

### Fiction Vortex

A Speculative Fiction Typhoon

September 2013

Volume 1, Issue 5

Edited by Dan Hope & Mike Cluff

Copyright 2013 Fiction Vortex

Smashwords Edition

Cover Image by David Revoy / Blender Foundation

Cover design by Dan Hope

Website: FictionVortex.com

Twitter: @FictionVortex

Facebook: FictionVortex

# Table of Contents

Letter from the Editor

Short Stories

The Second British Empire — by Alasdair Keith (3rd Place)

Miye's In — by Joanna Maciejewska (1st Place)

The Eternal — by Les Zigomanis

The Trouble with Exopolitics — by Michael Hemmingson

Somnambula — by Aaron F. Runyon

Rotations — by Brian Druckenmiller

Time to Sell — by J. Rohr (2nd Place)

The Grannywoman of Devil's Backbone — by Teel James Glenn

Articles

What Does Your Character Want? — by T. Eric Bakutis (guest author)

Stick the Landing, Pt. 1: The Importance of Great Endings — by Daniel Hope

Stick the Landing, Pt. 2: A Taxonomy of Story Endings — by Daniel Hope

Stick the Landing, Pt. 3: Common Mistakes in Story Endings — by Daniel Hope

Book Review: Glyphbinder — by T. Eric Bakutis (review by Mike Cluff)

About Fiction Vortex

#  Letter from the Editor

As your resident informant on all things swirling within the Fiction Vortex, I'm here to tell you that you're getting more than you bargained for with this issue. It's a very good thing.

September was a great month for us because we had such a broad and strong array of stories. We always try to have a variety of genres represented on our site, but this month represents the best collection yet of epic fantasy with a personal touch, far-reaching science fiction with a practical bent, truly haunting psychological horror, and a few more speculative stories that don't fit well into a certain category.

It's an all-you-can-read extravaganza!

Whoa, that looks far cheesier on the page than it sounded in my head. Regardless, great stuff awaits you inside.

We also have a hefty dose of writing tips this month; more than usual thanks to a series we produced about how to improve story endings. We won't give away the end, but it's ... informative.

As always, we take great pleasure in providing you with great stories and fantastic ideas. And we appreciate your support! When the alien invasion happens, there's a space reserved just for you in our underground apocalypse shelter.

Vortexical Wishes,

Dan Hope

Managing Editor, Voice of Reason

Fiction Vortex

(Back to Table of Contents)

#  Short Stories

The Second British Empire — by Alasdair Keith (3rd Place)

Miye's In — by Joanna Maciejewska (1st Place)

The Eternal — by Les Zigomanis

The Trouble with Exopolitics — by Michael Hemmingson

Somnambula — by Aaron F. Runyon

Rotations — by Brian Druckenmiller

Time to Sell — by J. Rohr (2nd Place)

The Grannywoman of Devil's Backbone — by Teel James Glenn

(Back to Table of Contents)

#  The Second British Empire

by Alasdair Keith; published September 3, 2013

Third Place Award, September 2013 Fiction Contest

We were marched down from the _HMS Glory_.

A new world.

New beginnings. Yet, at the same time, no change at all.

Ald Hux Colony I: our new home. Another faceless, featureless wilderness. Will-o-the-wisps, producing foggy phantasmagorias — a familiar sight. Just as with the other three planets I'd been trafficked to, the landscape was somewhat like a Turner painting. He was a remnant from the legacy of Mother Earth, having lived there during the First British Empire.

 The Second British Empire was now well under way. This new empire seemed to have lost none of the rapacity or volatility of the original. At least I felt so, unable to conceive of anything worse.

Evo Chavez claimed that it could be worse. He used to be a part of _Colonia Española III_ until he was traded, with 1.5 million others, to the Brits. According to Evo, the Conquistadors used to deprive their workers of clean water, and that we should be thankful for our 20ml allowance.

I certainly was thankful for that. It was the great Sir Adam Asquith who had ensured that we workers were provided with our 20ml of clean water a day, describing our previous deprivation as a "disgrace" and a "scandal." He became a hero to us workers, a champion of the poor and desperate. I too joined in with the gratitude. But then one day it was pointed out to me that Sir Adam Asquith, a diamond merchant, had made his money out of our toil.

That changed everything.

The person who had pointed it out — a Mongoloid man who had been born in the space-ship yards of Theia — was long gone. He was declared a faulty commodity and duly "removed." A well-worn motto of our masters was that they only liked "Workers who Work."

This man's death — in life called Minh Võ Giáp, in death designated as Thought-Corrupted Subject 2233 — had been of great impact to me. He was an elderly man with a smiling mouth and sad eyes. At night, instead of getting some well-needed sleep, Minh would teach me how to read and write; he would teach history, politics, and economics. Once I was adequately learned, we would then sit in the evenings and discuss our plights, discuss a better future. There had certainly been nothing wrong with his thought processes; before he taught me, he had been the only worker able to read and write within our colony.

Our masters read and wrote.

"Get moving, Ponty!" I heard before I felt a sharp nudge. It was one of our overseers — this one a particularly swarthy character — snapping me out of my reverie. Ponty was a reference to the Bible's Pontius Pilate, seen as thriftless, dithering, and stupid. It was a customary insult. In fact, I'd once had a conversation with Minh himself, who had argued that the reason for the insult was to associate us workers with an enemy of Christ, and thus portray us to the middle classes as immoral and, crucially, as deserving of our lot in life. I hadn't understood him at the time, but upon even superficial thought it made perfect sense. Evo always said that when in the Spanish colonies, the workers were compared to Judas Iscariot as they "reflected" his indecision, unreliability, and greed.

"Oi, I thought I told you ..." the overseer threatened.

I quickened my pace, thankful that the overseer had given me that second chance.

By now we had descended from the _Glory_ and were walking in single file over the rugged terrain. It was foggy, but not unduly so. The change in pressure took some getting used to though — I felt squeezed down, suppressed.

The area was devoid of vegetation. The only noticeable attribute to the setting was a vague silhouette on the horizon. We seemed to be approaching it. As we neared, I could just about make out that the silhouette was comprised of little wooden shacks. I guessed that these would be our new homes.

A signpost by the shacks put paid to that idea. "Equipment Storage," it read.

"Where are our homes?" I asked one of the overseers indignantly.

"Just over the ridge, Ponty," came an equally indignant reply.

I thought that I would chance it: "But why not here?"

Luckily, this overseer seemed to be rather more kind-hearted than the typical one: "Can't get the equipment wet, Ponty. This is the top of the embankment — the air here is thinner and less moist. You lot will be sleeping down below."

"So you would rather we got wet?"

"You lot don't rust."

There was a pause, in which time the overseer realized that he had been too lenient on me. "Anyway, back in line, Ponty. And stop asking questions!"

I duly did so. Without the energy to seethe at this revelation, I trudged with the other workers down the embankment, where our new settlement could now be seen.

"It's all misty," I heard one of my fellow workers complain, before a sharp blow put an end to his dissent.

Once at the bottom, we were greeted by the great and the good of Ald Hux Colony I. The High Commissioner — a rather small, balding man with extensive ginger-colored facial hair — was there to greet us in person. Despite his small stature, he had a bellowing voice that indicated a no-nonsense approach to his colonialism.

"Right, folks," he began, his face slightly obscured by the mist. He might even have called it a haar; his accent was that of the Nouveau-Scots. "First of all, I must say how delighted I am to have you all here."

I'd heard a variation of those words upon arrival to every single colony I'd been to.

"I hear that you are some of the best workers in the whole of this British Empire."

Some of the workers cheered. I didn't though — I'd heard it before.

"But ... you must all live up to that reputation. We only like workers who work. Any sign of slacking, any sign of slumber, and any sign of ... socialism will be cut out immediately."

Again, this was customary; only, this time, the word "socialism" had been said with slightly more malice than usual.

"If you are good, then we will provide you with good things. If you show signs of being faulty then we will have to consign you to the scrap heap. Remember, work sets you free."

I shivered. This too was a customary phrase of the imperialists. I'd never thought anything of it until Minh had shown me an old book and read it out to me, coming across the words: " _Arbeit macht frei_." Fluent in German, Minh had told me that the phrase meant "Work sets you free." Of course, the colonialists refuted this, wanting to avoid any association with the Nazis — I'd seen them say flatly to many workers of German descent that their translations were simply incorrect.

I'd asked Minh why the colonialists had taken such a risk in utilizing such a phrase. "Firstly," he had said, "because it reflects their ideology — creating differences that aren't there. Secondly, I believe it is them testing their own power — to examine how pliable we workers are to them."

"And are we pliable?"

"Very."

~~~~~

Shortly after the speech, we were assigned to our new homes. It was eight to a hut irrespective of age, gender, or health. There was one good point though — we had hammocks to sleep in. This raised us above the damp, earthen floors.

Keir Owen seemed pleased enough with these additions. "Imagine 'at," he said in his New-Scouse accent. "'ey've e'en thought tae provide us wi' hammocks. Here wis I 'hinkin" we would be lyin' on this-here damp floor. Nice though, eh, tae provide us wi' these hammocks?"

I grunted, already lying down in one of these hammocks. "We could have had the huts up the hill," I moaned.

"Aye, but the machinery would rust if it were doon here instead," Keir pointed out.

"We'll get ill."

"We're hardy."

"Only 'cos we're told that."

"Tis true! You never see an ill worker."

"That's 'cos you're not allowed."

"But I've ne'er been ill in my life."

"Have you ever puked?"

"Aye ..."

"Well, then, you've been ill."

"Aye but not seriously."

"Did your brother not collapse and die? What's that now, three years past?"

"Aye, but it wis his time."

"Time for what?"

Despite the fact that my eyes were closed, I could feel Keir's gaze upon me. "Time to die. Everybody dies."

"Aye, but couldn't he have lived longer, eh? If only he'd been provided with medicine — the Imperialists use them."

Keir's voice was now croaky. "I don't 'hink you should say such things."

I suppressed my fury. Keir was a good guy. How had he been forced to live this lie?

I rubbed my eyes and then opened them.

A camera pointed down from above.

To be fair, it was partially concealed by the mist that had seeped into the cabin. But how could I have been so stupid?

~~~~~

I was watched very closely for the whole of the next week as we settled into our new jobs. Not a word was said to me on my dissent, but the continual overseer presence around me was conspicuous.

We were mining for bauxite, this particular ore now near exhaustion in many planets across the empire. Work, therefore, was intense. We were working in a shady, narrow mineshaft with dust that continuously affected our respiration

Today we were to create a controlled explosion down one of the mineshafts in order to loosen some of the rock. We were all quite excited with this as it broke the usual drudgery of picking at the rock.

The explosives were laid in place and, once everybody was out of the mineshaft, detonated with a thirty-second fuse.

The ground shook violently once the time was up. There was a faint glow at the entrance to the mineshaft as the fired roared up and licked what hadn't yet been damaged.

We watched in wonder at what we had created. We knew that we would soon be back in that mineshaft, collecting the loose bauxite debris. We'd literally be picking up lumps of it; far more satisfying than the usual laborious mining which gleaned us barely any more of the mineral.

Therefore, we were all in quite a good mood as we entered the shaft some time later. Buoyed too by the spectacle of the explosion, the overseers forgot themselves and shared out some of their afternoon provisions.

Time wasn't wasted on sealing up the remainder of the mineshaft. We were too eager to claim our prize.

Using our sacks, we set about collecting all the loose bauxite. Working on commission — the empire had done away with workers' salaries — this was probably going to be the year's best chance to make a little money and pay off the debts we had racked up from when we'd last used explosives.

We stuffed our sacks with bauxite. Sometimes we would feel faint tremors as other parts of the mineshafts, which had held up until then, gave up their struggles and collapsed. We were too busy to care though.

Once I'd filled my second sack and handed it over to the overseer at the entrance, I felt the biggest tremor yet. We all felt it.

I watched the section of mineshaft in front of me give way and the roof collapse. Earth and rubble intermingled as they cascaded down. I looked on in horror as I noticed Keir for the first time in the darkness, trying to rush towards us before the debris engulfed him.

He didn't make it.

Barely thirty yards from us, a particularly large section of the roof dislodged itself and came tumbling down. Keir was crushed under its weight. I caught a quick glimpse of blood before yet more rocks buried the body.

A cloud of dust then came our way, blinding and choking us. We stooped to cough, and then lifted ourselves to breathe. Upon breathing in only dust, we stooped to cough once more.

The dust and debris settled, allowing us to look up. Still choking, we looked back at the mound of rocks, which constituted Keir's grave. At its edge was his legacy — a sack full of bauxite.

Cautiously, we approached. Without saying a word, we stared down at a stream of blood oozing from under one of the rocks.

We heard muffled voices at the other side of the mound. We could not see the speakers but knew that it must be the workers who'd been collecting bauxite some way down the shaft. They were trapped but safe.

The stream had now become a pool.

The overseer broke the silence, sounding genuinely emotional: "I can't believe it. He was a good worker."

"A good man," I said.

Our attentions turned to the sack of bauxite, blood now congealing round it.

"Well, at least the bauxite was saved," the overseer mumbled. It was a throw-away comment — he did not mean disrespect — but for me it was too much. I launched myself at him. I was not angry with him but at the system which had created him.

He did not know quite how to react. He screamed for help and, just as I drew blood from his upper lip, a couple of overseers who'd been patrolling outside rushed to his aid. I was hauled off of him and beaten to a state that far exceeded the damage I had inflicted.

Once they stopped, I looked up. The overseer whom I had assaulted did not even have a trace of vengeance upon his face. Only shock. Somebody had given him a bowl of water to wash his wounds. I could see the water stinging him. I actually felt sorry for him — he was one of the more favorable overseers. I'd learned the other day that he had come to Ald Hux Colony I in order to spread his Christian message. He was a good man but one who was confined by the conventions society had imposed on him.

After all, he still called me Ponty.

There was no malice in the man's face, but I could see that he was going to do nothing to prevent my imminent departure.

One of the other overseers was calling Base, requesting backup.

I stared into the overseer's face imploringly. But he was going to do nothing. He was the true Pontius Pilate — he was the one washing his hands.

~~~~~

They came for me.

My head was covered with a hood, and I was marched away. There was no dissent; no protest.

We marched over the rugged terrain. Sometimes I could swear, though, that it was a boot I tripped over instead of a jutting rock.

After a time, we stopped.

I could sense that we were now inside.

A single word:

"Faulty."

Some more marching.

Then a jab.

Darker and darker.

Things were getting darker.

Desperately, I clung onto a thought. Something Minh had told me:

"Imperialism is a paper tiger."

I clung and clung and clung. But then it slipped away, claws having ripped up the parchment.

Alasdair is from the wilderness of Elgin, Scotland. Currently, he is studying Chemistry in Edinburgh, and is also an active member of the Labour Party. It's therefore not surprising that much of what he writes revolves around science and politics! The Second British Empire is his first published work, although he has written a novel, which he is currently trying to get published.

(Back to Table of Contents)

# Miye's In

by Joanna Maciejewska; published September 6, 2013

First Place Award, September 2013 Fiction Contest

I remember it clearly: it was three days after we saw the first oskrin, and two days before we hastily finished raising the temporary fencing around the settlement when Miye first complained about being sick. Funny how such unimportant details stick in the mind even after years have passed. She was thin and rather short for her age with brownish, always tangled hair resembling an impassable thicket. The only beautiful accent in her triangular face were her big eyes, a shade darker than her hair, always wide open and watching intently, maybe a bit too intently, as if she wanted others to look away. She might have seemed a bit odd, but she was always the picture of health.

 ~~~~~

Tanned and seasoned by salt in the ocean wind, she made it through the three-week-long sea journey in better condition than any of us. While others were hanging over the railing throwing up food, or withering slowly in the hull where we spent most of the journey, Miye was all over the place. I don't know how, but she always managed to sneak outside. On more than one occasion, some sailor brought her, still wriggling to get free from her captor's grip, back to her father, Tarish.

"I apologize," was all he muttered, as no explanations were needed, and nothing could be done anyway.

No punishments, threats, nor promises could keep Miye from sneaking out again, climbing the rigging, and laughing as she ran away from sailors, jumping from rope to rope like a little simp.

"I swear, her mother must have been at least a quarter feral!" Tarish used to say whenever he heard Miye's laughter followed by the sailor's heavy curses.

"And what, you didn't notice the fur?" someone would reply. Back then, I didn't get the joke, but Tarish would turn red as a brick.

It all ended one day when the first mate caught Miye.

"So eager to be on the deck, are we?" he raised his eyebrow as he spoke. "Then you're going to work like the rest of the crew."

And Miye ended up swabbing the deck, learning how to tie knots, and looking out from the crow's nest. Not exactly what a father would wish for a young wiefearn to do, but I think Tarish was just relieved that she wasn't getting into trouble anymore. From what I saw, when she was back in the hull for the rare nights when the weather was not good enough to sleep outside, the sailors didn't go easy on her, and she was wrecked. But she was also tanned and gaining muscle, stamina, and endurance while we still hung from the railing from time to time and saw the sun on the rare days when the deck was quiet enough to let us out.

~~~~~

But then Miye, healthy and resilient Miye, said she was sick.

I was resting in the shade of the partially raised fence with some others, enjoying the midday break. Summer on Imheria was hot, and it made more sense to rest through the hottest hours of the day instead of pointlessly exhausting all our strength. We were spared the heaviest tasks, though we claimed we were grown up enough to handle them. I guess we were just typical fourteen-year-olds who thought that being pioneers in a new land made them stronger.

This was when Miye walked past us. Three days after we saw the first oskrin and two days before we finished the fence. I don't know why I even remember the event so exactly. Even a quick glimpse told me something was not right. Miye always either ran or walked vigorously. When she was exhausted, she would just be slower, but still looking around inquisitively, ready to dash just like a wild animal. I don't think I had ever seen her like that. Leg by leg, she dragged herself along the street, her body stiff and head bobbing to the sides as if it was too heavy to hold straight. If I didn't know better, I would have thought she was chewing on fogum leaves.

She staggered straight to the little hut in which our physician, Sil Karia, saw to her patients. We always kept away from Sil Karia as she was eager to check our ears and hair, or throw us in a big washtub and scrub the dirt from us. Of course, Miye was the best in avoiding the coarse cleaning brush, but that day she walked straight to the pudgy wiefearn instructing some young ones on the importance of washing their hands. "After all," she used to say, "we come from Ozellium and we are civilized, not like those savages that live over here."

"Miye, what's wrong, petal?" asked Karia when she saw the little wiefearn stumbling over her own legs.

I stretched my hearing, trying to catch the weak response that came from Miye's mouth.

"It's my In. My In is sick."

My friends looked at each other, exchanging knowing looks, and I couldn't shake off the feeling that Miye was not speaking metaphors.

"Oh petal, your In can't be sick," said Karia, gently stroking Miye's tangled hair. "The In is a part of you, it can't get sick."

"But it's gotten sick, Sil Karia!" Miye was on the verge of crying. She froze for a moment like a sand statue, and then she threw up on the ground just by the Sil's feet.

I have to admit, the physician kept her face almost straight.

"It's a bit of upset stomach," she explained calmly. "Come, I'll give you some salve to make it feel better."

They walked inside, but I couldn't watch anymore; we had to get back to work. I didn't see Miye leave and couldn't tell if the salve made her feel better, but later on, when we were putting resin mixture between the wooden logs of the palisade, I spotted Sil Karia walking out of the hut. She held a scarf to her face and inspected the place where Miye's sick was still drying in the sun. Then she disappeared for a moment inside and came back with a flask of dark liquid, which she poured over the spot. The look of concern on her face worried me.

~~~~~

We completed the fence before more oskrin came. The palisade stood tall and proud, and we had guards posted on the lookout tower constantly scanning the area in search of threats. We burned torches to scare away the monsters and never left the settlement at night. Except for that, life went on as usual. I wondered how Miye was, but didn't see her anywhere.

It could have been both a good sign and a bad one. She could have been sneaking out as usual, or lying down stricken with sickness. I didn't find enough courage to visit Tarish and ask about her. Our families were never very close. We came from different parts of Ozellium, and all we shared was three weeks of sea journey and being the first settlers in Imheria.

With the palisade finished, I had some spare time, so I went around the settlement eavesdropping. But people were only talking about summer ending soon and preparations for winter. Some worried if we would survive it, and others pondered the threat of oskrin and the locals. So far, the ferals were friendly enough, but one could never know with them. Considered an inferior kind of fearn, ferals were much like beasts, primitive and not too smart. Even their looks, when they came to visit for the first time, were barbaric. They were decorated in bones and feathers, with unfearnly faces, many of them resembling snouts, bodies covered with fur, and large hands with overgrown claws, which made them look more like animals than fearn. Back then, I didn't understand why they didn't at least try to become civilized, and I could clearly see why in Ozellium they had to keep to their district. Now, after all those years, I'm unable to see the world in black and white anymore. But that's another story, for another time.

I think it was a week after Miye visited Sil Karia when I got to see her again. It was my night to be on lookout, so I stood at the palisade staring at the blackness of the wilderness. Sometimes I thought I could see a faint glow of the gems that glittered on oskrin bodies, but none ever came close enough for me to be sure. We didn't have many oskrin back in Ozellium; our fathers and grandfathers fought and drove them into one quarter of the sewers. We never managed to kill them all, and it seemed there were always a few left behind to breed. But Ozellium fearn didn't know the threat they could pose. In Imheria, vast wilderness as it was, the oskrin roamed freely across the land. We knew little of what they could do, and though the wise fearn ensured us that oskrin rarely formed big packs, we still feared their attack. There was only a palisade between us and the unknown, and there were only a few fearn doing their best to see through the veil of darkness.

We were all varispected; that's why we were put on the night watch. But some said that the oskrin bodies radiated no heat, so our thermal spectrum was useless anyway. If an oskrin appeared, would I manage to sound the alarm before it got to me? I stood there, in the claws of fear, staring into the distant forest and hoping to spot anything before it came after me.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" a familiar voice said. "So quiet, calm, and mysterious."

First I flinched, caught unaware. I didn't hear her coming, but there she was. Her hair was messy as usual, and her clothes looked like she hadn't changed them in a while. She was squatting down on the top of the logs, resting her hands leisurely on the sharpened tips of the wood, balancing with ease, almost as if she was nonchalantly sitting in a cozy armchair and not clinging to a palisade.

"Miye—"

"I don't understand why everybody fears it so much," she interrupted me. Or maybe she didn't even hear me speaking.

Only then, in the faint light of the smaller of the moons, I saw drops of sweat on her skin not just silvered by the moonlight, but sickly pale.

"Is your In still sick?" I asked.

Miye smiled gently at me.

"It's getting better now," she reassured me, but some undertone in her voice told me that she wasn't telling the whole truth.

I was about to smile as well, if for nothing else than to cover up my doubts about her state, but Miye was already looking back at the forest. There was some strange longing in her face that enchanted me so much I didn't notice Miye's eyes closing slowly and her body going limp. My Ra did not realize what was going on, but my In reacted almost instantly. As I dashed toward her, I was grateful that she fell backwards, onto the palisade, not forward — into the darkness.

I always thought Miye would be as light as a feather, so her weight surprised me. I called out to other fearn for a replacement at my post, and burdened by the unconscious wiefearn, I made my way to Sil Karia's hut.

"Sil Karia! Sil Karia!" I shouted pounding at the door. "Miye's unwell!"

She came out sooner than I thought, still in her nightgown. Her expression was already of dire seriousness.

"Get in," she huffed, moving to the side and letting me into the dark corridor. I knew the way to the patient room, so I rushed straight there as Karia saw to some lighting. A short flash ripped through the darkness, temporarily hurting my eyes, but they quickly adapted. And in no time, there was a lit lamp in the room.

"She came up on the palisade," I explained as I lay Miye down on the bed. "Then she lost balance and fell down."

"Was she sick? Did she cough? Sneeze?" Sil Karia inquired with her hand already on the young wiefearn's forehead.

"No, nothing. She just was there, staring at the forest," I replied. "Maybe I should get her father?"

To my surprise the physician shook her head.

"I will handle it later. For now, will you be so kind as to watch over her? I need to prepare some salves."

I nodded, slightly confused. I couldn't understand why Sil Karia didn't want me to go find Tarish, but then I was happy enough that I wasn't simply sent away. I sat by the bed watching Miye looking so calm. If she was really sick, one could not tell it by her expression.

Karia came back after a while with two mugs. One she lay on the sturdy dresser, the other she handed to me.

"Here, have some broth. It might be a long night," she explained, as she fetched a small spatula out of the dresser drawer. It was wrapped in a piece of cloth, and Karia used it to get some liquid into Miye's mouth. I kept sipping on the broth, enjoying the warmth it gave my body, and watching the physician doing her work.

"Is her In really sick?" I whispered in the end.

Sil Karia gave me a weird look.

"In can't get sick," she claimed. "But sometimes, when the body is sick, the In gets confused."

I nodded, or maybe my head was bobbing already out of tiredness. Funny, I thought, I shouldn't be that tired. But then my eyes were already closing, and my head was getting drowsy. Karia simply reached over and took the mug out of my suddenly numb hand. I think I saw her gentle smile, though by then, I was already falling asleep. In no time I rested my head on Miye's bed and fell into nothingness.

~~~~~

"If Pershoni didn't put all that gohn skip in their heads, maybe we'd be able to actually learn something!" Karia's angry voice stirred me out of my blissful slumber. "Sick In! That's just ridiculous!"

I slowly lifted my eyelids letting my eyes adjust to what I thought was morning light, but instead I saw only a lamp by the bedside. While I was asleep, someone had moved me to another room. I wanted to get up and ask Karia how Miye was, but then I heard another voice:

"For Rin's sake, not so loud, wiefearn! Do you want to get killed for heresy?"

I didn't recognize who the fearn was, and it only sparked my curiosity. Why would our physician call for someone other than Miye's father?

"I am not saying that they don't exist, Harrevith," Karia said. "Just pointing out that flooding the young ones' heads with such complicated ideas ... we would have a better chance of learning what happened otherwise. The whole colony's existence is at stake!"

Harrevith ... I knew this name. After a few moments, I managed to recall that it was our Elder's son, said to be the next leader of the colony. But why would Karia call for him, and why was the colony at risk? I was anxious about eavesdropping, but I kept listening intently.

"Karia, it's only one sick wiefearn! Be reasonable!"

"I would be reasonable if she had any ailment or disease I know of, but it doesn't seem to be an ordinary fever. There's more to it; I can tell, and it might be the start of a plague we don't know how to fight. Before we figure it out, everybody might be dead!"

There was a lingering silence after her words. I sat in bed trying not to breathe too loud in case they might discover I was awake. I was terrified by what I had heard, though I have to admit, I was young and had little understanding. I didn't care about the plague, and the whole colony dying seemed both improbable and unimportant at the time. All I could think of was Miye having some sickness Sil Karia didn't know how to treat. And that _she could die_ because of it.

"And the young fearn?" asked Harrevith. "Is he sick too?"

"I don't know," tiredness echoed in Karia's voice. "I don't even know if it's contagious. I don't know anything!" she almost shouted the last words, then paused — maybe to calm herself down. "He brought her here, they seem to be friends. He doesn't have any symptoms, but if it's pestilent, my guess would be either he or Tarish will catch it next."

There was a muffled sound that resembled 'danzen' and shuffling and rustling followed. I leaned forward straining to hear, trying to figure out what was going on, and when the realization came, I hastily landed back on my pillow pulling it over my red ears. I wasn't the shy, blushing type, but overhearing some other fearn mating just in the next room was too much for me. Of course, all the nuances of the situation escaped me. I didn't wonder about their motives back then, and why they kept their relation a secret instead of announcing they were mates was beyond me. Though I would never admit it back then, I was still young, and many of the subtleties of adult lives and doings were unclear to me, simply irrational nonsense at best.

I laid in the darkness, pressing the pillow to my burning ears to muffle the sounds from the other room, and all I could think of was Miye being sick.

~~~~~

Despite Sil Karia's concerns, I didn't get sick. She kept me in bed for another three days, but since I didn't show any signs of weakness, she let me visit Miye every once in a while. Sometimes I thought she just hoped that in the end I'd catch whatever her other patient had. But I didn't. I was the way I've always been, a healthy young fearn.

Miye, to the contrary, was still sick, and even though her state did not seem to get any worse, there were no signs of recovery either. There were days when she laid motionless, unconscious but calm, and others when she shrieked in pain or moaned feverishly. And I sat there holding her hand in mine watching drops of sweat form on her skin.

Sil Karia seemed helpless. She put compresses on Miye's head and chest, burned incense, used balms and salves ... nothing worked. She even resorted to consulting farmers living outside of Galstead, who came from Ozellium years ago to colonize the new world, but none of them had ever heard of such sickness.

Even when I was finally allowed to go home, I visited whenever my duties allowed. I still held night watch, staring at the forest, but fear had finally released its grip on me. I don't know whether it was due to the routine and lack of real threats, or if I started to perceive the forest the way Miye did. Of course, back then I was ready to claim it was the latter; but now, after all those years, my memory might be dimmer, but my understandings are broader. We still saw oskrin from time to time, but none of them ever came close to the palisade. Nor were there any attacks. Over time we grew used to their presence, and though no one was willing to let their guard down when outside of Galstead at dusk, fear did not cling to us anymore. We protected ourselves the best we could, and life had to go on.

Sometimes I met Tarish in the infirmary, but we never spoke except for exchanging greetings. I could see how day after day he was slowly fading, being only a shadow of the fearn who arrived on Imheria. I don't think he talked to anyone anymore, though from what I've heard, he tried to perform his duties as usual. The only person he still had some words for was Sil Karia, but more often than not he was just pleading or arguing with her. I felt embarrassed whenever I came in at the wrong time, witnessing their heated discussions. I escaped to Miye's room hoping they didn't even notice me.

I think it was nearly a month since Miye had gotten sick when I learned what Tarish and Karia were arguing about. The whole settlement was buzzing like a hive of angry wasps, and news traveled quicker than wind through the trees: a feral had arrived at Galstead.

I wish I could say that I wasn't there with the crowd, consumed by unhealthy curiosity, but I couldn't resist the chance to see a feral. In Ozellium, they were only allowed within one district, and my father ensured I never got close to "those primitives," as he used to call them. So I rushed to the settlement's gates to watch the feral enter confidently. I admit feeling a bit ashamed, and I stayed between the buildings at first. But being unable to see, I ended up climbing on some crates piled against a shed. In the end I had a better view than most of the crowd at the gates.

I think it was a female, though I couldn't tell for sure, as she had a snout and copper-hued fur all over her body. Her garment was leather-made with lots of fringes and bone bead embroidery. Her golden varispected eyes glittered in the sun as she looked around with confidence. Only after a closer look, I noticed obsidian-like claws and a long, thin tail resembling that of a flene.

"I am here by the request of a fearn named Tarish," she spoke loudly in low tones that resembled a fearn's voice. She spoke our language, but her accent was so heavy and unfamiliar to me that it took a few moments to understand what she meant. "I am here to see to his daughter's health."

A displeased murmur travelled through the crowd, but no one stepped forth or replied. So, the feral stood by the gate looking around for at least a few minutes. Finally, a small figure pushed through the crowd, and I saw Sil Karia in her best garment with her shirt tightly tucked and a blue bow by her neck.

"Come with me," she said simply, and although no signs of displeasure showed on her face, I knew she was not happy with the turn of events.

It only then dawned on me that this was the topic of the discussions she had with Tarish. The words I overheard by chance now made sense: they were arguing of whether to ask ferals for help with Miye.

Sil Karia turned, and the crowd parted as the tribal followed our physician.

I quickly jumped off the crates and rushed to the infirmary. I knew that most likely I wouldn't be allowed inside, but no one could forbid me peeking through the window, especially if they didn't even know I was there. Karia usually left the window ajar to allow the fresh air in, so with a little luck, I'd be able to listen too.

I made it just in time. The feral was approaching Miye. Sil Karia was at the door, hesitant whether she should enter or not, but she let out a yell of protest when the feral whipped out a short bone knife. It was all Karia managed to do before the blade marked Miye's forearm drawing blood. I watched the narrow red stream trickling down her arm in horror and Sil Karia rushing to stop the bleeding. Even more terrifying was watching the feral calmly step away, allowing the physician to get to the patient while inspecting the blade's tip with squinted eyes. To my surprise, the feral wiefearn sniffed the blood carefully. I almost expected her to lick it, too.

"All those salves and concoctions of yours will do no good," the voice was deep and guttural like an echo in a cave. "They will only make things worse and drag out her pain."

Squatting by the edge of the window and hoping I wouldn't be spotted, I could still clearly see Karia's face turning red with anger. She straightened up and looked at the feral.

"I beg your pardon, Sil—" she started, aggravated.

"My name is Ish-Thrann," the feral interrupted her. "And I am referred to as a shaman. All other titles are just artificial fearn inventions."

"What gives you the right to judge my methods?" Karia demanded. "I've been trained by the finest of Ozellium scholars!"

"So I see." Ish-Thrann did not look impressed. "If my help is not needed here, and you think you can help the young wiefearn, I shall take my leave. Otherwise, it is you who should leave and let me work."

I could see that Sil Karia was waging an inner battle with herself, pride against the truth. For Miye's sake I hoped she would not be stubborn.

"Fine," Karia finally gave in. "Do your best, feral."

With those words, she left the room.

Ish-Thrann reached in her bag and took out a small stone bowl, a piece of rock that had been patiently carved and polished until it was smooth.

She placed some dried herbs in the middle and lit it on fire with two stones. A gentle smoke rose from the bowl almost instantly, and the smell soon travelled to the window where I stood. It was a pleasant aroma of meadow flowers and honey, and from what I could tell from the effect it had on me, it was supposed to calm and soothe. The shaman placed the stone bowl on the dresser and took out a tiny wooden cask from her bag. From what I could see, there was nothing more than greenish mud inside, and I felt disgusted watching the shaman smear the mixture over the cut on Miye's forearm.

"It will stop the bleeding," she said aloud, to my surprise. She was moving the back of her claws gently over Miye's forehead and cheeks. "And ensure no inflammation will start, although I wouldn't worry about it too much. How long has she been in this state?"

Only when she spoke the last words did she look directly at me.

"About a month, Sil ... shaman," I corrected myself, as there was no point in pretending I wasn't eavesdropping. I could feel my cheeks and ears burning with shame.

She simply nodded.

"No reason to stay outside," she said making an inviting gesture.

It was enough for me, my curiosity being stronger than any other compulsion. I climbed in through the window.

It was then, when I had a closer look at her, I could say she was definitely a female despite the animal-like features, although it made my cheeks burn again when I started wondering whether her breasts were covered with fur too. I noticed darker lines on her face, which made me wonder if they were natural, or if she dyed her fur. They curled on her cheekbones in mysterious shapes, making me think of sailors' tattoos.

"Is ... is Miye going to die?"

She paused and withdrew her hand from Miye's face. For a moment she stared at the wiefearn lying down in the bed, and my heart kept throbbing as I awaited the answer.

"No." Ish-Thrann's one word reply made me sigh deeply. "She is not going to die."

That was enough to relieve the burden I'd been carrying for days. I was so comforted to learn this, so overjoyed or maybe even overwhelmed with happiness, that a strange tone in the shaman's voice escaped me back then. Only later, months, even years, after these events, when the scene returned in my memories, it became clear to me that Ish-Thrann was hiding something from me. Maybe she wasn't even doing it to deceive; maybe I was too focused on myself to understand the message, to ask the right questions. While I rejoiced in the good news, I didn't think to inquire how she could know that Miye would recover, and more importantly, what my friend was suffering from. Now, looking back at those early years, I still curse myself for such carelessness.

"She will sleep now for a couple of days," said the shaman. "And then she will recover if that unruly wiefearn outside decides to listen to my advice," she added with a displeased tone. Then her varispected, honey-gold eyes stared straight at me. "When both moons' faces brighten up to full circles, come at night and visit your friend. She should be awake by then."

I stared with little understanding, and before I could ask for some explanation, Ish-Thrann was already leaving. I heard her giving some instructions to Sil Karia, whose displeased voice echoed through the wall. As curious as I was, I fought off the urge to eavesdrop. It was better to make sure that our physician didn't know I was there at all, so I hastily made my escape through the window.

~~~~~

Ish-Thrann's words were true. Miye slept for a couple of days, not in a half-conscious slumber filled with pain and unknown nightmares, but a rest of someone regaining their strength. Sil Karia walked around with a displeased face, but apparently she followed the shaman's advice.

I went about my life performing duties and helping out my father who was working on new irrigation systems for our fields, but when the full moons came, I made my way to the infirmary. This time luck didn't accompany me; the window was closed. I was ready to turn back, swallowing my disappointment, when I thought I noticed something moving in the dark. A few moments later my eyes caught the faint heat signature of someone getting out of bed. Risking the chance, I gently knocked at the window.

It was a few moments before Miye opened the window and let me in. I was happy to see her in good form, but she simply turned away, walking toward a pile of clothes neatly folded on the chair.

"We need to get outside," she said simply, as if we were just talking about stepping out of a tavern to catch a breath of fresh air.

"Outside?" I uttered. All the words, the news I had to share, my reassurances that I knew she'd be alright, all sunk into confusion.

"Outside of Galstead, of Tregallia province," she explained as she pulled a shirt over her night gown. "You are going with me, aren't you? Otherwise, why would you come?"

I wanted to explain the whole story, the shaman's words, even my feelings for her, but a quiet rumble from behind the wall reminded me where we were. Should Sil Karia wake up, we would not get a chance to talk, not to mention the trouble I would get myself into for sneaking into the infirmary. Having all this in mind, I simply nodded, and Miye's face brightened. She struggled for a moment with her breeches, and I struggled with whether to help her, or turn away to offer some privacy as she dressed. I did neither, and Miye didn't seem to care. So I just stared at her body while she readied herself, feeling my cheeks burning but refusing to look away.

Through our short journey along Galstead's streets, as Miye did her best to avoid the settlement guard and anywhere well lit by the two moons, I tried to convince her to stop and maybe explain something. But her focus was so determined and persistent that I simply followed her outside. She knew her way around, and even though I believed it was impossible to sneak in or out of the fence, Miye proved me wrong.

When I felt the harsh wood of the palisade behind me, staring at the darkness in front of us, I finally stopped and refused to follow. Miye turned to look at me when she realized I wasn't moving, but the surprise on her face was quickly replaced by an understanding smile. She gently held my hand.

"It's safe," she reassured me in a soft whisper while my fears drowned in the smell of her breath. "I've done this before."

Her voice, so alluring, so gentle... Even though my Ra was ready to point out that somehow doing "this" had gotten her sick, my In was ready to follow Miye anywhere, and I think she knew it. With all the expertise of an experienced scout, she led me to the dark line of the forest — the lookouts on the palisade never even knew we were there.

Of course, even though there was something seductive in her voice and behavior, I had no doubt this night was not going to fulfill a young fearn's most secret dreams, but the mystery I had become a part of, the riddle that I was about to solve, kept me going. And in the end, Miye was right. The forest, although dark and full of the unknown, seemed to be safe and quiet. Every once in a while I looked around expecting to see oskrin gems glowing in the night, but there were none. It even made me wonder if all the fearn in Galstead were afraid of some child's tale. Some of the settlers claimed they saw oskrin, but that was days ago. I started to doubt whether the danger was real at all.

We entered a small clearing. The bushes rustled as we pushed our way through them, and I was distracted enough at first that I didn't see where Miye was leading me. But as soon as I realized what I was looking at, my whole body froze at once.

The creature was not big, maybe Miye's size, though its long, thin tail made it look bigger. Its skin was pitch black with large teal gems glowing faintly in the dark. It turned its head toward us as we approached. It tried to move, but something held it in place.

"Berjor's nets!" I whispered as the understanding dawned on me.

Shortly after our arrival at Imheria an older fearn named Berjor declared he was going to catch an oskrin. He claimed that a certain scientist in Ozellium would pay good coin for a live specimen from Imheria. I didn't understand why he would do that since an oskrin was an oskrin, and we still had some in the sewers back in Ozellium. But Berjor argued it was for "studying differences between oskrin subspecies." Most of the settlers laughed at the idea, but Berjor journeyed into the forest setting out countless traps made of nyte netting. He checked them regularly, but as weeks passed, and the nets remained empty, he simply left them be. And when the actual sighting of an oskrin occurred, he claimed there was no point in going into the forest anymore, as the traps were surely destroyed. Some fearn laughed, thinking he was simply too scared to go, but no one said it openly.

The thought that an oskrin fell into one of his traps made me smile bitterly.

"He got trapped, and he can't get out," explained Miye. "I wasn't strong enough to help him."

I looked at her in horror. The tone of her voice, the way she spoke ... as if it was her favorite gin, or maybe a poor, young doobi, not a deadly monster. Is this why she lured me here? To help her?

"Miye, it's an oskrin!" I stated the obvious and couldn't help wondering which part of it she didn't understand.

"He's in pain. He can't go back to his den," she said with sadness in her voice. "But now I am strong enough to help him."

"When did you find him?" I asked trying to buy some time and find a way out of the situation. I watched the creature, still afraid it might somehow dart out and attack us, and then I noticed it looked very thin, nearly famished.

Miye thought about it for a moment.

"Some days ago," she finally replied, "before my In got unwell. I tried to help him, but didn't have enough strength. He made me strong so I could free him, and we could go away from Galstead," Miye paused and looked me in the eyes. "And you can go with us too."

I think this was the time when I took a step back. I didn't know what was going on, and my curiosity and will to accompany Miye were now dimmed by the sight of a very real monster that apparently tried to use my friend to get free. How? Some kind of poison, or a disease? Did this creature make Miye sick?

"Miye, it's an oskrin!" I repeated myself in vain. I understood then that it was not the creature that manipulated my friend. It was as dumb as any beast. I was just willing to believe it so because I refused to accept the truth: Miye was crazed, and she was about to set a monster free.

She ignored me, approaching the oskrin, and I jumped forward to grab her arm, ready to pull her away. I realized that I made a mistake agreeing to help her, that a mature fearn would behave responsibly and wake Sil Karia. I felt ashamed that I failed everyone by acting so childishly, and I was ready to make things right.

I was not ready to fly five units backwards when Miye brushed my hand off, releasing her arm from my grip with ease. A young wiefearn who was bed-ridden for days managed to free herself from a nearly adult fearn. She looked at me for a moment, and I could swear I saw a teal glare in her eyes. It could have been the moons' light reflecting in them, but it was too much. Confused and scared, I ran back to Galstead. My imagination fed my fears with pictures of oskrin attacking from the darkness, but contrary to my expectations, I made it to the palisade safe and sound.

I don't know if anybody saw me that night wandering through the town, and I didn't really care. I didn't stop until I snuck back into my bed, hoping that familiar surroundings would ease my racing mind and throbbing heart. I tried to convince myself it was just a dream, that I never went to the infirmary, and all that happened was nothing more than a realistic nightmare.

I lied to myself, and then I lied to the others when I went to visit Miye as usual the following morn. Part of me hoped that she would be there, maybe still unconscious but in her bed, but the memories of the previous night were still fresh. I don't know how I managed to pretend I was shocked at the news she had disappeared, or how I survived those days we went out looking for her. Nobody ever questioned me, and they all saw in me just a young fearn who lost his dear friend.

~~~~~

Days passed, then months, then years. Galstead survived two plagues that Sil Karia was so afraid of, and even though the second pestilence took my father and other decent fearn, we slowly grew and expanded far beyond the palisade we had built the first year. Poor Tarish drank himself to death, never having come to terms with his daughter's disappearance. Harrevith took the post of Elder after his father. I watched him stand in the crowd looking on as poor Karia was burned to death, accused of using psykaotic powers. If I hadn't known better, I would never have guessed those two were lovers in the past.

As for me, I started a successful business trading with feral kind and selling some of their craftwork to Ozellium. Their tribes suffered harsh winters as well, and as Galstead grew and took more and more resources, ferals were willing to trade some of their totems and trinkets for supplies. Sometimes I felt guilty about us fearn bringing them such fate in their own land, but then I thought at least I was helping them survive. Every once in a while I asked about a shaman named Ish-Thrann, but none of my contacts knew of her. Or they just weren't willing to help me.

Over the years, the oskrin sightings became quite regular. There weren't that many attacks, unless someone ventured deep into the wilderness. I wonder about the true nature of those creatures and if they were really the bloodthirsty beasts some fearn described. Maybe we made them so by pushing them into a small part of the sewers? Maybe they were just like other animals?

I kept my study quiet, as many fearn did not like those who dare to question common truths. And many of them were quick to set fire to someone tied to a stake. I did not wish to end my life this way.

I gathered what meager knowledge I could without attracting too much attention and kept coming back to that night when I saw Miye for the last time. I couldn't help wondering what would have happened if I stayed, if I didn't let my fear govern my actions.

Sometimes, when both moons are full, I find myself unable to sleep. I sit by the window and stare at the sky above the roofs of Galstead. And sometimes I can see a creature with pitch-black skin squatting on a chimney. The way it balances on the edge with ease and stretches out to look into the distance wakes up old memories.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" I hear these words again so clear. "So quiet, calm, and mysterious."

Sometimes the creature on the rooftops turns its head toward me, just as if it knew I was here by the window ... watching. I see a triangular face partially covered by a teal gem that looks like a mask, and I see dark brown, varispected eyes staring straight at me.

And then, always, I regret that I didn't go with Miye.

Joanna Maciejewska was born in Poland, but a couple of years ago she escaped to rainy Ireland. She doesn't mind the weather as it doesn't interrupt her hobbies — reading, writing, video games and craft. Previously published in Polish magazines, she now tries to write in English.

(Back to Table of Contents)

# The Eternal

by Les Zigomanis; September 10, 2013

Tuesday morning began so much like every other morning that I couldn't be sure it was Tuesday.

I got up, turned my computer on, and fixed myself a cup of tea. I plonked myself in the expensive executive chair that looked great when I bought it but was hell on my butt, and opened my mailbox.

I ran a website, _RANT101_ , which offered satirical viewpoints on anything you could imagine — politics, current affairs, sport, you name it. It started as a hobby ten years ago. Then it gained a readership. Then advertising. Then notoriety. Now it had a staff of credible freelancers and hosted enough advertising to pay the bills.

Every morning, I navigated my way through a mess of emails. Hidden amongst the satires (rants, I called them), queries, overtures for penis enlargement, and offers for Vicodin, Valium, and Viagra, I found this:

There's a question you've been asking recently that not enough have, not just in the here and now, but over the last six decades.

The email was signed _ETERNIUS_.

I usually don't respond to cryptics. You always get them — somebody promising some miraculous insight, or who just thinks they're smarter than you.

I sent back the response: _"What do you mean?"_ This was July.

I didn't get an answer until October:

Beware the fugue.

– _ETERNIUS_

Great. I had somebody who wanted to play games, who believed too much in Watergate's _Deep Throat_ , or perhaps the type you see in old shows like _The X-Files_.

I looked up _fugue_ for clarity, coming up with the following definitions from my _Everyday Macquarie_ :

**fugue: 1.** _Music._ a polyphonic composition based upon one, two, or even more themes, which are enunciated by the several voices or parts in turn, subjected to contrapuntal treatment, and gradually built up into a complex form having somewhat distinct divisions or stages of development and a marked climax at the end. **2.** _Psychol._ a period of loss of memory, when the individual disappears from his usual haunts.

Neither definition meant anything to me, and I saw no point in answering Eternius again. I deleted the email, and expected to think nothing more about it.

Of course, nobody ever gets what they expect.

~~~~~

A week later, I received this email:

And so it begins, the forgetfulness, the forgiveness, the optimism for a New Year. The fugue.

– _ETERNIUS_

I told myself I wouldn't bite, had cut off similar communications with numerous other crackpots in the past, but I _did_ bite. Elsie was hitting me up for more child support, bills were stacking up, there was competition burgeoning against _R101_ (which was diminishing our hits and, thus, my revenue), and I was in a mood to engage. I hoped it led to an argument because sometimes, hell, you just want to blast, doesn't matter who's the recipient.

I wrote: _The fugue?_

And you know what? Damned if I didn't get an answer almost immediately.

How often have we forgiven and forgotten? It's the cycle, like the Ouroboros.

– _ETERNIUS_

The Ouroboros is the snake swallowing its own tail, but I didn't understand the context. What cycle?

My curiosity was piqued.

~~~~~

That night I dreamed I was standing in a basalt chamber. The image of the Ouroboros was embedded in the marble floor in sapphires, rubies, and emeralds, their sparkling dulled in a sheen of blood.

When I awoke, I felt disturbed more than usual. My sleep's been bad since Elsie took our two-year-old son, Charles, and left, but now I felt on the edge of panic, terrified by something I couldn't identify.

Over the next month, I didn't receive any emails, and was kept busy with feedback (not to mention defamation suits) following a rant I posted about corruption in local government. Most would've considered it sensational fluff, but it implied names, and sometimes sensationalization highlights truth, however fleetingly.

Phones ran rich with lawyers threatening me, and I had to remove the piece and print a retraction of sorts. It didn't bother me losing the rant. I'd just had another fifteen minutes not of fame, but of juice — like power to recharge a battery. You need that when you run a website like mine.

One night the phone rang, and I expected it to be another lawyer, but when I answered it, a voice was immediately talking to me about secret societies — talking to _me_ as if its owner was picking up a conversation which had been interrupted.

"Societies within societies have existed since time immemorial," I was told. The voice was affable, but there was an echo, like it was coming from somewhere cavernous. "They govern the trends that influence our cultures, the policies that make our laws, and the expenditures that affect our economies.

"These are secret groups that have supplied some of our most prestigious and powerful leaders, organizations such as the Freemasons, the Skulls, the Illuminati, the Trilateral Commission, and the New World Order. They are the nuclei of everything we do, see, and hear.

"But for all these sorts of groups the most insidious and dangerous are the Underseers.

"They are Everywhere. And Nowhere.

"Now please don't call here again."

I didn't have time to protest that I hadn't called as the line went dead.

~~~~~

A couple of nights later, after I picked up mail from my post office box, an elderly, well-dressed man bearing a cane accosted me as I headed back to my car.

"If you fail to find names in history texts, does that mean that those people never existed or that history never recorded them?" he asked.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"The cycle is coming to an end," the old guy said. "Like the Ouroboros, swallowing itself out of existence. But the record _will_ stand. Perception is reality, and history as perceived by the masses, as _remembered_ by the masses, will remain imprinted in this time, this place. But the cycle will have ended, buried, like seed taking root."

By now, we'd gotten back to where my car was parked, and my apprehension was tinged by curiosity. I looked at the old man. "Eternius?" I asked.

He took what looked like a business card out of his pocket and put it on the trunk of my car. Then he turned and hurried off into the night.

~~~~~

The card had a ten-digit phone number on it. I rang it. Naturally.

I didn't expect it to ring — after all, it was a ten-digit number — but the number connected, and it was only then I decided I didn't want to have anything to do with it. Dread stirred inside me.

I hung up.

~~~~~

A couple of days later the phone ringing woke me. It was Elsie, but she put Charles on.

"Happy birthday, Daddy," he said.

"Hey, Charlie!" I said, joy rousing me better than anything else could.

I sat up and looked at the picture on the bedside drawer — Elsie, Charles, and me when he turned two. In the three months leading up to that picture being taken, Elsie had complained that me working as a Webmaster wasn't tenable for a man with a young family. There'd been other stuff, and I'm sure there was another man, but that was icing. A month later she took Charlie and split. A month after that, she started dating a car salesman named Roger. A month later, right around when Roger moved in with Elsie, _R101_ started paying enough to sustain me and Elsie's alimony.

"Can we go to the park?" Charlie asked.

Yeah, a lot of hope there was, with how tight Elsie was with visitations.

"Sure, Charlie—"

The phone went dead — probably Charlie screwing around, as he didn't understand the mechanics of phones and was always fiddling around and disconnecting. I didn't put the phone down, and when it rang again shortly I answered immediately.

"Hey, Charlie—"

A cool female voice cut me off — just sliced right through me, like I hadn't been talking. "I'm sorry," she said, "but we have no listings for," and now the woman's voice was replaced by an automated computer voice, "Gilbert Anelzark, Alwyn Vogel, Lyndon Rickabaugh, Hamilton Carmichael, Jacob Tolan, Noble Hastings, Emanuel Verrault."

The line went dead.

I scribbled the names from memory and looked them up on the Web. I found nothing but your usual net-trash.

The phone rang again, and I thought this time it had to be Charlie, but when I answered, I was greeted by the same voice that had told me about the secret societies. Again, it was like it was coming from somewhere cavernous — I imagined some sonorous chamber, deep in a castle.

"Upon settlement, this place, this time, presented a unique opportunity," the voice told me. "Throughout history, secret societies have been formed _within_ incumbent societies. That was the natural order. It was an infiltration. Now, beginning with this clean slate, there existed the opportunity of creating external societies upon the foundations of secret societies. Or a secret society. Singular. This presented a clean-sweep of power and influences, a control so concentrated it has corrupted the here and now, and its tendrils infest every walk of life, every staple of society, every _thing_ you know. Yet we do not question, for that would take acknowledgement we refuse to face."

The line went dead. I'd had enough of being bombarded with obscure references and cryptic information. I dug up the card the old man had given me and dialed it.

The phone rang twice, and then I was greeted by a blast of metallic static — like the sound of a computer signal, the sort you hear when you ring a fax number. I hung up and hit redial, watching the number come up on the phone's digital display to make sure I'd gotten it right. I had. The phone rang, and I expected the metallic blast again, but now it was answered by somebody with a deep, oily-sounding voice.

"Hello."

"Hey, ah, hi," I said. "Who am I speaking to?"

"Sossomo." He pronounced it SOSS-ah-MO. In the background I heard lots of chatter interspersed with the use of cutlery — forks and knives on plates, glasses being set down, that sort of thing.

"Where is this?"

"You don't know where you've called?"

"I know it sounds strange, but an old guy on the street gave me this number—"

"He's not here."

"This is where he lives—?"

"He's not here."

"You—?" I was going to ask, _You know him?_

"He's not here!"

The phone slammed down on the other side.

~~~~~

That night I dreamed of a dinner party being held in a basalt chamber with the Ouroboros on the floor. Attending this party were seven well-dressed men and one hunchback.

The hunchback was a grossly disfigured man, his face deformed but his hair slicked back like a greaser out of the 50s. He wore a uniform, butler's attire, and spoke on a gorgeous antique golden phone. From his voice I could tell this was Sossomo. The conversation he was having was the one he had with me — albeit this was his side of it.

I let my attention wander to the other seven men, each of whom bore a glass of champagne, and tried to hear what they were saying. They sounded cheerful enough but their voices were muffled, as if I was hearing them from underwater.

That's when I looked down and saw a torrent of blood covering the floor. It came up to the shins of the well-dressed men (who didn't seem to notice it) and rushed toward the far wall, which it seemed to run _through_. I turned and looked to the opposite wall — the blood was emerging from its base.

Sossomo suddenly shouted, "He's not here!"

The sound of the phone being slammed awoke me from my dream.

I slept no more that night.

~~~~~

The next day, I found an email from Eternius:

Sacrifices had been made to ensure a nexus of reaction, misery for us, elation for all others.

– _ETERNIUS_

Besides the obvious strangeness of the sentence, it was the context that intrigued me. _Sacrifices had been made_ ... What sort? Was something given up? Or was something literally slain as a sacrifice? And misery for us? Who was us? And who did that make _the others_?

I typed: _What sacrifices? And for what reaction?_

I sent the email off, and five minutes later I received a response:

Literal sacrifices.

All the world loves a tragedy.

How about a running tragedy?

– _ETERNIUS_

I wrote back: _What sacrifices?_

I sent that off, and for the next couple of minutes kept hitting the _Send & Receive_ tab in my mailbox. When the response came, it read:

Sacrifices that consecrated the unholiest of pacts.

– _ETERNIUS_

I asked: _What pact?_ This time, I barely waited a minute for an answer.

Misery.

– _ETERNIUS_

I wrote: _What misery?_ Thirty seconds later:

Heartbreak.

– _ETERNIUS_

Now here was something I needed to clarify. Heartbreak for whom? I needed something definite and wrote: _Heartbreak for whom?_

The email had no sooner left my mailbox than the response came back:

Context itself is disproportionate.

These are examples of the power wielded by the few, the secret, and the wholly corrupt.

– _ETERNIUS_

_For what gain?_ I wrote back. I was about to send the email, then stopped. Instead of hitting the tab for _Send & Receive_, a hunch made me hit the _Receive_ tab. I got an answer back — a long answer — although I'd never sent my question.

The history of the world has taught us one thing: present a common cause, a theme, and the people will unite against it — (whether) in anger or in fear or even amusement is irrelevant. It's the action that is important.

Rally people, not only for the current theme, but in preparation for the future, their malleability sewn, their willingness towed, their minds opened.

Admittedly, though, this act was one of petty maliciousness from these men.

– _ETERNIUS_

_Who?_ I wrote back, but now I got no response. I loitered on the Net for an hour, waiting, but there were no more emails that night. Ultimately, I shut down my computer and was about to go to bed when I thought I'd call the number again.

The phone was answered immediately, and I recognized the voice as Sossomo. I tried to be wily with my approach.

"Hi, I'm doing research for an article I'm writing," I said. "I was told ... you could help."

"Help with what?" Sossomo asked.

"What comes to your mind when I say ... _sacrifice_?"

"We have many sacrifices here."

"Committed by who?"

The receiver delivered a sudden blast of static, and when it abated the line was dead. I tried the number again and again over the next five minutes, but I kept getting a busy signal.

Giving up for the night, I went to bed.

~~~~~

I had a respite from strange phone calls, mysterious emails, and weird dreams for the next fortnight, although it wasn't a break from problems.

Elsie's lawyer called me and said she wanted more money. I called Elsie and asked _why_ , given I was paying her plenty, she was working school hours, and that idiot Roger was making more than enough. She screamed at me how I'd never taken care of her properly, and it was my turn to pay or we'd go to court. I tried to reason with her, but she hung up on me.

I sat there mutely, too numb to move for a while. Finally, I got up and started my day.

~~~~~

I tried Sossomo's number regularly, but it was either busy or those computer screeches blasted me. It just about convinced me that the phenomenon had run its course (as a lot of these things do — that much I know), but I was wrong.

It was about four in the morning and I was sleeping when a voice from the corner of my room woke me. "A pact was made, one which dealt with a very simple ridicule. You have to understand; you can take the simplest, everyday thing and martyr it in a cause to polarize. This pact was consecrated by hideous sacrifice and stamped in rivers of blood."

The voice was deep and rich, emphasis heavy on the syllables. But I couldn't see who it belonged to — the corner of my room was pitch black. My hand went to the lamp, poised on the ceramic base. I knew I should hit the switch, but I was also worried what light would reveal. Sometimes, it's just better not knowing.

"This was a pact borne initially from jealousy and bitterness, and one exercised to test the extent of power wielded by a group you have been told were known as the Underseers," the voice went on. "But life and death is a cycle. You may sow the seeds of discord but ultimately, inevitably, the harvest shall return to reclaim you and your own. Everything has its price."

I snapped on the lamp, expecting to find somebody in the corner of the room. Instead, my entire bedroom was gone. It was dusk; the sky looked like it was bleeding; the sun was a simmering orange as it set. A bitter wind blew through my clothes, and I hugged my arms to myself in an effort to warm myself. My bed had been relocated to the brink of a precipice. Below, the torrent of the foaming ocean crashed into the base of the cliff, each wave resounding like a thunderclap.

As if mesmerized, I stumbled out of bed. To my right a number of people were digging with picks — or trying to, as the terrain was rocky, and they were having trouble breaking through the ground

One of the people was Sossomo, the others the seven men I'd seen in the basalt chamber. They were still dressed now as they had been the first time I'd encountered them, and they cursed as their picks struck the stony ground, elicited sparks, and jarred in their hands.

Sossomo paused from his exertions to look at me, then at his workers, then back at me. "Lucky seven," he said.

"Is it really lucky?" I asked.

"Things develop lives of their own, and what lives has influence."

One of the men suddenly broke from the group and bolted for the cliff, throwing himself over the edge. He plummeted into a jagged outcropping of rocks far below, his body broken, battered, and punctured. Then the ocean crashed against the base of the cliff and washed away the corpse.

I turned back to Sossomo and found him grinning hideously at me. "And what dies," he went on, seemingly oblivious to what had just occurred, "leaves an imprint forever. An echo." His grin broadened. "Would you like to join us?" he asked. "Eight is a number of Power ... or it can be."

"Eight?" I asked. "Don't you mean ..." I was going to compensate for the man who'd flung himself from the cliff. My voice trailed off. I saw now that that man was back with the group and trying to dig. I frowned, turned to Sossomo, who was still grinning.

"Memories are like pimples," Sossomo told me with a cackle. "Some times they break the surface. But don't worry; they don't last forever."

I looked at the digging — foundations, it appeared, or at least an attempt at them. The only one who'd made any headway was Sossomo.

Sossomo smirked and got back to his digging.

~~~~~

I awoke, back in my bedroom. Sunlight streamed through the window and I buried my head under my pillow, trying to get away from it. There'd been plenty of mornings I'd spent in bed — particularly after Elsie had gone. Sleep became my refuge. My escape. Now, though, it felt like my condemnation.

Getting out of bed, I switched on my computer. While it booted up, I rang the number from the card I'd been given. "Who are you?" I asked when someone answered. "Where do you come from?" I got no answer, though. Instead, the person on the other end hung up.

The next several times I called back, the number was busy again, and on the last couple of occasions I got the recorded operator's message telling me that the line had been disconnected. Then nothing. It simply didn't work in any form. That was it for dialing that number — I've tried it several times since, but all to no avail.

When I eventually got around to checking my email, I found one from Eternius:

We have a nature to be reborn one way or another, physically or psychologically.

That's life.

Everything is reborn one way or another.

_Similarly, you cannot bury things forever. Eventually, they will rediscover their way to the surface, like moles burrowing toward the sunlight. When that occurs, we need to take heed and_ **remember**.

Sadly, unfortunately, recollection and the registration of thoughts, ideas, and events within the mind to become lifelong memories and signposts in the road are two different matters entirely.

Some will never remember.

Some will choose to forget.

And those who do recall ...

Well, none choose to.

Not entirely, anyway.

– _ETERNIUS_

This email was the last I received from Eternius, but things weren't over just yet.

~~~~~

For the rest of the day, prank phone calls plagued me. Whenever I answered, computer screeching blasted me, then cackles of laughter. The only note of interest — before I disconnected the phone, and you better believe I was worried it'd still ring — was that the laughter dimmed with each call.

When I went to bed, I slept uneasily and was finally awakened by that deep voice telling me, "Wake up. Wake up."

I did so easily — I'd been sleeping that poorly — but as I sat upright I found my bed was now in the basalt chamber. The bed rocked and creaked as the torrent of blood that raged through the chamber buffeted it violently.

Above me, suspended by fish hooks from the ceiling were the seven men I'd seen previously — the party of men responsible for my prank phone calls and whose names were Gilbert Anelzark, Alwyn Vogel, Lyndon Rickabaugh, Hamilton Carmichael, Jacob Tolan, Noble Hastings, and Emanuel Verrault.

Sossomo approached from the far corner, wading through the torrent. His hideous face was twisted into a caricature of amusement, and he lifted his hand up out of the deluge of blood to reveal he was bearing a huge machete.

"Why me?" I asked.

His mouth twisted into a snarl, and with his free hand he caressed my chin. His fingers were deformed and thick, and his skin was hard, like the calluses you might get on your feet.

"Because what's empty," he said, "opens itself to be filled."

He swung the machete, but swiveled it just as I thought it'd be impaled in my forehead. A lock from my hair was cut, and fell into the torrent of blood. My focus remained on that flashing blade, which continued its arc as Sossomo lopped off the foot of one of the suspended men — Anelzark, I think it was. The river of blood bubbled around the area where the foot fell in, as if beneath the surface something — or _some things_ — feasted on the morsel. I thought of my lock of hair in there and felt myself touched, as if damned.

Anelzark, suspended by fish hooks in each nostril — screamed, hitting a note so piercing it reverberated in the very stones of the chamber itself. Sossomo pitched the machete into Anelzark's back, embedding it there for easy retrieval later. Anelzark's screams intensified, and he writhed in indescribable agony, but he remained conscious.

Sossomo turned abruptly, and smiled, although it did nothing to lighten his expression. His look was sadistic, one of manic glee, and I felt I had to say something, _anything_ , to break the silence between us.

"What ... what did they do wrong?" I asked.

"YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DID WRONG!" Sossomo said, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me vigorously. "You know what. You know when. You know why!'

"That's why they're ... they're ..."

Sossomo uttered a smug little chuckle, and given the gleam in his eyes, the cast of his face, it suddenly seemed jovial.

"It wasn't the motive; it wasn't the reason; it wasn't even the plunder of the rewards," Sossomo said. Then, the entire chamber shaking with each word, he hollered like a petulant child, "IT ... WAS ... THE ... SACRIFICE!"

And finally I understood — the river of blood in the chamber, it wasn't from these men. Sossomo seemed to recognize the understanding in me. He nodded, as if in acknowledgement of my comprehension, and his ever-present grin turned into a smirk.

"Everything costs, man," he said.

~~~~~

A knocking at the door roused me. A shaft of sunlight streamed through my bedroom curtains. I blinked, shielded my eyes, then dove for refuge under my pillow. My head felt cluttered, the way it does after a big night of drinking.

The knocking continued.

I trudged out of bed, put on a bathrobe, and answered the door. More sunlight flooded in, blinded me, and I held a hand up to block it. My visitor was just a silhouette, a shadowy wraith, and I gaped, thinking it must be one of the seven men coming to collect me.

"Nice haircut."

It was Elsie. Her face was hard, her eyes unblinking, but I could still see the winsomeness that had first attracted me to her. She held up a folded piece of paper, which she used to point at the fringe of my hair. I pulled at my fringe, only to find a lock missing.

"You look terrible," she said.

"Thanks."

"I wanted to give you this myself." She thrust the folded paper forward.

It was a summons. I sighed, lifted my gaze to Elsie. She must've expected I'd be antagonistic in response, but I had nothing but emptiness. It all seemed so futile and purposeless, another endless cycle.

"Okay, thanks," I said. I started to swing the door closed, but she thrust her foot forward to stop me.

"You okay?" she asked.

And there, for an instant, was the concern of the woman who'd once loved me, her face softening.

"Want a cup of coffee?" I asked.

Her eyes narrowed, but she nodded. I led her into the kitchen where I put the kettle on, wondering what to tell her, _how_ I'd tell her.

You'd think something so extraordinary would stay with you forever, but already I felt as if it was fading. Some things you aren't meant to remember. It's not just that the human mind has its own automatic mechanism for blocking these things out, or repressing them, but there are other things out there that _don't_ want you to remember. And sometimes societies, normal everyday societies, like to forget — as a whole. It's their way of dealing with things. Of course, that doesn't mean they're gone.

Really, it's just like Sossomo told me.

Everything costs, man.

_Les Zigomanis is a freelance writer/editor based in Melbourne, Australia. He's had short stories and articles published in a bunch of places, both in print and online, and also had a couple of screenplays optioned. When he has time, he works on yet another novel (this one being the one — he promises it'll be!) and blogs on_ his website _about his football team, movies, and a bunch of random stuff._

(Back to Table of Contents)

# The Trouble with Exopolitics

by Michael Hemmingson; published September 13, 2013

The alien vehicle came out of nowhere, turning a corner fast, and Hinemoa crashed her bicycle into the rear. As her body flew over the anti-grav transport, she got a good look at the Ankaran in the driver seat with its four arms, four legs, blue skin, and two mouths. Three eyes stared up at her in surprise.

Hinemoa thought of her roommate, Solveig, as she flew through the air. When Hinemoa had rushed out the door that morning, late for class again, Solveig had been sitting quietly on the couch, getting high eating purple eggs and staring at images of island coasts on the wall screen.

 ~~~~~

Hinemoa woke up in the New Berlin Medical Center, head throbbing, one arm in a cast, bandages around her torso; she was in pain. A robot nurse came in and did something with one of the three IVs connected to her. A moment later the pain went away. "It is a powerful and recently approved off-world painkiller," the robot nurse said.

She was floating.

A real live human doctor came into the hospital room a few minutes later — or a few hours, she wasn't sure. He seemed human enough; you could never tell with the robot upgrades these days, technology courtesy of a different alien visitor race called the Aldebarans.

"How do you feel?" asked the doctor.

"Better than when I woke up."

"Do you know your name?"

"That's silly. My name is ..."

"Yes?"

She had to think, remember: "Hinemoa Hawthorne."

"Date of birth?"

"7-6-14."

"Age?"

"Do the math, doc. I'm 19."

"Nationality?"

"New Zealand."

"Your race is Maori?"

"What gave that away? The color of my skin?" She giggled, the pain killers sending her aloft again.

"Do you live in Berlin?"

"Of course. In Mitte."

"Work here?"

"Student. Universität der Künste."

"Major?"

"What's with the interrogation, doc?"

"You suffered a concussion. I'm determining if your memory has been negatively affected."

"I know who I am and where I am," she said.

"Do you remember the accident?"

"Yeah, sort of," Hinemoa said, trying to recall. "I was riding my bike down Potsdamer and this freaking Ankaran comes flying out into the lane like a wombat out of Spook Town. Didn't have time to swerve. Smacked right into its rear."

"Anything else?"

"I remember flying, yeah, and then I woke up to this ... how long have I been here?"

"A little over 48 hours."

"I've been out two freakin' days?"

The doctor signed some papers on a holograph pad. "I'm relieved you regained consciousness. You were in a coma."

She found that amusing. "Broken arm, broken ribs ... anything else?"

"Aside from the knock on the head and minor scratches and bruises on your body, no. You're lucky you didn't break any other limbs. Or lose anything. I have seen much worse from bicycle accidents."

"My student insurance will cover this?"

"Don't worry about that right now."

"How long do I need to stay here?"

"I want to run some tests, but no more than a week. You'll be out by Monday," the doctor said.

He seemed to flicker in her vision — was the painkiller messing with her sight, or was this doc a hologram? She didn't want to ask.

"If I was out two days," she said slowly, "it must be Wednesday."

"Yes it is."

"Can I ask you something personal, doc?"

"Certainly."

"Are you human or android?"

The doctor laughed. But he didn't answer; he vanished the way holograms do. He was probably in some office on a different continent, telecommuting his work like many did these days.

~~~~~

Hinemoa woke up at 7:30 p.m. in pain; she pressed the IV button and felt the warmth of off-world drugs flow through her blood like a summer river on North Island's Rotorua, where she grew up.

A man in a gray suit and white tie sat in the chair next to her bed. He looked to be in his early thirties with a head of thick curly brown hair. He held a briefcase in his lap.

"Who are you?" she asked, thinking he must be from hospital administration, and there was something wrong with her insurance. She was sure she would receive a substantial bill she'd never be able to pay; her universal credit rating would be whacked.

He handed her a business card:

MALCOLM GANZ, ESQUIRE. INTERNATIONAL AND EXOPOLITIC LAW.

"A lawyer," she said.

"How are you feeling, Ms. Hawthorne?" His accent was British, not German.

"Okey-doke. How are _you_ feeling?"

He smiled. "Just fine, thank you."

"I mean, are you really here? Or you a hologram from Liverpool?"

"I'm physically here," he said, "to discuss your situation."

"What situation?"

"Your accident."

"Is there a problem with my insurance?"

"I don't know. But there _is_ a problem with certain laws, or lack thereof, which needs to be addressed, for all humans on earth _and_ off planet."

"I don't understand."

"Ankaran liability."

"I'm confused."

"The accident was the Ankaran's fault."

"Wasn't mine, that's for sure."

"Have you considered the Ankaran's liability in this matter? Should your student insurance not cover everything? Your missed days of classes, hours of work, pain and suffering?" Ganz opened the briefcase.

"You're an ambulance chaser," she said.

"Not exactly."

"You want to represent me in a lawsuit, yeah?"

"An action, yes. A rightful action." He handed her some paperwork. She didn't look at it.

She said, "Why not. I'll sue that blue, three-eyed arse to LaLaLand."

"That's the problem we face," the lawyer said, "and the problem all of exopolitics is now addressing. Ankarans are not citizens of any country, they are not inhabitants of Earth, and each one of them is considered an emissary of their race."

"And so?"

"They basically have de facto diplomatic immunity, making them impervious to legal action."

"Then why are you here bugging me?"

"Their lack of liability is not black letter, only an assumption since very few instances of legal action against extraterrestrials have arisen the past five years that they have been here. I represent the growing number of exopolitical advocates."

"Who, what?"

"Humans who wish to make the Ankarans — and any other visiting alien life form — fall under the jurisdiction of the World Court at The Hague, and then actionable in all nations on the globe, most certainly all of Europe, Australia, and North America."

"Has anyone tried to sue an Ankaran before?"

"Twice, in London and New York. Both cases were vacated for 'lack of jurisdiction.'"

"I don't know what that means."

"Like I said, Ankarans are not earth residents or citizens of any nation, thus the courts in question had no jurisdiction over their — being."

"You'd think some crafty politicians would've covered those bases by now," she said sarcastically.

"We are working on it, Ms. Hawthorne."

"So again ... why me?"

"You're the perfect plaintiff to set legislation and precedent into motion. The two previous cases I mentioned—"

"London and New York."

"... were corporate actions, matters of commerce."

"Gold and silver? Diamonds?" she said. All the goodies the aliens had used to seduce the governments of Earth.

"With your case, we have personal injury liability. Ankarans do not even have licenses and insurances to operate their vehicles on earth! Things need to change, and you can be the catalyst for that change."

"Will I get money?"

"You may find yourself quite wealthy from this."

"Those freaks _do_ have a lot of bling-stuff."

"And then some. Aside from the money, think of the major changes in alien-human social action, integrity, responsibility ..."

"Speaking of which, I have them — bills, rent, food."

"We will see to your basic needs until the case is resolved."

"Why not," Hinemoa said. "Where do I sign?"

~~~~~

Solveig was watching the wall screen and had no idea Hinemoa had been gone the past week. When Hinemoa got home, she was lounging half-naked on the couch, robe opened, tattooed from toe to stomach. "Oh hey, dahhh-ling," Solveig said dreamily, playing with the ends of her multi-colored dreadlocks.

"You been eating the eggs again?"

"Allllwayyyys," Solveig giggled.

Hinemoa was concerned with her roommate's daily intake of the purple eggs, a vice the Ankarans had brought to earth. Many human beings were addicted to the physical and mental effects of the eggs. No one knew if they were really eggs, the biological product of some alien, or manufactured like cream-filled chocolate Easter eggs? Hinemoa had tried them a few times but never wanted to know the origin. Scrambling chicken eggs was one thing, but getting high off an alien biological product ...

"Look at me," Hinemoa said, holding up her arm in a cast.

"Wow, what happened to you, Hine?" Solveig said, her eyes bulging like an insect.

"Never mind," Hinemoa said, going to her room. "Things might get kind of crazy around here, just a warning, darling."

"That's awesome, dahh-ling," Solveig replied, "I love craaaaazyyy."

~~~~~

Three weeks later, the lawsuit was filed at The Hague, similar suits filed in London and the New Zealand Supreme Court. "To cover all bases," Ganz said.

Hinemoa was a guest on At This Moment with Guy Glenn, a controversial screen personality known for his anti-extraterrestrial views. She appeared remotely, her image from her bedroom projected into Guy Glenn's "studio." Guy Glenn was not a human being but a virtual construct of several social critics who remained nameless. Guy Glenn was a perfect, flawless image of a male, with a slick suit, ultra-blonde hair, pale white skin, and gleaming blue eyes that actually had a twinkle programmed in.

"Aaaaannnnnn-kaaaarrrans," Guy Glenn said to the tens of millions worldwide (and off-world) who logged into his image. "How many times have I _bitched_ about those aliens? How many? Not enough! And I will continue to do so, especially today, with my gorgeous young guest who is making all the headlines this week, kiwi Hinemoa Hawthorne. Just _look at her_ ; look at her injuries — a hard-working student, only 19 years of age, nearly killed at the paws of the four-by-four blue uglies that have infested our meat world."

An image of an Ankaran — maybe her Ankaran, she didn't know; they all looked alike — appeared above them.

"Disgusting," Guy Glenn said. "Why can't extraterrestrials be clean and pretty like the wonderful Aldebarans who landed on Earth ten years ago with their message of love and peace?"

An image of several Aldebarans flashed in front of her: eight foot tall humanoids with long blonde hair and cookie-cutter perfect features — a lot like the image of Guy Glenn, she thought. Something is weird here, she said to herself.

"So, Hinemoa dear, an alien nasty causes you injury, insult, and agony, and you have filed suit, even though the suit doesn't have an ice cube's chance in Africa, so say the barristers and shysters."

"That has to change. That must change," Hinemoa said, repeating the script Ganz and his law firm had prepared. "These Ankarans can't come to earth and do whatever they please without liability and consequence. Did you know an Ankaran could murder you or me and face no criminal charges? No prison for it."

Feigning shock, Guy Glenn said, "An Ankaran almost _did_ murder you! Ghastly! Ankaran assassins and sociopaths running loose!"

Shocked outcries emanated from a nonexistent studio audience.

"We are calling on all good nations of earth to initiate legislation that will address the extraterrestrial responsibility of actions when here," Hinemoa said.

"'We', as in?"

"All civil humans of the planet."

"Bravo! Can we have a round of clap-clap-clap?"

The studio echoed with sounds of applause.

Guy Glenn's voice was suddenly low and eerie: "So these Ankarans come here with their three eyes and two mouths — double speak and crafty see! — bringing gold and silver and diamonds to woo-woo and cooh-cooh-cachoo us, bringing exotic drugs and edible delights to blow our minds, new technology and virtual machines of vast wonders to grab our feet. And now they're having sex with humans, very sick and twisted humans who have succumbed to Ankaran drugs and wealth — can I have some disgust?"

Sounds of moans, groans, and a screaming child came from nowhere.

"And they can get away with murder, says lovely Hinemoa. They can cause bodily and mental harm to innocent peoples?! This has to stop indeed, dear ones, and brave humans like Lassie Hawthorne are taking the first steps to see to it that justice for human beings is well-served and deserved! Will you follow in her steps? Will you support her? Who can walk in her boots — are you wearing boots, my love? Oh, I see you're one of those barefoot types. I love the shade of your toenail polish!"

Then came the laughter.

~~~~~

"You're, like, everywhere, dahh-ling," Solveig said, walking into the apartment and nibbling on a purple egg. She wore running shorts and a tank top. Hinemoa doubted she was out exercising, probably made an egg run from a dealer.

Hinemoa lay on the couch, holding her cast up. "What are you talking about?"

"I was walking down the street and I, wow, see your mug one hundred feet tall. A digital wall with your face! And then you're in the sky — _you_ on a dirigible!"

"Where?"

"Just down the block, wow."

Hinemoa thought her roommate's egg intake was making the girl see things. She went outside and walked around the block and there it was: there she was — face larger than life on the wall of a government building, a touched-up rendition of her visage (away with the pores), with the words "Fight The Aliens" below her chin.

And the dirigibles in the sky, flashing a new ad every two minutes, one of her face with "Humans First" underneath.

~~~~~

The hologram of a Japanese man in a white suit appeared in the middle of her bedroom. "May I speak with you, Frauline Hawthorne? It is rather important."

"Who the whoop-de-doo are you?" She sat up in bed, not noticing she was naked.

"My name is Tatsumi. Mr. Takayuki Tatsumi."

"You hacked my communications?"

"I had to. I am very sorry. Forgive me." His eyes dropped to her chest.

She covered her bare breasts with a blanket. "Are you a perv slicing a wire for a looky-loo?"

A faint smile appeared on the man's face. "In another circumstance, I might suggest something sensual. However, I am contacting you on a matter of urgent business. I represent Jgeptal of Ankara."

"Who?"

"The being you are suing."

She had never scrutinized the defendant's name on the legal papers because it was written out in Ankaran script.

"You're a lawyer," she said.

"I am — counsel and representation."

"An agent? A manager?"

"An advocate," said the hologram. "My client does not wish for this matter to continue, the public reaction is not good for business. We would like to make you a fair settlement as compensation for what you have endured. Fair, and substantial."

"Shouldn't you be talking to my counsel, Herr Ganz, about that?"

"We have made several attempts to contact the law firm where Malcolm Ganz is employed, yes. Unfortunately, we have received neither answer nor acknowledgement. We believe we are being ignored."

"I was not ..." Hinemoa stopped herself.

"Yes? Frauline Hawthorne, you have not been informed of the settlement we wish to offer?"

"I don't think I should be talking to you," she told the hologram lawyer. "And I'm not a 'frauline.' Just because I live in Germany doesn't make me German. Check my accent."

"My apologies."

"And I am not keen on hacked night visits."

"Of course. I will leave my contact information on your system."

"There are laws against wire-cutters!"

The Japanese man's image vanished like the doctor at the hospital. She wondered if her visitor's avatar was a flesh-and-blood man or a construct like Guy Glenn.

~~~~~

Hinemoa thought Ganz's office was too small for a lawyer of his status, and Ganz's name was not even on the firm's nameplate outside the building. It was a rather large legal practice, however, taking up three of the forty floors with glass windows overlooking Friedrichshain.

"Why didn't you tell me about the settlement offer?" she asked.

Ganz sat behind his desk with templed fingers. He wore a pink suit today, green tie. "It's a breach of protocol for them to go around this office and make contact. Let alone hack your comm system."

"He said you were ignoring him."

"Do you believe that?"

"Why would he say so?"

"To create division."

" _Did_ they try to contact you?"

"No," Ganz said.

She knew he was lying. "They are offering a lot of gold bars," she said.

"I will need to verify."

"Do that. Call this Tatsumi guy now. I have his contact info. He's in London."

"Let's not be so hasty, Ms. Hawthorne."

The door of Ganz's office opened and a deep voice said, "Yes, let us not be fooled to any quick actions just for the sake of money."

Hinemoa turned and looked up at a very tall, slender, and handsome man with golden-blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He stood at least seven and a half feet tall and wore a pale blue business suit and pink tie.

"Ms. Hawthorne, this is Mr. Valent, my ... employer," Ganz said.

She was afraid to take his hand; it was twice the size of most men's hands. But this was no man, or human, she knew; this Mr. Valent was an Aldebaran.

She took his hand finally, with her left, the arm not in a cast; his skin was smooth and warm and sensual.

"My apologies," Valent said. "I did receive a number of calls from the Ankaran advocate; however, I have not yet discussed the issue with Herr Ganz. The fault lies with my busy schedule."

"We can end this, then," Hinemoa said. "Won't a settlement provide precedent for future lawsuits?"

"Not exactly," Ganz said. "They may require a non-disclosure stipulation."

She sighed. "My image is all over the place. I didn't sign on for that."

"You understood there would be public reaction and exposure," Ganz said.

"I can't tell if people are rah-rah-rah for me, or hate me," she said.

"You are paving the road to a new human world," Valent said with an alien smile. "You are cause for celebration, Hinemoa."

"Maybe I just want to cash out," she said.

"There is work to be done," Ganz told her.

"Since when does a law firm hesitate taking a settlement offer?"

"There is work to be done," Ganz repeated.

"It has begun," Valent said. "Let me show you." The Aldebaran turned on Ganz's wall screen and connected to a news channel showing hundreds of people outside the United Nations building in New York. People were chanting "Humans First!" and holding signs that displayed vulgar words against Ankarans.

A female news anchor said, "In response to the groundbreaking lawsuit filed by a student in Germany, protests against the Ankaran presence has spread on three continents."

The screen cut to images of protestors outside the Ankaran embassy in London and below a large Ankaran cargo ship parked in the sky over Sydney, Australia. At the Los Angeles Airport, tattooed gangs were firing handguns at another Ankaran freighter.

"I thought guns were illegal in the U.S.A.," Hinemoa said.

"The resistance can be resourceful," Valent said.

"With the right friends," Ganz said.

Hinemoa sighed again. "I'm an idiot. You used me. It's no secret _your_ kind don't like _their_ kind," she said, pointing to Valent. "You came here first and warned our leaders about the Ankarans, you boys being sweet and good looking ... and humanoid. But who can turn down gold and silver and purple eggs? So what's the agenda? And why me?"

"Every hero — heroine in this case — in history has asked that," Ganz said.

"You will be known for the beginning," Valent said.

"The beginning of what?"

"The cleansing. We are cleansing your world of filth," Valent said matter-of-factly.

~~~~~

Solveig sat cross-legged, a half eaten egg in her lap, staring at the image of an Ankaran on the wall screen and crying. Soothing, sad music played. Ankaran music.

"What did you do, Hine?" said Solveig.

"Me?"

"They killed him."

"Killed who?"

"Jgeptal." Solveig pointed at the wall screen. "He was in New York, on his way to speak at the U.N. about your silly lawsuit, and he was attacked by terrorists. They blew up his transport. People are cheering ... some people. Others are in mourning. He was not a bad per— not a bad alien. _You_ killed him, do you realize that?"

~~~~~

The world was going nuts and anti-extraterrestrial sentiments were rising, while an underground love for Ankarans was also becoming evident.

"The war is on!" cried Guy Glenn from virtual space.

Valent was making the talk show rounds, warning about treachery from the blue guys. "The terrorist attack was staged by them," said Valent. "Jgeptal lives, is most likely on the Ankaran station in orbit. We have seen them make similar deceptions on other worlds, to gain sympathy for their presence."

You're all liars, Hinemoa thought. She shut down her communications center; thousands of reporters, politicians, and talking images wanted a piece of her time. If only she had slept in longer that day, or left five minutes earlier, she would have never been in the accident and her life would be simple: school, part-time job, an empty short-term romance now and then, no one knowing who she was, no one caring what she thought. Just another young woman in a big indifferent world.

She opened the fridge in the kitchen and looked at Solveig's stash of purple eggs: seven in a tray. She took one and bit into it. Sweet like jell. This would not be the first time she escaped into the drug haze of extraterrestrial origin; she understood how easily people, like her roommate, could get hooked.

She stopped and looked at the egg. She wasn't going to fall into that trap. That's what they wanted for humanity. Not her. Someone had to take a stand ...

First, Solveig. She hoisted her roommate up by the arms. Solveig giggled, too high to protest or resist.

"Where we going?" Solveig said happily.

"I'm going to put you in egg rehab," Hinemoa said. "It's the only way to get those goddamn aliens out of you."

"Oooh, how fun," Solveig said, too high to know what was going on.

Outside, on the street, she waved down a taxi. Before she could get her roommate into the vehicle, Solveig's legs gave out and she fell to the ground, laughing.

A man in a green suit stopped and helped Hinemoa lift Solveig up and put her inside the taxi.

The man said, "I know you, don't I?"

"What? No, I don't think so. Thank you—"

"You're Hinemoa Hawthorne!" the man in the green suit said, excited. "You've been all over the screens!"

"I have to take my ..."

"Look! It's her!" a woman said.

People were now gathering around, pointing and saying her name.

"We're with you, Hinemoa!" several of them yelled.

"Stop the Ankarans!"

"Fight the aliens!"

"We're your army," the man in the green suit said. "You're famous and righteous."

She smiled at them all and help up a fist. "Get the alien out of your life!" she shouted.

People cheered. The crowd was getting too big. She thanked them and jumped into the taxi.

The cab driver looked at her in the rearview. The driver was a woman in her fifties with short pink hair. "It _is_ you," the driver said.

"I don't know what's going on," Hinemoa said.

"You've caused quite a stir, girly," the driver said. "People are ready to kick Ankaran ass."

Solveig closed her eyes and began to drool.

"We have to hurry," Hinemoa said.

"Your girlfriend will be okay. I've seen worse. Wow, this is an honor, to have you in my ride. Hey, look!"

Hinemoa looked where the driver was pointing: a three hundred foot image of her face on a skyscraper.

Hinemoa tried not to smile. She did. It was all rather flattering and made her scalp tingle. She started to consider the possibilities: start a revolution; change the world. Today's Joan of Ark. Yes, she could do that.

First, the Ankarans. Then the Aldebarans. And any other so-called "friendly race."

Michael Hemmingson's Wildside Press Double (#32), The Chronotope/Poison from a Dead Sun, a collection of speculative fiction and a short SF novel, is now available. He hosts the radio show, The Art of Dreaming, at Revolution Radio (freedomslips.com)

(Back to Table of Contents)

# Somnambula

by Aaron F. Runyon; published September 17, 2013

Now I am sure that you will find the following account of my experiences over the next month to be somewhat unbelievable. You'll want to assume that the things I describe are exaggerated or bold face lies. I can only assure you that what I am relating are absolutely true events, and that they all occurred just as I am describing.

 ~~~~~

_Somnambulism_ , or sleepwalking as it is commonly known, is a condition suffered by thousands of Americans every night. As with all things which have been given complicated clinical names it is found in varying degrees of severity; ranging from the occasional midnight walk through the living room to an embarrassing display of nude activities in one's college hallway. This brings us to my current situation — finding a new place to live that was close to campus.

What I found was a rundown two-story house owned by an old man who rented out the rooms as apartments. It was a quiet enough neighborhood of typical families and a profusion of empty lots where the older houses had been leveled only to sit vacant for years. It seemed as if progress was just waiting for my ancient landlord to kick the bucket so a Hyundai bulldozer could turn his house into a large expanse of dirt and overgrown weeds. At one time there had been a mill that employed dozens of people nearby, but it had gone belly up in the eighties and the neighborhood had been subject to a rapid disintegration in its population.

It was my third night staying in my new residence. I had lain tossing and turning for the better part of the night, staring at the cracked ceiling with a sense of frustration when my dog, Count Zero, a pug-beagle mix (puggle), began whining to go for a walk. I got out of bed and slipped on my pants and shoes. It was a warm summer, so I didn't bother with a shirt as Zero led me down the steep creaking stairs, which seemed to have been designed for a race more diminutive than humans. We slipped out of the screeching front door, and I listened as Zero's little paws scratched across the wood and out into the yard.

One thing about living in the suburbs — there was a certain quiet serenity to the neighborhood at night. Here people actually went to sleep at some point in the evening; even though the occasional car equipped with a thumping bass cannon might cruise through. I walked down the concrete steps and into the grass and surveyed the road lit by cascades of pale light radiating down from the tall street lamps. I was thinking how calm everything seemed when I saw Count Zero wandering across the road and into a neighbor's yard across the street. I called to him in a hoarse whisper, but Zero was already sniffing his way through a flower garden along the side of the house. Looking around for witnesses, I saw none, and so jogged after him.

"Come here!" I said as I reached for his little wagging whiptail. It was as I was bending over that I noticed a light was on in the house and the window was open. This was exactly what I didn't need; to be caught shirtless outside someone's window in a new neighborhood.

Despite myself I found my eyes locked on the interior of the home. I saw a dimly lit living room where a crib was sitting plain and white against the wall. It was then that I realized I heard a baby crying. I leaned down and snatched Zero, who licked my face as I watched a pretty woman with dark hair and clothes straight out of an old black and white movie from the forties or fifties enter and lean over the crib. What she lifted from behind the bars was not strictly speaking a baby. It was a pale and bloated blob of a thing with lines of purplish veins crisscrossing its flesh. It was wearing a diaper, and it did fit the same uniform shape of an infant, but its limbs were too long and flexed with a musculature that was far from normal. The woman began to undo her blouse and present a firm young breast to the abnormally large throbbing head of the thing. I was frozen and a tight cramp of nervous pain built up in my stomach as the thing clung to her with a strong, desperate grip. She smiled with maternal abandon as the creature began to gnaw and bite at her chest like some hungry animal. Blood was now running in long streams over her white blouse and brown dress as my eyes met hers and our gazes locked. I wanted to scream, but terror paralyzed my lungs as I fought to breath in the throes of panic. She was laughing.

It was early morning, and I found myself standing in the middle of the street with the cloth I had used to tie myself to the bed stand (a precaution suggested by my old sleep therapist) dangling from my wrist. The sun was coming up, and a boy delivering papers on a bike rode past me with only a sideways glance of curiosity. I had managed to actually put my pants and shoes on, which was always a plus. I blinked and rubbed my face as I tried to orientate myself to my waking surroundings. I began to take psychological inventory of what was real and what was dream. First reality check: _I do not haven a puggle named Count Zero_. Second reality check: _The house in front of me only vaguely resembles the one I was outside a few moments ago._ Third reality check: _There is no window, no crib, and no crazy woman being eaten by a bizarre humanoid infant._

Glancing around with private embarrassment and questionable sanity, I hurried back to my apartment.

~~~~~

It was then that I renewed my relationship with my former childhood sleep therapist who promptly prescribed me a new medication that had worked wonders in test studies. Unfortunately, the main side-effect was that even when I _was_ awake I was still half-asleep. He cautioned me against supplementing the meds with any other drugs, legal or otherwise, and I assured him that after my experiences at the dormitory I was not in the least bit inclined to experiment, which was almost true. Otherwise, I was reminded to try tying my left arm to something immovable. I secretly laughed with self-pity as I remembered the cloth dangling from my wrist the previous morning. However, I said I would take it under advisement; knowing fully well that I have managed to unlock doors and log on to Amazon in my sleep with little or no difficulty.

"Somnambulism occurs when the part of the brain that shuts down your body's motor control during sleep malfunctions," my therapist said for what might have been the hundredth time, but I let him continue in case he had some new insight to share; although I highly doubted he did. "It occurs more in children because their brains are still learning the rules of sleeping and waking, but occasionally this area of the brain doesn't ever seem to work correctly. You move in your sleep because your brain cannot differentiate between actions taking place in the unconscious and actual physical reactions to the waking world."

"I know, but the dream was so much different this time. I've never seen anything like that before."

"Well, from a psychoanalytical point of view it makes a lot of sense."

"How's that?"

"This dream seemed to be a symbolic representation of your own understanding concerning the effects of childbirth on the maternal figure."

"Huh?"

"In essence child rearing is destructive to the mother. Even as she carries the infant it causes great strain and lifelong physical effects on the mother's physiology. The symbolism of a baby that is feeding off of its mother and in the process mutilating her is very clear."

"I'm glad you think so. What about her smiling and laughing as she was being gored?"

"A metaphorical statement of the fulfillment a woman can achieve maternally by giving of herself to the child."

"Okay, I guess that makes sense; more mommy issues for my list then."

"Honestly, I don't see it as an issue as much as an observation, but I will recommend that we increase your dosage."

"Oh God, Doc, I can barely stay awake for my classes."

"I told you that it will take time for you to build a tolerance to the drug. In a few months you should see noticeable improvement."

"Great, I'll look forward to that."

~~~~~

So I was sitting at the old roll top desk in my room staring at the computer monitor. It was almost nine o'clock in the evening, and I was supposed to be writing a report on the statistical effects of the discovery of the Higgs Particle. What I was really doing was fighting a losing battle with a voice in my head, which just kept saying _sleep_. It was then that there came a light knocking on my apartment door. Dragging myself up from the chair I shuffled across the room and opened it to find my girlfriend Melinda standing there smiling with a six-pack of cheap beer hanging from her fingers. "Can I come in?" Her voice had that tone to it; she was on the make for a late night booty call.

"I was wondering if you were going to find this place," I said as I let her in and caught a soft kiss from her wet mouth as she passed by.

"Wow, nice digs," she laughed sarcastically as she sat on the side of the bed and held up the six-pack.

"I'm not supposed to drink with this new medication I'm on. Besides I'm tired enough already, and I've got this paper due tomorrow."

"Oh poor Pooh Bear need a little excitement to keep his eyes open?" She said as she undid the top three buttons of her blouse. She flipped her long dark hair over her shoulder and leaned back on her hands so I could see the little black bra she wore.

"Well, Pooh Bear does like his honey," I said as I climbed on top of her and buried my face in the soft of her neck and began kissing along her shoulder. I could feel her hands pulling at my hair, clasping the back of my neck, and pulling at my shirt. I could also feel her hands gripping my sides and pulling me in between her thighs with hot desperate longing. Then I realized as she rolled me over and straddled me that I had felt about four too many hands.

As she sat up and ripped the blouse open I could now see that — besides the fact that she had two small wonderful breasts dying to get out of the little lacy bra — she also had six arms which were reaching and touching every nook of my body. "What's wrong?" she asked as two of her hands undid the bra while another two deftly unzipped my jeans.

"Nothing," I answered, "it's just that the dog's watching." She looked over and there was Count Zero sitting by the bed with his little tail flapping like a windshield wiper set on high speed.

"Not a problem," she replied as she leaned over and plucked him up off the floor by the back of his neck. I watched as her mouth stretched open and her jaw dislocated like a python's as she lowered little frightened Zero into the gaping fang-filled abyss.

I shot up from the desk screaming and fell over backwards in the chair with a crash onto the floor. It was morning, and the sun's orange glow had begun to light the far wall. I looked around panting in a cold sweat as I once more took inventory. First check: _I do not have a girlfriend named Melinda_. Second check: _I still do not have a dog named Count Zero_. Third check: _If I did have a girlfriend she would not have six arms and an appetite for puppy dogs_.

I got up and put my chair back in place. Besides being wrecked by the all too vivid dream, I also had not written my report, or so I had thought. When I looked at my printer I saw a neat stack of pages beside it with a cover page that read: _Possible Implications of Higgs Boson Discovery_. Did I actually manage to finish the report before I passed out? I glanced through the pages and decided maybe it was a possibility. I didn't have time to read it through, but something was better than nothing, and it looked okay. I collected my things, and after a quick shower headed for the campus.

~~~~~

My therapist chewed on the tip of his pen thoughtfully. "Okay, that one's a tougher nut to crack."

"Doc, I got an A on that report. My professor said it was brilliant, and wants to see if we can get it published in a science journal."

"Well, that's great, then," he said holding out his hands as if that was all there was to say.

"Yes, it's spectacular; except I don't remember writing the report and don't have the faintest clue what I wrote."

"Have you ever heard of the Hindu goddess Durga?"

"No."

"An invincible multi-armed goddess?"

"Does she eat imaginary dogs?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"You've probably seen her image at some point and forgotten, but it would indicate being subjugated to a strong female."

"Not this again. What about the dog eating?"

"It would seem to suggest the feeling of being helpless while you watch a powerful female figure destroy something which you hold dear."

"And meanwhile I write the best paper of my college career."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"That's what you're being paid for."

"Did she bare any resemblance to the woman you saw through the window in the other dream?"

"Damn it ... she did."

"Sounds like she's your _animus_."

"Female inner self, right?"

"Very good."

"Then what the hell is she doing?"

"That remains to be determined, but these horrific aspects she exhibits would seem to indicate she is being merged with your _shadow self_."

"A collection of my own repressed identity traits."

"You really have been paying attention all these years."

~~~~~

There was a phase during my childhood when the sleepwalking reached a peak. My parents were having financial problems, and between their quarreling and the stress of growing up the restlessness of my unconscious had reached an all-time high. I became afraid to go to sleep. My fear of losing self-control was a constant burden in my waking mind. Now as an adult I had come full circle, and was now finding myself with that same terrible dread.

I decided that the only way I was going to maintain any semblance of normality was to resume a practice that helped dramatically while I was involved in high-school track: jogging.

It was late summer dusk and the air had begun to cool as the sun sank in the distance over the abandoned mill. I tightened my shoelaces as I sat on the old wooden porch, and then stretched in the grass. I knew I was out of shape, but the thought of a good old endorphin buzz was tantalizing. I stretched my hamstrings and jogged in place for a few minutes before setting off, not really knowing where my path would lead.

The first few blocks were agonizing as my body resisted the sudden activity, but as my heart steadied and my lungs relaxed, I could feel the flood of oxygen soothing my troubled mind. As the neighborhood street darkened I listened to the rustle of the trees and mixed chorus of birds as they flew in dark clouds to their roosts. I passed kids playing in their yards and old couples working their gardens. I smiled and waved with the sort of calm happiness you can only achieve on a summer night like this. Eventually, darkness fell, but I pushed myself on until finally I was forced to relinquish my momentum into a steady walk. Unwilling to turn back, I explored the square until I realized that I was so thirsty that I might be risking dehydration.

I spotted a small gas station and walked from the shadows of the sidewalk into the strange glow of the gas price sign. There were no cars and I didn't even see anyone inside manning the register. As I entered I was met with the aroma of gas station pizza turning in the glass case by the counter. I stared at it longingly, but remembering my budget I walked to the cooler and withdrew two bottles of Gatorade. I stood at the counter with my debit card in hand, studying the slowly turning pizza and glancing behind the counter for a clerk.

It was then that the doors flew open and a man with wild desperate eyes and a mouth of rotting teeth entered holding a sawed off shotgun. "Get back!" he shouted as I raised my hands and backed away from the counter. He stood there for a moment looking around, and seemed as perplexed as I was. "Where the hell is the cashier?" he shouted, brandishing the gun.

"I don't know, man," I answered as cool-sounding as I could muster.

He went around through the door and began messing with the register, and that is when I saw her. She stepped out from behind the candy bar shelves with slow even steps. It was her, but now her skin was pale and decayed as if she had been lying dead for weeks. Her matted hair hung in clumps over her drawn and sunken face as she gazed at me with bleak, sallow eyes. "It's not loaded," she said with a hoarse whisper.

The robber had managed to open the register and was now coming at me with the gun. "Give me all your money!" he said with nervous, erratic rage. _What money?_ I thought.

I looked at him, and then at her. It was just a dream. I was asleep and dreaming. I smiled at him as I reached up and pulled the gun from his unsuspecting hands. He looked startled, but that didn't stop him from taking a swing at me. I ducked down and jabbed the gun into his stomach before slamming him across the back of the head with the butt. He fell to the floor groaning as a young woman emerged from the restroom. I looked to my side but the zombie girl was gone, and I was still there; seemingly wide awake. The girl saw what was occurring and ran for the phone to call the police.

The robber was still coughing and holding his head when I saw the police car roll into the parking lot. I was quick to place the gun on the counter and step back, but before I did I cocked it open and checked to see if it was loaded. The corpse girl Melinda had been right. The robber was crawling onto his hands and knees when the clerk pointed to him, and the police pushed him back down and handcuffed him. Another squad car appeared and two more cops were on the scene. As the girl gave her account of what happened to one officer the other one questioned me.

"That was a very stupid thing you did." He stared at me with an odd mixture of admonishment and respect as the robber was shoved into the back of one of the cars outside.

"I know," I replied. "I don't even know why I did that. It was like instinct or something." I lied.

"Can we give you a ride somewhere?" he said as he folded his notebook and placed it in his shirt pocket.

"It'd be great if I could get a ride home." He nodded and I followed him out as the girl from behind the counter stared at me strangely. I gave the two officers directions to the house, and they gave each other uneasy, questioning looks.

"You sure that's right," the younger one asked.

"Pretty sure," I answered from the back. He shrugged and put the car in gear.

I cannot describe to you the feelings I had as we drew closer to the neighborhood, and I realized that nothing looked as I remembered it. The houses were all gone; the green lawns were barren lots; and everywhere there were empty brick warehouses covered in dried vines and underbrush. The only thing that was even the least bit recognizable was the old house sitting on the corner of the block, but even it appeared as if it had been abandoned for years. When the car stopped, I got out and stared at the dilapidated two-story building, which sat huddled in a dead industrial park. "You've been living here?" the cop said as he shared another look with his partner.

I did not respond, but instead ran to the house and pushed in the creaking, withered front door. I entered and ran up the stairs to the room I knew had been mine. I found the door open slightly. Inside I found a dusty, dark room with a dirty mattress lying in the corner. I went to it and fell on my knees when I saw the dead body of the girl I had come to know as Melinda. She lay decomposing, looking exactly as I had seen her when she had appeared in the store. I looked over at the far wall and there was a small white crib just like the one I remembered from the dream I had my first night in the house. When the policeman entered he winced at the smell that filled the air. He looked over at the crib, and a look of shock and horror passed over his face. He quickly took the radio attached to his shoulder and began calling in a report as the other officer cautiously approached me. "You better come with us," he said as he placed my hands behind my back.

Throughout that night I kept hearing bits and pieces of various conversations like _homeless squatters living in an abandoned house_ , and _possible death by exposure_. "Why didn't they go to a shelter?" one cop asked at the station as I was photographed.

"I think they may have been mentally ill," another answered. "This boy's been missing for over three years; he ran away from an abusive home when he was a teenager. We still haven't identified the girl. From the looks of her she might have been Indian; like from India Indian. She must have died in childbirth. We don't know about the baby yet, but it was probably stillborn. It's just so sad. We found the remains of a stray dog in the bathroom. We think they may have eaten it."

Alone in my cell I stared at the wall with my legs drawn up to my chest as I wept. This couldn't be real. I knew it had to be a dream, and then there she was. She sat quietly in the shadows with her long hair down over her face. "Is this real?" I asked. She nodded that it was.

~~~~~

"And then you woke up." My therapist had been silent for so long I had almost forgotten he was there.

"I woke up in the police car when they dropped me off at the house. They told me I was an idiot, but they were smiling when they said it. The story was in the paper a couple days later, and I am now officially a hero."

"You don't look too pleased about it."

"I haven't been able to stop thinking about the dream. You know I finally sat down and read the report I wrote on the Higgs particle. A lot of it was hard for me to understand even though _I wrote it_. There was something in there about how particles can appear to exist in two places at the same time. It really made me think. You ever heard of String Theory?"

"Of course, it's not my field of expertise, but I'm familiar with the principle."

"Do you believe in alternate realities?"

"Do you think that these dreams are linked to some other alternate universe?"

"All I know is that I feel like the girl from the dream is trying to tell me something. She's helped me now twice."

"I think that you are treading in some very deep water, and you need to be very careful. I'm wondering if maybe you don't need some other form of psychiatric care."

I stared at the doctor for a moment as I questioned whether he was right. "Don't worry, Doc. I'll give you a call if I feel like I'm losing it."

"You do that."

I walked from his office and into the bright noonday sunlight. The square was bustling with people running to their offices from lunch, and pedestrians wandering the sidewalks in droves. It was all so perfect, and so real. I couldn't enjoy this warmth and life like before. There seemed to be a darkness and doubt to everything that surrounded me. It was then I saw her moving through the crowd.

She was walking along with a puggle on a leash at her side. The sunlight shone on her black hair as the breeze blew at the purple skirt around her legs. There was no mistaking that it was her, but she seemed warm, vibrant, and alive. I followed her as she crossed the street and went into the park, where she walked along the path beneath the shade of the trees before sitting down at a bench and removing the puggle's leash. I was standing near a set of swings watching as the dog happily hiked its leg on every object that crossed its path. It was then that the dog seemed to smell something on the breeze, and I froze as its buggy little eyes met mine. It ran toward me as the girl removed a book from her bag and began to read. The little brown dog stood defiantly at my feet with its tail wagging excitedly. It began a long series of repetitive barks, which soon drew the girl's attention.

" _Zero_ ," she called out, slapping her leg. "Come here, you moron!" The dog looked over its shoulder but still did not move, and the girl shook her head with frustration as she approached. I watched her long, soft hair flip in the breeze as she knelt and gathered the seemingly fascinated dog. "I'm sorry," she said, scratching Zero beneath his stubby chin. Her voice was exactly as I remembered it — low and melodic with a light Indian accent. "I just got him from a shelter, and he's not very well trained."

I told her that it was fine, and she smiled and nodded. She told me her name was Melinda. I introduced myself and she laughed as she said "You're _the guy_ , the one who stopped the robbery a few days ago at the gas station."

"Yeah, that's me," I answered, embarrassed.

"Didn't you write a paper on the Higgs Boson? I read it in the school journal. I'm a physics major, and your paper was brilliant."

I stared at her with wonder as we talked. I tried to imagine a world where I was some mentally ill runaway wandering the streets only to find some other poor soul like myself in a homeless shelter. In the darkness of my mind I could see a life where these two lost souls fell in love, and tried to live a life together huddled in some vacant run down house in an abandoned factory district. They found a stray dog that they named after a William Gibson novel, and one cold winter night, snowed in and starving, they were forced to kill and eat it. She was pregnant by that time and needed nourishment desperately. The two were frightened to go to a hospital when her time came, so afraid that the doctors would take their child away from them. The birth killed both mother and child, and he, the other me, went insane with remorse. He wandered for days unable to sleep until he went into a gas station, and tried to rob it with an unloaded shotgun. All he really wanted was the pizza that was turning in the glass case on the counter. When the police showed up he flew into a panic and the police had opened fire. As he was lying on the tile of the gas station floor dying, he heard one of the officers say, "The gun's not loaded."

After I met Melinda I never returned to the vague and eerie world of Somnambula again. However, in my heart I knew that there were a thousand different worlds, a million different lives, and I had by chance or design of fate barely brushed against only one.

Aaron Runyon is a thirty-five year old writer, husband, and father of three living in the Midwest. His work has appeared in Dark Eclipse #22 and an anthology entitled Horror-tica by Cruentus Libri Press.

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# Rotations

by Brian Druckenmiller; published September 20, 2013

Pierce Patterson lay in a clearing beyond the woods at the edge of his family's property, his eyes toward the sky, looking past the clouds that his father always felt resembled tools or scarlet oak leaves or caulks or logging legends. Pierce saw the blue beyond the clouds, the rivers and streams and lakes we tend to forget exist up there. He wished he could be there, swimming or flying through the sky canals, navigating through and away from the cloudy images of Edenberry, where men lived to be loggers and women lived to produce more loggers — a woodsmen culture that kept this exclusive rural roost thriving for so long.

 Edenberry was aesthetically special, surrounded by majestic cedars, pines, and hemlocks, the lush green fading into yellows and reds, the roads lined with decorative hornbeams and catalpas and rustic log buildings and houses. It made for a wonderful portrait, but a portrait only shows the surface. While classic logging practices made a fine heritage to hold onto, there was an order in Edenberry, an order Pierce didn't very much care for. Men who were uncut for labor were evil. Women who couldn't reproduce loggers were evil. In fact, women were evil until married. Anywhere else was evil. Edenberry was good for Edenberry, and that's all that mattered. Of course, Pierce would never vocalize his concerns for that would pronounce him an outsider, and the Patterson name would be chopped into chips.

The crisp grass scratched the back of his neck while ants meandered around his blistered bare feet. Shards of sunlight probed his face while a small, otherwise insignificant cloud sailed down a sky-stream.

"That's us," he said, pointing up and nudging Lorraine. Lorraine was spoken for, the wife of a brawny high climber named Tom, the mother of another. Her wrinkles were the result of more than twice the years Pierce had seen and the inevitable toils characteristic of an Edenberry woman. If word got out that she'd left the house without permission, she'd be beaten. For the affair, Tom would most likely kill her, and, as Edenberry would see it, rightfully so.

She smiled nervously.

"There are roads," he continued. "It's not like anyone would stop us."

"Yes, we can physically leave," she brushed an ant off her thigh, "but that makes lives harder for those who don't deserve it."

"Tom's no good, though. Your kid ain't much better, either."

Lorraine sighed and turned her body toward Pierce, who smiled immediately. She saw a vibrant soul, someone with a thirst for life beyond Edenberry's restrictions. Pierce saw the same in her, past the wrinkles and grey strands and cracked lips. She enjoyed the wilderness and often sought sanctuary in areas of the forest where the men's blades hadn't diced yet, where wildlife sang songs in rhythm with the percussion of her bare feet against the cool earth while running the sun-carved paths through thick spruces and sweetgums. That's how Pierce met her. He was 16 and, watching Lorraine skip from a distance, didn't know such pleasure existed — especially for a woman. A man got pleasure through whiskey, and arm-wrestling, and axe-throwing, and a good day's labor, the woman through the logger's success. But none of that excited him, no matter how great of an axe-hurler he was.

"I mean others," she said, avoiding the hackneyed conversation. "There're some good people here, and two less people will put the burden on them."

Pierce motioned to her and they kissed. His hands traveled underneath her shirt, fingers dragging along the ridges of her skin. The ants scattered on their entwined legs, biting, burning, the heat skulking up their legs and oozing throughout their bodies as both of them tried to forget that the world existed.

~~~~~

Pierce often thought about his mother, although he never got to know her. She was killed when he was four after a miscarriage with his unborn brother, Jack. At least his father, Stanford, believed it was a boy, and when the Council got word of a woman unable to fulfill her purpose, there were repercussions. Pierce wasn't sure what exactly happened, and his father's only answer was "What needed to be done was done."

Stanford claimed that Jack was a tough logger, the fetus' brawn too much for his wife's fragile womb. Jack became a legend, a tall-tale that logger fathers would tell their logger children before bedtime.

Stanford raised Pierce by himself, which gave the men more ammunition to use against their wives: A logger could even be a better parent. But more than parenting, Stanford handed down the gift of Hurling. Although Pierce grew to be a fine sawyer, the Edenberry Axe Hurl was an event historically dominated by Pattersons. Once Stanford became too weak, he counted on Pierce to pick up where he left off. Pierce didn't necessarily carry on the prowess, but, at an early age, showed more dominance than any Patterson, making his father and ancestors look like women. He was nailing standard 20-foot bullseyes by age ten, the Hurl's 55-foot by thirteen. He found his part in Edenberry.

But as he grew older, he missed his mother, wondered what she looked like. And Jack too. As he learned more about Edenberry, he silently questioned things. He had no idea whether outsiders had it better, but not knowing brought curiosity and with curiosity came hope.

Pierce entered the fairgrounds, his teeth chattering lightly while clouds smothered the sky and the smells of sweat, sawdust, and smoke polluted the air. The sound drowned out the commotion of the crowd as Edenberry smiled and prattled about how great the Edenberry Fair turned out in its 42nd running. Spread over several acres behind town hall, the fair was where Edenberry celebrated Edenberry; a year of hard work paid off for most during this weekend event — the only weekend loggers have off annually. The town enjoyed smoked turkey legs and meats on sticks and barrel whiskey. Local vendors sold wooden furniture, carved statues, and whittled trinkets. There were carvers, sawyers, and high climber demonstrations and competitions. Older folks dressed as old-timey mountaineers and Bunyan-esque lumberjacks with thick red beards to entertain the children. When Pierce was a boy, he would tug on the beards, wondering who was phony and who was a real legend.

He followed the scent of the turkey legs to where Lorraine was stationed — all women had to work the event because, considering that producing and providing for loggers was considered love and not work, they essentially had every day off. The sweet smell of the burning hickory chips and succulent bird made her easy to find. Tom was at the high climb demonstration, and Stanford was signing Pierce up for the Axe Hurl. Still, Pierce couldn't do too much in front of the whole town — she'd be the damn devil if there was the slightest suspicion of the affair. So he flashed a smile and handed her change for a turkey leg.

"Are you ready?" she asked, raising her voice to compete with the town. She handed him some meat.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

"I'm sure you'll do fine."

She winked and her smile was too big, too friendly. Her expression retreated as Tom stepped in front of him. He didn't say anything, and Pierce couldn't see his face, but he placed his hand on Lorraine's shoulder. Pierce imagined Tom staring at her, shaming her every second his eyes were fixated. His grip looked tighter and Lorraine tossed his hand off her. Pierce couldn't see over Tom, but heard the wallop of an open palm on her jaw. As Tom turned around, Pierce caught a glimpse of Lorraine sinking into her shoulders, looking at the ground, Tom's hand branded on her face. Pierce looked up at Tom, the image of what loggers strived to be with his massive muscles that bulged enough to stretch the fibers of his shirt. He lifted his right boot and nodded at them, making sure Pierce noticed the sharp climbing spurs, and set it down near Pierce's toes with force. As he walked away, he deliberately rammed his shoulder into Pierce, nearly knocking him over. Pierce felt Tom's eyes on the back of his head as he glanced at Lorraine. She was shaken, her image hazy behind the smoke from the woodchips. She caught eyes with Pierce, and she mouthed "Sorry," to which he silently responded "For what?" He walked away, ashamed that he couldn't do anything.

~~~~~

Collective admiration was the vocal backdrop to the Axe Hurl: It took a real man to throw a double-bitted axe overhead 55 feet across a field and into an angled white oak stump with painted red rings shrinking towards a center dot. They booed the failures, especially the axes that landed short, calling those men women and throwing grub at them. This would be Pierce's finest performance; he made the event look as easy as dropping wood into a burning fire. Toss after toss. Thwap after thwap. Bullseye after bullseye. Cheer after deafening cheer. Pierce was as close to divine as a man could be.

In the championship round, Pierce had been perfect. His first two throws were bullseyes, giving him ten points going into the final throw. His opponent only had four — impossible for him to catch up. Pierce lifted his axe and Edenberry roared. He sighed and wanted it to end.

All eyes were on him except for four: Lorraine and Tom's, who stood well behind the target at the tree-line. He assumed they were arguing, but couldn't hear anything over the rest of Edenberry. Lorraine looked distressed, Tom red and fuming. He kept pointing at her legs, and it dawned on Pierce: the ant bites. Tom knew she had been outside their house. Pierce knew he would beat her. He knew next time he'd see her she'd be bruised, tarnished like used firewood, hysterical with disturbing rationale: _It's Edenberry_ , he knew she'd say. _Everyone has a role and I wasn't doing mine_.

Pierce's grip turned irate and blood seeped through his clenched fingers. Then, Tom smacked her. Smacked the hell out of her, knocking her to the sharp grass. The crack tossed between the tree lines. There was a natural casualness to it as he leisurely leaned with his right hand against a sycamore, left hand viciously swung, his knuckles jarring her jaw. He laughed at her, pointed at her, crumpled and useless on the grass. He riled up other loggers, getting them to laugh, too. Their wives did nothing.

Lorraine was strong, but she might not have survived much longer. Pierce knew it was time for them to leave.

He took aim at his target, then launched his six-pound, double-bitted axe, bellowing a battle cry he never knew he could bellow, his muscles flexing with every heavy breath. The axe divvied the sky in two; most all looked on, although Lorraine and Tom were still not paying attention. He thought of grabbing Lorraine and running until the roads turn from dirt and mud and stones to paved roads and highways, where other towns would offer other things, including other people — some nice, some mean, but all new, all different. He couldn't wait to smell the air — whether fresh or filthy — just as long as it wasn't Edenberry.

The axe had barely passed its trajectory's zenith as it soared above the official target, a throw that would yield zero points for Pierce. Edenberry watched with loose jaws, wondering how the best hurler could miss so badly. Pierce appeared unemotional, his face dirty, his hands calloused, ripped, and bloody.

He envisioned Lorraine's youthful spirit retaking her lifeless exterior; the wrinkles and cracks would still be there, but as artifacts of survival rather than marks of identity. He couldn't wait to kiss and make love to this new Lorraine. The real Lorraine.

He thought about his mother, and how beautiful she must have been. How he wished he'd known her, but was happy that she was not a woman of Edenberry. And Jack. He envied Jack for getting out as early as he did.

Curiosity meant hope. It was time to become an outsider.

So when the axe completed its final rotation and sunk deep into the sycamore, splitting Tom's hand in two, detaching his thumb and index finger and a slab of his hand from the rest of the ligament, blood staining the land and moistening the dry grass, Edenberry was loud with panic — their best high climber instantly stripped of his abilities. Children and women cried while men pretended not to. They called for violent retribution.

Edenberry and the Council had no choice but to exile Pierce immediately. Some called for his head while others cursed him, but an excuse saved the day: The axe slipped out too early in his swing. Everyone believed him; not even God could throw an axe over 100 feet with such precision.

Pierce expected that Lorraine's fate would be similar. The excuse that a crying Lorraine desperate for attention caused the distraction and ultimately the slip would force Edenberry to label her unfit to serve, her selfish display defiling the beloved event and accounting for the loss of two loggers: one through exile and the other through deformity. She had served her purpose, she birthed an aspiring high climber, so Edenberry had no reason to keep her around.

And he was right, although he sold Edenberry short.

He didn't try to fight it. What would've been the point? The one thing stronger than a man was men, and there were many of them, each with something ghastly in their eyes. Pierce's eyes were wet as he was forced to watch a Council-member pry the axe from the tree and proceed with her punishment. He immediately saw his mother, knowing that her fate must've been similar. Although he had no idea what his mother looked like — Stanford had not one reminder of her in their home — we all look the same in the end.

Pierce was forced to leave, so he turned around and walked the dirt road alone, wiping blood and tears from his face. Eventually, the rocks and dirt under his boots leveled into the smoother, paved road of the next county. He looked at the sky and saw the solid layer of clouds. No blue. No shapes or figures. Just cloud.

_Brian Druckenmiller lives in Conway, SC, and teaches English composition courses at Coastal Carolina University. His has fiction forthcoming in Cleaver Magazine and anxiously awaits his fate with too many other literary entities to list here. He blogs at_ Letters from Brian _._

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# Time to Sell

by J. Rohr; published September 24, 2013

Second Place Award, September 2013 Fiction Contest

"In a vial, ladies and gentlemen, I give it to you in a vial. Your own personal dose to do with as you please. Five minutes out of the day. Step right up and pay for the one thing you never thought you could buy back: Time!"

~~~~~

Dad said to take note of everything. "Especially your Uncle E. _Nota bene_. Never mind the man; he's got faults like any of us, but he knows the business." So, it's best to keep my mouth shut and just listen to Uncle E.

 Uncle E. says, "Now pay attention. I don't care to repeat myself. The barkers line the thoroughfare selling their wares. Most ears find the sales too familiar to even hear anymore. Children sometimes like to stop and wonder at the pageantry, but the call of a parent soon has them hurrying along. Apparently, there's still no time to dawdle.

"Every city has one, the market spreading from the factory. Men banging on drums, women dancing, flag wavers, fire breathers, music, loud speakers, exotic animals, vivid videos, free samples, melodramatic demonstrations — it's a wonder anyone can pay attention to a single stall. And it's important to pay attention. Some vendors aren't as reputable as others. Sure they'll sell you a few hours cheap, watered down of course. Hell, you're just as well off purchasing a handful of seconds, the briefest of minutes. Yet, business is done on a regular basis. Some people come every day, rarely claiming to be buying for themselves.

'My grandmother wants ...'

'My husband needs ...'

'A little more time for ...'

"Excuses: to feel better about bad decisions; and there are plenty to go around. Only the barkers have heard them all, though they aren't ones to judge. Cash in hand is more than enough reason to sell to someone. People do what they want regardless, and if it isn't you they buy from, there's always someone else. Might as well take the money, it never did anyone any good down in a pocket. Here in the shadow of the factories, under those coiling, boiling clouds of black smoke, arcs of purple lightning crackling through them, the bazaar is hard at work."

Uncle E. sure loves the sound of his own voice. I wonder if he knows how to stop.

He just keeps going, "Step lively now. Make way for the man. Excuse us, sir ... that was a Harvester. You can tell by the gray skin and hollow eyes."

I've never seen one so close, can't help shivering. We, my parents and I, don't normally come down to the lots. Dad doesn't believe in buying Time. We must really need the money.

I shouldn't be thinking. Got to pay attention. _Nota bene_ , like Dad said.

Uncle E. is talking, "They tend to pass through during the shift changes. Poor bastards. Harvesters never seem to know when they are, and they rarely speak for fear the foreman is over shoulder, this now just a glimpse caught by accident while they run the collectors. Visions caused by stray time leaking out the vats. The only way for them to function is to stick to routine. I am on my way to work; I am on my way home; I am eating; I am sleeping; et cetera, et cetera. They work themselves to the bone, planning to buy it all back later."

It's hard to pay attention. Someone is always shouting something, and when I recognize a voice I tend to focus on it.

Like Dad's poker buddy Warren Heaney, "We even provide the apparatus. Simple and easy to use, you just touch this tiny button and viola!"

Yet none of it interrupts Uncle E. There's no world outside his words.

Uncle E. tells me, "The plight of Harvesters is like that of coal miners. It's a hard life, however, people need what they provide. So no one cares too much. But enough unpleasantness. Watch Genevieve juggle. Her colorful cloud, a veritable rainbow shower, every ball a pinpoint. She moves so quickly, as if she knows where the balls will fall before they even get there. The quickness of her eye, 'A steal at five dollars!' Or visit Ol' Tom and his guillotine. He's been working the market near fifteen years performing the most unique act. He cuts, carves, and threatens to amputate, though it's never gone quite that far. The Mercurian speed of his healing is like none other — save for those willing to pay the price of a bottle, a vial, 'Whatever quantity you require.' See the fifteen year old infant, the woman who remembers because she re-experiences, Billy the Bullet, or visit the Fracture whom no one has seen in one single moment for he exists throughout infinity: the new freak show, like none other before it, and the act is for sale."

Every barker has a gimmick, a theme.

Like Uncle E.'s ex-wife, Stacy Griffin, "Work away the weekend but never mind the loss, just have another."

Or our old neighbor, Paul Miller, "This Time is your time, sir. And make no mistake, the only time you waste is what you don't use."

A hundred voices saying the same thing, but I only need to listen to one.

Uncle E. says, "Listen to it. Barkers calling to drown one another out, their voices blending into a cacophony of head spinning hooks. Music clamoring to get that one extra eye, the lingering glimpse that brings in the pigeons. The crowd that murmurs a steady static of chatter. Ah, hell, there's more of them."

Harvesters. Six total. I don't like the way they look at me. They don't stare at anyone else.

Uncle E. says, "Now, like I said, they are poor bastards, but always keep in mind that Harvesters are bad for business. One glimpse of them is liable to halt a sure sale in its tracks. One look at those ash-colored skeletons and zip, the deal is out the window. There are two prices to every purchase: the one you know and the one you don't want to. And Harvesters imply the latter. Sure you can tell who uses the most Time by the way they appear. However, who said Time was safe? Use it every day of your life and you'll end up dead. But that was a fact even before it came in vials.

"See them? The shuffling feet make straight for an exit. Stooped over, the Harvesters disappear down an alley. Lord only knows to where. And, oh, can you hear it? The crowd breathing a collective sigh of relief, though no one admits why. We need them, after all, to keep the Time coming. So a Harvester's plight isn't any cause for concern. Sure some folks like to say how horrible it must be for them, but it's just words to look like a better person. No one does a thing to stop the Time flowing.

"Take a turn here. The grand tour as it were. It's best to catch it all in one take. You can always come back later for the details."

"And why would you ever pass up such a golden opportunity?"

"Indeed. That's Charlie Ritter. I've known him longer than I've known myself. Good man, though he can't pick a woman to save his life. Decent women I mean, like your mother. She's an angel. God and I won't ever understand her being on Earth. Did you know her cousin is a Harvester? Or was. I don't know the situation. Folks tend to lose track of those working in the factories."

Mom didn't. Her cousin is still a Harvester. I wonder if I'll see her here. If I would even recognize her.

Uncle E. tells me, "In a way it's a shame. The cousin I mean. I met her once, some Christmas long since past. Pretty girl. I hate to think of her as one of them. Graying body and thinning hair with that haunted look always on her face. She used to smile like she was the sunrise itself."

I know. She left for the factory before I was old enough to remember her, but her smile is in a photo we keep on the mantle. I've seen Mom looking at it with her face all tight and grim. She never cries, or at least, I've never seen her. We don't cry in our family. We endure ... that's what Dad says.

Uncle E. says, "People say Harvesters have that look because they catch glimpses of when and how they'll die. Heart attacks, cancers, old age gasping last breaths: the inevitable glanced at by accident. _In nomine patri et fili spiritu sancte_. Harvesters are the closest thing to the walking dead. However, remember, if you're inclined to pity them go ahead, just not so much you let 'em hang around the booth. Turn here."

Needed and unwanted in the same instance — I just hope we don't get so desperate for cash that Dad has to start working in the factory. It sounds like, if that happens, there'll be two photos on the mantle to set Mom tight. I've heard her teeth crackling as she grinds them to bits. Dad does his best to keep spirits high, but there's only so much anyone can do when the third notice comes and the power will be turned off soon. Fortunately, it's the start of summer, so I don't have to miss school, though I think that taut conversation is coming. Mom won't like it, but if things haven't changed ... we need the money. So I'm learning a trade.

Not everyone seems to sell Time alone. Chris Hudson, met him at one of Uncle E.'s barbeques, told me he makes more off the paraphernalia than Time. I almost recognize him by his pitch alone: "Just look at this vial, a work of art in and of itself. And isn't a little class worth the extra cost?"

But I'm losing focus. My family needs me to do my best. Pay attention.

Uncle E. is talking, always talking, "Sales are all about distractions, convincing another there's no need for concerns or doubts whether they're valid or not. Thus the pageantry. Always keep in mind: around here most hesitation isn't about the product but a person's own wants. There are things people don't want to admit wanting.

"But hell, you'll learn as you go. I could go on for hours, however, this is us here. Booth seventeen, aisle one."

He can't help beaming, and I can't help catching a piece of that smile.

Uncle E. says, "I've been in the market nearly twenty-five years, worked my way from the worst lane of the whole bazaar to right here, and I never needed a gimmick of any kind. Pure oratorical skill: the ability to articulate with such style and grace no ear can resist your honeyed words. The wonders of an Irish upbringing.

"It's too bad your father never went in with me. I would have been glad to have him. He might have lived on more than paycheck to paycheck, but I digress. You're the smartest one in your family now Jackie. Stick with Uncle Ériu, you'll have your own fortune in a blink."

For a minute, I felt like I could enjoy being here. It certainly beats the factory. But as usual, Uncle E. rambled on too far. If words alone could lead a person off a cliff ... my Dad does his best. Mom pulls in her share. It's my turn to pick up the slack. Fifteen is too old to expect anything too rosy, not without being willfully ignorant.

Ériu. Give me a break. The man will go on about being Irish as if he bleeds green. His name is Philip J. McNiece, born and raised in the USA. He didn't even know he was Irish till he was near nine years old. Dad told me how his little brother, somewhere around twelve, looked up the word Irish in a dictionary, saw the term Ériu in the word origin, and ever since insisted on being called that. Uncle Irish, what a joke. It's what he prefers, but I'll never give him more than Uncle E.

Still, that's no reason to fail. I promised to do my best.

So I listen close when Uncle E. says, " _Cac bó ar ardán_! See if you can get that rope untangled. I say no gimmicks and what I mean is no dancers or videos or music. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't have some color. A fine banner is all one really requires, though I'm not trying to detract from the spectacle others provide. Each to his strengths when the battle is fought. And make no mistake, this is a war. Here we engage in the subtlest of combat, a campaign fought entirely by spies. We murder with words and intrigue, leaving the living to wonder, 'How is charisma like a knife?' Because it cuts you open without you ever realizing. Our war is fought from the first barker's call to the last booth shut. And tomorrow we do it all over again. As for — MADAME! Have you ever considered you deserve more than you've given yourself? How about a glass of second chance?"

Well done Uncle E. I'm so glad to be learning from a master.

"... ah, well. It's best to get the first failure out of the way early, that way it doesn't seem to be looming. While I set the wares out, sweep the platform."

Hey, look at that. There's some good looking wood under this grime. And holy Jesus, the man will not stop talking.

"You know what Jackie? I can't help swelling a bit when I look around here. I don't mean to sound like a lord in his own lands, but I do feel a bit aristocratic on these grounds. People know me here, and it's hard not to feel pride where you've done well."

He just loves the sound of his own voice. I don't think he's even aware I haven't said a word all this while. Which isn't to say I'm looking forward to shouting at a crowd of strangers, 'MISS! You look ravaged by age but don't worry. Those wrinkles just need a little Time.'

I shouldn't complain. Like Dad says, we're the people who endure ... and we need the money.

It's funny how a few seconds can change everything. One minute Dad's just another guy at work, and the next he's one hand fewer. Not many machinists can work their equipment with one hand. Mom begged him to pay for some Time, use it to heal up, but Dad put his foot down. He said, "If you erase a mistake you won't be afraid to make it again." Scars may make good reminders, but they sure don't pay the bills.

I should shut my head off. It's distracting, and Uncle E. is talking.

"That'll do with the broom. Let me have a look at you. I didn't want to say anything in front of your mother, but if this is the best suit you have I know the first thing we need to fix. It'll do for now. In the meanwhile you just watch on the side, be quick handling customers' purchases, and above all keep your eyes open."

What does he think I've been doing this whole time? No, I'm sorry Uncle E. I've been too in awe of your ranting to pay better attention. This would be more tolerable if he didn't take himself so seriously. At least some of the other barkers try joking around.

I don't know who she is, but I love her line, "Try it yourself and if you still doubt the quality, I'll pay you to leave."

Uncle E. likes to keep things all business.

He informs me, "These are the rules. One: never sell more than a month. According to the government you're supposed to check how much a buyer already owns but that's bullshit. How is it my problem if someone walks the whole market, gathering up months to brew years? That being said, to keep regulators off our back everyone sticks to a one month limit.

"Two: time doesn't travel. If someone wants it shipped anywhere other than within the city you tell them to _Arra, seafóid_! Piss off, _A phleidhce_! Say it with me now, _Arra, seafóid_! Piss off, _A phleidhce_! Simple, eh? Maybe flourish the hands in a threatening manner. Let me tell you, I've no desire to be the last dot on a line tracing back when a Time spill came from.

"And that about does it. Anything you feel unsure about, just ask me."

Why do the Harvesters keep looking at me? I'm sure Uncle E.'s got some snappy diatribe to answer that, and it'll only take fifteen minutes to hear. Every Harvester that wanders passed looks right at me. It's starting to freak me out. Their stare is like ice. I don't know. Maybe they stare at a lot of people, and I'm just not used to it yet. I should ask. However, Uncle E.'s at work.

He speaks to the crowd, "Ever notice how the Past has a feel? One you can't ever quite get back ... till now."

Ignored.

But Uncle E. carries on, "Sir! Have your first kiss again?"

A glance and the man continued on his way.

Uncle E. shrugs off the loss, "... fair enough. At least he looked at us. There's little worse than being blanked. Hell on a hangover, there are a lot of Harvesters wandering around. You'd think they know something we don't. I didn't hear the shift change, did you? An electric sort of screech. No? Never mind. Polish the vials and put some shine on those bottles. The more they sparkle the better they move."

I'm sure they do. And all you need is to get the people's attention. I suppose it's best to get the first four or five failures out of the way. Then they aren't looming, waiting to interrupt your flow.

Uncle E. continues to pitch, "Time. The only thing more desirable is air itself. Although, I would be willing ... Miss, have you ever wished you'd made more of your day? Then have a peek through the keyhole. Nine dollars and the future is yours."

"Okay." A passerby turns into a buyer.

"Excellent! Jackie, ring the lady up. You won't be disappointed Madame, I assure you," Uncle E. addresses her then whispers to me, "It's just that easy."

A ten, so that's a dollar. Smile for the lady. Should I bow? I guess I should bow after I give her the vial. Or not. What the hell am I — I'm bobbing, a grinning idiot bobbing back and forth in this lady's face. When I get home, in a mirror I'm going to practice my delivery.

I've got to give it to him. Uncle E. reeled her right in, a fisherman with words. It seems like you have to watch and bark. When someone glances at the booth give them your full attention.

Although, I have noticed some sellers don't have booths. They strap a box around their neck and walk the lanes calling out things like, "Sand for the hourglass. Get your sand here. Sand for the hourglass. Get your sand."

I see the strolling seller passing our booth, and he's just a thing to witness, another spectacle in the lots.

Uncle E. sees him and can't help saying, "I used to be one of these poor fools, cruising the aisles with fifty pounds hanging from my neck, selling minutes for pennies. Well, we all have to start somewhere. I started with three hours. Some folks kick up with less. I had to work up to having a booth."

I don't plan on owning a booth. This is, with any luck, just a summer gig. I mean, I wouldn't mind doing this every summer, I guess. It'd be nice to have some cash of my own. Dad tries to toss me a five now and again, but I feel guilty taking it. It barely pays for anything, and I know I'm just wasting it. What I really need is Time.

If Dad used some he'd be able to do his job with one hand. There are no restrictions on using it to operate equipment. In fact, most people are practically encouraged to do so. But Dad would never go for it.

Mom might, however, that would just make the two of them fight more. They fight too much now as it is.

I could sell it. That is, if I had my own stash I could sell it to people my age. Typically, no one under eighteen is allowed to buy Time. So I could charge whatever I wanted. I'd only need a few hours. The trick is getting some.

Uncle E. counted the bottles the moment he unlocked his case. I bet he counts them before he locks up and makes sure the tally always matches the next day. I guess I can't fault him for running a tight ship. But he did mention brewing.

"That's a hell of a breeze striking up. Jackie, keep an eye on the platform. We don't want dirt blowing right back on our clean floor."

I noticed Uncle E. filled a few vials from a larger bottle. Drops get spilled all the time, I'm sure. Besides, my hands can be clumsy on occasion. Whatever gets spilled is mopped up, and if I hung on to those drops seconds add up to minutes, which turn into hours, and so on and so forth.

Uncle E. says, "At least it's blowing toward the factory. It'll help keep the industrial aroma at bay. My good man, sir. Sir!"

I can't keep it at home though. If Dad found it he'd go ballistic. And Uncle E. is sure to find anything I stash around the booth.

Uncle E. remarks, "... ah well. Enough of this one on one. Let me show you how the pros get things done, eh?

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IF I MAY HAVE YOUR ATTENTION. THE FINEST TIMES — MINUTES, HOURS, DAYS — FOR THE LOW, LOW PRICE OF ..."

I've got it. Back one or two Falls, Mom and I came here to visit Uncle E. I figure Mom was really trying to maybe catch a glimpse of her cousin. Ivy. Her name was, is Ivy. Anyhow, we sat in this little nook. It's set on the opposite side of the factory away from the bazaar. I guess it's for Harvesters to sit at when they're on break, but I don't think any of them ever use it. Mom and I sat on this rusted old bench surrounded by wild flowers and weeds. I thought it was cool. I'll check it out when I get the chance. Quiet and secluded, I figure I could keep a stash hid there.

Thinking about that trip with Mom, I liked this place then. We didn't see any Harvesters. Now there are more and more as if ...

"... the factory is letting out. Do you see this, Jackie?"

Yeah, and they all glance at me. Some even glare.

A bolt of purple lightning erupts from the other side of the factory and before it has a chance to register a siren is screaming. The electric wail draws a flurry of activity all over the bazaar.

I don't even have to ask, Uncle E. just starts explaining, "Pack up everything. We've gotta head out. The siren means there's a time spill near the factory, and we do not want to be last in line."

"Last in line for what?" My first words all day.

"Clean up detail. You have to sign up. Volunteers only, first come first served, and they only take a hundred or so.

"I won't lie to you. It's dangerous, but the pay is great. A few weeks worth of work, and we can live like kings."

I like the sound of that. Mom won't, but we need the money. Or maybe this'll force Dad to find a job. Either way, this is what we need.

Uncle E. says to me, "Plus, there's the betting. Right now there's no telling when this thing started, so me and some of the other guys like to have a sort of pool as it were. Depending on how bad it gets, the spill could have happened today, tomorrow, or even weeks or months from now. Hell, I've seen ones that started on a yesterday and didn't show up till some tomorrow. But it gets cleaned up. All it takes is a little time. Ha, ha, ha! Come on, you got to laugh in the face of the storm, you know why Jackie?"

Because we are the people who endure.

J. Rohr is an internationally published author. His work has appeared in magazines such as Britain's Jupiter (issue #39) as well as Annalemma, The Mad Scientist Journal, and Silverthought Press Online. Currently, he runs the blog www.honestyisnotcontagious.com in order to deal with the more corrosive aspects of everyday life. A Chicago native, he has a passion for history and midnight barbeques.

(Back to Table of Contents)

# The Grannywoman of Devil's Backbone

by Teel James Glenn; published September 27, 2013

Prologue: Drawing Lines

"Tain't never cottoned to outsiders, no less Yankees tellin' me what to do, sonny," the wizened woman called Granny Liz said. "And I sure as hell ain't gonna let none traipse about up them hills." She waved a thin hand at a wooded section of the countryside. "Specially not where Cloud family bones is buried."

The Arkansas State Trooper who stood before her sighed. "I know, Liz," he said.

"Miss Cloud," the silver-haired woman corrected. She was dressed in layers of blue and red gingham with a gray shawl tossed over her narrow shoulders, but at barely five feet tall she looked painfully small next to the burly officer.

 "Miss Cloud," he said. "They are not going to hurt the land and they have a perfect legal right with documents from the state government to harvest turpentine."

"Ain't no government that can give no permission to desecrate graves —"

"They are not going to desecrate any graves, Miss Cloud," he said. "Turpentiners tap into the sap layers of the tree under the pine bark. The trees got something called oleoresin they put on the wound to protect it and seal the opening. Turpentiners channel the oleoresin into containers to make spirits of turpentine. They don't disturb the ground at all."

"They's walkin' on it ain't they?" The old woman spat. "Yankee boots like yours walking on ground my pappy fought the blue coats for."

"Now Miss Cloud you know I ain't no Yankee. I come from less than fifty miles north of here," the officer said. "And the state can give turping rights to that Collin's Company, so don't be yelling at them no more."

The old woman squeezed her face into an unpleasant expression and tilted her head like a cat regarding a mouse. "The name of these mountains is made of two Choctaw words: ouac, their name for a buffalo, and chito, which is large." She looked up at the trooper and then waved a gnarled hand at the plains and hills around them. "When my pappy's pappy came out here there were still herds of those animals that covered the prairies of Ouachita and gave life to the Choctaw. They used every part of any animal they killed and gave thanks to its spirit for the life it gave them."

She walked past the officer to a wooden statue of a distinguished, middle-aged man in full confederate officer's uniform looking out over the flat land of the hollow. It was aged by weather but even a casual glance could see that the features of the wooden man bore a striking resemblance to the old woman.

"White men saw only something to conquer and kill. Greedy hunters killed them for their hides, left their bones to bleach in the sun and the meat to rot." The woman continued, "Eastern and northern folks pushed their way past here heading to the rich lands to the west, taking what they wanted. But the folks that settled here were different, learned to scratch a living out of this land and not waste; to listen to the earth and live with it."

"Now, Granny Liz," the trooper slipped into the familiar address, "no one is talking about enslaving you or conquering the land, they just want to slash a few trees for the sap; people need the money — things are bad outside these hills since the crash."

"Ain't no crash for those what work with their hands," the woman countered.

"Then you don't need that shotgun you was pointing at them boys down in the hollow," the trooper said. When she turned back to squint at him he smiled. "I will talk to them about staying on the other side of the stream even though they have the right from the governor to come over here."

She made a noise like a cat hissing, but his smile stayed fixed and she accepted it as a peace offering. She pulled out a corncob pipe and a match from a dress pocket and lit up.

"Governor's paper ain't no real right, but if they stay over the stream I won't pepper'em with shot."

"Miss Cloud I will have to ask you not to pepper them at all," he said. "Even if they do stray on your side of the stream. Call me."

She glared at him in an attempt to make his smile crack but finally nodded. "But mark my words, Vernon Stuckie," she said. "I knowed you when you was barely in long pants — don't you lie to me."

"I promise Miss Cloud, as long as you promise to not shoot anyone or I'll have to take your shotgun." He tried a stern look at her, but his expression strayed from sour to a smile when she just turned her back to head toward her ramshackle log cabin.

"Pick up some of my peach preserves 'fore you leave, boy," she said. "But leave my squirrel gun alone."

~~~~~

"The trooper is leaving the old hag's place now, Mister Collins," Henry Duck said as he lowered the field glasses from his eyes. "He took something with him into his patrol car."

"Did you see what it was?" Joe Collins, unlike his foreman, was a thin man, almost delicate of features and with long thin fingers that he drummed against his thighs constantly. He was not dressed for the woods like Duck.

"No, sir," Duck said. "Maybe a box or something."

"Back country bribe. Pigs feet or some other delicacy." Collins said with disgust. "I can't count on the law backing me up."

"You got the governor's paper, boss; the law's gotta back you up."

"Not down here," Collins said. "These Rubes stick together." He scowled from his fedora to his thin-soled patent leather shoes, now covered with mud from the Arkansas hills.

"So how do we handle it?" Duck said. The deformed ear and scar tissue under his eyes were souvenirs of his failed ring career, and his accent and his attitude were from the streets of Chicago's South Side.

"Same way you handled it in Florida," Collins said as he picked burrs from his pants before getting into his crème-colored coupe. "That old bag has the best pine trees in this whole area along those flats on either side of that stream. I want them all cut and bleeding for us by the end of the month or we'll lose the season."

"Won't that state cop get suspicious if we say we shot her in self defense after he talked to her?"

The delicate Collins paused at his picking and pursed his lips, giving the burly man a cross look. "No reason to go that far — yet. And besides, the state cop seemed pretty friendly with the old bat."

Duck put the binoculars up to his eyes and studied the clearing where Elizabeth Cloud's cabin and outbuildings were located.

Duck gave a gap-toothed smile. "That dump looks pretty rickety to me, boss. "Seems like an old lady like that could knock over a candle or maybe fall asleep smoking in bed, ya know?"

"I was thinking that a good Samaritan who was maybe working across the stream close by might see the fire and manage to save her, but, not the house, ya know? The old bag of bones would have to move out, but would be, ya know, grateful and all."

"Have I mentioned that you are a gem, Mister Duck?" Collins slid into his coupe and closed the door softly. "A regular diamond in the rough."

Chapter One: Old Potions and Odd Notions

Elizabeth Cloud had lived in the valley at the foot of the Devil's Backbone her whole life. She had been born on a farm down the other end of the valley.

Arlan, her oldest brother, had died fighting the European war that was supposed to end all wars. Josephus, next oldest, had been killed in a bar fight with one of the Gillie brothers; that had started a feud that took Micah, the youngest, before her pa and cousins had killed the four Gillies and ended it.

Micah's death had taken the heart out of her mother, who withered away and died shortly after. Elizabeth's father followed her a few months later.

That was when Old Granny Jenny had taken in Elizabeth as her full-time apprentice; though, in fact, she had spent much of her free time growing up helping old Jenny gather herbs and always knew she was destined to be a grannywoman.

She had moved to the north side of the little stream and into Jenny's cabin toward the older woman's end and had stayed almost eighteen years.

In that time the surrounding valleys had come to rely on Granny Liz when sicknesses came on them, children were to be born, or when there was suspicion (or need) of a curse. She grew her own vegetables and herbs and gathered many rare plants for her poultices and potions. Things like skunk salve for clearing congestion, and tea made from tubers of the Barnyard Blue Flower for soothing colic.

It was inherited knowledge from the frontier immigrants who brought European herbal knowledge and learned from the native tribes along the way. The Grannywomen who had passed the knowledge down to Old Jenny and then to Liz had also revealed secrets beyond medicinals. Dark secrets that lurked in the shadows, though no pastor would ever speak about it at the pulpit.

Everyone in the Ozarks knew the power of the grannywomen and so they were respected and feared and tacitly ignored by the men of the cloth who kept their preaching confined mostly to the daylight hours and on Sundays, leaving the nights to the wisewomen.

~~~~~

State Trooper Vernon Stuckie knocked on the door of the offices of Collins Enterprises. He had driven from Granny Liz's place to the town of Greenwood where the turpentine company had its local headquarters, but the storefront office was closed for the day. He regarded the 'out to dinner' sign with a jaundiced eye.

Greenwood was the county seat of Sebastian County and was named for Judge Alfred Burton Greenwood. The business district spread over four blocks and had a number of restaurants that Stuckie knew of. He considered which one of them the city-bred Collins might choose.

His guess was the Arkansas House, a steakhouse two blocks from the office.

He was right.

"Ah, Trooper Stuckie," Collins said with a wide smile. "What a coincidence, you chowing down here." The table before the slight man was laden with enough food for three men the trooper's size.

"I'm afraid I'm here to talk to you about the turpentine collection down on the bottoms over at the Backbone."

"What about it, officer?" The businessman held a glass of beer in one hand and poked at a steak with his fork.

"Your man had trouble today with old Miss Cloud."

"Oh, yeah," Collins said. "I heard about some trouble with the owner. An old woman, right?" He motioned for the officer to sit at an empty chair at the table. "She pulled a gun on my guys."

"More a force of nature," the trooper said as he sat. "And she did brandish a gun at them, but I have her assurances that will not happen again."

"Well good," Collins said. "It's nice to see my tax dollars are doing their work —"

"But there is a slight complication."

"Complication?" The businessman paused in the process of pushing a piece of steak into his mouth. "What complication? I got permits from the state to have my boys cut all those trees on the state land down there in the hollow."

"Yes, technically, you do, sir," Stuckie said. "But the survey lines of the state land extend to the west side of the little stream that runs through that hollow. Quite a ways, in fact."

"So? I got rights to tap the trees there."

"Yes," the trooper said. "Technically, but the folks here abouts do things a little less formally — the state park line was never really marked so they got kinfolk buried on that land."

"So? We ain't strip mining the place, just cuttin' some trees."

"Well, she still sees it as, well, kinda sacrilegious."

The businessman set down his drink and fork and leaned forward. "It ain't no such thing; it is legal and I expect you to enforce the law or I can talk to my lawyer and your governor. That bottom land is prime for turp-sap, and I want it all."

"And I will," Stuckie said with bite in his tone. "I've gotten Miss Cloud to agree to not bother any of your men as long as they stay on the East side of the stream —"

"But we —"

"I know you have the right," the lawman continued. "But it will keep peace if you stay east. Leave that land for last and let me work on her some more. I'm sure we can resolve this peacefully."

Collins sat back in his chair and picked up his beer. "Yeah," he smiled before he took a deep draught of his beer. "No bloodshed. Sure, I'm a reasonable guy. We can start in the other sections, and that'll give you plenty of time to convince the old hag. Sure."

His grin bothered the trooper but there was nothing for Stuckie to do but leave the man to his gluttony.

~~~~~

"I see you," Granny Liz called. "Come out of there, you varmint." The woman took out her pipe and waved it at the smokehouse. "Don't make me come over there to get you."

There was a low, rumbling sound, and then a dark shadow detached itself from the shed and slunk toward her on four legs.

"You dumb hound dog," she hissed. "I'll bet you didn't even catch that coon, did you, Jefferson Davis?" The dog came up to stand on the woman's left, ignoring the cat, which still stood on her right.

"I have to head over to little Ginny Anker's tomorrow and make up a love spell for her on that boy Joe Chambers; gotta get me some fixins from him." She patted the dog again.

"Well, I suppose you want some supper, eh, boy?" She reached down and patted the dog on his massive shoulders, which elicited a 'woof' of affirmation. "You just wait out here; I got some soup bones I figured you'd want."

She went in the cabin to get the food and did not notice that the dog's ears pricked up and he took to sniffing the air as the wind shifted.

Out of the circle of the clearing, hidden in the trees, Henry Duck crouched in the underbrush and thought, "Okay, tomorrow sometime there'll be my chance. Sleep tight, lady." Then he snuck away into the night.

Chapter Two: Hollow Victory

Granny Liz was able to get the hair she needed from Joe and even some from Nancy (young Ginny's rival) to use in her charms without either knowing it. She rode her mule back to her own cabin with her mind spinning just what she needed to do and what, indeed, she should do.

"Sparkin' is natural," she said aloud to the mule, "But sometimes, Ulysses, I swear humans do it the most unnatural way!"

Ahead she could see some of the turpentiners moving through the woods, and she squinted hard to see just where they had set their soaks for gathering the sap.

"Still on their side of the stream, Ulysses," she said aloud and patted the mule on the neck. "So I guess that Stuckie boy got through to them."

She urged the animal down the path to her clearing with thoughts of how she could help Ginny with her problem, so she didn't see Henry Duck slip from her cabin into the bushes on the other side of the clearing.

She didn't see him as he watched from the cover of the foliage, nor did she see the empty container of coal oil he carried that he had used to soak the firewood by her hearth.

Granny Liz opened the door to her cabin and was puzzled when Jefferson Davis did not come barking to greet her.

"Where are you Mister President?" she called, becoming concerned.

The dog came slinking out of a corner, his head bowed and walking stiffly.

"Boy!" She moved quickly to the animal. He whimpered as she held his head and looked into his eyes, studying them.

"You look like you've been at my corn squeezin's," she said. "Or elst you're powerful sick."

Granny Liz helped the dog over to her bed where she pulled him up on to it, lighting an oil lamp to be able to look more closely at the eyes of the ailing dog. She leaned in and sniffed at the animal's mouth and made a face.

"What you been into, Mister President?" She sniffed again and her featured darkened as she looked around her cabin with a concerned eye.

"Or maybe I oughta say, what's been into you?"

~~~~~

Henry Duck stood with one of his turpentining crew trying not to look like he was watching the old woman's house.

"We're almost done with this whole section, boss," the worker said to Duck. "We're gonna be ready to cross that stream again tomorrow." The rough fellow, who was even broader shouldered than Duck, glanced toward the clearing where Granny Liz's cabin was. "And some of the boys ain't very anxious to face that old bitty with a gun again."

Duck took a long drag on a cigarette before he answered. "I don't think that will be problem, Matt," he said.

"You mean that Mister Collins got it all worked out with her?" the worker asked. "She seemed pretty worked up yesterday."

"Not to worry, Matt," Duck said. "The boss has ways of making problems disappear. Legally all those trees over there — those sweet, sap filed trees — are on government land and ours to tap."

"If she don't shoot us."

"Grow a pair, Matt. She won't be a problem for much longer. Just have'ta wait till she gets hungry."

"Hungry?"

"Or when it gets dark enough." Duck chuckled. "Any time now. Any time."

Just as he spoke there was a brilliant flare of light from the other side of the wisewoman's cabin.

"There ya go," Duck said as he spat out his cigarette and started running toward the cabin. "Time for me to be a hero!"

The burly Duck ran just fast enough for his men to see that he was 'trying' to help. He made sure that the men were following him for them to be able to tell the State Troopers and his boss Collins that he had tried to save the old woman.

It would make things much simpler if the old woman was out of the picture, and Henry Duck didn't care if she was hurt or dead. Either way she would be off the grounds for more time then they needed to strip the turp sap from all the trees.

"And that is bonus money for me," Duck thought as he rounded the corner of the cabin. There, Duck stopped, stunned by what he saw.

Six feet in front of the cabin the old woman was standing in front of a pile of cord wood that was blazing! She was not burned or injured in any way. When she heard Duck run up behind her Granny Liz turned and smiled.

"Why, hi, y'all," she said. "What's the fuss all about?"

The other turpintiners ran up while Duck was still trying to find words.

"Cat got ya tongues, boys?" the old woman asked.

"Uh, we thought something was wrong, ma'am." Matt said. "Least wise, Henry here did and we figured he was right. We saw the flash fire —"

"Oh that," Liz said with a chuckle. "Seems some of my heating wood somehow got coal oil all over it, and I just couldn't dare burn it in the house." She tottered over toward Henry Duck and then seemed to stumble so that she bumped into him. "Sure seems a terribly careless thing to put coal oil on firewood, don't it, fella?" She fixed Henry in her glare and her smile took on a dark aspect. "Good thing my nose is still a sniffin' marvel, elst I would'a been cooked like a quail!"

She steadied herself and regarded all the roughnecks who had run to her aid."

"I 'preciate you gents all caring enough to come runnin'; if'n you'll sit yourself a moment I have some nice cool suntea for y'all."

The men all looked around to each other, embarrassed, then a few smiles cracked as rough demeanors surrendered to the offer of a cool, sweet drink.

Granny Liz kept a smile on her face as she served them and was particularly attentive to the burly Duck, refilling his cup.

Her change in attitude puzzled the foreman and by the time she had collected all the cups and wished the men well he became more than puzzled. He began to feel a little fear.

~~~~~

"You bumbling fool!" Collins yelled when Duck arrived at the office in Greenwood. "I told you to find a way to make her grateful to you so we could get tapping rights from her —"

"Or make sure she wasn't able to object," Duck said. He pulled himself to his full height and did his best not to be cowed by the smaller man. "I figured it would work out one way or the other."

"Well did it?"

"I — I don't know. She was weird."

"Weird?"

"I mean ... I think she knew I was the one that poured the oil on the wood, but —"

"You don't think," Collins said. "That's the problem with you. Of course she figured out you did it. From what you tell me she smelled the coal oil on you. I still can." He rose from behind his desk and paced the room.

"Okay, knucklehead," Collins finally said. "Here's what you're gonna do. I didn't want to go this far, not yet anyway, but you've made sure we have to." He turned to stab the glowing end of a cigar at the burly foreman like a sword. "You're gonna knock that old bitty out and burn the place to the ground."

"But you just told me that I was wrong —"

"Shut up!" Collins screamed. "You were wrong because you failed. But we can make this work for us. The guys saw you try to help and heard her say she was careless with coal oil. So tonight she gets careless again."

The little gangster boss laughed. "You're even gonna bring the lady a nice gift in the morning, maybe a nice pie from that bakery down the block for her being so nice with her tea."

Duck looked at his employer for a long moment, and then his coarse features split in a malicious grin. "Yeah, I'm a regular saint, ain't I? A regular saint."

Chapter Three: The Dark of Night

Granny Liz was busy after all the turpentiners went on their way. She hummed to herself as she took the few hairs she had secured from Henry Ducks' head and worked them into the head of a wax poppet.

The poppet had been fashioned from a carved root, paper, wax, and clay that had been stuffed with herbs.

She kept the ingredients for the tiny figures in her hut, and made one fresh for each spell she cast. She set aside the hairs she had gathered earlier from Joe Chambers and pressed Duck's hair into the crown of the new figure she fashioned to resemble the turpentiner.

She sang old songs that Granny Jenny had taught her as she worked, using sage to give the air of the tiny cabin the aspect of a temple.

She sang to herself as she worked, an old tune about the Angel of Death.

I will sing of the twelve

What of the twelve?

Twelve of the twelve apostles,

' _Leven of the saints that has gone to Heaven,_

Ten of the ten commandments

She placed the poppet in the center of the circle and sprinkled it with powdered animal bone and herbs in an ancient pattern she had learned at Jenny's knee. All the while she sang:

Nine of the sunshines bright an' fair,

Eight of the eight archangels

Granny Liz pulled the last of the powders from her pocket, the rarest of powdered green stone made from bloodstone and alexandrite, drawing the shape of a bat around the effigy before her.

Two of the little white babes,

Dressed in the mournin' green

When she finished she was exhausted, her face lined, a mask of concentration.

"That's a good night's work, eh, Mister President?" she said to the dog. The animal had rested quietly while she worked, but now his head shot up, his ears perked up, and his head turned to stare at the door.

"I guess I done my fixin' just in time, boy," she said. "Seems we got visitors."

~~~~~

Henry Duck parked his car over the hill and walked down the road silently toward Granny Liz's cabin. He had a bar of soap in a sock in his right jacket pocket, a favorite prison version of a sap which would allow him to render the old woman unconscious without leaving a mark. He gave a savage grin as he thought about showering with the soap afterward and getting rid of the evidence over the next week, shower by shower.

When he came in sight of the cabin he paused. There was smoke coming from the chimney and he saw no sign of the dog, which he assumed was inside with the woman.

"That could be a problem," he thought. "He might not take the drugged meat from me again." He carried a coil of rope that he could use to hold an animal while he clubbed it. The soap would work just as well on the dog and no one would examine the burned body of an animal.

After checking his weapons, Duck moved purposefully to the door of the cabin. He smiled and paused to knock.

"Come in, Mister Duck." Granny Liz's voice came muffled through the door and made the burly thug jump.

"How could she know ...?" he thought. Then he scowled, lifted the simple latch and entered.

The old hound dog was seated by his mistress across the cabin and barely raised his head to acknowledge Duck's presence, save to growl.

"Hush, Mister President," the woman said. Granny Liz was seated in a high-backed chair with a comforter pulled around her shoulders. There was a roaring fire in the hearth, casting dancing shadows over the wisewoman. "Do come in, Mister Duck."

The man entered and closed the door behind him, his hand in his jacket pocket resting comfortably on the improvised sap. He walked across the cabin slowly, mindful of the squirrel gun the woman had hanging over the fireplace.

"I — uh — I just wanted to see that you were all right, ma'am," Duck spoke haltingly as he crossed to stand right in front of the old woman.

"I would ask you to sit down, Mister Duck," she said with a wide smile on her withered features. "But I think you will not be here that long."

He returned her smile with a dark tint. "Yeah," he said, "I'm pretty sure I won't be either." He slipped the sock out of his pocket and began to whirl it like a miniature lasso. "But then you won't be here much longer either."

The woman's reaction took the would-be murderer completely by surprise; she laughed! A full-throated belly laugh that brought tears to her eyes.

"Oh my, Mister Duck," she said when she could talk. "You really are a caution. You have a talent for seein' the future, ya know? You might almost be a grannywoman!"

Her reaction angered the burly thug. He raised the sap to strike at her, but suddenly his arm seemed to freeze in place. His muscles locked as if an invisible hand had grabbed his wrist to hold it.

"What the hell!" he yelled.

"No reason to use profanity, young man," the woman said. She rose from the chair, and for the first time Duck could see that she was holding a small doll in her hand, one that he noticed, to his horror, was fashioned with jacket, hat, and trousers that looked like the clothes he wore. It was also positioned just as he was at that moment.

"What the hell have you done to me?" he said with fear in his voice. He grabbed his right hand with his left and tried to pull it down, but it was as unmoving as if it had been made of stone.

"Now you stop that talk!" She reached over to the poppet in her hand and pinched the small wax lips of the image. At that moment his jaw seemed to lock. He moaned in terror.

"Oh, youngin'," she said with a shake of her head. "You is just as thin blooded as you are thick headed."

She moved to the hearth and procured a long taper, which she used to light her pipe.

Duck found he could not move at all save for his eyes, with which he followed her movements. She puffed on her pipe while she regarded him.

"Did you really think you could pull the wool over Granny Liz's eyes, Mister Turpentiner?" She shook her head. "You city men think we mountain folk ain't got the sense God gave a 'coon, but it's y'all that don't got a lick of sense. We know this land, we feel its pain and you, comin' up here to rip the blood from our trees, scar up our land, you are the ones who will come to justice."

She puffed on her pipe and stroked her cat that had stretched and walked over to her, disdainfully stepping around the frozen Duck.

"But just what should that justice be, eh, Jonah?" She looked down at the cat, which meowed to her in answer.

"Oh yes," the wisewoman said. "An excellent idea; just like the good book says, 'an eye for an eye!'"

Epilogue: The Roots of Evil

Trooper Vernon Stuckie drove his patrol car up to the foot of the road near Granny Liz's clearing. The early morning mist was still crawling along the hollow with a dream-like quality.

"I expect you to stand up for my legal rights, Officer," Joe Collins said. The little man was bundled in a trench coat that seemed as if it had been borrowed from his big brother. He tugged on gloves and had pulled his fedora down tightly on his head.

"I will do my job, Mister Collins," the trooper said sharply. His breath puffed into cold mist that joined the fog. "I don't need you to tell me what it is."

"I know this old woman had something to do with my crew leaving yesterday, and that voids any absurd agreement you made with her."

The trooper stopped short and turned to look down at the turpentiner. "I made a bargain in good faith, Mister Collins, and there is no proof that Miss Cloud did anything to cause your men to leave."

"There is no way that my foreman just up and left me, Henry has been my right hand for years."

The two men continued down the path only to halt when the dog Jefferson Davis began to bark. The trooper stopped.

"Miss Cloud!" the officer called out. "I'd like to speak to you."

The dog stayed by the cabin but continued to bark until the grannywoman came out the door and said, "Hush, Mister President. Who is it?"

"It's me, Miss Cloud," the officer said. "Trooper Stuckie."

"Who's that with you?"

"I am Joseph Collins, Miss Cloud. I came here to find out what happened to my foreman Henry Duck. And what you did to my men!"

The old woman walked slowly across the clearing while lighting her corncob pipe. "Mister Collins," she said with a wide smile on her withered face. "I have been wanting to meet you. I was up early makin' up a little potion for a problem for little Ginny Ankers. "

"Morning, Miss Cloud," Trooper Stuckie said.

"Morning, Vernon," she said. She came to stand by the two men, dwarfed by the trooper but almost eye-to-eye with the shorter Collins.

"Madam —" Collins began.

"I ain't no madam," she said, "I'm Miss Cloud."

"Miss Cloud, what do you know about Mister Duck's disappearance?"

"Disappearance? Did he go somewhere?"

"You know damn well he's gone somewhere," Collins said. "My whole crew took off yesterday with a cock and bull story about hives or something."

"Watch your language young man," the old woman said. "Don't you blaspheme to me."

"I say any damn thing I want; I got paperwork here that allows me and my company to tap any of the trees right up to the property line right over there, and this officer is here to see that you abide by the law."

"I'll thank you not to put any words in my mouth and to keep a civil tongue in your head," Stuckie said. "I'm sorry, Miss Cloud, but there is some concern about Mister Collins' workers. Seems they all called in sick yesterday with some sort of rash and were sick to their stomachs."

"Oh, how very unfortunate; they all seemed just fine when they came to visit me day before yesterday. They had a cool drink with me," the old woman said. She puffed out a cloud of smoke and then studied it as it blew away. "Maybe I got me some ointment that can help them."

"I don't need no hick quack messin' with my guys," Collins yelled, "I want to know where Duck is, and I want what's comin' to me."

The old woman laughed softly. "Oh I'm sure that will happen, Mister Collins. Things have a way of working themselves around to the just solution here in the mountains."

At that moment a breeze came up from the hollow, blowing off the last of the fog and rustling the leaves of the foliage. The wind made a sound like the low moan of a tormented soul.

That was when the trooper made an observation.

"Excuse me, Miss Cloud," the officer said. "But when did you get a second statue?"

Standing next to the carved wooden statue of Granny Liz's ancestor was a second figure, a crude almost natural wooden form that had the rough appearance of a modern working man dressed in a jacket and fedora with his hand raised above his head.

Collins shivered when he noticed the features on the new statue; they were in the exact image of Henry Duck. The most remarkable thing about the figure was the life-like features; the statue looked so life-like, in fact, that you could almost see the fear in the eyes.

"I'm always acquirin' things," the old woman said. She fixed the turpentiner's eyes with hers. "You never know, I might just want to add to my collection again."

_As a writer, Teel James Glenn, has over two score novels currently on the market. He was named best author for 2012 by the Pulp Ark Awards. His short stories have appeared in Weird Tales, Mad, Black Belt, Fantasy Tales, Pulp Empire, Sixgun Western, Fantasy World Geographic, Silver Blade Quarterly, Another Realm, AfterburnSF, Blazing Adventures and scores of other publications. His website is_ theurbanswashbuckler.com _._

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# Articles

What Does Your Character Want? — by T. Eric Bakutis (guest author)

Stick the Landing, Pt. 1: The Importance of Great Endings — by Daniel Hope

Stick the Landing, Pt. 2: A Taxonomy of Story Endings — by Daniel Hope

Stick the Landing, Pt. 3: Common Mistakes in Story Endings — by Daniel Hope

Book Review: Glyphbinder — by T. Eric Bakutis (review by Mike Cluff)

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# The Best Question to Drive Your Story: What Does Your Character Want?

by guest author T. Eric Bakutis; published September 18, 2013

When I sat down to write a few thoughts about what I learned while writing Glyphbinder, the first thing that came to mind was how much my book has changed over the years and why. I believe the more an author writes and workshops, the more they learn about what makes good characters and a good book. This is why writing groups are so important--the minds and insights of others fill in the cracks authors don't notice, teaching simple lessons that influence everything that person writes or has written.

Regarding Glyphbinder, I must have rewritten the book from scratch at least eight times over the past 15 years, so it may be disingenuous to say what was published in August is the same book I started writing so long ago. Only a few characters from those earlier drafts and the bare bones of the plot remain. The final book came together in the last few years, built on the bones of what came before.

 Thanks to excellent critiques from editors, friends, and others, I greatly simplified Glyphbinder's plot and better defined its characters. My world building is stronger and my villains have far better reasons for doing what they do. Despite all these changes, if I had to point to the most important thing that changed between the first draft and the eighth draft, 15 years later, it would be answering the question writing coaches have been asking their students forever: "What does your character want?"

I always thought I knew the answer to this question. It was only when Bill Benners, one of my longtime mentors (and an editor for this book) asked me to answer it in a clear, concise manner that I realized I could not do so. I had written dozens of short stories and even a few novels in the interim, and it was in trying to answer Bill's question that I finally realized why those newer short stories and novels felt much more compelling than the book I had been working on for so long: urgency, and simplicity.

In short stories, authors have a limited number of words to make their protagonists understandable and interesting. The question "What does your character want?" becomes far more urgent in such an abbreviated space. Does your character want to save a family member? Avoid a seemingly inevitable death? Defeat a bitter rival? Whatever their goal, it should be easily understood from the first few pages and immediate to the circumstances of the plot. When readers aren't told what drives a character until late in the story, that character is not as compelling and the plot does not make as much sense.

In the published book, of course, the answer is clear. Kara's mother is dying, and Kara desperately wants to save her life. This is a simple, straightforward goal that anyone can immediately understand. It drives Kara in every situation she encounters, even from the first page, and shapes her thought processes and actions no matter what might be happening. The strangest thing about this clear goal is that, as integral as Kara's quest to save her mother now seems to the book, it did not exist until the final draft!

Before I added that element (saving her mother) Kara had many clear goals. She wanted to become the royal apprentice. She wanted to protect her friends from the evils hunting them all, and even wanted to save her world. These were clear goals, certainly, but they were also scattered and vague. Sometimes, Kara was driven by her desire to protect her friends—other times, she was driven by her desire to become the royal apprentice. Often, she was driven simply by her desire to survive whatever horrible thing had befallen her next. The story was driven by the action, not Kara's goals—not Kara herself.

When I tried to give Bill a simple, clear answer to his question, I realized I didn't have it. What was Kara's true goal, the one thing she would die to accomplish? It was missing, and there was nothing I could point to that drove Kara from one near death scrape to the next (this is adventure fantasy, after all). The story was driving her, rather than her driving the story, all because she lacked a clear goal.

Layering in her mother's illness and Kara's single-minded determination to save her finally provided the urgency her story needed. Almost every decision Kara made now occurred because of her desperate desire to save her mother, a desire that's present from the first time readers meet her. Once I gave her this one clear, understandable goal, Kara began to drive her own story rather than being driven by it.

As a bonus, working Kara's mother into the story made her driving goal less abstract and more "real". Kara's brief scenes with her mother are some of my favorite scenes in the book. What was once an intangible, long-term goal (becoming the royal apprentice or surviving an attack) is now personified. There's this nice, funny woman Kara loves, and she's going to die in horrible pain if Kara can't stop it.

When I look back at all the books I've really enjoyed over the years, the protagonist in all of them has always had a clear, immediate goal I understood from the first chapter. This doesn't just improve the main character--it improves all characters in a book, especially the antagonists. Once an author understands what their characters want and how those wants conflict, the book often writes itself. Grand decisions and conflicts simply make more sense when people have strong reasons to want things.

If I could offer any advice to budding authors, it would be to approach the question "What does your character want?" with an eye to creating strong, simple, and immediate goals for your characters. Don't answer this question in an abstract way, or give your characters goals that won't present themselves for five chapters. Make their goals simple, tangible, and urgent--things they simply cannot live without.

Do this and you may find, as I did, that you have a much more compelling story in your hands.

_T. Eric Bakutis is an author and game designer living in Maryland and a lead content developer on The Elder Scrolls Online. His short fiction has appeared in Fiction Vortex and will next appear in the Fairly Wicked Tales anthology from Angelic Knight Press. His debut fantasy novel, Glyphbinder, is now available from McBryde Publishing. His professional website is_ www.tebakutis.com _._

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# Stick the Landing, Pt. 1: The Importance of Great Endings

by Daniel Hope; published September 23, 2013

Writing a story, particularly a short story, is like making a great vault in gymnastics. Not sure what I mean? Watch this video of a fantastic example from the 2012 Olympics.

 <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wNG0QJw7-4A>

That's McKayla Maroney giving a masterclass on vaulting. So, how is this like a good short story? A great story accelerates quickly from the beginning, springs into the conflict, reaches incredible heights during the climax, and nails the conclusion with confidence and class.

Now here's an example of a bad story:

<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f1DT0E4KqyQ>

It starts off slow, has an underpowered and unconvincing conflict to escalate action, barely skids through the climax, and flops into a conclusion looking disheveled and disoriented.

But as an editor, I'm here to tell you that this is not the worst kind of story. The worst look something like this:

<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uie8z5wghHw>

That's right, the most frustrating and disappointing stories are the ones that look like this:

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

The start is quick, launching smoothly into the conflict, reaches a good climax, and then completely flubs the conclusion. In gymnastics and writing alike, you have to nail the landing, or it will make everything that came before seem like a waste.

If there's something we hate even more than a terrible story, it's wasting great potential. The stories that make us excited, expectant, and even giddy, only to nosedive into confusing, or anemic, or unfulfilling (or all three) endings are what make us punch holes in our office wall. We don't like being giddy for nothing.

And as much as we (writers, editors, instructors) talk about great beginnings, strong style, interesting voice, compelling characters, and solid plot, we don't often talk about how to make a satisfying conclusion.

So let's talk about it.

This is the first in a three-part series about story conclusions. There's no magic trick or surefire tool, but there are a few things to look for, and a few more things to avoid.

In Part 2, we explore the major kinds of endings, to help you identify what you wrote or what you need to aim for. Part 3 covers the common mistakes writers make when writing a conclusion. This includes all the terrible kinds of endings we see in short stories, so you know what to avoid.

_Daniel Hope is the Managing Editor of Fiction Vortex, where he's also known as the Voice of Reason. He recently published a science fiction novel, called_  The Inevitable _. He can be found on Twitter_ @Endovert _, or at his author site_ SpeculativeIntent.com _._

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# Stick the Landing, Pt. 2: A Taxonomy of Story Endings

by Daniel Hope; published September 26, 2013

Ending a story isn't the hard part. Making the ending satisfying to the reader is the truly difficult task. Sometimes, you don't need to tie all plot strings into the prettiest of bows at the end. Sometimes the answer is actually a question. But the point is that the reader needs to see that plot bow or run smack into that question and feel fulfilled, like the story was enlightening. They have to feel that it was worth their time.

 It's surprisingly hard to do. And while there are so many different ways to end a story, they usually have common elements, types of resolution that are independent of plot, setting, or genre. So here is a shortlist of important things to include in your conclusion.

Do not, I repeat, DO NOT treat this as a checklist because a conclusion doesn't need all these parts to feel satisfying. Maybe the status quo stays the same, but the protagonist is changed. Maybe the protagonist stays his fearless, debonair self, but the major plot point is resolved clearly. Regardless, you need to have at least one of these elements. As a general rule, the shorter the story, the fewer elements you need in the ending, but you'll find that the most satisfying endings weave more than one together.

A Character Is Changed

This is the staple of good fiction, alternatively known as a character arc. The reader wants to know how the character (usually, but not always the protagonist) is changed by events and interactions. This kind of conclusion shows a character acting, speaking, or thinking differently than they did previously (even if the character doesn't notice the change). It shows the reader that what happened in the story, whether it was low-key or action-packed, had a lasting impact.

A Battle Is Won

Luke Skywalker blows up the Death Star. Batman catches the Joker. Good guy saves the day. You get it. While there are many kinds of conflicts in stories, we're talking about the concrete ones here. In other words, the protagonist must beat the clock, beat the villain, or escape the trap (sometimes all three). This is the classic action movie conclusion. While you can end with a simple shot of the moment of victory, usually the stronger conclusions will show the after-effects of the victory. Is it a celebration? Is it a bittersweet mourning of those who have fallen? Is it a morose realization that the ends don't justify the means? What does life look like the day after? Give the reader some context so that the conflict and its resolution feel even more impactful.

A Problem Is Solved

While this category overlaps significantly with "A Battle Is Won," it specifically covers the kind of conflicts where there isn't a clear villain to cheer against — the woman vs. environment or man vs. himself kind of conflicts. We still need to see the ramifications of solving (or sometimes not solving) the problem, but the conclusion needs to be even more personal, especially if the conflict is primarily emotional.

A Truth Is Revealed

Be very careful with this one because it can mean a twist ending, and twist endings are seldom good (We'll talk more about this in Part 3). The biggest thing to remember here is to foreshadow very carefully, and don't run away after the reveal. In other words, give the characters and the reader time to deal with the new information. There are two subcategories here: either a truth is revealed to the characters (dramatic irony), or a truth is revealed to the reader (a pure twist). If the characters uncover a truth, they need to react believably. The writer has to give the reader enough space to see how the characters respond and how this new information changes their worldview. A good resolution will make it apparent why this truth was unknown in the first place (And it needs to be a darn good reason!). If the truth is revealed to the reader, the writer must give the reader time to assimilate the new information and see how it fits back in to what they previously knew about the characters, plot, or setting. The mystery doesn't end when the protagonist says, "It was the butler!" The author helps the reader understand what the big reveal means in context.

Remember: Throwing a twist at the very end is never satisfying unless you lay the groundwork throughout the entire story, and even then readers don't necessarily like to have the rug pulled out from underneath them.

A Tragedy Occurs

Endings can be satisfying without being happy. Sometimes nothing turns out right. The heroine gets to the end only to realize she's too late, or that her lover is already dead, or that all the french fries are gone (my personal nightmare). The key here is to make the reader feel the emotion of the moment, make them feel like the misfortune has impact. Sometimes this means showing the aftermath, but sometimes it just means showing the despair or frustration that the characters are feeling in that moment when everything goes wrong. You'll notice that this ending is often paired with "A Character Is Changed" endings. That's the key to having impact. Whatever you do, don't abandon characters. Let them dictate how the story plays out after the big turn for the worse.

A Cycle Resets or Someone Dies

At first, this sounds like two completely different categories, but they actually have much in common. Sometimes the protagonist or a supporting character dies (frequently a part of the "A Battle Is Won" or "A Tragedy Occurs" conclusions) or we find that despite all the efforts of the characters, things end up back to the way they used to be. Sometimes the hero becomes the villain. Despite the circumstances being bleak, these types of conclusions deal with acceptance and hope. There is much for readers to learn by reading about how characters deal with events beyond their control. When this happens, be careful to navigate the transition carefully, and give the reader something to hold on to. It's very important that the reader learns something from the conclusion, but you can't be too didactic. Being flippant here will make the reader think the entire story was a waste of time.

~~~~~

There are a few more sub-categories and ways to mix and match the types of conclusions, but these are the basic elements that will get you through the end of any story. Take your favorite book and see which of these apply. You'll probably find more than one.

Once you understand how these work, you'll be able to see how they fit into your own stories. You'll also start to see ways that events and character choices can do double-duty with two or more of these resolutions.

_Daniel Hope is the Managing Editor of Fiction Vortex, where he's also known as the Voice of Reason. He recently published a science fiction novel, called_  The Inevitable _. He can be found on Twitter_ @Endovert _, or at his author site_ SpeculativeIntent.com _._

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# Stick the Landing, Pt. 3: Common Mistakes in Story Endings

by Daniel Hope; published September 30, 2013

It's always important to talk about the path you should tread, the straightest road to success. But it's also important to know things you should avoid along the way. There are plenty of traps that will ensnare you or distractions that will divert you from your goal. So now that we've talked about what should be in an ending, let's talk about the things you should leave out.

 Below you'll find a few of the biggest mistakes writers make when wrapping up a story (of any length), all of which show up regularly in our submissions folder. As with the examples in Part 2, these are general and may even overlap a little.

The "Bet You Didn't See That Coming" Ending

Imagine you're at the headquarters of the 42nd precinct Literary Police. You've seen plenty of rough characters in your day; the Grammar Goof who left a trail of prepositions straight to his hideout; the Spelling Sinner who has a pathological need to steal vowels and swap consonants; even the Flat Man who sneaks in and removes all the interesting bits about characters. But then a bad-ending crime is reported, and the comma cops bring in a lineup of possible offenders for identification. That's when you see him: The Twist, the most insidious and inhuman of them all. This is the ugly fellow, webbed in scars, with a maniacal laugh and a twinkle in its eye that says, "Yeah, I killed the endings. All of them. What are you going to do about it?"

The Twist doesn't care about you, and he certainly doesn't care about your story. He'll convince you that you're clever, then slit your story's throat without a moment's hesitation.

While The Twist can be coerced into working for the good guys, it happens so seldomly with endings that you should really think twice about using it, especially if you're a new author. There's a reason M. Night Shyamalan movies usually get groans instead of gasps. The Twist will stab you in the back nine times out of ten.

Here's the problem with twist endings: No one wants to feel foolish. Most twist endings are just a bait and switch. Writers think people want to be fooled. What readers really want is to be wowed. They don't want to get to the end and read the equivalent of "... and then everything I've been telling you for the last 5,000 words turned out to be a lie. The characters you loved were really ghosts/dreams/serial killers, and nothing that happened really mattered."

Most writers fall in love with the idea of the twist, and then try to construct a flimsy excuse of a story to precede it. No one wants to read this. A good twist needs to reinforce what the reader has already learned by shedding new light on something, not rip the rug out from underneath them. You're better off putting the twist in the first half of the story and spending the rest of your words letting the characters deal with it.

Please, keep The Twist off our streets. Do it for the kids.

The "She Did What?!" Ending

One of the most confusing things for readers is when someone in a book acts out of character or changes without reason in order to facilitate an ending. The formerly implacable villain suddenly finds a soft spot for his orphan victims, or the staunchly pacifistic protagonist kills all the bad guys in a hail of bullets.

The problem isn't necessarily the change; it's the abruptness of the change. Both of the scenarios I just mentioned are plausible if you give enough motivation over the course of the story. But if you throw this change in without establishing the foundation, it feels wrong to the reader, and it makes the whole story feel false.

The "Deus Ex Machina" Ending

You've heard of this one because it's pretty common, and it's ridiculously frustrating. The phrase means "God from the machine," but it refers to magical, unexpected, or otherwise incongruent circumstances that wrap up the conflict. It's the ending where someone says, "Oh hey, wait, we have this gun on the table. Here, I'll just shoot the bad guy who has been chasing us through this very house for 300 pages. *Bang* Now, what were you saying about wishing we could make it out of this alive so we could explore these sudden romantic feelings growing between us?"

While this problem can seem formidable, it's often an easy fix: Go back and edit the story so the thing or person that resolves the conflict is established as existing earlier in the story. Or you can come up with a different solution that feels realistic within the confines of the setting, circumstances, and characters you've already created.

The "Already Said Everything I Wanted to Say" Ending

Some writers either get bored with a story, or they don't know how to wrap it up. Stories with this problem stop without a proper denouement or speed through it too quickly. Usually, this is because the author had a great idea for a conflict or climax, and didn't think about how it would actually play out. They got to the part they liked, and then just quit.

This kind of ending leaves the reader wondering what the real purpose of the story is. Pay attention to the characters and the themes. Create interactions where these themes play out naturally, and then let the story end itself. Give the reader a look at the consequences of the conflict and how it affects the characters.

The "I Can't Stop" Ending

This is the opposite problem. The author loves the character or the plot too much to stop. Eventually, they peter out into a bland, uneventful ending as they flounder around for a proper place to exit the story. Some say J.R.R. Tolkien had this problem with the Lord of the Rings series, but that is probably a discussion for another day. Regardless, it doesn't mean you should do it, too.

The solution to this is nearly the same. Focus on the themes and characters, give the reader enough resolution to feel like they understand the consequences, and then get out. You don't need a flowery soliloquy. Let the characters understand the consequences, and then hit the eject button.

The "What Characters?" Ending

This is a symptom of a bigger problem, namely that the author didn't care about the characters from the beginning. It's common among writers who love world-building. This type of story ends with something like this: "And thus Darltyn plunged the Dagger of Winterhell into the sorcerer's neck. Immediately, the frosty fingers of death came rolling down the mountain and licked at the blades of grass tainted by the Blasted Summer..." and then continues on into a long dissertation of how weather affects the economics and politics of Ylandriaton, never mentioning the protagonist again.

What happened to Darltyn, the guy we spent so much time following? What about his minstrel-thief companion and their lovable golem assistant? A good ending gives us a taste of consequences, big or small, but the focus mustn't be displaced. Even if Darltyn's sole and all-consuming goal is to release the frosty fingers of Winterhell, we need to see how this affects him and his companions. Tell us how this ending affects people, not just plots.

The "Do You Get It?" Ending

This ending is common among writers that are too clever for their own good. You know the ones; they took a bunch of lit theory and philosophy classes and make allusions to Camus and Derrida while picking quinoa at the supermarket. There's nothing wrong with that, unless they try to write a story with a cryptic ending that's supposed to be profound.

That's not to say you should hold the reader's hand and explain every last detail. Just give the reader enough to connect the dots.

The "One More Thing" Ending

This is the most literal and least elegant kind of ending. The author wants to make sure he covers his bases, so he gives us everything in short bursts, and the result sounds like a to-do list. "Taylor died. Ruth felt terrible about it. The vampire decided to take a break, and signed up for a knitting class. Everyone else got over the shock and went back to their lives. But Gary never forgave Theresa. Never."

This kind of ending makes the whole preceding story sound insignificant. Give the characters and conflict their due. Try to identify the most important character moments and themes. Then follow those until the reader understands what happens.

The "Look Who's In Charge Now" Ending

This is a tricky one because some of the greatest stories feature a well-executed role reversal to great effect. But a role reversal isn't something you can just throw in without justification and character development. We've seen enough serial killers turned into victims, and victims turned into torturers.

We understand that it can be cathartic, and even a form of retaliation, but the concept itself is rarely enough to justify the story, no matter how cool it sounds. You must justify everything based on the actions and events that preceded it, or it turns into a hollow revenge fantasy.

~~~~~

There are plenty more ways to flub the resolution of a story, but these are the main categories to look out for. This list will be especially useful during the revision process when your beta readers report a problem but can't quite articulate what it is.

Most of all, don't get discouraged if you see your ending on this list. Once you identify the weakness, you can fix it.

Which bad ending do you despise the most? Let us know in the comments. And don't forget to refer back to  Part 1 and  Part 2 of this series for more help crafting a great story ending.

_Daniel Hope is the Managing Editor of Fiction Vortex, where he's also known as the Voice of Reason. He recently published a science fiction novel, called_  The Inevitable _. He can be found on Twitter_ @Endovert _, or at his author site_ SpeculativeIntent.com _._

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# Book Review: Glyphbinder

by T. Eric Bakutis

review by Mike Cluff, published September 20, 2013

 Glyphbinder by T. Eric Bakutis is a full, stand alone fantasy novel set in a completely new world. And that is why my hat is off to Mr. Bakutis—to create a new world (complete with mythologies, landscapes, different cultures, and other details) and successfully contain it in one book is not an easy task. Especially if that book is the author's first.

The process of releasing narrative information and exposition, pacing it perfectly so it isn't an info-dump, is very complicated and _Glyphbinder_ has a lot of information packed into it. It is obvious that Bakutis worked hard to nail down every detail (he even says the book was a 15 year process). As a reader you need to be prepared to take in that information. Bakutis has the release valve at the right setting, so you won't get overwhelmed.

But I almost think this one book could have been spread into a series. Why do I think that? Well, because there are a lot of really details that were very interesting, things I wanted to know more about. I guess that is a sign of a good book though.

Now, what is the book about?

Glad you asked.

Kara Tanner wasn't alive for the war that almost destroyed her world half a century ago, but she, and everyone else in the Provinces, live with the consequences. Relationships between the Provinces are tenuous at best and those, like Kara, who work glyph magic are striving to keep the peace and make sure that same magic is never used for evil again.

At Solyr, one of the academies created to train and regulate glyph mages, Kara is at the end of her studies and has a high chance of becoming a Royal Apprentice. However, Kara doesn't want the position for its prestige, but for the resources she needs to cure her mother of a fatal illness.

On her journey to save her mother, Kara learns that the effort to retain peace in the Provinces is crumbling and that an ancient evil, once thought banished, is gaining hold of Kara's world and everyone she loves. But Kara doesn't know that she is the only one that can set everything right.

Despite the slow beginning, this book offers a lot of action. In fact the last half is non-stop action, with the last fifty pages feeling like someone turned on the nitrous.

The parental part of me must warn that the violence gets a bit thick in a few spots, but not in an unnecessary or overdone way. I guess I just get squeamish about torture.

Because of the cast of characters and the depth of the world contained within, _Glyphbinder_ is an entertaining and memorable fantasy novel. The magic is set forth with rules and boundaries, so all of you fantasy junkies (myself included) don't have to worry about cheesy characters with cheesy powers. The glyph mages have strict consequences for the magic they practice, but I don't want to tell too much so I will leave it at that.

 Glyphbinder is available at Amazon.

_T. Eric Bakutis is an author and game designer living in Maryland and a lead content developer on The Elder Scrolls Online. His short fiction has appeared in Fiction Vortex and will next appear in the Fairly Wicked Tales anthology from Angelic Knight Press. His debut fantasy novel,_ _Glyphbinder_ _, is now available from McBryde Publishing. His professional website is_ www.tebakutis.com _._

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# About Fiction Vortex

Fiction Vortex, let's see...

A fiction vortex is a tornado of stories that pick you up and hurl you through a barn to find enlightenment on the other side. It's a whirlpool of fascinating tales so compelling that they suck you in, drag you down to the bottom of your mind, and drown you with incessant waves of glorious imagery and believable characters.

Nope.

A fiction vortex is an online speculative fiction magazine focused on publishing great science fiction and fantasy, and is run by incredibly attractive and intelligent people with great taste in literature and formidable writing prowess.

Not that either. But we're getting closer.

Founded in the 277th year of the Takolatchni Dynasty, Fiction Vortex set out to encourage people to write and publish great speculative fiction. It sprang fully formed from the elbow of TWOS, retaining none of TWOS's form but most of its spirit. And the patron god of writers, the insecure, the depressed, and the mentally ill regarded Fiction Vortex in his magic mirror of self-loathing and declared it good, insofar as something that gives writer's undue hope can be declared good. Thereafter, he charged the Rear Admiral of the Galactic 5th Fleet to defend Fiction Vortex down to the last robot warrior.

Now we're talking.

Take your pick. We don't care how you characterize us or the site.

Fiction Vortex focuses on publishing speculative fiction. That means science fiction and fantasy (with a light smattering of horror and a few other subgenres), be it light, heavy, deep, flighty, spaceflighty, cerebral, visceral, epic, or mundane. But mundane in a my-local-gas-station-has-elf-mechanics-but-it's-not-really-a-big-deal-around-here kind of way. Got it?

Basically, we want imaginative stories that are well written, but not full of supercilious floridity.

There's a long-standing belief that science fiction and fantasy stories aren't as good as purely literary fare. We want you to prove that mindset wrong (not just wrong, but a steaming pile of griffin dung wrong) with every story we publish. It's almost like we're saying, "I do not bite my thumb at you, literary snobs, but I do bite my thumb," but in a completely polite and non-confrontational way.

We've got more great stories online, with a new story twice a week. Visit our website FictionVortex.com, follow us on Twitter: @FictionVortex, and like us on Facebook: FictionVortex.

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