishly to cut the bars and he succeeded in cutting through the top of one and almost finished the second before they put him back on the work gang.

It was the click of the leg irons that made Boo shiver. The temperature was starting to rise but that click made everything feel fatalistic and cold. His dream and his guardian frog were gone. He was shackled to a different prisoner this time. He never saw or heard of the rock thrower again. The work crew did the chain gang shuffle from the jail to the stable.

Two by two they were loaded into the wagon. As Boo passed the team of horses, the appaloosa snorted a welcome. Standing to the side of the team, the stable boy didn't welcome or acknowledge Boo's existence. It was only when the prisoners were loaded and no one was looking did she make a gesture to Boo – an outstretched left hand as her right one pointed to her palm. Boo slowly shook his head.

The wagon plodded up the valley on the same road as before – back to the dam and all of that water. This time it was to spread rock on the road. Pairs of prisoners pulled carts loaded with gravel to the top of the dam while other pairs with rakes spread it. Boo and his shackle-mate pulled a roller back and forth to pack the gravel into place. The only consolation was that because of the fast pace walk required, Boo and his mate were shackled by the hands instead of the feet.

Within an hour Boo understood how the appaloosa must feel when harnessed: alive but only allowed to blindly step forward. Boo was beginning to understand the value of freedom. It was not hard once he had lost it. He would never take for granted the simple pleasure of choosing which road to walk and at what pace, if he was ever afforded the chance again. He became determined to get that chance.

Waxing philosophic is commendable but not when you are chained to a mad man. Boo had overlooked the obvious again. He should have paid attention to the actions of his harness-mate. Muttering to one's self and twitching should have alerted Boo to trouble ahead. Trouble came when, with a deranged scream, the prisoner shackled to Boo dived head first into the water. Boo, caught off guard, was dragged under the water with him.

Bubbles were all that Boo could see when he was dragged under. His chain-mate was exhaling all of the air in his lungs. Once his supply was exhausted, it became clear, placid, and quiet. Boo and the fresh corpse sank further down into the clear depths. Boo looked at what used to be a man and noticed tiny bubbles forming on his arms and then lifting toward the surface. This ballet of bubbles was interrupted by the pain in Boo's lungs. The interruption of his freefall came with a soggy clang of metal on metal. The chain that held him attached to death had settled onto a capped drain pipe.

Boo, with lungs about to burst, leveraged his body to the top of the pipe. A padlock held the cap in place. It looked rusty and flimsy but Boo grabbed it anyway and it held as Boo propelled his body upward. He could see the sunlight as he stood on top of the pipe: he just couldn't reach it. As he exhaled his last bit of air, a metal hook came plummeting toward him.

Two prisoners hooked the chain that held the two submerged bodies together and with a mighty effort hauled them to the surface. Boo never tasted anything as sweet as that first gulp of air. He didn't remember anything else save the feeling of water bubbling out of his lungs. When he regained consciousness he was lying naked in his cell.

He looked around slowly. The sound of dripping water made it even more dreamlike. As he panned around the cell he saw the source of the drip. His clothes were hanging from the front bars, slowly divesting themselves of lake water. Boo stumbled over to his overalls and felt inside. The magic rock was still in its snug little pocket. Having expended his last reserve of energy, Boo lurched to the cot and fell back into a deep sleep.

The next time he woke it was to confusion and a louder sound of water falling. Rain was pelting the window sill and splashing onto Boo's cot. He was groggy, confused, and naked. He didn't know how much time had passed but he had slept long enough for his clothes to dry. He put them on, stood on his cot, and surveyed the outside. It was hard to tell what time it was. The clouds were thick and the rain relentless.

Boo didn't need a clock: he knew it was time to get out of this valley. He knew that this time rain would kill. He had not thought about flood, only that rainwater would eventually kill. Now he was beginning to understand how. Snow on the mountain tops melted by heavy rain meant tons of water cascading into the valley. The only thing holding it back would be a dam of dirt. A dam that Boo remembered the engineer saying was too tall and too weak. He also remembered the capped overflow pipe.

Pulling his rock from its secret pocket, Boo worked feverishly to finish cutting the second bar. With Herculean effort he managed to move the two bars outward a few inches. He pushed with all his effort and managed to move the bars another inch or two and his cot backwards about a foot. In desperation, Boo hopped down and slid the cot back into place. As he grabbed the bars for another try, he heard the snort of a horse. Standing outside of the window was the appaloosa in harness. The stable boy was beside the horse with a rope in her hand.

"It's a simple barter," she said. "You want out. I want the rock."

It didn't take the appaloosa as long to pull the bars out as it did to negotiate the deal. One steady pull and Boo was free. At least his death would not come in the confines of a rock cell. When he balked at turning over the rock, the stable boy pulled a knife.

Boo told her where his cave was and that they would meet there as soon as he finished. Again she demanded that he give up the rock then and there. But Boo needed it and he told her that she could have it when he was finished. She put the knife against his neck. A rumble from up the valley gave credence to the words 'flood' and 'drowning' and she dropped the knife. He kissed her. Both looked at the other in astonishment. Then Boo took off running as fast as he could.

"Don't desert me again," were her parting words.

He was headed toward the dam. As he ran he longed for Jasper. He needed his help. Maybe his promise to give away the rock was keeping him away. Maybe Jasper had expended his last life to save him. Whatever the reason, Boo felt alone, desperately alone.

His lungs were on fire when he reached the dam. He tried to catch his breath as he stripped off his clothes and grabbed his magic rock from its secret pocket. Boo looked at the rising water. He looked at the new overflow pipe that was proving no match for the torrent of water trying to force its way inside of it and Boo wanted to just run. He owed the town below nothing. Maybe it was the primal kinship of like kind or maybe the Girl or the appaloosa. He heard the sound of the fire bell ringing and knew that the Girl was sounding the alarm. Boo dived into the water's depths.

He found the old pipe and with his rock in hand, be began to pound the old rusted lock. He thought that he was making progress when his air supply ran out. Back at the top he gulped his lungs full of air and headed back under. Again he pounded on the lock. He pounded harder and harder. So hard was his last blow that he lost his grip and the rock slipped from his grasp. The rock sank toward the dark water, tiny bubbles floating off its surface just as they had from the drowned prisoner's skin. Boo grasped for it frantically but to no avail. His lungs were screaming for relief and he was forced to head for the surface.

He had no reason to go back under but he did anyway. He grabbed the lock and tried to pull it open. Large bubbles floated past Boo and he looked down, trying to find their origin. He saw a flash of green as Jasper emerged from the depths and with his tongue, flicked the rock on top of the drain pipe lid. Even underwater Boo could see that froggy smile on Jasper's face.

A couple more blows and the lock gave up its hold over the lid. He needed two hands and all the strength left in him to pull the lid open. Boo let the rock fall to the bottom.

As he broke the surface and crawled to the bank, Boo heard the peal of every bell in the town echoing off the valley walls. They were quickly drowned out by the sound of water rushing from the old drain pipe. Boo didn't even bother to pick up his overalls. With lake water and rainwater mingling on his face, he stumbled toward his cave.

Boo could only manage a crawl by the time he entered the cave. Warmth washed over him and he collapsed. He felt a blanket being placed over his body and he managed to see a skirt swishing above an ankle. Hands from behind him pulled and lifted him onto a bed of blankets. A cup of warm cider was placed to his lips and he heard a voice telling him to drink.

He awoke to the smell of ham frying. Chills racked his body but he tried to stand anyway. A voice told him to lie still. He looked to find its origin and his eyes finally focused on a pair of legs. A skirt fell, concealing the legs as Boo's focus moved upward to see the Girl beginning to roll a cigarette.

"I don't got it no more," Boo whispered.

The Girl just smiled. "You have the only Jewel you'll ever need." She lit her cigarette as a majestic croak reverberated from the bowels of the cave.

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# WaterAid – their vision and mine

As Boo's story comes to a close, so does our anthology. We hope you have enjoyed it.

It's been raining today. As I walk into town I see dirt in the water trickling along the gutter. Imagine if that were the only water available. Would you drink it? What if you'd seen your children die from diarrhoea, your parents from cholera? Would you collect that water and take it home?

What if you had no choice?

' **Globally 768 million people (roughly one in ten) live without safe drinking water and 2.5 billion (two in five) do not have adequate sanitation.'**

' **Every day almost 2,000 children die needlessly from diarrhoea, and countless others are too sick to go to school.'**

It doesn't have to be like that. Together we can achieve equity of water supply on the Blue Planet. WaterAid has been working towards that since 1981. Their vision has attained enormous results – since 1981, WaterAid has reached 17.5 million people with safe water in Africa, Asia and the Pacific. The goal is to help 25 million people by 2015. It's not going to be easy, but with your help it can be done.

Your donation will help the poorest people on the planet help themselves. Simple, easily maintained technologies like rope pumps will enable children to drink safe water and parents to grow crops to feed their families. Adequate sanitation will keep everyone healthy. Yes, it is a huge task, but it is achievable.

All it takes is for us, the lucky ones who have always had water on tap, to donate whatever we can. It's not money that will disappear into some warlord's coffers to buy guns, or help a community now but leave no solution in place. The WaterAid staff and volunteers raise money to work with governments and partner organisations around the world, ensuring people have the means and the knowledge to resolve their own problems. The help we give will save the lives of the children who are suffering now, and their children too.

' **Governments have a responsibility to ensure the provision of safe water and sanitation for all their citizens. We use our practical experience to demonstrate how they and other practitioners can provide effective, appropriate and sustainable services to more people.'**

When life is not an endless search for water there is time for education, there is energy to work towards a better quality of life. There is self-belief and opportunity for dreams of becoming a doctor or a teacher to become reality. My dream is to see children live to read these words.

If you have enjoyed this anthology then say thank you in a practical way that will mean so much to so many people. Please click that button and donate to WaterAid. Then tell all your friends. Thank you for your support.

Quotes are from WaterAid Global Strategy 2009-2015

Go to the WaterAid website for full details:

http://www.wateraid.org

Watch a 3 minute video about their work:

<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4OJR21JmLyg>

# Special thanks

' _Tis the season to be jolly, tra la la la, la la la la..._

Yep, that's how it started, me full of the Christmas spirit (or was that spirits?) and feeling confident after publishing two novels and an anthology. In a reckless moment of madness I posted, 'Come on, let's get together and publish a Christmas group anthology for charity'. Me and those fiendish fingers of mine, that find a devilish life of their own when on a keyboard – will I never learn to hold back from such craziness?

Then I compounded the error. Initial enthusiasm from the group was waning, understandably so as the next Christmas seemed a loooong way off. So I raised the bar. 'Instead of a December release, let's do a beach read, publish on 01 July,' says I.

Bring the straightjacket, someone: this writer is in dire need of one. These fingers on the keyboard are becoming dangerous weapons. Topsy, she grew and grew.

Anyway, for better or worse we were all travellers on a road we had never been on before. And suddenly there were too many people looking to me to be the navigator for me to consider the possibility of letting them down, not if there was any way I could prevent it.

You've met the storytellers and poets, you know the quality of work they have donated, so I'm sure you will join with me in thanking them for their generosity. And just from me – thank you for allowing me to get to know you and work with you. It has been a great pleasure and I'm looking forward to Of Words and Water 2014, hoping that you too will want to repeat the experience, crazy as it might seem right now.

Please stay with me a moment to acknowledge the people who haven't yet been mentioned, or whose special contributions deserve recording.

I'm sure you'll agree that Peggy Seeger, an icon of folk music on both sides of the Atlantic, should be thanked for her song and poem. Imagine the funds raised if each one of her fans were to donate to WaterAid! It is thanks to Kerry Dwyer that Peggy was persuaded to join our efforts. You're an amazing person, Peggy, and it's an honour to have you with us.

The great title was suggested by Jason Parent at a time when I was stuck at Review Group Anthology for WaterAid level. I think you'll agree my title would not prompt much interest, so thanks, Jason, for saving us from that ignominy, and for writing the book blurb while you were on a roll. A proper title made the project feel 'real'. From that point I could visualise and identify with the book, not just a collection of stories and poems.

Don't judge a book by its cover – how often have you heard that? We know we shouldn't, but humans are genetically geared to making snap judgements. In our long gone past, survival depended on the ability to do so. Food or danger? Fight or flight? The first second of seeing our book for the first time had to be right. I freely admit my judgement in that area is not the best, so Mark Bell and Ali Isaac took on the cover design task, a huge relief for me – thank you. They checked out many dozens of images and photos, many of them originals they had sourced, then started to work with James of humblenations.com.

James, what can I say? You've not only done a fine job on the cover, you've donated it to the group effort even though your paying workload was heavy. And each time I saw an email from you, signed off with 'kindness and smiles', it really did make me smile. The world would be so much better if we treated each other with kindness. I feel great when I'm smiling, and smiles beget smiles. You're too self-effacing to take up the offer of a bio section for yourself and your work, but I did eventually manage to extract this interview link from you:.<http://karlwebster.com/2013/03/self-publishing-masterclass-cover-design-cl-smith/>. I look forward to working with you next year and reading your story contribution for Of Words and Water 2014.

Mark Bell, screenwriter, and Richard Clabaugh, film director and producer: <http://www.rclabaugh.com/>– your professional production of the book trailer, your donation of time and skill, is very much appreciated. Sorry you faced the frustration of me not getting the video clips you needed soon enough for the book launch – thank you for your patience and your generosity. At the time of writing, I've read the superb script and can imagine what the trailer will be – it's very exciting, waiting to see it for real. I'd not read a script before: it's a very unique skill, one you've done so well, Mark. I hadn't previously fully credited just how powerful a book trailer can be. I do now, so you've added to my education as well as giving the group a fine accessory to help get the words and the water out there. You've told me, Mark, how highly you rate Richard's skill, so I know it's going to be worth waiting for. You've restrained me from using the ruddy great hammer and are giving the group a more refined tool instead.

This has been a much bigger project than I anticipated, I needed much more help than I foresaw. I take my hat off to people who do project management on a daily basis. Jenny Sutton (WaterAid) and Helen Cheeseman (Environment Agency) – you've been key players. Thank you for helping co-ordinate the aspects I was so ignorant of. I needed to know it was right and having experts and 'fresh eyes' has helped, plus your efforts to get our work known about is immensely important. Hopefully lots of downloads will prompt lots of donations. I do so hope we achieve that £500 target I've set us.

Instrumental in our efforts to get word of Of Words and Water out there has been Neel Kay's contribution. Many writers of about my age have got the message that 'social media' can make a big difference. Many writers of about my age find umpteen excuses not to explore what we think of as the 'dreaded social media'. I thought I'd just about got the hang of Facebook then it timelined me and I was all at sea again. The publication date was approaching rapidly and I was starting to panic. Then Neel volunteered her expertise – thank you, from the bottom of my heart, Neel, for giving me a new excuse not to explore these dark arts. You'd no sooner volunteered than a Facebook account appeared, followed in short order with a web page and a Twitter account. I joined the twits – sorry, Tweeters (or something). WaterAid's cause convinced me I should at least try, so I sent my first ever Tweet... or I re-Tweeted... or something. There are a lot of 'somethings' and 'maybes' crop up in my social media interactions... Anyway, I feel confident you'll keep the group up to scratch on those issues, Neel. You're a gem!

Last, but by no means least, two people who have become very good friends: Mark Bell and Ali Isaac – you should be very proud of your contribution. I couldn't have done this without you. Your work on the cover and trailer removed a load from my shoulders. Just as important for me, or rather that should be 'vital for me', has been your unflagging moral support and readiness to act as a sounding board for various aspects of the project. Your advice and invaluable feedback have been the glue that held me together when I started fraying at the seams. Are you ready to do it all again next year?

Jay Howard  
Editor

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