

### Fiction Vortex

A Speculative Fiction Typhoon

November 2013

Volume 1, Issue 7

Edited by Dan Hope & Mike Cluff

Copyright 2013 Fiction Vortex

Cover Image by David Revoy / Blender Foundation

Cover design by Dan Hope

Smashwords Edition

Website: FictionVortex.com

Twitter: @FictionVortex

Facebook: FictionVortex

# Table of Contents

Letter from the Editor

Moon's Majesty — by Brendan Verville

The Traditional Taste — by Jon Arthur Kitson (2nd Place)

Shrinking Squares — by Joe Marchia

Nightingale — by Tyger Schonholzer

The Countess and the Bard — by Kyle Rader

Open the Doors, and See All the People — by Sarah Ennals (3rd Place)

Berryblack — by Jez Patterson

Signed, Sealed, Delivered — Edward Pearce

The Weather Forecast — by Jackie Bee (1st Place)

About Fiction Vortex

#  Letter from the Editor

A wise man one once said, "Those who wear socks never have to worry about acne."

Actually, that's not true. I mean, someone may have said this once, but he certainly wasn't wise. What I mean to say is that herringbone pants are never a bad idea.

Strike that; there are probably plenty of circumstances where herringbone pants are a bad idea. The truth is that bears are seldom ... they rarely ... umm ...

All I'm trying to do here is offer some useful advice because this issue of Fiction Vortex is full of people who make bad decisions. Warning: don't mistake the characters in these stories for good role models.

There's a guy who sabotages the future of his family's legacy out of spite, a woman who tells the world the apocalypse is coming, a man who signs his life away, and a married couple that thinks time travel can save them from their grief.

So don't take this issue as a guide to life.

The upshot for us all is that bad decisions make for great conflict, and great conflict makes for fantastic stories. And boy do we have some fantastic stories for you, showing that character flaws and poor decisions make science fiction, fantasy, and horror more interesting.

So take that fork out of the electrical socket, put out that grease fire with something other than water, keep any premonitions about the end of the world to yourself, and sit down for a set of entertaining and thought-provoking stories.

Whirling Wishes,

Dan

Managing Editor, Voice of Reason

Fiction Vortex

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#  Moon's Majesty

by Brendan Verville; published November 1, 2013

She tightened the blindfold around her eyes and then tilted her head to the side, as if trying to look at something from another angle. She gripped the handle of her sword tight, her jaw working thoughtfully.

Walker watched her vain attempt at protecting herself and noted a meager elegance about her work. He saw a perfect balance. Her legs met at an acute angle as they crossed into the lotus position, and the sword in her hand acted as a weight to keep her grounded. Her back was to the water, and if she chose to let go of that weapon, which outsized her by more than a few pounds, she would go tumbling backward down the hill and into the sea. She couldn't see the water crashing at her back, but she could hear it, and Walker was sure the noise filled her head.

Her purple robes were torn and frayed at the knees, and the sash had long ago been discarded, making for a loose fitting garment of soiled silk, barely hanging off her shoulders. She had chopped her hair short just recently, and he looked upon her face for the first time, which held a boyish quality he quite admired. Her jewels were gone, traded months ago for spending money. Her slippers were now replaced with hemp sandals, and her arms and legs were ripe with bruises and scrapes. Her face was no longer rosy. It was tan with sun and hard like leather.

She was so beautiful.

Walker tried to keep her mind occupied. He wanted her to forget that they only had a slice of bread to their names and two dull swords to protect them from harm. He wanted her to forget that she would never see again, if only for a moment.

So he told her a story as they sat upon that barren hill, where the grass did not dare to grow, and where a circle of ritualistic stones kept them enclosed inside a pit of spent magic. Walker couldn't say what that hill had once served as: a refuge, a home, or a place of sacrifice? Now it was there to mark the place of his last stand.

He told her a story. It was the only one he knew.

"Do you know what my first memory is?" he asked her. He leaned against his walking cane and folded into a sitting position. The morning was new all around them and the cool wind picked up, spraying them with ocean foam. He turned up his soiled collar, but she was unmoved, clutching her sword defiantly, staring into the darkness of her blindfold, and into the darkness of her own mind. "It seems so strange, but I was only a lad. I remember looking out at a road, and would you believe that it grew before me, as though it were being paved before my very eyes? I had a knapsack in my arms. I wasn't sure where I got it. I wasn't sure what I was doing or who I was. I followed the road and found a cottage. Two people took me in, and they became my mother and father. My father was a magician and my mother a priestess. My father taught me the art of alchemy, which later became my base interest in medicine. My mother taught me about the Oversoul and the path to enlightenment. I never found enlightenment, I'm afraid. I suppose it is too late for that."

"I know this story," she told him quietly.

"How? I never told you my past."

"Next you left your father's home and met a mentor, who initiated you into your new community. You fell in love with a girl, you won, you lost, and then cut your ties with the world in pursuit of a new beginning, which you saw in me. This is the hero's journey. We all have the same story. And the journey is also the path to enlightenment. This whole time you've been working for one thing."

"That's the most you've spoken to me in a long time," he replied. "What part of the journey is this? How far do we have to go?"

"The tower is about to fall. I think we better prepare ourselves."

He looked out at the horizon in front of him. The camps had not moved for hours. The fires hadn't even been put out yet.

They were backed into a corner, one they could not escape. Olin had set up four large camps, one in the northwest, one in the northeast, and two in the east and west. Walker could see the smoke from their fires and the flags atop their tents whipping with the breeze. And now they had the ocean at their backs, with nowhere else to go. Soon Olin would send a team of his men up into the hills to scour the area for them. They sat at the top of the tallest hill, where there were no trees to protect them. Certainly they would be found, but they had weapons to defend and the upper ground to their advantage.

To Olin, the general of the Kundal Army, Walker was a kidnapper, dragging Olin's daughter across the countryside against her will. But in actuality, it was she who came looking for Walker's help. She was to be the catalyst for a great war, where she would be "kidnapped" by a neutral nation and then rescued. It would all be staged, to use her pretty face to justify a horrendous conflict between kingdoms. When she learned of her destiny, she took a long fall from the castle walls trying to escape. When she woke up, she was blind. Olin sent her to Walker, the medicine man, to aid in her recovery. Instead of healing her, Olin's daughter asked him to help her escape. They would be on the run, as a couple hermits, living in constant struggle against Olin and his military. Once Walker learned of the horrible war to come, he agreed to help her, and they left the kingdom for good, making do on charities of food and shelter. They moved from village to camp, camp to town, growing ever more exhausted, yet remained one step ahead of her father.

They faced many confrontations with Olin's army. Once in the Forest of Teluge, Walker broke a rib and lost three fingers. And there was the minor struggle in the Candatt Desert where he was struck by an arrow in the lower back. The battle wounds across his face had long since healed into pink scars, and his frame was gaunt and weary. He had lost much of his fighting spirit over the long year in exile. On the hill of his last defense, there was nothing but his responsibility for that girl to charge his core.

But she had become even stronger. Though she was not able to see. Though she had lost all her youth and royal standing, she was a warrior. The rest of her senses had been heightened, along with an overpowering sense of higher influence, as if the sun shone directly on her, and no one else.

"They know where we are," she said to him. "They're coming up behind us."

Walker turned around and looked out at the ocean. Sure enough, coming up the south side of the hill were two scouts. They were only ants from where he stood, but he could make out their features. Neither of them was dressed in armor. In fact, they were dressed as peasants. They carried no banners or spears or torches. Walker struggled to raise his sword, brandishing it in front of him in a warrior's stance. His muscles cried out in pain, and his limbs shook.

The two men charged up the hill of dead grass and weeds, shading their eyes from the sun to better see the top. But the distance was much too large for them to see Walker just yet. He still held the advantage.

"They are unarmed," he said to her. "I can ambush them before they grow close. We have done it before."

"It is my father, Olin," she said.

"Your father? But he is dressed as a peasant! He carries no protection, and his escort is a mere runt!"

"He calls for a truce. An understanding. He knows that we are done, and so do we."

"An understanding? For you to submit to slavery? Is that what you wish?"

"No, I do not wish to go back."

"Then we will both die."

She did not answer him, and he took her silence with accord.

He reclaimed his post at the top of the hill and looked down on their guests. They were much closer this time, unbelievably so. He could now see their faces, and one of them was certainly Olin. Around his belt he carried four chalices, which clattered together like golden bells. His black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and his characteristic sideburns were unkempt and bushy. He was just as gaunt as Walker, with black bags under each eye. He appeared to be dying, and he carried with him a cloudy black aura. Walker was sure that he could kill this man.

Olin saw Walker at the top of the hill and raised his hand to gain his attention.

"Dare not come any closer, Olin, or I will send a boulder crashing down on your head!" Walker screamed.

"I come here only for council," he called. "I bring with me four cups, so that the four of us may drink and come to an agreement. Let us put this ordeal of toil behind us."

"We care not to hold council with you! Now return to your camps and march at us with all the fury of your men. That is how we must settle this war!"

"We should speak, young captor. I no longer wish to war." They stopped in their tracks momentarily. The escort patted the dust off his clothes.

"Let them enter our circle," she said to Walker.

"What? Why would we risk our lives by meeting those devils?" he said.

"Let them speak with us. We will hear what they have to say."

He reluctantly turned back to address the men, but they were already at the top, only yards away, and they entered the circle of stones. Walker drew his sword with surprise, but she motioned for him to lower the weapon. Olin and his escort stood in place, waiting for an invitation. Walker sat down cross-legged next to her and laid the sword across his lap.

"Come, Father. Sit with us," she said.

Olin and his escort sat across from them.

"I am happy to see you, daughter," the general said. "It has been many months. I see that you have met your share of trials. You are so thin and carry so many scars."

"And I can hear by your voice that you too are worse for wear," she replied.

"You are not the only one low on provisions," Olin continued. "My men have very limited supplies. In pursuing you we have lost more people through starvation than battle. I beg of you now, return with me to the Kingdom, to your home, so we can put this horrible journey to rest. Too much has been lost already."

"We will not surrender to you," Walker hissed. Olin looked upon him with sadness. He freed the four cups from his belt and nodded to his escort. The escort took out a flagon of wine and filled all four glasses. He then placed two cups in the dirt in front of them.

"I was hoping that we could drink in agreement," Olin said.

"You will leave us now and cease your pursuit. Besides," Walker knocked over the nearest chalice, wine soaking into the dirt like blood, "this is poisoned."

"But she is my daughter."

"She does not wish to be," Walker said.

"Why do you not let my daughter speak?"

"Very well, Father, I will speak," she said. "Long ago my life was drawn out for me, and I saw that this world would fall. If I did not leave the Kingdom, then the end would never come. I now see that I am the Star. I once thought that I was Justice, and maybe I was for a short time, but this sword could not stay sharp forever. Once this world crumbles, I will shine the light over the darkness and guide the Dreamer home."

"And who is the Dreamer?" Olin asked.

"This man, here." She pointed a blind hand at Walker. "He was put here in this place to protect me from you. He was destined to bring me to the top of the tallest hill, overlooking the water, so I may rise up into the sky and take my rightful place."

Olin immediately began to change shape. His neck elongated into that of a serpent, and he collapsed into his clothes. The escort beside him turned into a rotting corpse dressed in black rags, which were almost as frayed as the flesh hanging from his grinning skull. He blinked his eyes at them and drew a dagger from his sleeve.

"You love this woman, do you not?" the serpent asked Walker.

"I do!" he screamed, rising to his feet.

"She has tempted you far more than I ever could!" It laughed. Walker stopped its laughter by chopping through its head with his sword. It fell still.

The sun plummeted out of the sky and collided with the horizon, causing a terrible firestorm, which consumed the four camps. Walker watched all the flags burn up like match sticks. The moon rose up, full and huge, bringing with it a black sky, which spread from north to south like a silky inkblot. Olin's daughter now shone with a fierce intensity of light. She rose up into the air, still in the lotus position, and hovered below the moon as a bright corona. The Star. Venus. Lucifer. The Light Bringer.

The dead man came at Walker in a whirl of black robes. The whole earth shook as he pounced, and Walker felt the waters come up to consume the land and extinguish the fire. Walker fell over as the dagger plunged into his heart. The last thing he saw was the moon, great and vivid above his head. He died wondering what it had all been for.

~~~~~

"That's right, Mr. Walker, blink a few times now. Try to move your fingers for us. Very good. Now your toes. Excellent."

A light burned over his head. It was as big and bright as the sun. He wanted to open his eyes all the way, but the light was much too intense.

"We'll dim the spotlight for you. Now, how's that? You can sit up if you like."

He sat up with the help of the men around him, and they got him to put his feet on the floor.

"We won't have you try and walk just yet. Just sit there for a moment and answer our questions as best you can."

The man speaking was short and trim, wearing a white lab coat and latex gloves. There were three other men in white standing around him, and another two men across the room dressed in grey uniforms. They wore guns on their belts. They frowned at him from their place by the door. He looked around the room and saw that it wasn't much of anything. It was a concrete cell with a large spotlight in the ceiling. There was barely enough room for his bed, let alone the seven extra men. The door looked heavy, locked into place with a steel bar.

"My name is Doctor Reonard," the little man said. "Do you know your name? Try to speak."

"Terrance. My last name's Walker," he croaked. His hands explored the many different wires stuck to his forehead and chest by suction cups. Those wires led into the ground, into what was conceivably nothing.

"Don't play with those quite yet. We'll take them off shortly. Now, you are Terrance. Is there anything else you remember? Think hard now."

"I remember a hill. There was a star in the sky ... I killed a snake."

The doctor nodded his head. "Memories from the dream no doubt. No, do you remember why you're here? Do you know what this place is?"

"It looks like a closet."

"Yes, it's small to maintain space. We have many occupants here at this facility, and this is all the space that is allotted, I'm afraid. This is a prison cell, Mr. Walker. You've been imprisoned here for twenty years. We've kept you in a period of rest for that entire time, administered to you by a powerful sedative. We have been monitoring your brain activity here with the wires, to make sure that you are kept under for the remainder of your time here."

"What're you talking about? I was never imprisoned. I grew up in Kundal," Terrance murmured. "I was a medicine man. I was a master of alchemy. The past year I was on the run ... I protected the general's daughter ... and ..."

"That was a simulation and nothing more. It seemed real, no doubt. It was _supposed_ to seem real," the doctor said. "We've been using experimental technology in the last decade to better control our prison systems. By sedating every inmate, we cut costs of food and clothing, we conserve room, as you can see, and we avoid risk of inmate-related violence, which was an inescapable problem of the past, until now. You were kept alive on a life support system, and twice a day we sent a shock to your brain, allowing your body to wake up and sleepwalk around your room for a short bit of exercise. Now, men like you, who are here to be punished for their crimes, are put into a very deep sleep that can last up to fifty years. And just like a dream, you believe that you're awake and active during your sleep, living out a very real life. The drug is able to unite the unconscious and conscious hemispheres of the brain, and bring them into a perfect equilibrium, where illusions of the unconscious (or dreams) are acted out as though they are absolutely real, with all the hunger, sleep, and five senses we take for granted here in the real world."

"How ... how could that have been a dream?"

"An understandable reaction. It is disorienting, I know, but it will all start coming back to you. You see, we didn't create your dream world. You did. We only set the stage. A dream is like an inkblot test. We supplied the blank canvas, and dripped the paint on it. You interpreted the dream for what it was and built it as you went along, becoming stronger and stronger, as it became more and more real. And this was no ordinary dream, am I right? Besides the fact that it was long, you had all the freedoms that you would have in the real world. You could eat food, perform sex, and go to sleep at night without a second thought, and all of it felt extremely _real_. This technology allows the prisoner the comfort of freedom even in a padded cell. That is the true vision behind this invention. Even the criminal deserves some aspect of comfort, and this dream world allowed you that relief."

Terrance winced with a searing headache. "But that wouldn't be real."

"Yes, certainly, but those twenty years of your incarceration just flew by, didn't they?" The doctor smiled. "This technology is highly controversial. The argument is that the criminal doesn't have the time to think about his crime, and truly find his day of judgment, that this dream state is only distracting him with false ideals. Yet the entire prison is run on this technology. Like I say, there's no such thing as bad publicity."

"You have to let me go," Terrance pleaded.

"I'm afraid not. We woke you because this is your day of judgment, Mr. Walker. The agreement is that the sleeper has to be awake for his execution, so he can remember what he did, and pay the penalty for it. I'm afraid that day has come."

"But I didn't do anything wrong! I shouldn't be here!"

Terrance attempted to stand and the three men restrained him back into his bed. Seeing how weak he was, he stopped thrashing, but the doctors did not let go.

"You don't have any memory of what you did?" the doctor asked him.

"No! I didn't do anything! I protected that woman! I loved her!" Terrance screamed.

"What woman?"

"The Star!"

"Was her name Maggie White?"

"No! I don't know who that is!"

"This is common. The subject has a hard time differentiating between his two lives," he told the others. The doctor extracted a tape player and set it down on the bed. "We tape the confessions of all our inmates, in hopes of jogging their memories at the end." The doctor pressed play, and Terrance recognized his own voice inside the little speaker.

"My name is Terrance Walker, I am twenty-seven years old, and I was arrested a month ago for murder. Yesterday in court I was found guilty of murdering ... of murdering Maggie White, my girlfriend of four years. I held her cap — captive in my basement for two months, in hopes of protecting her from her abusive father. I also murdered her father when he came to my door looking for her. I was ... I was only trying to help her." The voice was softer now, grinding away to nothing. Terrance found that he was starting to cry. "Her estranged father came looking for her after her mother died. He only wanted the money Maggie inherited from the will, and he wouldn't take no for an answer. He became physical." The voice was rising again, now with fire. "She wanted it all to end. She wanted to go to the police, but it was her father, and she couldn't bring herself to do it. I promised to help her. I offered her my home, and when she was reported missing, I hid her in my basement. I fed her, but when the police started questioning me, I — I panicked and locked her down there. I refused to open the door, fearing ... I don't know. I was afraid that if I opened that door she would leave me forever, after all I did for her. Then her father came to me. He didn't suspect me of anything. He was worried. He only wanted peace of mind. He heard her screams. I had to kill him. I — I started to pretend that nothing was wrong and that ... that there was no one dying in my basement. I went to work as normal. I went about my life. I was burying her father in a cemetery when I was caught ... I don't know. It all seems meaningless now."

"Mr. Walker, what about the girl's eyes?" This was a new voice, an unnamed interviewer.

"Oh, that. I didn't have anything to do with it." Terrance's voice was so calm, almost mechanical. "When they found her body, some animal had taken them. I've seen mice down there before."

The tape ran out and the doctor pressed the stop button.

"Now do you remember?" the doctor asked.

Terrance continued to weep under the restraints of the three men. "That wasn't me! I wouldn't do that to her! I protected her! I kept her safe from him! I'm a doctor! Just like you! Please! Please, you have to know that wasn't me!"

"That was your voice, Mr. Walker. And that other reality, that was a dream. Whatever you think you did, none of it was real. None of it matters. You killed two people, and now you must be judged." The doctor motioned for the two guards at the door, and they walked forward to grab Terrance.

"No! No! _This_ is the dream! I'm going to wake up now!" The doctors pressed their backs to the wall as the guards grabbed Terrance under the arms. They lifted him to his feet. He was skinny and small, dressed in a white hospital gown with a shaved face and head. He didn't have an ounce of muscle on him, and they did not stagger under his weight. They dragged him to the door with ease and forced him into a cold hallway. "I'll wake up on top of that hill. I'll find her waiting for me. Please! Please, don't do this!"

He was dragged into a white room filled with light. The men forced him into a chair and restrained him with straps pulled much too tight across his emaciated chest. A woman stepped up in front of him, holding a syringe. She wore a similar uniform of white like the doctor's, only hers fanned out into a dress over her knees. She had a white surgical mask over her mouth, and her blonde hair was pulled back into a bun.

"No! No! I didn't hurt her! I didn't hurt her!" he screamed as she stuck his arm with the needle.

The woman stepped back and then suddenly changed. She became an angel in an aura of white light. Her wings expanded behind her back, and her hair swept from right to left. The syringe was now a brass horn, and she put it to her lips and blew a call. The white light consumed her, leaving Terrance in a colorless void of silence. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he lay at the base of the hill, the water rolling up the beach and tasting his fingers. He must have rolled down the hill, possibly to escape the man with the knife. Nighttime was gone, replaced by the sun. He was alone, and he bled out from the chest.

The sky was blue and clear. He looked out at the ocean and spotted a boat sailing away from the shore. In this boat was the Star, Olin's daughter. She was no longer blindfolded, and she did not carry her sword. She had glorious angel wings and a brass horn in her hands. She sat stoically, looking at the hill with a solemn gaze. Even as she drifted farther away, he could see her blue eyes shine in the sunlight.

"This is real," he told her, and even though it was nothing but a whisper, he knew she could hear him. "This is what counts. You were right, I was always on the path to enlightenment, and that dream, that horrible place, was what I had to wake from. I will die in this world."

"And now you are enlightened?" Her voice seemed to speak to him from inside his head.

"I don't know."

"You must begin again."

"How is that fair?" he asked. "Why do you get to leave by water while I remain rooted to the earth?"

"Because I am ready to leave, and you are not," she replied. "I can see again, but you are still blind. You're back where you started, on the same stretch of ground. But you can start again, and do things differently. But don't be confused; I forgive you."

"I'm sorry if I ever hurt you. I'm truly sorry." He cried into the sand.

"What was your first memory?" she asked. "You were only a lad and you created the road out of nothing, for you to walk on. Do that again. It's an inkblot test. You create your own surroundings. You make your own meaning."

"I've heard that before. Where did I hear that?"

But the boat had already disappeared over the horizon. He hung his head and fell quickly to sleep. The world reduced into nothing under him. All memory, all thought, all sense and pain were cleared from his slate, giving birth to a new world of darkness. When he opened his eyes, he was only a child, and he carried a knapsack in his arms. A road stretched out before him, and he blinked in bewilderment, not knowing where or who he was. All he knew was that he had a road to travel on. He looked at his hands and saw that he wore handcuffs around his wrists. Was he being punished? What had he been born to carry with him?

The road seemed new, but he started to think that he had done this before in another life, only a dream now, and he would have to do it again. If only he could remember what he had done wrong. He would have to figure that out, he supposed.

He wished that it was easier to remember a dream, especially when the brain was so hell-bent on piecing it together. All those dark visions swam at his back, prodding him forward, and he took his first step into the sunlight.

He looked up into the sun and immediately lost his sight. Soon he would forget what it was like to see altogether. He staggered forward into the dark world, begging for an explanation. He begged for something. If only dreams weren't so cryptic and senseless, he thought to himself. If only.

Brendan Verville is an English student in Denver, Colorado. His works have been published in the Metrosphere and From the Depths literary magazines, and most recently, his story "Too Much Sleep" was included in Fiction Vortex's 2013 horror contest.

(Back to Table of Contents)

#  The Traditional Taste

by Jon Arthur Kitson; published November 5, 2013

Second Place Award, November 2013 Fiction Contest

The robot didn't slurp. Koa found that obscene.

No one else in the room seemed to care.

"It's not mixing air with the coffee," Koa said. "It won't get an accurate flavor profile."

"It doesn't need air," a technician — 'Brad' according to his name tag — answered.

Koa's eyes rolled. He folded his arms across his chest, squeezed the brass spittoon between his legs and stared down the tasting table at the robot. It sat in his father's spot.

It's blank eyes were lit red. Liquid drained into its chest cavity.

_No spitting. Obscene_.

"Well?" the owner, standing near the door, asked. The company's palm tree logo, in the form of a gold lapel pin, flashed from his chest in the moist, tropical light streaming through the windows. "How does it compare with Koa's profile?"

Brad opened a panel on the robot's head.

"Identical," he said, reading the display. "All points; mouthfeel, tones, even the slight astringency."

Everyone in the room clapped, except for Koa, who grimaced, and the owner, who cocked a thick eyebrow.

"So what?" Koa asked over the din. "It's all chemical analysis." To his boss: "The other producers have been doing it for decades, Tom." To the technician: "All you made is a human-shaped chemistry set."

"No," Brad said. "Its nothing like that." He patted the robot's head. "It doesn't sample the coffee's chemical make-up. It processes the tasting _experience_ just like a human brain." His mouth turned into a cockeyed grin. "Just like _your_ brain."

Koa's squat tasting stool threatened to squirt from underneath him as he spun on his boss.

The man didn't meet Koa's eyes.

"Give it a regular seat," Tom said and walked out the door.

~~~~~

Koa's fist hit the desk. The coffee in Tom's cup flooded its saucer. Koa dipped a finger in the scalding liquid, flicked it at his boss.

"Dammit, Koa." Tom brushed coffee off his tie. "Calm down."

"You lied to me." Koa's eyes held steady on Tom's. "You said all the tests ... all the damn wires stuck to my head ... were for insurance purposes."

"They were," Tom said, not shying away from Koa's stare. "To _ensure_ Palm Island Coffee is around for _another_ 150 years." He leaned back in his chair. "Now, if you're done assaulting me with House Blend, sit down."

Koa did, but perched on the seat's edge.

"Good," Tom said. "I'm sorry I misled you, but I knew this is how you'd react—"

"A robot?" Koa said. "Traditional tasting, Tom, that's what Palm Island is renowned for. We're the last ones doing it. What'll this make us? iCoffee?"

"Yes." Tom spun the monitor on his desk. "Let me show you something."

On screen was the bastard child of a '50s sci-fi movie poster and a Hawaiian travel brochure. Palm trees and buxom hula girls swayed in front of a perfect blue ocean. In front of them an ideal Polynesian warrior, bronzed and shirtless, sipped coffee from a delicate cup. Next to him, drinking in the same satisfied manner, was the robot. Its red eyes sparkled.

The tag-line beneath the scene: _Palm Island Coffee, The Past and the Future in One Cup_.

Koa stared.

"It's Retro," Tom said. "Our consulting firm says it's the latest thing."

Koa's eyes darted to his boss. "That ... is ... insane. Our buyers will never accept it."

Tom turned the screen and sighed.

"Our buyers are a dying breed," he said. "The foodie trend is over. That's what _we_ need to accept. No one cares anymore that our company has been family owned for a 150 years, or that your family has been impeccably scrutinized the taste for generations. _Gastronomy_ , food blended with science, is the new movement." His elbows rested on the desk. "We have to evolve."

"So, what's next?" Koa said. "Coffee capsules? Gelatin?" His face wrinkled. " _Flavored_ coffee?"

"Dammit, Koa, we're still making _real_ coffee. And the robot's _really_ tasting it." Tom's lips curled to a soft smile. "Besides, do you plan on living forever? You're the last in your line—"

"This is _my_ fault?" Koa's eyes dug into Tom's. "Mine and Lani's?"

Tom's eyes expanded.

"No," he said quickly. "God no. I didn't mean to imply ... Really, Koa, that's not what I meant."

Koa shrugged it off.

"I have cousins on the mainland," he said. "Maybe one of them—"

"No," Tom said. "We've got to give the robot a try, for the company. Surely, you can understand that."

"All I understand," Koa said, heading for the door, "is, for the first time in fifteen years, I'm glad my father's dead." He stopped with his hand on the knob. "And for your sake, Tom, I'm glad yours is too."

~~~~~

That night, Koa dreamed:

He stood next to a hospital bed. Lani, ebony hair plastered to her forehead, whistling breaths bursting from her pursed lips, laid in it. A doctor stood between her stirruped feet.

Koa's stomach dropped. He'd had the dream — nightmare — before.

He had lived it.

Lani had been pregnant five times. Only one made it to full term.

He was still-born.

The doctor announced it was time. Koa cringed. Then ...

A baby cried.

The doctor handed the swaddled infant to a stunned Koa.

Who turned, passed his wife and presented the child to the man standing behind him.

His father, very much alive, studied the bundle ...

Then looked away.

"What?" Koa looked at the child in his arms.

The glowing red eyes of the tasting robot looked back at him.

"No," Koa said. He looked up; a Polynesian warrior stood before him. His muscled chest heaved. The bleached sharks teeth ringing the Pololu spear in his hand glinted in the birthing-room lights.

Though no pictures existed of the man, Koa knew him instantly: Hiapo Palakiko, his great-plus-more-times-than-he-could-ever-remember grandfather. Family lore claimed Hiapo fought to the death defending Queen Liliʻuokalani, Hawaii's last monarch, from the pineapple barons and their coup.

Hiapo's spear rose.

Koa gasped as it split his chest.

~~~~~

The robot was already at the tasting table. Brad buzzed behind it. Koa sat and stared out the window. Mist rose off the field of coffee bushes.

"-Good morning-"

Koa jumped at the metallic greeting.

The robot's eyes glowed at him. Brad smirked.

"-Good morning-"

"It talks?" Koa addressed the technician.

"Yeah," Brad answered, smirk growing into a smile. "I just installed the program yesterday afternoon—"

"-Good morning-"

Koa raised an eyebrow.

"It's a learning program," Brad said. "It'll grow and develop over time—" The robot offered another 'good morning' to Koa. "—and it's still in beta. If you don't respond it'll probably keep it up all day."

Koa rolled his eyes, but on the robot's _fifth_ 'good morning', he waved a dismissive hand at the machine.

This did the trick. With the faint sound of gears whirring, the robot's head rotated back to straight. For a moment, its eyes flickered brightly.

"Aloha, gentleman."

Palm Island's Master Roaster entered the room. He slid two trays, each with four full sampling glasses, onto the table.

Wisps of steam clouded the robot's faceplate.

"We're tweaking the After Dinner Blend today," he explained. "Customers are asking for more body. Whenever you're ready."

Koa inhaled the rich scents. With his well-worn tasting spoon, he took turns slurping from each glass. The spittoon between his legs rang after every taste.

At the other end of the table, the robot silently sucked up coffee with a short straw.

After half an hour the Master Roaster compared the results.

"Amazing," he said. "Identical to the subtlest nuance. Both recommend going with blend number three. What do you think of that, Koa?" He looked up. "Koa?"

The door to the tasting room banged shut.

~~~~~

The robot quickly won over the staff. Every afternoon Brad paraded it around the offices and fields. Koa couldn't escape.

Everywhere he went, it seemed, throngs of people gathered around the machine, laughing and looking amazed at its increasing vocabulary. Koa always tried to duck away unseen, but inevitably, he'd look back to see the robot's red eyes following him.

They glowed brightly.

After two weeks, it started telling jokes:

"-Why did the coffee taste like mud-"

Koa picked at his nails.

"Why _did_ the coffee taste like mud?" Brad asked. He frowned in Koa's direction.

The robot's glowing eyes stayed fixed on Koa. They dimmed.

"-Because it was just ground-"

Brad's exaggerated laugh bounced around the room. Koa groaned.

The robot turned its head and stared out the window.

"Jokes? Really?" Koa raised an eyebrow at Brad. "Why?"

"I didn't do it," Brad answered. "The communication software grows over time. The jokes are a completely new thing." He tapped the robot's head. "Its forming a personality." A sly grin split Brad's face.

"What?"

"Well," the technician said. "It seems to test everything out on you first; saying 'good morning', commenting on the weather last week and now the joke." Brad's grin grew "I think you've got a buddy."

"Lucky me."

Koa was about to tell Brad exactly where he could stick _his buddy_ , when the technician opened a panel on the robot's back. He pulled out a test tube sized vial of thick, green liquid.

"What's that? The new Halloween Blend?"

Brad laughed, then cut short when he realized Koa wasn't making a joke.

"Um ... no," he said, holding the vial to the light. "This is what makes the robot work."

"It's brain?"

"Not exactly. It'll still talk and move without it, but as for drinking coffee, it'll try, but there'd be no point." He turned the vial to Koa; little swirls formed in the viscous mass. "This is its sense of taste." His eyes focused on Koa. "And actually, for now, it's yours."

It was like looking at his soul.

Everything making him special — that made generations of his family special — distilled into a little tube; translated, somehow, into data for a machine. It looked like shampoo.

And stunk.

Koa's nose wrinkled at the putrid smell coming from the vial, now that Brad had unscrewed the silver and gold cap.

"Sorry," Brad said, peering into the vial. "I'm checking for contaminants."

"Why's it stink so bad?" Koa held back a gag.

"It's made from a fungus." Brad replaced the cap. Thankfully, the smell didn't linger. "Modified and infused with nano-processors to imitate the way you taste and _experience_ coffee."

"You said 'for now'?"

"Eventually," Brad said, "the robot will develop its _own_ sense of taste." He clicked the vial back in place and closed the panel. "At least that's the plan."

~~~~~

Koa couldn't believe what he'd just heard.

After two months of ignoring the robot's greetings and inane puns, two months of inhabiting his office like a hermit to avoid it, he addressed the robot for the first time:

"What did you say?"

"-Do you ever get tired of tasting coffee-"

Behind the robot, sensing what it couldn't, Brad turned white.

"Koa—"

The taster raised a hand.

"Why _the hell_ would you ask me that?"

"-From speaking with the staff, I've learned humans sometimes become bored with their jobs-"

Koa could feel blood rushing to his head.

"-Many speak fondly of retirement-"

Koa's pulse drummed at his temples.

"-Do you plan on retiring soon-"

The tasting stool clattered into the wall. Koa stared down at the robot.

"You ... aluminum ... son-of-a-bitch!" Spittle flew into the air. "What? Sharing the tasting table — my _family's_ table — isn't enough. Now you want it to yourself?"

"That's not what it meant," Brad reached for Koa's shoulder.

"And you—" Koa batted the technician's hand away. " _Dr. Frankenstein_ ; are you planning to rip out my actual tongue and stuff it in your monster?"

"Koa, it's only curious, like a child. It's just trying to learn."

"Learn this," Koa said, stalking for the door. He looked at the robot. "I'll die, tasting spoon wrapped in my hand, before I cede this company's future to you."

He jerked open the door. The Master Roaster, balancing two trays, tripped through. Sample glasses shattered on the floor.

"-Koa-" The strength in the robot's voice stopped the taster. He turned. "-I don't want you to die-" it said. "-I don't want you to retire. You are part of a great tradition-"

"Tradition?" Glass crunched under Koa's feet. "What the hell does a machine know about tradition?"

The robot's eyes dimmed as they followed the taster out the door.

~~~~~

The following morning Brad cornered Koa outside the tasting room.

"You hurt its feelings."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Koa said. "Whose feelings?"

Brad's eyes rolled.

"The robot."

Koa's brow wrinkled.

"Machines don't have feelings."

"This one does." Brad slumped against the wall. "At least, it thinks it does."

"What?"

"That's the point of the project: a robot as close to a human taster as possible. Its programming is revolutionary." His eyes found Koa's. "And now, because of you, it's sulking. It hasn't spoken in almost twenty-four hours."

That, Koa knew, was unusual. Amongst the staff, the robot had gained a reputation for being chatty.

The taster recommended what he did with a stubborn computer. After all, at its core, that's all the robot really was.

"Did you try turning it off and back on?"

"It doesn't work that way," Brad sighed. "The robot's personality formed, is still forming, _organically_. If I reboot it, it starts from scratch."

"Fine. Start from scratch. Apparently, this personality is a little too sensitive."

"There's no time," Brad said pulling himself off the wall. "Forming a new personality will take months."

"So?"

"And the industry convention is in two weeks."

"Vegas?"

"Yes," Brad said. His eyes avoided Koa's. "That's when we're revealing it to the world. That's when the _new_ Palm Island Coffee premieres."

Koa's breath caught in his throat. After a few minutes:

"I'm not apologizing to a robot."

"You don't have to. Just be ... nice."

Koa didn't respond. He pushed passed Brad and into the tasting room. The robot sat on its stool — Koa's father's stool — staring straight ahead. It didn't turn when Koa took his place at the table.

"Um ..." Koa looked at the machine, hesitated, then said, "Good morning."

The robot's head spun. Its eyes ignited.

"-Good Morning, Koa-"

It sounded relieved.

~~~~~

Koa continued being _nice_. For two weeks, he answered the robot's questions. Short and curt, but he answered them.

"-How many generations of your family have been tasters-"

"Seven."

"-All men-"

"Yes."

"-How many sat at the tasting table at once-"

"Three."

"-How old were you when you started to taste-"

"Nineteen."

"-Your father-"

"Seventeen."

"-And his father-"

"Fifteen."

And countless more.

They were the same questions Koa had asked his father. The same questions he had always expected to answer someday ... for his own son.

Then, two days before the convention:

"-Are you upset you never had a child to carry on your line-"

Koa hardly noticed the tasting room door open and the Master Roaster enter. Only when Tom walked in did Koa come back to reality.

Casually, Tom took a spot against the far wall.

"We've got a big one today," the Master Roaster said. "The Holiday Blend. Today's choice goes into production."

Koa and the robot tasted. When they were done — Koa laying his spoon on the tray, the robot straightening to its full height — the Roaster reviewed the results.

His eyes grew. He motioned for Brad, who looked at the pages.

"It was bound to happen," Brad said, after a few minutes. His eyes stayed fixed on the results. "Eventually."

The Master Roaster looked up, past Koa, at Tom.

"Um, we have a difference of opinion," he said. "Koa chose blend number two; the robot picked number four."

"-Excuse me-" the robot said. Everyone eyed it. "-I believe when there is a disagreement, it is traditional to go with the more experienced taster's choice-" Its eyes lit on Koa. "-Koa, I defer to you-"

"Then it's settled," the Master Roaster said. "We go with number two for this year's Holiday Blend."

"No."

Everyone turned to face Tom.

"Go with number four."

Silence crushed the room. Koa's head swam as he watched Tom turn and walk out.

The spot where Hiapo's dream spear had pierced his chest ached.

~~~~~

Koa ignored the secretary's protests and pushed through the door. Tom jumped.

"Koa," he said. "I'm sorry, but—"

"I want to go to the convention." Koa crossed the office in three steps. He hovered above the desk.

"What?" Tom stuttered. "Of course," he said, smiling, "you've always been welcome. I'll put you on the panel."

"No," Koa said. "As an observer."

"Anything," Tom said, still smiling. "Whatever you want. I'll have Martha book you on the Supersonic and get you a room. No, a suite."

"Fine," Koa said. "Whatever."

Tom's arms folded across the desk.

"This is great, Koa," he said. "After today I didn't think you'd come around."

Koa grunted.

"Really," Tom said. "It means a lot to the company — to me — to have you finally on board. You and 150 years of your family are directly responsible for the success of Palm Island. It's only right you're present for the unveiling of the company's next big step."

Koa said nothing, only turned and headed for the door.

_Yeah_ , he thought, _the next step_.

~~~~~

Koa and the robot stood alone off stage. The robot's eyes were dark. Since arriving in Las Vegas, Koa and the robot had both stayed hidden away, the robot to build anticipation for its big reveal, Koa by choice. He'd left his suite only once.

To go to the salon.

On stage, in front of a packed house, a respected industry scientist explained the blind test brewing behind him. Four coffee makers steamed on a table. Three of them contained renowned blends, all produced by Palm Island's competitors, the fourth brewed Chicory; coffee's bastard cousin.

Even in the wings, Koa could smell its bitter scent.

Tom and Brad proudly flanked the machines.

Koa pulled a vial from his pocket and unscrewed the cap. Coconuts and vanilla wafted off the green liquid inside, overpowering the chicory.

The vial had been easy to find; Brad had spares all over his disorganized workshop. Finding just the right shampoo, however, was more difficult. The salon's saleswoman had stared at his bald head the entire time he asked about the colors of the expensive hair products.

Koa replaced the cap.

He opened the robot's back. The vial inside came out with a click. He held the two vials up.

They were identical.

He moved the one filled with shampoo to the opening ...

And hesitated.

He looked at the stage.

With an eyedropper, the scientist added a clear liquid to each cup. Masking solution. He explained how it hid each blend's chemical make-up. The robot, just like a human, would have to depend on taste alone. The audience sat on the edge of their seats.

Koa realized, for the first time in a long time, the world cared about Palm Island Coffee.

It _actually_ cared.

"-Thank you-"

The vials bobbled in Koa's hands. He cringed as both hit the floor.

Neither broke.

Quickly, Koa scooped them up.

The robot's eyes bathed him in red light.

"-Thank you for sharing your gift with me-"

Koa stood, hiding the vials against his side.

"What gift?"

"-Your sense of taste. Without it, I'm only a machine. With it, I'm part of so much more-"

"Part of what?"

"-Your family-"

Koa's chest tightened. The nightmare flashed behind his eyes.

"-Thank you for making me your heir-"

In his head, Koa saw his father turning away.

"We are not family," Koa growled. "And that thing that makes you special—" he spun the robot, jammed a vial in place, closed the panel and spun it back to face him, "—you stole it."

"-Koa, I'm sorry-"

"You are not my heir, my family's heir. You're our assassin."

"-Please-" the robot's eyes dimmed. "-Tell me what to do. Tell me how to carry on the tradition-"

"You can't," Koa said. His finger clanked hollowly against the robot's chest. "A machine doesn't know anything about tradition."

On stage, Tom introduced the robot.

"-Maybe I can learn-"

And it stepped into the bright lights and applause.

Breath held, Koa watched the robot taste the blends. The audience _oohed_ as it described each; full, smoky, earthy, malty.

They waited silently for the robot to declare its favorite brew ...

"-Number four-"

Koa heard the boos as he exited the hall. He could still smell the coconut shampoo on his fingers.

And the aroma of chicory from cup number four.

~~~~~

Koa paused before sitting; the robot, unseen in the week since the convention, lay crumpled in the corner of Tom's office.

It's eyes were dark.

"Koa," Tom said. "I've sold the company."

"What? Why?'

"The robot," he said, shooting daggers at the inert machine. "The goddamn robot. You were right; it was a bad idea."

"Fine," Koa said, "but selling the company? Why?"

Tom stood and paced.

"We're ruined. Broke." His fist slammed the desk. "I sank every asset, the company's and mine, into that ... that ... red herring."

"There's nothing left?"

"Nothing," he said. "Not that there was much before. We were already almost bankrupt."

"What? I didn't know—"

"Only Brad knew," Tom said. "The robot wasn't just an experiment. It was a Hail-Mary pass."

"Did _it_ know?"

"With the sensitive personality it developed?" Tom's forehead wrinkled "No. Brad felt if it knew the fate of the company rested on its shoulders, it'd shut itself down." Tom's eyes darted to the robot. "As far as it knew, it was just an alternative to human tasters. A continuation, really, of your family's work." His eyes focused on Koa. "Brad insisted it was damn proud of it, too."

Koa felt light headed.

"The buyers," Koa managed, "they're keeping the staff right? You explained half the island works here—"

"They're not coffee people." Tom sat. "It's a hotel chain. They're bulldozing the fields next month."

This time Koa stood.

"What? None of the big companies wanted us? The prestige of the Palm Island name alone—"

"What prestige?" Tom stared at the robot. Instead of looking venomous, his eyes were tired. "In one night 150 years of prestige became a joke. A _chicory_ flavored joke." His face fell on Koa. "I'm sorry, but the tradition of Palm Island Coffee ends with you."

~~~~~

Koa looked out the tasting room window. A knot of workers stood at the side of the field.

Word had already spread.

The vial he'd brought from Las Vegas turned in his hands. Little whirlpools spun through the liquid inside.

Tradition.

The vial exploded against the wall.

The smell of coconuts and vanilla filled the room.

Koa stared.

Slowly, he stood. He ran a finger through the dripping, green mess. It came away slick.

Shampoo.

The wrong vial.

He fell onto his father's empty stool.

The robot's stool.

The last of the tasters watched the coffee bushes silently sway in the fields. The berries glowed bright red in the island sun.

Tradition.

Jon Kitson's stories have appeared in Mad Scientist Journal, The Flashing Type 1 & 2 (anthologies of freeflashfiction.com), and at Dailylove.net. His work ranges from Sci-Fi and the Paranormal, all the way to romance (sometimes there's a story you've just got to tell). You can find out more about Jon at jonarthurkitson.wordpress.com.

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#  Shrinking Squares

by Joe Marchia; published November 8, 2013

Time travel was easier than we thought. Or, the fact that it was even possible made it seem easy. We were doing it all the time. It was like beating hearts — it was always happening. It was like the invention of the car. It was big.

But at the same time it was lonely. It was solipsistic, which is why not everyone did it. I'll explain: Imagine you have the option to change the universe you're in. You can go back to a point in time, or forward. But it would be a different universe. Your parents would look enough like your parents, but you'd know they were not the same ones. They were similar, but not the same. Would you do it then?

It's tough to imagine and tough to explain. It was a scientific miracle, but also an existential nightmare. So people mostly left it alone.

The option was open for only tens-of-thousands of dollars. For some, it was not feasible. But once you started to accumulate savings it hung in the back of your mind.

For me, it would have been easy. I'm an idealist. I like to keep things in order: real, parents, real life, reality. I'd done a pretty good job at coming to terms with my past. My parents' divorce was inevitable. My love life was stable. My career was above average. I'm pretty grateful, in general.

It would have taken something tragic to make me consider time travel. There are no guarantees. It could be worse, even — who knows what's really out there?

It was last summer that our son drowned. It's taboo to speak about what could have been. People offer condolences. People cry. People mourn. It's normal. It's human. Nobody says DON'T think about it. Nobody tries to deter you from anything.

"What about two people?" my wife asked.

"What do you mean?" I asked her.

"Can two people go back?"

I told her it was unethical. She said nothing. She was in bed most of the time, in those days. But it latched onto her like a disease. In everything we did it was there. When we were silent watching TV it was there. What if?

What if?

She started researching. I knew she was but said nothing. She'd watch me and hope I'd mention it again. But I stood firm. It was a fleeting thought for people. Something bad happens and they consider time travel. Then, they resign themselves to reality.

That's when she started to leave the house. She had meetings with experts. She had consultations on the possibility. She went to conferences overnight. She would return and I would say, "I won't do it." She continued.

It appeared that she had stopped. The conferences and consultations became less frequent. I thought she had finally adjusted when she approached me, smiling.

"I found someone who will do it."

"What?"

"For both of us."

We have it scheduled. It's marked on our calendar. The rest of the pages are blank. We won't need it anymore. We mark off the days. I look at it each morning. I marvel at the shrinking squares.

Joe Marchia is an author of fiction and poetry. His work has appeared in Instigatorzine, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Citizens for Decent Literature, and numerous other publications. His website is Joemarchia.com

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#  Nightingale

by Tyger Schonholzer; published November 9, 2013

If you think the small, insignificant bird that landed on your window and tweeted so sweetly triggered your homesick longing, you weren't paying close enough attention.

It is an easy mistake to make. Although the modest brown Passerine astonishes with its warbles, trills, and gurgles, it does not wrench your heart. What soars beyond it is the true source of your pain and is the sole reason for the small bird's nightly call.

If you could understand the songster's language, you might hasten to close your window, pull the covers over your head and pray. If you could heed his warning, you might save yourself from slicing your wrists with shards of broken glass and watching your life pulse away onto the stone floor.

You call him Nightingale, yet the one who bears that name lurks in the shadows and rides the autumn winds. The bird is only its herald. Listen to his lovely call at your peril. Danger follows behind him. Do not linger at the window if you mean to live into the next year.

Nightingale swoops not from the sky but from the depths of Yffern. Its wings are not of flesh and blood, but spun from darkest despair. You will not see it against the night sky, yet its many-colored, shimmering coat confounds and taunts the eye like a three-dimensional illusion.

Its name hints at its true nature, and was given by distraught sailors eons ago. Storm-battered prayers rising from trembling lips begged mercy. "Do not let us perish in this tempest. Do not let night fall on us in this gale!"

And yet, night fell and men drowned while Nightingale sucked life from their souls and blood from their bodies. Did they hear the bird sing, just before the horrid creature struck? Perhaps they did, but we shall never know.

Last night, the warbler sang behind my home. I ran to close my windows, lock my doors, and light my white candles against the dread that would surely follow. My gratitude to the small bird for his warning! I am still alive today.

Outside my door, my true love lies sprawling, his eyes broken. His hand clutches a letter still, yet his wrists are sliced and the blood has long since stopped flowing.

Did he ring my doorbell? Did he try to speak to me?

I cry out and with shaky fingers dial the paramedics, although I know that his life is already spent.

In the morning sun, a tiny brown bird raises his wings. He does not sing today.

Tyger Schonholzer is a respiratory therapist and writer who lives on a small farm in East Texas. Her short stories were published by Bewildering Stories and The Writer's Desk, her poetry in Sol Magazine. She blogs irregularly but passionately. Her poetry chapbooks are available at Lulu.com and her novel, 'Once Upon a Rape' is available as ebook from Amazon. Her personal website provides links to her activities: www.tygerschonholzer.weebly.com

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#  The Countess and the Bard

by Kyle Rader; published November 12, 2013

The moment he first set foot in the home of Countess Morana, Regent to the King of Mesa, the Bard knew it would be the death of him.

The home was not in any state of disrepair. No cobwebs or dastardly looking servants with hunched-backs and bright eyes reflecting their bitter hatred to the world were milling about. It was the feel of the entire locale that sent foreboding chills down his spine.

He was of a mind to turn on his heels and head back for the docks when a single trumpet announced his host's arrival.

"Good morrow to you, Sir Bard." Countess Morana greeted him with a thin-lipped smile that indicated she meant him anything but.

"Ah, so _this_ is the renowned Countess that every sailor this side of the world holds lust in their hearts — and loins — for!" The Bard took the woman's hands, kissed both, then clasped them together with his per the custom of the land. "The crude etchings carved into the ceiling of my ship's cabin do you no justice, Milady."

"I see the rumors that preceded you are accurate enough," the Countess said.

"Oh?" The Bard feigned shock at the compliment. It was a dance he did every time some noble hired him to perform. _Wear a coat of false modesty and let the silly person think they are the first to compliment your greatness._ "If these are the rumors about a certain incident with a band of pirates, I must admit they are exaggerated. I slew only fourteen of them. The last one simply fell over-board."

Countess Morana laughed without smiling. "You have a golden tongue bestowed upon you from one of the Gods. Will you walk with me, Sir Bard?"

They walked through the manor for a time, speaking of the Bard's travels through the eight Kingdoms of the land. He shared the most succulent pieces of gossip from the numerous noble houses in which he had been hired, while she regaled him of the house's history; of how it was carved directly out of the mountainside, and of the marble columns her Father imported from across the sea to complete the colonnade down which they strolled.

Their sojourn ended in an open portico overlooking the sea. The Countess took a seat on a small fur-lined sofa. A serving girl shuffled over and filled her goblet with wine. "Maelian wine," she said in between sips. "Simply astonishing. A bit costly, but the flavor alone is well worth the price. Join me, Sir Bard?"

"What kind of a bard would I be if I refused freely offered wine?"

"As engaging as tales of House Morana may be, I think perhaps you are wondering why I have called you here. After all, the Kingdom of Mesa is rather far from home for you."

"A bard owes no allegiance to any one location, Milady. Our only true home is located within the words that we speak. Those words take us on adventures far from our places of birth and allow us a wondrous opportunity to drink in the poetry of the world."

"I envy your perspective of the world, Sir Bard." The Countess smoothed her fine green gown and gazed at the ocean, watching the waves crash against the black cliffs. "Tell me what you know of our kingdom."

The Bard drained his goblet and signaled for a refill. "It is said that Mesa's ports allow for fast shipping of various goods and — according to a rather loquacious fisherman I encountered — the purest whale oil in the world is harvested in its native waters."

"Tell me what you _really_ know about this place."

Icicles of contempt bored into the Bard from the noblewoman's blue eyes. _Clearly this is a woman whose tolerance for flattery goes only so far_ , he thought. He sipped his wine and shifted his position on the couch, which had suddenly grown as uncomfortable as a mossy stone.

"There is a saying throughout the lands. ' _Woe be unto those who linger in Mesa. For it is a land stained so thick with blood, the tides themselves cannot cleanse it_.'"

"The saying is not inaccurate. Since its inception, Mesa has been in a near-constant state of revolution. The damned aristocrats declare war on each other if one happens to have prettier flowers than the other. It occurs so often, it is an amazement that there is any kingdom left to battle over. Roasted almonds?"

A servant presented the plate of still-smoking nuts before the Bard. The aroma was tempting, but he waved the girl off, preferring to get to the point. "Countess, if what you say is the truth, and I have no doubts of your integrity, why summon me? I am just a simple poet, nothing more. A hundred warriors would be of better use to you than I."

"In any other instance, you would be correct. Fortunately for us all, the kingdom is enjoying a relative period of ease, thanks to the eighty-eighth king, King Randall the Splendid."

The mention of the king's name created a clammy ring of sweat around his neck. He dabbed it away from his suit-collar with an orange cloth. "Mist from the sea," he lied with a smile. "Must be difficult to keep any linen of value here."

"What do they say of King Randall in the outside realms, Sir Bard?" she said, shifting her gaze from him to inspect the golden paint on her thumbnail.

_Under any normal circumstance, I would consider her to be breathtaking_ , he thought. _But, her face is devoid of anything resembling human emotion._

"If I may answer your query with another, Milady. Why do you ask things to which you already know the answer?"

The Regent rose from her sofa and walked to the parapet. "You are a bold one, aren't you? King Randall has seen his share of your sort before. Every time, the same tragedy is performed. You come with your boastful ambition, thinking about nothing but the favor you may gain from the silly nobles who hired you. In the end, it is your blood that the tide cannot wash clean from our streets."

The Bard stood and bowed low from the waist. "My apologies, Countess. I meant no offense by my trifle. It is the curse of the bards in that we speak far too freely, for our love of words outweighs that of even our own necks."

Morana waved the apology off with two skeletal fingers. The ocean waves crashed against the obsidian bluffs fourteen times before she spoke again. "King Randall has held onto the throne for ten summers and winters. The second longest reign was that of The Gull King, King Lucas, which lasted six years before revolution claimed his life. This feat is rather unprecedented in Mesa, you understand, and as such, the king wishes to join the nation in celebration of his achievement.

"For you see, King Randall believes that his rule is divine and plans to have himself declared a god during the affair. It shall fall unto you to present his highness with a poem worthy of deity."

The desire to leave deluged the Bard. His legs nearly betrayed his refined sense of decorum and sent him running down the hall. "Why, Countess," he said, clearing his throat. "I thought you sent for me to perform a _difficult_ task."

"Your audacity teeters on the precipice of arrogance, Sir Bard. Still, it may yet serve you well in our kingdom. Come! Stand with me and watch the sea."

The Countess interlocked her arm with his and rested her head against his shoulder. Her breaths were in tune with the tide; her bodice rose and fell with each crashing wave.

"Sir Bard? Would you be so kind as to look to the east wall? There is a sight that is absolutely breathtaking at this time of the day. You simply must witness it."

"It must be a vision sent straight from the heavens!" he said, freeing his arm from the Countess's embrace. He found himself missing the warmth of her body after only a few paces; the way her perfume enhanced the salt permeating the air. "Perhaps I shall craft it into such a song that it will turn to legend after only one recit—"

You've traveled into a realm of lunacy, you fool of a bard!

A dead man hung upside-down by an iron chain and a thick rod driven through the poor soul's ankles. The man had not died well. A bolt from a crossbow protruded from between empty eye sockets. The same calming winds that massaged the Bard's face stripped rotting skin from the dead man's bones and left them to flutter free like leaves in autumn.

"Where are your manners, Sir Bard? Say hello to the last of your ilk to grace our kingdom with his presence."

_Now would be the opportune time to make a strategic exit_. The Bard turned only to discover his path blocked by two guards holding crossbows. Their faces were hidden behind leather masks of blue and green, but the sadism they intended to reap upon him churned in their eyes.

"He was still alive when they tossed him over," the Countess said, trailing behind the Bard like a specter. "The gulls came at low tide, taking his eyes and tongue first. The beasts seem to favor those as some sort of delicacy. After that, they flayed him until his highness granted the poor soul leniency."

" _Leniency?_ What possible crime could he have committed to justify such wanton barbarism?"

"Virtue, I am afraid. Per our arrangement, he was to create a song honoring King Randall the Splendid's victory over the demonic hordes that had infested the kingdom. Alas, your colleague took umbrage with this task."

"Demonic hordes? Milady, surely one as learned as yourself knows there is no such thing."

"Quite so. Yet, King Randall does not." The Countess looped her arm back underneath the Bard's. There was a chill to her touch. _A soullessness_ , he thought. _Any part that lived has long since fled her_.

"The story goes that my liege was being bathed by a serving-girl. A tow-headed peasant woman working off her father's debt to the Briny Throne. Whereas we all saw nothing but a frightened girl, the king saw pure evil, with serpents for eyes and rot pouring from its mouth.

"Hence, the Great Purge began. Those of golden-white hair were rounded up and cleansed under the holy wrath of our king. He personally oversaw the righteous deaths and rebirths of over four hundred souls. Their tainted blonde blood was ankle-deep when all was said and done. There is a statue — you will see it in the square during the ceremony — dedicated to our liege's selfless defense of the realm. Fear not, Sir Bard! The days of the Great Purge are long past us now. Besides, the crimson hue of your whiskers will protect you from such demons."

The Bard wanted nothing more than to be rid of this foul woman's touch, to be free from the poisonous fanaticism towards an insane despot. Yet, he knew that to flee would be to die. The guards' tight grips on their crossbows served as a stark reminder of such folly.

"Oh, look at the turn of the tide! I do apologize, but there are other matters of state and country that require my attention." Countess Morana slipped free from the Bard and crossed the room with such speed that she appeared to float. "These men will show you to your quarters and provide you with scrolls and accurate accounts of the king's deeds. Everything you require to create the godly poem that I know dwells within your bosom."

The guards edged behind the Bard until their foul, fish-smelling breath trailed down the nape of his neck. "I don't suppose that I can decline this position?" he said.

"Oh, it is far too late for that," the Countess called over her shoulder. "Your decision was made for you the very moment you stepped onto our docks."

"So, that's it then? Write an epic celebrating a maniac or face death?"

The Countess's joyless laughter reverberated off the black cliffs. "My dear Bard, this is Mesa. You could be put to death if the King doesn't like the length of your tunic."

~~~~~

"Kill the heretics!"

"Burn them! Rip them apart!"

_Charming lot, the people of Mesa_. The Bard looked over the crowd as they watched the king's guard march out another cadre of prisoners. The spectators gathered early in the newly completed courtyard of the Royal Palace. The standard fixtures were present: the drunken revelers, the scared children throwing stones that their equally frightened parents handed to them. The truly enraged — though few and far between — were also present, lurking just under the surface of the monster made of a thousand faces.

"For acts of treason against the divine rule of King Randall the Splendid, First of his Name, these souls are condemned to the slow death of evisceration," announced the master of ceremonies, an unpleasant, shrill-voiced man named Huntzinger.

The crowd erupted in cheers, but there was a hint of something in their tone that the Bard noticed. _Any bard worth his salt knows when an audience is not all that captive_ , he thought. _This crowd is merely doing what is expected of them_.

The guards positioned the doomed in lines of three. Long knives with serrated edges hovered over the torsos of the prisoners while they waited for the killing order to be given.

Behind them, on a throne carved from whale bone, sat the king. Randall had the look of a well-fed corpse that would burst with noxious gasses if one were but to poke him with a stick. He remained motionless save for the constant caressing of a gold-plated crossbow in his lap.

The feigned bloodlust of the crowd was silenced as the mad king raised a single open hand to the sky. King Randall smiled, revealing crooked teeth wrought with decay, and clenched his hand into a fist.

With their liege's blessing, the executioners began the day's work. Blood poured from the stomachs of the captives. Their entrails were torn from them and looped around their necks. Their wails were only overshadowed by the frenetic laughter of the king.

_His insanity and cruelty make for the perfect incestuous union_ , the Bard thought, turning his back on the carnage. He sipped from a flagon of wine he had hidden in his tunic, pausing to sniff it to counteract the metallic stench of blood in the air.

"Imbibing a bit of the nectar of the gods, Sir Bard?"

The Bard swallowed a mixture of wine and bile as Countess Morana made her entrance. She wore an exquisite gown of purple and gold with intricate images of creatures of the sea sewn into the arms. "Milady. You are dressed as if you are about to celebrate something."

"I am so happy that your time in my home did not put a halt to your sharp tongue," she replied, keeping her face an empty canvas. "I would think that you would want to keep every wit you have when you perform, wouldn't you agree?"

"Your concern is touching." The Bard tipped more wine into his mouth. "No doubt this is just a release of all the pent-up caring you could not show me while I was locked in that room for a fortnight."

"A regrettable precaution. As I explained to you a half-dozen times, your confinement was for your own protection. The streets of Mesa are built on the backs of cutthroats and thieves. We simply could not risk anything _unbecoming_ happening to you, my dear Bard. What would the king say if — instead of a poem fit for a god — all we had to present to him was your looted corpse?"

A high-pitched shriek obliterated any chance the Bard had to retort. A tall prisoner was dying rather poorly below them, much to the delight of the crowd, who cheered louder as the guard struggled to free his blade from the condemned's bowels.

"Evisceration is such a dull show," the Countess sighed. She looked out at the growing pile of dying prisoners with boredom bordering on the suicidal. "Unless you dig in deep, the poor bastards will linger on for hours, sometimes even days. I do hope you have saved your voice, Sir Bard. It appears you are going to have to project quite loudly."

_It is such a pity that the layers of make-up she wears do not contain toxins_ , he thought, imagining how wonderful it would be to watch her throat swell until she choked on her own tongue.

Huntzinger jogged down the hall, accompanied by a squad of four guards. The portly man had to pause to catch his breath several times.

"Milady," he wheezed, sweat dripping down his nose like raindrops. "Sir Bard, it is nearly time! You must come with me at once! It doesn't bode well to keep his highness waiting!"

"And with that, I bid you farewell, Sir Bard. I do so hope we meet again before the end. I have found your company to be rather _edifying_ , in a crude sort of manner."

_I wonder, Milady, to which 'end' you are referring?_ The Bard took her hand and brought it to his lips, as custom dictated, the whole time willing himself not to break every finger.

"Come now, Sir Bard! The crowd is fickle! Constant gratification or the mouth-breathers are liable to start fornicating in the streets!"

~~~~~

Huntzinger all but lead the Bard by the hand as they walked into the circus of bloodthirsty sadism. The crowd awoke from a sluggish slumber to cheer the next attraction.

"My friends! It is now time for a rare treat. With us today, from lands far and wide, comes one of the most renowned storytellers of our generation. He is a man of such note, that King Randall the Splendid — in all his godly wisdom — personally selected him to tell the greatest, most important tale of our time, the Tale of His Majesty, King Randall!"

The Bard hid his cringing at the Master of Ceremonies' voice by pretending to swat at a fly.

The introduction went on for some length, allowing the servants the appropriate time to clear the stage of the dead and dying. The blood had stained the new marble, so a bright blue carpet was laid out for the performance. The Bard avoided tiny clumps of intestines as he walked onto the stage, then kicked several pieces of flesh off the platform, much to the delight of the mob.

"Good day to you all, you patriots and faithful servants of Mesa!" The Bard said with a forced grin. "Thank you for your thunderous applause! But, alas, we are not here to celebrate me!"

The crowd responded with enthusiastic laughs and cheers, as if on cue.

"Why, how very unexpected! I thank you all, you wondrous heroes and heroines of Mesa. It has been quite a decade for you all, hasn't it? A peace unlike any you have known in your lifetimes! All thanks to the wisdom and divine leadership of your very own King Randall!

"And now — with the king's permission — I shall sing to you the tale of his Highness's rise to the throne he _so justly_ earned."

The Ruler of Mesa caressed his golden crossbow and smiled. "Proceed, kind sir! Tell us all of my exploits!" He regarded the entertainer in the same manner a pet serpent would its afternoon mouse, something that he could toy with for a time before devouring whole.

The Bard raised his hands over his head and breathed in the salty air, trying to find the words — his words — memorized over two agonizing weeks in his corner of hell.

O, Mesa, O friends, heed my tale

Woven not of villains and heroes,

But of truth, and should I fail

In my attempt, wouldst thou

Allow truth to perish on my lips?

Upon thy rear the sea doth encroach

Waiting to reclaim this wayward child

Toward your dwellings, waves do approach,

Yet Mesa fears not such a Natural wild

With perfect balance which never tips.

Unlike man, towards murder, unjustified death,

Blood painting thy streets, be-speckling walls

Until crimson and sorrow became all that was left

For what turns not to rubble when tyrants won't fall

Such patterns repeating thus carnage ensues.

A decade ago brought a semblance of peace

To a realm daring not to dream of such possibilities,

Until King Randall's ascension caused bloodshed to cease.

Barely more than a babe, yet great in sensibilities

For more blood he refused to pursue.

Instead breaking the back of the beast, revolution,

Sin hurled back into black depths from whence it did crawl,

Those lusting for the fight sealed their own ruination

By foregoing civility, they themselves did maul,

Paving the way for greatness — such rot and decay.

No rest for the weary, nor for the wicked, indeed.

The Splendid's first year lacked activity not,

For antiquated gods created the continuous bleed —

Divine wars, the messiest, as it their wont —

Until finally the vanquished are sent on their way.

Falsity done in, the King moved toward matters politic

The affluent trampled o'er each other to secure their right

The callous disregard for their fellow man was comic.

Try and name someone not crippled by those with might.

Oh, Mesa, this wouldst serve as merely the start of your dismay.

The game was rigged. A vicious cheat.

The burden lay on not on the Haves, but have-nots,

If payment didn't come, a terrible fate they meet.

The God-King needs subjects for the games he plots.

Here is the so-called justice, lest thou think I jape

Robbing,

Fratricide,

Strong-arming,

Matricide,

And worst of all, the gift of rape

Claiming godly will, The King pursued this definition of peace

Behind closed doors, all of Mesa wept

Praying to half-forgotten Gods that the carnage would cease

None listened save for one who slept.

Sanity has forsaken this place. Reason squashed like a grape.

The decadent malevolence reached its peak with the slaying of the demon.

Sin, long-thought drowned in the stygian deep, found itself returned

Hair the color of the sun being the telltale sign of infection.

The God-King knew this to be the battle of his time. Evil must be burned.

The Great Purge was undertook, In the defense of his good name.

Blonde was the color of the one, true enemy. Those marked were put to slaughter,

Not before the torments of their damned souls were reaped upon their bodies.

Scalps of flaxen-hair adorned the Briny Throne, making the King's seat softer.

The gulls of sea grew fat upon the corpses so proudly strewn o'er the abbeys.

Upon hearing this, O'Mesa, I have nothing save for disdain!

Oh, my friends heed my words! Sit idle in fear no longer!

For thou live in Mesa! A realm where zealotry does not stand.

Thy ruler is but no God, merely a man, of whom you are the stronger!

Rise up from fear and rise into hate! Let the next stanza serve as your first command!

Rise up and knock the bastard liar—

A sudden jarring stole the breath from his lungs. A crossbow bolt protruded out from his tunic. He rocked from his heels to the tips of his toes, his hand clutching his breast as the blood blossom stretched further across his finery.

The king appeared before him. His wrath so palpable the Bard thought he saw smoke billowing from Randall's nostrils. He did not speak and simply reloaded his golden weapon, his upper lip curled into a sneer of pure malice.

"My Lord," the Bard said, his words slurring like a drunkard. "Was it something I said?"

The entire crowd held its collective breath at the aspersion. Even the mighty ocean that flanked the kingdom seemed to be silenced until the quiet was shattered by an ear-splitting scream. Randall's scream. He berated the Bard for his insolence and made accusations of treason and heresy.

The Bard — for his part — heard none of this. His hearing faded until all he heard was his own heartbeat. _I hope he gets on with it soon_. Thoughts of the final sleep followed him all the way down to the stained royal carpet as his legs gave out from underneath him.

Bright rays of sunlight beat down on his eyes until the king lumbered over him, shading him with a makeshift eclipse. Randall aimed the crossbow at the Bard's throat, choosing to kill the poet in the most ironic manner possible.

_Well, at least they won't feed me to those damned gulls_. The Bard closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.

His heart beat for several moments, but justice still had not been delivered.

_What in the hell is taking so long?_ Perplexed, the Bard dared to open an eye.

King Randall the Splendid was anything but. He stood hunched over as the crowd bombarded him with debris. Clumps of dirt exploded in brown and black clouds, staining his Highness's clothes. A well-aimed chunk of cobblestone struck his hand, causing the instrument of the Bard's death to clatter to the ground.

Despite the rod of metal jutting out of his torso, the Bard rolled onto his side to face his audience. The people of Mesa — long oppressed — were now a wrathful beast ready to devour those that had harmed them.

"Kill the King!"

"Down with the Madman!"

"Guards! Guards!" Randall shouted over his kingdom's unified voice. "To me! Protect me! This — this _demon_ has beguiled our people with his forked tongue! Kill him and the spell shall break! _Hurry!_ "

A squad of guards marched onto the stage and positioned themselves between the crowd and their ruler. Each man carried a long pike stained with blood from the earlier executions. Their presence exacerbated the crowd's rage. Stones flew with increased frequency until it appeared as if the sky was raining rubble.

"The demon is increasing the potency of the spell! Kill him! Kill him!"

A brave guard broke rank and moved to end the fallen Bard. He only managed two paces before a large stone crashed against his helm and knocked him to one knee.

With this act, the people of Mesa pounced. Three men leapt onto the stage and attacked the dazed guard. The poor man was disarmed and thrown screaming into the welcoming arms of a grateful kingdom in moments. The remaining guards put up a semblance of a fight before they too became fodder for the mob.

_Pity I won't know how this story ends_ , the Bard thought as he saw Huntzinger's head dashed against the ground until his brains spilled out against the feet of his murderers.

The Bard said a silent prayer that the people of Mesa would over-look him in their bloodlust. He watched the remaining chaos unfold until blood-loss from the wound pulled him into a dreamless slumber.

~~~~~

"Sir Bard? Sir Bard? Are you still amongst us mortals?"

Despite their reluctance, his eyes forced themselves open upon hearing the Morana's voice. _Damned Syren is bringing me back to dash me against the rocks_.

"Ah! There you are! I almost considered you lost to us!" she said, her words a mixture of feigned sincerity and outright hostility. She sat on the far edge of the very large bed he had been slumbering in, regarding him like an animal that she ought to have put down.

"Milady," he finally said, coughing up tiny blood-lined bubbles. "To what do I owe this pleasant visit? Was your grief over my near-death experience so all-encompassing that you simply couldn't function until you rushed to my sick-bed to nurse me back to health?"

The sarcasm was bitter and black. The Bard cared not if the Regent ordered his throat cut right then and there. To his shock, Morana laughed. Not the polite laughter without meaning that all nobility were well-versed in, but true laughter. _I wonder where the real Countess is being held_ , he thought.

"Oh, my dear, sweet, Bard!" she said, wiping a tear from her eye. "You do entertain me so! I knew that you would perform your task to perfection, and you did not disappoint!"

"What in the ruddy hell are you talking about? I've been shot! Perforated by a mad king, no less! How in any sense of the word, would any of that be considered a success?"

"I wonder how someone so witty can possess no wit at all."

Fury erupted inside the Bard. He fully intended to bid the Countess a stern farewell and board the next ship to anywhere but the bolt wound in his chest had other plans. The stitches grew taut in his flesh, introducing him to a pain he previously considered to be unimaginable.

He collapsed back into the feather-soft linens in a heap of sweat. "Why," he gasped, swallowing his own blood only to cough up more moments later. "Why am I still alive?"

"Do you recall the saying about Mesa? ' _Woe be unto those who linger too long in Mesa. For it is a land stained so thick with blood the tides themselves cannot cleanse it.'_ King Randall lingered far too long in this place and it was time for him to be ... removed."

The Bard was overcome with a sudden chill that turned his skin a sickly pallor. "You _wanted_ the riot to happen."

"Of course I wanted the riot to happen, my dear, injured poet. You cannot have a revolution without rousing the rabble."

"You couldn't simply act against Randall, though," the Bard tented his fingers under his nose. Injured or not, the machinations of the Countess had him completely engrossed. "No, no, an outright attack against his sovereignty would have been far too bold for someone as calculating as yourself. You required another way to get what you wanted."

"And you provided that way, Sir Bard. After all, who better than a man of the people to get the people to awaken from their fear-induced slumber?"

"Yet, your plan was not without risk, Milady. What if I had decided to write the poem you hired me to do? One celebrating Randall's cruelty as gospel? Your plan would have been sunk, as my words would have turned him into the very god he claims to be."

A breeze of sea air rushed through the room as Countess Morana rose from the bed, blowing her brown hair behind her. She walked into the gust with her eyes closed and arms outstretched, as if trying to embrace the sensation. She did not speak again until the last remnants of the wind slipped through her fingers.

"Will you do me the honor of walking with me once more? I have one more item that requires your attention."

"On any other day, there would be nothing I'd prefer to do more, Milady. However, as you can see, I cannot even lift myself from my sickbed, let alone walk in the ocean breeze."

"I am afraid I really must insist," Morana nodded and two masked guards tore the sheets from the bed and seized the Bard. "Fear not for your injuries, my dear, precious Bard! My guards shall assist you with the _greatest_ of care."

His crossbow wound sang its own song as he was lifted to his feet by gloved hands. His legs wobbled as the guards shoved him forward. A fresh coat of sweat covered him as he reached the Countess. She paid his state no mind and hooked her arm under his, as she did upon their first meeting.

"To answer your query, if you had done what you were paid to do, my agents within the crowd had instructions to denounce you as a mouthpiece for a tyrant and assassinate you. The riot would have begun, regardless."

The Bard stopped short. "You meant me to be a martyr."

"Or another dead villain buried in the funeral pyre that rages in the Courtyard. Either mattered not to me, as long as my goal was achieved."

They came out to the portico where the impossible task was first bestowed upon the Bard. The calming presence of the place had been wiped away. A column of guards clutching swords lined the perimeter. The waves of the sea were drowned out by terrible screams of agony.

"And now, Sir Bard, we come to the finish. After all, every tale needs a proper ending, wouldn't you agree?"

"I would, Milady." The Bard regarded the grim faces of the guards with trepidation. Each man tightened his grip on his weapon as the Countess walked past. Some even spat on the ground before the Bard.

"The one thing that I did not anticipate was your survival. You have an innate ability to cling to life that is both impressive and frustrating. The question that looms over me this day is, just what should I do with you?"

"If you are asking for my opinion, might I suggest a place on the next ship to the pleasure dens of Cartok? Perhaps several barrels of the finest mead to warm my belly on the long voyage?"

Morana snorted a single short laugh. "You are entertaining. Even in a situation as dire as the one you are now in, you cannot help but let honeyed words flow. It would be a pity for you to meet the same gruesome ending as the poor fellow hanging over the ledge."

Another man was held in place with a rod of metal driven through his ankles. His arms were bound behind him, leaving him exposed for the scavenging birds. The gulls enveloped him, flocking away as he screamed and smashed himself against the cliff, only to circle back for more of his flesh.

It was as the flock broke up that the Bard recognized the man. "Gods above! The King!"

" _Former_ King, actually. Though I do suppose that is an interesting philosophical question. Does he still retain the title even though he no longer sits upon the throne?"

Randall turned his gaze upward. "You! You did this to me, Heretic! You will soon join me in death! I shall be waiting for you in the deepest level of Hell to torment you until the end of ti—"

The biggest seagull the Bard had ever seen put an end to Randall's tirade. It reached into his open mouth and clamped its beak down upon his pink tongue, tearing it up by the root with a swift jerk of its head. Crimson spurted up like a geyser before plummeting into the ocean below. The screams were replaced with a low gurgle, as the king choked on his own blood.

The Bard turned from the edge of the world and promptly vomited. He was still retching when Morana knelt down beside him. "I see you still think this to be barbarism."

"I wonder," the Bard said, wiping vomit from his rust-colored beard.

"Hmm? Oh, do speak up, Sir Bard. I cannot abide a mumbler."

"I said, I wonder, will you grant him leniency?"

Morana glanced down at the King. A smaller bird attempted to fly off with a piece of the man's cheek, but a few stubborn sinews clung to the bone, refusing the winged beast its prize.

"No," she said, regarding Randall with a smirk. "No, I much rather prefer him this way. It's the most fun he's been in years.

"Now that you have seen the fruits of our labor — for I cannot claim sole credit for this great victory — my mind wanders back to the question of the day. Simply what am I going to do with you?"

The Bard stood only to find himself in the clutches of Morana's guards. His feet hovered inches off the ground as they dragged him to the ledge.

"Unhand me at once!" he screamed over and over until a fist stunned him into a momentary silence.

"Oh, have some dignity!" Morana watched the struggle from one of the comfortable sofas, eating grapes from a shaking tray held by a terrified servant. "It is not in keeping with the honor of the immortals to die like a whimpering simpleton. After all, so very few of us get to live forever as you shall. The noble Bard who toppled a tyrant using not a sword, but his words. Why, in time, you may even become a god yourself!"

The Bard was about to spit a mouthful of blood at Morana when one of the guards approached him holding a rusty metal spike. A long chain unfurled behind the guard.

"No! Milady, please! You have no cause for this! I did what you asked of me!"

"And splendidly, I might add. However, if there is one thing that the citizens of Mesa abhor more than a tyrant, it is conspiracy. It simply wouldn't do if they were to discover that their liege and rightful ruler was disposed through anything but their own desire to rebel. Can you imagine what they would do if they realized the mastermind was their new queen? I tremble at the thought!"

"Queen? You?"

"Why, of course! You didn't think that my actions stemmed from an overwhelming sense of patriotism did you?"

_Why should she be any different than the rest of these maniacs?_ the Bard thought as the guards shredded the pants from his legs, prepping them for the placement of the spike.

"Do you now understand my dilemma? You are an outsider, privy to sensitive information that if revealed, would unravel the web I have spun and plunge the country into chaos and civil war. I cannot allow you to leave here with your life. 'Tis a shame. I really did enjoy your talents."

The new queen nodded to the guard holding the spike. The man lifted the Bard's legs onto his thigh and stuck the point into the soft flesh above the poet's ankle, slowly twisting it until the metal penetrated the skin.

"Let me serve you!"

The procedure halted as the guard looked to his new ruler. He swallowed hard, for he knew that with even the slightest misstep it would be him that dangled from the cliffs.

Queen Morana folded her hands across her chest. "Serve me? In what possible manner would you serve me?"

"Milady, you forget that you are speaking to the man who single-handedly roused an entire kingdom from a crippling terror. Having a hero of the people by your side, singing your praises and supporting your succession to the Briny Throne would lend tremendous credibility to your reign."

Intrigue flashed in Morana's blue eyes as another gull flew by, dropping pieces of the former king onto the ground. "Continue," she said, hypnotized by the words.

"Proclaim me the official Bard of Mesa. Tell the crowds that my heart and soul have been claimed by the people, and that I am their voice and will continue to stoically serve and protect them, just as would my inspiration, you, the new Queen!"

Morana waved the guards off the Bard. He prostrated himself before her. "My Queen!" he said.

He glanced up to find her outstretched hand hanging limp overhead. The Bard kissed it, noting how fragile it felt against his own.

"Rise, Sir Bard! Rise and claim your place in my court!"

He rose until the queen's eyes looked up at him at his full height. Gone was the emotionless void from her face, replaced with an overflowing sense of joy.

"Come along, Sir Bard! There is much to be done. The loyalists that did not flee have gone to ground. The little bastards are burrowing deep, and I mean that in both the literal and figurative sense my dear, sweet poet. We must find them and open their throats. Along with any of those who have provided them with refuge from the coming justice, of course."

"Of course, my Queen." The Bard's stomach churned as he forced the words out. _How much can I feign pleasure in hunting down people? How long before she realizes my enthusiasm is a facade and I end up back here dangling upside-down next to Randall's corpse?_

He contemplated simply hurling himself over the parapet when something caught his eye. It was inconspicuous at first glance, but a second look revealed it to him as plain as day.

Behind them marched two of the Queen's personal guard; menacing men who clutched crossbows with ill intent. Yet, despite their blank faces, their eyes betrayed their true feelings. Both men looked at the Bard — not the Queen — with pleading eyes.

Can you get rid of this one too?

"Sir Bard? I do believe that you are ignoring me!"

"Hm? A thousand pardons, my Queen. You see, I was mulling over some composition for your coronation, and I am afraid that the words claimed my attention and brought me into the warm embrace of Lady Inspiration. Again, my sincerest apologies, your Grace, it shan't happen again whilst I am in your divine presence."

The Queen nodded and continued with her plans for Mesa. The Bard stood closer to his new employer as they walked deeper into the estate, until the death knell of King Randall grew faint in their ears.

"Sir Bard," the Queen said as they walked into the courtyard. "I would very much like to hear more about your creative process. Do you believe that actual spirits come down and take you whenever they deem fit?"

The Bard looked back at the two apprehensive guards. "Well, my Queen," he said with a smirk, "one never knows when inspiration is going to strike."

_Kyle Rader is a writer who doesn't like to color inside the lines. He has written across multiple genres with the expressed goal of doing the unexpected and, most importantly, not boring his readers. His most recent publications have appeared in Dark Moon Eclipse magazine, Insomnia Press, and The Rusty Nail Magazine. He can be followed on Twitter @youroldpalkile or on his website_ <http://kylerader.wordpress.com/> _He lives in New Hampshire and enjoys playing guitar poorly, yelling at his television, and annoying his long-suffering girlfriend who is way too awesome to be hanging around with him._

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#  Open the Doors, and See All the People

by Sarah Ennals; published November 15, 2013

Third Place Award, November 2013 Fiction Contest

" _First, God came for the Fundies, and I did nothing, because they'd been praying for Him to do that for decades."_

~~~~~

It was just over two months since the Rapture, or what everyone was still calling the Rapture, even though those of us left behind weren't being pelted with scorpions, there were no obvious candidates around for the Antichrist — though one or two attention-seekers had tried to claim they were — and life was generally getting back to normal.

There hadn't been that many people taken, for one thing. Almost none outside the U.S. I wasn't sure if that was because the rest of the world really was as sinful as Americans had always suspected, or because the foreign Christians just hadn't included the Rapture in their beliefs. Even here in the Midwest, there still seemed to be plenty of churches around that seemed okay with still being here. One or two of them expressed shock in public statements. Most of the rest had offered condolences and grief-counseling to people who'd had family Raptured, and then just got on with whatever it was they'd been doing before.

You'd think there would have been more abandoned houses, but the banks had claimed most of them while the wrangling went on over whether their owners were legally dead. If they weren't, they were currently defaulting on their mortgage payments. The manager of Twin Rivers' local bank, though, had belonged to the megachurch on the edge of town, and had disappeared with the rest of the congregation. The remaining bank employees, understandably a little nervous about moving in on the properties of their former boss's friends, had hired my freelance cleaning service to investigate and maintain the empty homes.

I'd been going through the church records alphabetically, and by "L" I was starting to encounter squatters if I was lucky, rancid meals on the table if I wasn't. Thank God the world hadn't ended, and the power was still running to the refrigerators, or the job would have been a hundred times worse. Well, everything would have been a hundred times worse, I suppose.

Today I was in front of an empty home with a surprisingly neat yard, explained when an old man called to me from across the street:

"You from the bank?" A hat shielded his eyes from the sun, and more or less kept his long grey hair from falling in his face.

"Not exactly. The bank just hired me to come round and clean up." I walked over and handed him one of my cards. He surveyed me suspiciously but said nothing. Actually I preferred his cautious assessment to over-friendliness or instant rejection.

"I've been trimming their lawn," he said. "It's no trouble when I'm already cutting my own, and I guess it's like keeping a grave tidy, you know?" He petted the German Shepherd that had been looking around his leg at me, and it came out onto the stoop, wagging its tail. "They had a dog in the back yard, too; I've taken him to live here. That's not going to get me in trouble, is it?" I shook my head, and he became friendlier.

"Guess animals really don't have souls, unless the dog's as sinful as me. No call to have left it to starve, though." He held out his hand. "I'm Bob Frost, like the poet, only not."

"Ester DeBennedetti."

"I'm not sure what they called the dog," said Bob, "but he answers to Dog."

I went back to his neighbor's house, unlocked the door with my master key, and looked around. Not too bad except for the dust. No smell. They must have had lunch early that day or been planning to have it later. The clothes of those who'd been Raptured were always found lying in heaps, but their stomach contents always seem to have gone with them. A few internet forums hotly debated what, if anything, this proved. I was just glad I had less to mop up.

The place was a small ranch-style house, but the floors were a nice hardwood, only a little scratched; there were area rugs in a brown and green geometric design. Good choice, I thought, recalling the dog. A sofa with brown upholstery and a lot of throw pillows faced a flatscreen TV. The owners hadn't segregated the house into man-cave and shabby-floral territories; I guess that spoke well of their marriage.

I switched on the TV, as I always did, just to see what channel it was set to. Usually it was news or sports. This time it was sports. I changed it to an entertainment channel and let the music play as I went around the house. There was a pair of jeans and a pale blue t-shirt on the floor of the laundry room in back; the bra and panties inside confirmed that they were from a Raptured body. I picked them up and put them in the washing machine, along with the contents of the laundry basket. Next to a jug of detergent was an unopened bag of dog food. I put it aside to give to Bob Frost for the dog, then set the detergent on top of the machine and continued my sweep of the house. The jeans and t-shirt had been Arlene Ladd's, per the records, and there had been a five-year-old daughter, Keelie, at home too.

Dwight Ladd, the father, had been Raptured from the power station where he worked. He was one of the people who'd vanished in plain view of others; people brought his case up when anyone suggested the whole phenomenon was some kind of hoax.

Keelie's drawings were on the fridge in the kitchen, and her striped leggings and t-shirt dress were behind the breakfast bar. You got used to finding things like this after a while, and though my heart squeezed a bit, it was nothing I hadn't expected.

I added Keelie's clothes to the wash, started the cycle, then went back to the living room and turned up the volume on the music before I started in on tidying the rest of the house. When the fridge was emptied and cleaned, I transferred the clothes to the spin dryer and looked around for what to do next. Arlene had kept a tidy house, so there wasn't much to do but dust a few surfaces. I didn't want to rearrange anything. If the Ladds came back, or if they were finally pronounced legally dead and their next-of-kin inherited the place, neither would find it any the worse for their absence.

Finally, I sat down on the couch and flipped the TV back to sports before turning it off. I thought of making a cup of coffee, but I hadn't seen any instant stuff in the cupboards, and I didn't want to clean the machine afterwards. Besides, I'd forgotten to bring along any milk. I got up and dusted, and by then the dryer had stopped, so I could fold the clothes and put them away.

Afterwards, I knocked on Bob's door and handed over the bag of dog food.

"His name's Brett," I said. "Their kid had a drawing of him on the fridge." Brett looked up and wagged his tail, but then he'd been doing that all along. He sniffed at the bag and whined a little.

"They were nice folks," said neighbor Bob. "Damn shame they're gone — I mean, I guess it's what they wanted, but you never know, do you?"

~~~~~

Dwight took off his respirator and safety goggles and descended to the control room. He checked everything, and went online to the chatroom the remaining power and water employees had set up:

<dwight33>water in the cooling towers 90 degrees F. added chlorine.

<dwight33>whos in the room

<fishbone>im in atlanta.

<dwight33>OK there?

<fishbone>2 guys down with the flu and not enough trainees.

<dwight33>i hear ya. hows the treatment plant holding?

<fishbone>they say we might hasve to let the phone lines fail to keep both plants active.

Dwight's stomach knotted.

<dwight33> but the cel towrs are alreay off. evryones on dialup.

<fishbone>waters the priority you know we need the treatment plants and greywater for the cooling towers

<dwight33> i know but how will we keep intouch without chat?

He waited for a reply. In the corner he could see "fishbone is typing" but it was a while before the words came up in chat:

<fishbone>theyre saying chat is just gossip most of the time anyway and that each congregation needs to learn to be independent.

Dwight read this through twice before he typed back:

<dwight33>something going on there?

(fishbone is typing)

(fishbone is typing)

<fishbone>im sorry.

(fishbone has logged out)

When the Faithless had vanished, the Faithful of the area had put their various doomsday preparations into effect; but when forty-eight hours had passed with no sign of zombies or black helicopters, most had ventured out and convened on the church building. They had quickly voted to set up a communal shelter — no one felt like returning to the silent neighborhoods except to collect supplies. Even then it had taken them only a few weeks to move all non-perishable foods to several nearby warehouses. A few holdouts still remained in the nearby woods, but after all attempts to contact them — even by Pastor Burgess — had been met with rifle shots, the rest of the congregation decided to pray for them and give them their space. Dwight and Arlene had been secretly relieved, and suspected they were not the only ones. The Faithful with bunkers had always been a bit of an embarrassment to their less-extreme brethren. Dwight's offer to try to keep the power on had been met with applause — or it had then.

He was so proud of Arlene; of how calm she and the other women had been. Within a day they'd had a school and daycare set up, and began organizing the community's food supply. Only in private had she confessed her feelings to him:

" _I should have witnessed more — poor Bob, and the other families on our street. They might have been saved if I'd tried harder." Dwight had done his best to comfort her, but his thoughts went out to his own co-workers at the power station. He'd wondered what more he could have done to bring them to God in time._

_Of course, that had been at the beginning, when they still thought_ they _were the ones God had spared._

~~~~~

Nearly the end of the day and I had one more stop to make. The congregation's building was registered under the name Lamb of God Christian Community Church, so alphabetically it was next on my list, although it was a couple of miles out in an industrial park on the edge of town. It wouldn't need much cleaning, though, especially since it had already been searched within the first twelve hours after its congregation vanished. Still, I felt uneasy as I drove out to the building, and when it appeared, white in the twilight beyond the black river of its parking lot, it was an effort to open the door of my car and get out. I calmed myself, got the cleaning supplies from the trunk, and made sure I had the right key handy before I approached the big front door.

The place didn't _smell_ like a church, I thought. All the ones I'd grown up with had smelled of varnished wood and hymnbooks; candles if it was around Christmas. This building smelled like an office. It wasn't bad, but it was newer than I was used to. The homes were sad, but they didn't spook me like the church. I was used to working in homes while the owners were away, but this place felt really empty — like it had been scrubbed sterile.

~~~~~

_Stray cats watched Sylvia as she drove out to the clinic. As a vet, she'd tried speaking up shortly after the Faithless vanished about how the pets left behind ought to be put down, or at least spayed and neutered so there wouldn't be packs of starving feral dogs roaming about. But with medical supplies limited and doctors more so, she'd been directed to go to the one clinic that was still open and help with human patients. Most of the dogs that didn't belong to Faithful families had been shot, but a number of cats had eluded the hunt and were rapidly bouncing back in numbers._ At least we won't have to worry about a rat problem _, she told herself._

The few remaining staff at the clinic had proven unsnobbish about working with a veterinarian. For one thing they'd all been too traumatized in the first few days for any kind of sniping at each others' credentials. The casualties of the extremists were quickly treated — all but Pastor Burgess, whose compassion for the more paranoid members of his flock had only earned him a martyrdom. When he slipped into a final coma, and with the rest of the world's human population gone — not dead, not injured, but vanished — there was nothing to do but wait at the clinic and try to take in the enormity of it all. Sylvia recalled the palpable relief in the room when Dr. Stoeger, the senior physician, suggested they focus on preventative medicine and sent people off to go do bacterial counts at the water reservoir. Sylvia had remained behind to do any suturing that might come up; she was by far the most experienced at it.

~~~~~

As I passed through the entrance hall, I glanced at one of the pictures on the wall. It looked like Jesus flipping over a table. Odd choice, I thought, until I realized he was driving the money-changers out of the temple. Still, it wasn't an image I expected in a conservative church. I imagined the vanished participants as enthusiastic followers of the prosperity gospel. The image of Arlene Ladd's crumpled jeans and t-shirt flashed in my mind's eye. She'd been a member, and I felt sorry for thinking badly of her by generalization.

Then an odd thing happened. For a moment, I could smell cooking — beef teriyaki. It was absolutely real, and then it was gone. Not drifted away, not faded, just switched off, as though I had been in one room, and now I was in another. I don't know how long I stood there, with the broom in my hand. Part of me said, "Ignore it and do your job." Part of me said, "Run!"

Another part of me said, "Go check the kitchen, and find out if you're crazy or not."

Well, maybe I was crazy, because as I headed downstairs I could hear voices:

" _Keelie, why aren't you with the other kids? Mommy's got a kitchen full of people to supervise now. Come on, you go back to the other kids before they get worried, and Daddy'll come pick you up later."_

" _Can we take Brett for a walk afterward? Can we go to the mall after that?"_

" _Nobody goes to the mall anymore, sweetiebug. All the stores are — who are you?!"_

The woman looked at me in astonishment, and the little girl ducked behind her mother's legs. Then they winked out like a candle flame.

Slowly, I became aware of my grip on the handrail. I stared at my knuckles, willing my fingers to loosen. Maybe I shouldn't have, because when they did my hand began shaking like the rest of me.

She'd called the girl "Keelie." I hadn't noticed any photos of the Ladds on the walls of their home, but I knew who it was I'd just seen.

And they saw me. I sat down on the step. Arlene mentioned supervising a whole kitchen. There must have been others there, only I hadn't seen or heard them, because—

Because you were only thinking about the Ladds, not the others.

That must be it. I could only connect with individual people because I could only feel for individuals. I tried to concentrate, tried to picture Arlene and Keelie again, but I couldn't make it happen. Brett — she talked about walking Brett. But Brett was still here, with Bob Frost. How did that work? I couldn't figure it out, and the church building had gone silent and sterile again, so I drove home to bed.

~~~~~

The phone rang, a rare thing at the clinic these days. Sylvia recognized the church secretary's voice:

" _Sylvia? Is anyone there free to see a patient?"_

" _You know we are," she snapped, and regretted it immediately. Time was, Ted would only have chuckled at this reply, but he had his hands full now, keeping Lamb of God congregation from splintering. It had been easier to have faith when they had no clear evidence, than it was now that they were all adrift together in a miracle no one could interpret._

" _What's the problem?" she asked, in a gentler tone._

The secretary sighed. "Dwight Ladd took a tumble out at the water plant. Raymond found him when he arrived to start his shift. He's conscious, but thinks one or both arms might be broken. Can you go or send someone to check him out?"

" _I'm on call, but if it's his collarbone I'll want to have one of the regular doctors take a look. Most of my past patients were quadrupeds."_

As it turned out, it was Dwight's collarbone. Dr. Stoeger looked him over when Sylvia and Arlene brought him in (Raymond had helped with the stretcher but stayed to watch the plant. Fortunately Dwight was not a large man.)

" _I'm going to put your arm in a sling," said Stoeger, "but you're going to need to take it easy for a bit. The bones will start to knit in a week or two, but if you're moving around too much they're not going to line up."_

Dwight frowned. "You know none of us can afford to slack off—"

" _It's not slacking off," Arlene interrupted. "It's recovery. You'll be no good to anyone if you don't take the time off."_

" _At the very least you're going to need the sling for a few weeks, otherwise we get what's called a mal-union, and I'll have to break the bone again to straighten it. Can't you get someone to help carry things and push buttons at the plant while you supervise?"_

" _Everyone over the age of nine is already busy with something."_

" _What about someone under the age of nine?" Sylvia asked._

Dwight tilted his head in thought and winced as the posture drew pain through his upper chest.

" _Ow! Gotta learn not to move my head so much."_

" _Keelie's a bright kid," Arlene said. "If the work doesn't involve heavy lifting."_

" _Mostly button-pushing. I'll have to watch my mouth in front of her, though, especially if I'm going to be in this sort of pain." Dwight slouched, cautious this time not to move the wrong way. "Stupid accident ... it's like ... well, it's the way it could have happened anywhere that bothers me. I could have fallen at home, or at church. It wasn't even a job risk, you know?"_

" _When you're trying to run the world with a skeleton staff," Sylvia replied, "every moment of every day is a potential failure point."_

Dwight nodded.

" _Thanks, Doc," he said to Stoeger,"_ and _Doc," he added to Sylvia. "For what it's worth I'm sure you'd have done fine on your own, even if you're not used to collarbones." He turned to the Stoeger: "She saved Brett's leg — Brett's our dog — after he got hit by a car a few years back."_

" _I can't take credit for that. Brett's a mutt, mostly German Shepherd. He's like a wolf — still pretty close to God's creation. There hasn't been much human tampering with his genetics, so he heals faster than us, faster than some poor overbred pug dog."_

~~~~~

I don't remember what I dreamt, or if I dreamt. But I woke the following morning sure that I'd found the key to this mystery, and convinced for a moment it was this realization that had jerked me awake. Then the phone rang again.

"Apple Blossom Housekeeping." Call display showed it was the bank calling.

"Ms. DeBennedetti, I'm calling from Twin Rivers Savings and Loan, we're the ones who contracted you to maintain the Lamb of God church property and the houses of several of its congregation?"

"Yes?"

"Ms. DeBennedetti, we've settled ownership of the properties with the surviving families, and we need you to bring in the keys this afternoon."

"Um, alright. Do I just drop them at the bank building?"

"That'll be fine. We're open till five o'clock."

"Okay." So that was it, then. It was out of my hands, or would be by this afternoon.

That still gives you eight hours. Well, seven and a half if you subtract the driving.

I was beginning to dislike that part of my mind, mainly because it was right. I've worked cleanup for crime scenes. Other people are squeamish about that sort of thing, but it's easy once you get used to it because everyone's already dead. There's nothing you can do for them, and their bodies have been taken off the premises anyway, so you never even have to see them.

But I saw Arlene and Keelie, alive, at the church, and there was no lying to myself about that.

Cursing all the way, I got up, dressed, and drove to Bob Frost's house, hoping to find him at home. He wasn't, and I sat on his front stoop until he returned from walking Brett. The dog wagged his tail at the sight of me, and though I suspected he did that with every human he met, it gave me the courage to tell Bob my thoughts.

When I finished he looked me in the eyes, saying nothing. I gazed back, and after a moment saw his glance flicker up and down my frame. I guessed he was withholding judgment for the moment on whether or not I was crazy, and had moved on to deciding whether or not I was dangerous, and if so, whether humoring me was the lesser or greater risk. At last he stooped to pet Brett, without breaking eye contact.

"Alrighty, then," he said.

We drove out to the church in Bob's ancient Dodge. Brett crouched on the back seat, panting cheerfully and eyeing the scenery as it sped past the car windows. Bob hunched over the wheel.

"Bob? Tell me some more about your neighbors."

"I only talked to them a couple of times," he admitted, "not counting when they tried to witness to me. I said I wasn't interested. They didn't bother me about it again, though, and the father — Dwight — helped me one time when I locked myself out of my car." The old man kept his eyes focused on the road. "Their little girl was one of those solemn little kids. But she used to wave at me when they walked the dog past my house." He gave a short laugh that was like a cough. "Polite little wave, like the Queen of England. See, the thing is Brett, their dog; he's a big dog, but he's a sweetheart, would never bite anybody. I figured they must be all right to raise a good dog and a good kid like that."

The big white building seemed less alarming in the light of day, but by the same token, my visions of the night before seemed ridiculous, and I confessed as much to Bob as he drove.

"Does it make me sound less crazy that I'm wondering if I'm crazy?"

Bob considered this, but I was beginning to get used to his long pauses.

"Seeing as how we live in a world where thousands of people just vanished one day, I figure we can try your suggestion and adjust our ideas of sanity as we go."

We pulled into the parking lot, and I let Brett out of the back seat. As soon as his paws hit the asphalt he sniffed the air, whined softly, and looked up with a confused expression at Bob who was edging himself out on the driver's side.

~~~~~

" _May I speak with my husband alone for a minute?"_

When Sylvia had departed Arlene took Dwight's good arm.

" _I saw something today I can't explain. I'd think I was going crazy, except Keelie saw it too and described it to me without any prompting. There was a woman with a broom coming down the stairs. I didn't recognize her, and I'd recognize anyone here. She was short, sort of heavy, but healthy-looking, with curly hair, dark, and she was wearing a janitor's uniform."_

" _Could she be someone else left behind, who only just now—"_

" _She disappeared when I tried to speak to her. And then Keelie asked, 'Who was that lady, Mommy,' so I know it wasn't my imagination."_

~~~~~

"This is the church." I let us in with the key I had until five o'clock to return.

After the bright light outside the interior of the church was dark and green spots swam before my eyes. I tried to recall the faces I'd seen yesterday, but Brett was tugging at his leash now. Bob peered around.

"Which way?" he said.

"We're in the narthex. The steeple's above us, and the sanctuary is at the other end, but I saw them downstairs where the kitchen and the classrooms are." Indeed, the dog was leading us downwards now. Something moved in the dim at the bottom of the staircase. My heart froze, but it was only a coatroom with a mirrored door.

This is the church.

Brett was straining at his shadow in the glass. I let go of his leash as the dog ran towards another mirror at the end of the hall.

No, towards another Brett, tail wagging. Their noses touched in a sniff—

This is the steeple.

and there was a great lurch

and a non-sound

like when your ears pop

in an elevator.

Open the doors

and See

All

The

People

"Mommy? What's going on?" Keelie picked at the side seam of Arlene's jeans while another woman, in scrubs, reached out to me tentatively. Now the place was full of confused families, and Bob Frost kept shaking everyone's hands vigorously as if he were in the receiving line at a wedding.

"Are you Arlene Ladd?" Heads were peering around doorposts and feet hurrying down carpeted stairs. A lot of them must have been gathered in the sanctuary on the main floor.

"My god," Bob kept saying, "you're back."

Brett, only one of him now, was chasing his own tail and barking happily.

"Back?"

"No one disappeared," I said, "We ... we diverged from each other. That's why the animals were present in both worlds — humans just expect them to be there. They're part of the scenery to us." Dwight was ruffling the dog's fur as his wife picked their daughter up.

"So what happens now, Mrs.—?" Arlene asked me.

"Ester DeBennedetti." I brushed a wisp of hair from Keelie's eyes. "I'd advise getting a good night's sleep, if your neighbors will let you. Right now I don't want to think about the explaining we're all going to have to do to the authorities."

Bob tapped me on the shoulder.

"My car can't hold more than six, although I'd be willing to make a few trips."

"I mean," Arlene interrupted him and turned to me, "what about the others?"

"Others?"

"Not everybody came back. There were — some people broke away from this congregation, after it happened. They're still ... somewhere else. Holed up with guns. They think it's the Tribulation."

I looked her in the eye, this woman in her saccharine pastel-colored t-shirt and mom jeans. I couldn't have helped, Brett couldn't have found them, without someone on the other side.

"We all keep trying to reach each other, I guess."

Sarah Ennals lives in Toronto with her spouse and writes sporadically. Her story 'The Emmet' won the first annual Friends of the Merril Collection Short-Story Contest in 2012, and her most recent publication was a werewolf story for Sky Warrior's Tails of the Pack. When not writing or working at her day job, she draws cartoons, knits, and sews.

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#  Berryblack

by Jez Patterson; published November 19, 2013

"I wasn't expecting you so soon."

"When we got your email, we were so intrigued we wanted to see it right away."

"Of course," Marion said. The two men were young, clean-shaven, and although not dressed in suits, were so smart as to look like they could either be on the way to church or a gallery opening.

Except it was Saturday, not yet midday. They were prompt though — she'd only sent the email yesterday afternoon.

"I'm Michael. This is Anthony."

They were also good-looking enough to be gay, which because of the years she had on them didn't disappoint her as much as it once might have.

"You'd better come in. Miserable day..."

"Isn't it," Anthony said, eyeing the grey wash of sky and performing a jittering little shiver. Proof enough for her.

They were both careful enough to wipe their shoes, partly unbuttoning their jackets but keeping their briefcases beside them on the settee like loyal but indulged dogs.

"Tea? I was just making a cup."

"That would be lovely."

"Yes, lovely," agreed Anthony. When they were resettled, tea poured and complimented, Michael sucked up a _it's-a-pity-but-we-should-get-to-business_ breath.

"Well, Marion. If we could see the artifact in question?"

"Oh. Of course. I wouldn't want you thinking I was one of those cranks. One of those mad women who have got imaginations bigger than the moon." She left them to fetch it, a secret little thrill that she was about to share her find vying with the expectation of $5,000.

' _An encounter with aliens or alien technology? The UFOlogy Institute pays up to $500 for your stories, $5,000 for physical proof and artifacts. Telephone or email to speak to one of our operatives. We take you seriously because we take our business seriously.'_

She'd seen a link to their page when she'd gone online to try and find out exactly what the thing was.

"I always go up onto the hills this time of year to pick blackberries. They're wonderful in pies, or just mixed with apple and eaten with a dollop of sour cream. I know it's terrible and probably forbidden..." She paused and they made the necessary noises of forgiveness and understanding. "But I wanted just a small clipping for my garden and when I saw what it was like inside... Well, you can see for yourself."

She handed the length of stem to Michael and he took it reverently, being careful where he placed his fingers. The blackberries still attached were huge and ripe, the leaves still pert and green. They should have wilted quickly after being cut from the main bush. Evidence enough there was something unique about the sample.

But when one looked at the stem's cross-section...

"I saw something similar mentioned on your website. That's what convinced me to get in contact with you."

"Yes," said Michael, after he'd passed it to Anthony to examine. "We found posting examples made people far more willing to come forward with their finds."

"Have there been others like it?"

"Unfortunately, I can't officially confirm anything — we guard the confidence of our clients very strictly. But, well, between you and me, we're very excited by your discovery."

Marion beamed.

"What's it for?" she asked then, startling the men. "I mean, I can see there's some kind of electronics inside because of the wires poking out. But the fruit is real because I'd already tried some. Delicious, in fact. It's why I took that particular cutting in the first place. I figured it must have something to do with the thorns."

"Really? Why do you say that?" Michael's voice was oddly flat, but Marion thought it was probably just professional pride that she might have out-guessed their own conclusions as to what it was.

But she'd had time to think, do a bit of examining herself.

"The thorns have a wee little hole in their ends. I looked. I even broke one off and saw where a tiny wire threaded into the stem."

Anthony nodded, pointing at the gap for Michael to confirm a thorn was missing. "I figure it must be to either inject something into an animal that scratches itself on it, or to take some of their blood. I think people would notice dead animals lying about, even though we've had our share of Myxomatosis with the poor rabbits up there. So it's probably the latter.

"When I went to give blood, they took a tiny sample by pricking my ear. Not even what you'd call a drop. This plant could be used to collect samples. Maybe to work out their DNA. Better than dragging people off to their spaceships and doing those strange experiments on them with probes and suchlike. No one would ever know, and the fruit would attract them no shortage of specimens."

"That's a very astute supposition," Michael said, his smile high on his cheeks as if pegged on a washing line strung far too tight. "And why would they do that?"

"Research purposes, databases, maybe even to — I don't know — make their own versions of the animals they found?"

Marion let out a tribbling laugh and Michael and Anthony both paused before coughing out their own echoing versions.

"Well, if you could find the thorn that you removed. And, of course, we'd need to know the precise location. I think we can safely say your find is of interest to us."

"Really? Oh, I am glad..."

"I can write you the check for $5,000 now. Once you tell us the location, I think we can double that."

"I'll get the map from the kitchen and mark it for you."

"That would be..."

The doorbell sounded. Michael and Anthony exchanged glances.

"You haven't contacted anyone else about this? You do know we require exclusivity in these matters."

"Well, I wasn't sure if you'd respond, so I did write to another place offering something similar. The ALIentomology Bureau? If it's them, I'll tell them the matter is already being handled."

"It'll be them," Michael said. "If you'll allow me? Anthony will assist you with the other matter."

He went to the door whilst Marion, flustered more by her faux pas than someone else answering her front door for her, went to the kitchen to show Anthony where she'd made her remarkable find.

~~~~~

"Michael," said the woman standing on the doorstep. He looked behind her, saw she was either alone or her companion was somewhere waiting in the car or — more likely — van. The Bureau always preferred vans.

"You're wasting your time. It's one of ours."

"You wouldn't be lying to me, Michael? We both know what the Accord says. We are also both old enough in this game to know people lie."

"Not this time. It's just a cell sampler."

"Ahh, one of your biotec butt-scratchers." She smirked. "When will you scientist-types learn to catalog where you place your equipment?"

"The same moment you military-types learn to fly craft without crashing them."

"Touché." Her face abruptly turned grey, like the sky. "How much does she know?"

"She's not a security risk," Michael said, avoiding answering the question directly. She stared at him. Hard.

"We'll decide that." She flipped her chin, indicating over his shoulder and Michael frowned in confusion.

"Anthony?" he asked, now realizing what was being inferred. She winked. He turned back as he heard something that sounded like a tea cup shattering on linoleum.

Jez Patterson is a British teacher and writer, currently based in Madrid. Recent stories by him have appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Perihelion SF and (forthcoming) Stupefying Stories. Links to his thoughts and things with his name at the end can be found at http://jezpatterson.wordpress.com/author/jezpatterson/.

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#  Signed, Sealed, Delivered

by Edward Pearce; published November 22, 2013

It was a comfortable suite. Just a couple of rooms with a separate toilet and shower, but spacious enough. And, of course, a screened-off area for Al, his escort, as they liked to call him. The furnishings were of good quality and the decor tasteful, if a little muted. A huge wafer TV hung on one wall, and on the sideboard was a lengthy menu with meals that Darren knew were excellent. He'd had three of them already, and regretted slightly that he wouldn't get round to trying all fourteen. All in all, however, that was a minor concern.

Beyond the window lay a view of considerable beauty. The rolling downland, trees and hedges, patchwork fields, and distant river that glinted every now and again were quintessential English country landscape. He noticed how the cows in one field and the sheep in another moved about during the day, forming into little groups and huddling together as the light began failing, before it got too dark to see any more. He'd watched it for two days now, on and off, through the toughened glass. The afternoon scene was peaceful. It was one fifteen in the afternoon. Did sheep and cows take a nap at lunchtime too? They weren't doing a lot, and he didn't feel very active either.

Al was making little or no noise. Darren wondered what he was doing, and how he managed to fill the time. The one thing he was sure of was that Al would be keeping a close eye on him, but there must be other stuff for him to do behind that screen. He supposed there were monitors and a link to a control room of some kind. Darren couldn't go in or see in, but Al had a belt enabling him to pass through the electronic barrier, as he'd explained to Darren on the first day.

Darren liked Al. His big, black presence managed to be simultaneously friendly, reassuring and authoritative. That was his job, after all, to act as companion and guard for a few difficult days, and he had to admit that Al did it well. He'd said as much to him on the second day, and Al had accepted the compliment graciously whilst kindly but firmly blocking off further conversation along those lines. Yes, if Darren were in charge of this operation, Al was the kind of person he'd employ, and whatever Al was being paid, he deserved it. It couldn't be the easiest of jobs. Perhaps his Christian faith was a help, because Al clearly believed in the rightness of what he was doing.

He hadn't asked "the question" since first thing in the morning and Al hadn't volunteered any further information since, so now was probably not a bad time to raise it again. As casually as he could, he called out over the top of the screen "Any more news, Al? Do we have a definite time yet?"

"Hold on a minute, Darren," and Darren heard Al busying himself with something before coming out from his cubicle. He had his usual smile, friendly and reassuring without being familiar or patronizing. He'd begun by calling Darren "Mister Holdsworth" but seemed quite happy to change to "Darren" when asked. "I'll play it whichever way suits you, Mister Holdsworth, I mean Darren!" and they'd both laughed.

"They did get back to me, within the last few minutes, as it happens. Looks like being tomorrow some time, as we thought. All the main arrangements are made, just a couple more things to put in place and then they're ready." The smile didn't exactly disappear, but it flattened out a little. The eyes were kind, yet resolute and without weakness.

"Good. I'll be glad when it's all done and dusted!" Darren tried to sound as if he meant it, and in a way he did. Yet some things are impossible to rationalize away, and every now and again a dark blob would threaten to rise from the pit of his stomach and overwhelm him. Don't think about it, he told himself, just think of how you're helping those you care about instead, and be strong. It's not long now.

"Would you like another game of chess, Darren?" Al said. "I know you'll beat me again, but I feel I've improved my game a lot in the last two days." But Darren didn't feel he could focus on chess at the moment.

"What about the view? Want me to change it?"

"Nah, it's fine, this one. Nice and restful."

The light over the hatch came on. "Ah, dinner!" Al said. It was his job to collect food and drink from the hatch. He brought Darren's tray over and laid it on the table in front of him, went back for his own and they sat down together. Darren's meal was fillet steak with onions, mushrooms and Duchesse potatoes. Al had chosen sea bass with new potatoes and seasonal vegetables.

"Damn plastic cutlery!" Darren said. His fork wobbled and almost broke as he cut into the steak.

"I know. It's the one thing they can't get right. It is annoying." Al's expression was apologetic and Darren did his best to smile, embarrassed at the implied criticism of Al and his employers in matters they could not control. Under the circumstances, plastic cutlery was understandable – inevitable, even. It was the same as chairs fixed on sliding tracks, locked windows, and the absence of a door. But never mind about that now, Darren thought.

"This steak's damn good," he said. "That's one heck of a chef they've got working here!"

"Yeah, the food certainly is one of the perks of the job. Nobody cooks a sea bass like this guy."

Darren wondered how many times Al had had the sea bass, and how many other contractors he'd escorted. Contractor and Escort were weasel words, of course, but the people in charge were doing what they could to make things tolerable, and all things considered, they managed it well.

He ate the rest of the meal in silence. Al did likewise, pushing his paper plate away at the end with an appreciative "Mmm!" They both had tarte au citron with fresh cream for dessert.

"You know, I think I will try that change of scene," Darren said after they've finished.

"Sure, what would you like?"

"What have you got?"

Al laughed. "Hey, I'm forgetting you don't know them! Let's see, there's New England in the Fall, Red River Canyon, Himalayan Foothills, Cityscape, Black Forest, European Woodland, Headland Bay, Seychelles Beach, and there's one other, can't think of it. Oh yes, Gentle Meadow."

"You know them off by heart, then?"

"Sure do!" It was said with the same kindly, yet unbending, look as when he'd asked if the time was fixed. We're not pursuing this theme any further, the look said.

"I think I'll try the Himalayas, Al. I'm in the mood for some grandeur."

"Good choice, I like that one. Just let me nip out and fix it," and Al disappeared behind his screen. A moment later English Pastoral disappeared and white, majestic mountains appeared in the window, behind a fast-flowing river where deer were drinking. Darren wondered for a moment what really was on the other side of the glass. Almost certainly a blank wall, but he knew better than to ask, and instead looked out with mild interest upon the new landscape.

Al sat in one of the chairs, watching the TV that was quietly on in the background. Sometimes, when his services weren't called for, he'd sit in his cubicle, but sometimes he sat with Darren in the suite. He somehow knew when his presence was welcome and when to disappear, but he always stayed in the background unless Darren initiated a conversation or some other interaction.

"Do you have family, Al?" Darren asked.

"Yes Darren, I do. I have two boys."

"That's nice. How old are they?"

"Let's see, one of them's eleven, and the other's six. He's a handful! I think he'll turn out all right in the end."

"Want to know how I ended up here?"

Al didn't seem fazed by the sudden change of tack. "Sure, if you feel like telling me. They do give us some of the details, you know."

"So I suppose you know I lost my wife and my own kids in that plane."

Al nodded. "Yes, I did know that. It's real bad luck, Darren, and I do feel sorry, really I do."

"You're a family man, of course you understand. I hope you never know what it feels like, but you can probably imagine how it, sort of, changes things. I didn't want to carry on after that. My cousin and her husband died a couple of years ago in a house fire, left three kids of their own behind. I thought the family might have had its share of bad luck, but no. My aunt and uncle look after them, they're getting frail now. My job barely made enough to keep me alive. That's why I did what I did. I don't much care about me, but I do care about my own flesh and blood. I did it to take care of them and I haven't regretted it, not for one second."

Al didn't say anything, just lowered his head and looked at the floor. Darren looked around the suite, wondering for the umpteenth time where the door was. There were no handles, keyholes or lines in the wall. He'd known better than to ask Al about it, or about any details of the process itself. He felt a completely detached, academic interest in the whole business, but there were certain obvious questions to avoid. That day when the plane had gone down, he'd been numb and he'd stayed that way ever since. After the initial shock wore off, he'd thought about this opportunity, and once the statutory minimum year was up he'd applied, going through the one-month cooling-off period with the same unchanging cotton wool in his head and the same feeling of not minding.

The only thing that bothered him about being stuck in the suite was the lack of anything purposeful to do. At home there were enough chores and cleaning to keep him busy, and there was the voluntary work that hadn't given him a new sense of purpose but which he continued with anyway, just to fill in the hours. Here, everything was done for the Contractor: cleaning, cooking, an escort, like Al, constantly on hand. Darren could read, watch TV or go on the Web – only passively, of course – but there was only so much of that he wanted, and that point was reached sooner than one might think. He'd mention that this evening, as a suggestion to pass on for how things could be improved still further.

The light over the hatch went on again. Al went over and came back with coffee, one blue and one red mug. "Here you go, Darren. Mine's the blue one, got sugar in it!"

The coffee was good, like everything else here. The one thing they didn't give you was alcohol, not that he cared about that. He drank the coffee, then went over to an armchair and dozed for a while. Then he woke up and watched some more TV in a vague, disinterested way. Al sat in the other chair, also watching the TV.

The buzzer on Al's belt went off. "Wonder what they want now?" he murmured, half to himself and half to Darren. He unclipped the buzzer and examined the screen, then looked over at Darren. "They need me outside for a couple of minutes. Darren, I'm sorry about this, but you know I have to strap you in. Regulations is regulations!"

Darren sighed. He'd been comfortable in that chair. "All right, Al, it's not a problem." He got up slowly, walked over and sat down in the high rubber-padded plastic seat by the wall, resting hands and feet in the slots provided.

"Let's just get you comfortable first," Al said. "Clothing not rucked up or anything?"

Darren shook his head.

"Ok," Al said, reaching over to the side of the chair back out of Darren's view and pressing something. Four wide grey plastic restraints clicked out of the chair and secured Darren's arms and legs. Al reached over unexpectedly, cupped Darren's forehead in a large hand and gently moved his head back, as a barber would move a customer, pressing it firmly into the padded back of the chair. Now there was another click and Darren found, to his surprise and annoyance, that he was unable to move his head.

"Is that last one really necessary?" he asked.

Looking down at the side of the chair, Al replied "Don't you worry, Darren, you'll be fine with me," and pressed another lever.

The chair pivoted backwards like a dentist's chair, but all the way, at the same time straightening itself out so that Darren found he was lying flat on his back and looking up at strange lights in a strange ceiling. For an instant he didn't grasp what was happening, then he realized that the section of wall into which the chair was built was the door he'd been wondering about earlier on. Simultaneously, there was a faint rumble as Al pushed the trolley, which the door had now become, into the other room.

Darren looked around as far as his restricted vision would allow. Leaning over him were the faces of three men, one in black and two in blue jackets, all with businesslike expressions. The top of a screen was visible behind them. One of the men shifted slightly as Al pushed the trolley, which snapped into place as it docked with something in the far wall.

"Al! This isn't supposed to be happening now! You told me tomorrow. I'm not ready!" Darren managed to gasp out, breathless with shock.

From somewhere out of sight, Al spoke. "It's best this way, Darren. Trust me, it ain't gonna hurt."

Darren stared, mouth open and unable to say anything. One of the men in blue was holding a paper. Speaking quickly but clearly, he read from it. "Here is a copy of the agreement which you signed on the sixteenth of October. I Darren Swayles, of sound mind, hereby contract to hand ownership of my unharmed body to Beckford Medical and Custodial Group plc, in order that its representatives may permanently uninstall my own consciousness and permanently install the consciousness of their client, whose identity will not be disclosed to me. This process will take place at the complete discretion of the Beckford Group any time after conclusion of the financial arrangements, namely the permanent transfer by Beckford Financial Services plc of five million pounds into a trust fund for the care and upbringing of Joseph Tinson, Rebecca Tinson, and Shane Tinson, to be administered by your authorized representative until they reach the age of eighteen, after which an allowance will be made to each of them until they reach the age of twenty five, after which they will direct your said representative as to the future apportionment of their share of this money. I hereby commit to this procedure in full awareness and acceptance that once begun, it is irreversible." He folded the paper. "Please confirm to me that you are Darren Swayles."

The cotton wool cleared from Darren's mind. He wanted to live. It didn't matter about the money. He'd manage somehow, and he'd see the kids right. He'd make them stop it.

"It's a mistake!" he called out. "I don't want to do this. I'm ordering you to stop!" Then in a moment of inspiration, as he thought, "I'm not Darren Swayles! I deny being Darren Swayles!"

The second man looked down at Darren sympathetically. "It's a formality, Darren. We know who you are. We are going ahead now. It's like Al said, this way is best for everyone."

Now the man in the black jacket stepped forward, and Darren saw that he was wearing a clergyman's collar. At the same time, there was a mild pricking sensation in each upper arm, followed by a tingling. The clergyman said softly "In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I absolve you of all your sins," then stepped back and nodded to the first man.

Darren opened his mouth to call out, but the tingling had reached his throat and he couldn't speak. The tingling became a buzzing, then a whirring which spread throughout his entire body and brain, bringing with it the terror of the inexorable. Now it was drawing him down and he didn't want to go, but the pull was too strong to resist. With a last despairing cry that never reached his lips, his fingers slipped off the rock face and he slid down into the abyss, dissolving as he went.

The three men waited patiently at the edge of the trolley. Al sat down in a chair by the wall, his face showing signs of strain for the first time. His part in this was over at last, and he was glad of that. He always told himself he'd never do another one, and yet when the offer came the money was always too good to turn down. But he never really got used to it.

After about a minute of complete stillness, Darren's hands and legs began twitching as sensation returned to his body. At the end of the trolley, behind his head, a green light came on. Now it was the doctor who breathed a deep sigh of relief, saying "I think we're there."

A pair of eyes opened, and a person who was not Darren looked out of into the world.

"Mr. Farnon? Blink twice if you can hear me." The eyes blinked, twice.

"What number did I give you to remember?"

The eyes blinked again, first three times, then once.

"Thirty one. It's him. Welcome to your new life, Mr. Farnon."

Behind the screen, a ventilator was switched off and a tired old body breathed its last.

Edward Pearce is a retired technical translator who lives in Lincolnshire with his partner and their two cats. His stories usually contain a supernatural or eerie element, and have appeared in the All Hallows journal, in the UK Terror Tales series, and in the anthology "Acquainted With The Night," and a further three are awaiting publication. In his spare time he enjoys walking, reading, looking for bargains in antique stores and online, days out on the East Anglian coast, and almost anything of historical interest.

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#  The Weather Forecast

by Jackie Bee; published November 26, 2013

First Place Award, November 2013 Fiction Contest

2020 (June 10, 20:57)

There's a large green carpet on the floor of the make-up room. It's so soft and fluffy I can imagine myself lying on grass, the yellow lamp over my head serving as the midday sun. Rational and self-respecting adults shouldn't be lying on the floor like this, and if anybody comes in and sees me ... but I know that nobody is going to come in. Not yet. It's just that the carpet looked so inviting. Bury myself in the soft pile and fall asleep...

Lying on my side, I examine the fibers, stroking them gently. Muffled voices come from the other side of the door. The live broadcast will begin in a few minutes, but they still won't bother me. The whole crew is in the studio right now, the host is being made up on set, and I have this room all to myself, although, I'm not using it properly. They'll have to smoke me out of here before the show begins.

That assistant girl is about to walk in. Having brought me a glass of water a few minutes ago, she feels braver than the others.

Three. Two. One.

As the doorknob turns, I quickly sit up. Sitting on the floor is still more acceptable than lying.

"Can I bring you anything else?"

I admire the approach. Not "Why aren't you on the set yet?" but just a polite offer of another glass of water.

"Nothing, thank you."

I stand up and walk out. People go quiet; some of them look away, others stare. Every night they fill the corridor, but some keep pretending they just happened to walk by, minding their own business, nothing to do with me.

The assistant strides behind me, trying to keep up. She is wearing high heels and I am in sneakers, so the competition is not quite fair.

"Can I ask you a question?" she says. "A little one."

"Not now," I reply. "After the show."

"Of course, sure..."

After the show the crowd will push her aside so we won't have a chance to talk. Her question will lose any meaning anyway and will remain unanswered. It does have an answer, but I wouldn't like to give it away. She's a nice girl, and I hate breaking hearts, although I do it every day. It's much easier to be cruel to huge, faceless mankind than to specific people. Especially skinny ones with big eyes like hers.

The host greets me briefly as I take my place, but there's no time for conversation — the commercial break is over, and we are live.

"Thank you for staying with us." He addresses the cameras, and then, half turning to me, "Hello, Selia. How are you doing today?"

"Not bad."

"Optimistic, as usual." His face switches to a professional expression, one that always fascinates me with its complex mix of expectation, irony, and readiness to become serious in the blink of an eye. Whatever I say, he will match it. "Well, the next five minutes are all yours. What are you going to tell us about?"

I stare at the camera, which is focused on my face. I'll decide as I go along, but simple stuff is always good to start with. So I make myself comfortable and say:

"Let's talk about the weather."

~~~~~

2015 (October 5, 18:30)

It's the end of the week, and everybody is trying to sneak home as early as possible. Around 5 p.m. the corridors are empty and computer screens go blank. I can hear the door slam every now and then, as the last employees escape to freedom.

I'm the last one here. I have a lot of work to do, and I prefer to finish it now rather than continue next week. But by 6 p.m. my head refuses to keep up. I barely have enough energy to go through my email, so I just give up.

I climb into my car. Driving slowly to the street, I notice the security man waving at me; at first I wave back but then realize that he's just reminding me to turn my lights on. I blush and hastily switch the lights on. I'm so tired, it feels like my brain is numb.

Actually, it's just a matter of minutes before my life changes forever, but I know nothing of that yet. I stop at a red light and rub my face to wake myself up. Then the light turns green, and a white Subaru to the right of me starts up with a roar.

~~~~~

2015 (October 5, 19:05)

The car turns over and slides down the slope upside down. I seem to be moving in and out of consciousness over and over within seconds. When the car slides to a stop, I quickly unfasten the safety belt and try to get out. The car rests on its side, rocking slightly; the driver's door is blocked, so I stand on it and try to open the window on the other side. Then I realize that the whole windshield is smashed so I can get out easily. I'm in a state of shock and feel nothing but the urge to get outside as soon as possible.

I crawl out and find myself under the light of a street lamp. I notice some kind of stains over my hands — either dirt or blood — but feel no pain. Someone is yelling; I can see two or three cars parked at the roadside, and people are running towards me. Bending down, I manage to walk a couple of steps before one of them reaches me — a guy with a mustache. That's all I can make out, that he's a guy and he's got a mustache. Quite a reasonable combination. He tries to support me by grabbing my shoulders, although I can stand well enough by myself.

"Lie down!" he shouts. "You may have injuries, don't move!"

"We need to get away from the car," I say, trying to avoid him. "It may explode."

In movies they always do.

I manage to dodge him, but then, somehow, I find myself sitting on the ground surrounded by people. One of them is the owner of that white Subaru that was swerving from lane to lane all the time; at first he looks scared, but then starts screaming at me — "What kind of driver are you?" — though it was he who hit my car. The others start to yell at him — that's good, I can't defend myself right now.

A woman sits down next to me and says, "You're bleeding." I look at my hands again, but she reaches out with a tissue and wipes something off my forehead.

"That's okay." I mutter.

"Yes, yes," she says. "What's your name?"

"Selia."

"It's going to be all right, Selia," she says, suddenly looking all blurry and repeating, "Don't sleep! Don't sleep!"

I look away and see polar lights in the sky, and suddenly everything around seems to be covered with snow...

~~~~~

2015 (November 1, 19:35)

The restaurant parking lot is poorly illuminated, and the rough asphalt looks like one big pool of water. I run to the door and pause there to adjust my coat and arrange my hair to cover the scar. Despite all efforts, there's still water in my shoes. Thanks to yesterday's forecast for my tomorrow's cold.

These blind dates are a kind of a puddle in their own right. You are sure to get your feet wet; the question is how much. At my age of thirty-three, when all the worthwhile men have been taken by luckier or quicker-thinking women, I have to be content with what's left — momma's boys, divorced misogynists, and hopelessly stubborn bachelors. I wonder what's in store for me this time.

The place is dark and half empty but feels cozy. I look for the "young, serious, 5'9″, brown eyes, wearing white shirt" guy. And there he is – the only white shirt is waving at me, the only "beige coat, 5'5″, green eyes, dark hair, loves kids and animals, interested in serious relationship."

The guy actually looks about thirty, and he does resemble the picture from the site. It didn't reveal the glasses or the fact that he's slightly balding, but that's small fry.

"Selia?"

"Eric?"

An exchange of plastic smiles follows, accompanied by complaints about the weather and the mandatory compliment of "You look better than your picture."

"The weather is just terrible, right?" he says.

"And they said there would be no rain..."

"I got here right in the midst of it; good thing I found an umbrella in the car"

"When I started driving, there was such a downpour I had to pull over and wait for a few minutes."

"I saw two accidents on the way. People simply don't know how to drive in the rain. Waitress!"

"Right, one guy passed me and he didn't even have his lights on."

"On days like this it's better to stay home. But who knew? Waitress!"

A girl with a notepad approaches. He orders coffee, I ask for a beer.

"That's role reversal for you!" he says and smiles. "If we were ordering food, I'd probably have taken a salad and you a steak."

Oh, he can make a joke. Nice.

As we go on with our small talk, the gray noise grows louder – at first I think it's coming from the people around, but then realize it's in my head. As the noise increases, it's getting harder to hear what Eric is saying. The scar on my forehead itches. I rub it slightly, trying not to draw Eric's attention, but he notices.

"What's that?" He looks closely. "Seems like a fresh scar. What happened?"

"Had a car accident three weeks ago. Another car hit mine, and I flew off the road."

"Wow!" He looks at me anxiously. "Concussion?"

"Yeah, with some bruises and scratches, but I got off lightly, you know."

"Than, maybe, you shouldn't ... I mean, beer and stuff?"

I wonder what he means by "stuff."

_He means sex_ , prompts the gray noise in my head. _And he wonders if you haven't gone crazy as a result of the concussion, if you'll stab him with that bread knife that lies on the table next to the spoons and the forks. Eric is fond of himself and doesn't want to deal with some crazy chick. Apart from that, he's married, so he's really not looking for trouble. He just wants some time off from family life. Last time he slept with his wife was a month ago, and his dream is to have sex with a stranger in a public place, but still he wrote to you, despite the "interested in serious relationship" thing, because he's afraid of picking up younger and bolder girls, and you had kind eyes on the picture._

Gray noise goes quiet. Or maybe I force it to.

"Eric, are you married?"

He frowns slightly, then smiles.

"No," he says, "You can see, there's no ring. Why do you ask?"

"You look like a married guy."

"Is that good or bad?"

"I prefer dating singles."

"I'm single. If you don't like me, just say so."

"No, I do like you..."

I take another swig from the bottle, contemplating him. Yes, I do like him. When he's not talking banalities.

The gray noise creeps in again – information, a whole ocean of it, raging around us, protected only by the weak dam of our limitations. My dam started leaking when the car flew off the road. I didn't just hit my head, I hit it at some very unique angle. I don't know if anyone has hit such an angle before, but my guess is that I'm the first. And now the leak was letting in all this unwanted information, which, it turns out, was filling the space around us – answers were crowding in, just waiting for the questions to be asked.

It started at the hospital when I woke up after the crash, pumped full of drugs, and the doctor had a headache. It took me a while to actually understand that it was him having the headache and not me. I just woke up and realized that there was a headache, but then, checking my sensations, found no pain. A doctor was talking to a nurse near my bed, so I asked, "Does your head hurt?"

He looked at me, puzzled, and said, "Yes, but how did you know?"

I didn't really have an answer, so I just closed my eyes and fell asleep — or maybe passed out.

What does Eric think about me?

She's got pretty eyes. Nice boobs too. How far will she go on a first date? Maybe if she finishes her beer ... should I get her another bottle? But how will she drive home in this rain after drinking that much? Why did she ask if I was married? A mark from the ring? She looks distracted. What's with that concussion? Maybe she has problems with her head. Should I get involved with her at all?

Well, that's nice of him to worry about me getting home. Also, he did notice my eyes.

"Have you finished your beer?" Eric points at my bottle. "Should I get you another one?"

I smile involuntarily. Selfishness seems to beat good intentions.

"No, thanks." I stand up.

"Are you leaving?"

"Just to powder my nose." I reply, and suddenly add, "Want to join me?"

Then we kiss in a narrow toilet cubicle, and he tries to undress me, his hands shaking, but this whole sudden fantasy-come-true situation seems to be too much of a turn-on for him. He's done while I'm still fully dressed. Actually, I expected just that. It feels like being a scientist experimenting with monkeys – the result is predictable, all that's left is to carry out the experiment and get the proof.

"Sorry, I got too excited," he mutters as we return to the table. The bill is there already, so Eric leaves some money and helps me into my coat. It seems he's eager to talk now, while I'm suddenly not in the mood.

Outside it's raining again, and Eric holds an umbrella open for me.

"I'm sorry!" he shouts, trying to block out the noise of the rain. "Can we meet again? I just didn't expect it! But it's great, you know, it's actually kind of my favorite fantasy, to do it in a public place..."

"I know," I say, getting into the car.

"So, can I call you?"

"Sure. But I'm not a call girl, you know."

"Of course, I'm not forcing you into anything..."

He waves, then turns around and runs to his car, jumping over puddles.

~~~~~

2020 (June 10, 21:01)

It's quiet in the studio. Multiple spotlights glare and heat the set.

"Tomorrow it's going to be cloudy in Tampico, humidity quite high but no rain," I say to the cameras. "In the afternoon the sun will come out."

"Tampico is in...?" the host interrupts.

"Mexico," I say. "At seven thirty in the morning, a school bus driver will fall asleep at the wheel, hit a car, and the bus will fall off a bridge. Four children will be killed in the accident, another eight injured. The driver will die in the hospital later."

"Tam-pi-co," the host repeats, nodding to the cameras. "I guess a lot of kids will not be taking the school bus tomorrow in Tampico, Mexico."

"Jonathan Smith, age eight, lives in Great Britain in a village called Sling. Today he was playing in a forest about a mile north of his home and fell down an abandoned well. Search groups should concentrate on that direction. He broke his arm; apart from that he's okay."

"Jonathan Smith, Sling, Great Britain," the host repeats. "Let's hope the boy will be found soon."

"Irina Vorontsova, Russia, Tver. About an hour ago she began to experience discomfort, pain in both hands and shortness of breath. She intends to visit a doctor in the morning, but her symptoms signify the beginning of a heart attack. Without immediate medical intervention she will not survive the night."

"Vorontsova, Russia, Tver."

The studio is packed with viewers, but they keep quiet and look rather scared. Each time there are different people, and each time they turn into the same mass of pale faces, wide eyes, and arms crossed on chests.

The show used to last half an hour. It was the highest-rated show in the world, and it still is, even though it was cut to five minutes. Now it's transmitted live to all countries by all TV channels, radio stations, and the Internet. Somewhere it's midday; somewhere else it's midnight, but everybody wants to know if something is going to happen to them in the next twenty four hours, if there's going to be an earthquake, or maybe a train they bought tickets for is going to derail. Sometimes I just tell them about the weather. The papers say that power is making me cruel. But the truth is I just know it's impossible to save everyone.

When I began to gain access to more and more information, it felt like I was going crazy. At first it took some concentration to get answers, but with time, information learned to creep into my brain without much of an invitation on my part. Sometimes I just found myself sitting and staring at the wall, trying to stop thinking, to disable all curiosity in me, to prevent new information from breaking in. It worked, but you can't stare at the wall forever.

One morning I was standing by the window, warming my hands on a cup of coffee. It was gray outside, and the crossing near the house was full of children heading to school. Some waited patiently, others ran the red light, cheering each other on. Cars were crawling at an even slower pace than the people walking by, and every minute horns were honking impatiently.

One of the children caught my attention. He was heading to school like everyone else, but something about him seemed different. He looked like a first grader, and was being dragged by the hand by a tall man, probably his father. The atmosphere around the boy looked strange to me. The air seemed denser, like some kind of aura was surrounding him. Almost involuntarily I concentrated, trying to figure out what it was, and received the answer right away.

He was seven years old, the younger of two siblings, his mother pregnant with a third. After school he usually went home, had dinner, did homework, and then was taken to a pool for swimming lessons. After each lesson, he played with his friends in the water, jumping in from the pool deck. They were all fascinated with the high diving board, but none of them ever had the courage to jump from it. They egged each other on, and the bravest climbed up when the coach wasn't looking, but the fear was too strong. As I watched the boy, I knew that tomorrow he was going to climb the diving board and jump. He was going to fall badly, passing out when he hit the water too hard, and his friends were would try to resuscitate him instead of calling for an adult. As a result, the boy was going to die.

I don't even remember how I made it onto the street, still in my robe and slippers. Pushing aside kids, I ran to the place I had just been watching from the window. But I couldn't see the boy anymore. Blue, gray, and red jackets flashed before my eyes, confusing me, making me feel lost. I ran in one direction, then the other, then I just stopped and concentrated on the question – where was he?

And then, suddenly, I was showered with a multitude of answers, instead of the one I was looking for. It seemed like concentration had opened the door to incoherent, patchy information. A girl of about twelve went by, and I found out that she hadn't done her homework, and that her mother was a nurse, and when her mom worked night shifts something very bad was happening in their house. A teacher of forty went by, and I learned that her husband wanted a divorce, and she was planning to have a facelift. A boy of fifteen went by, and I discovered that he had a knife in his backpack, and if that guy from the other class said something to him again, he was going to use it.

People went by, bumping me with their shoulders, pushing me with their problems, with their information. It felt like being hit in the face, slap after slap. To distract myself, I looked at a building on the other side of the road, only to find out that it would be demolished two years later and a mall built in its place. I looked under my feet and learned that a million years ago this place was covered by sea, and in another million years it will be under the sea once again.

Then I realized it's impossible to save everyone. And I closed my eyes.

~~~~~

2016 (March 1, 19:40)

Eric reaches over me, retrieves his watch from the bedside table, and fastens it on his wrist. He leans back on his pillow and stares at the ceiling, then turns to me again.

"I still don't believe it," he says. "That interview of yours in the news. That's some kind of charlatanism. There's no way you can know such things."

"Wait a week and see for yourself..."

"But what if there is no flood? How will you explain it? If you want to be a charlatan, make fuzzy predictions: 'On the day that the northern moon meets the southern wind, a natural disaster will hit our city...' Then wait for an appropriate disaster and tell everyone, "That's it! That's what I was talking about!"

"Impressive. Ever considered doing it for a living?"

"We would actually make a good team," he muses. "I could make up predictions for you. We could convince that journalist to take another interview. It could become quite a business..."

He darts a glance at his watch again.

"Time for you to go home?" I ask.

"No, why would I hurry?"

"To feed the goldfish?"

"It's fasting today." He lies back with his hands behind his head. "I've got plenty of time."

"Then stay the night," I suggest.

"But I've got to go to work tomorrow," he says, "and I have nothing here, no clean shirts, no underwear. And you know I have trouble sleeping in a new place."

"Last Thursday you fell asleep just fine."

"That's because you tired me out," he says playfully, reaching out to kiss me. "If not for the alarm clock, I would have slept the whole night."

"Why would a person set his alarm clock to 8 p.m. if nobody is waiting for him at home, except for a hungry goldfish?"

"Are you hinting at something?"

"I'm not hinting, Eric, I'm saying it openly. Go home to you wife, she's waiting for you. So is your son."

A pause hangs in the air as he looks at me appraisingly.

"All right now," he says, sitting up. "Seriously, did you spy on me or something?"

"No, I just know. I told you that I can find out anything I want to know. And many things I don't want to know as well."

"And I told you I don't believe in this crap."

He gets out of bed and starts to get dressed, avoiding looking at me. I pull my blanket up, keeping an eye on him. His exasperation together with his abrupt movements look funny; he struggles for a while to get his foot into his pants.

"Eric, calm down."

"No, what does it say about you then?" he exclaims, gesticulating with one hand and trying to pull his pants on with the other. "Back on our first date, you said you weren't interested in married guys. And now it turns out that you know, one way or another, but you do. Still, it doesn't bother you, does it? Don't you feel guilty about my wife? She is nice, by the way, it's just that we don't get on as well as we used to."

I don't feel bad about his wife because I know that she cheated on him too. Sometimes, when they "don't get on as well as they used to," she slips away for a couple of hours to cry on her ex-boyfriend's shoulder. Sometimes their conversations move into the bedroom, which might give Eric a sort of moral right to pay her back in kind, he just doesn't know that himself. And now he's wounded and upset about not being able to go on playing the role of the fancy-free bachelor any more — ashamed, too. Thinking that I didn't know about his wife and she didn't know about me somehow made him feel like he was not really cheating.

"You won't come again?"

"Why do you have to ask if you know everything?" he jeers and sits in an chair to tie his laces. "Tell me, oh wise one, will I come again?"

I turn on my side and stretch.

"Yes, you will show up a few more times. But then it will get difficult for us to meet secretly, since I will be more famous. After the flood I will give more interviews, then I'll receive a few minutes on the local news on a daily basis. At first people will laugh, but after realizing that I never make mistakes, they will start taking me seriously. All this will snowball..."

"Wow, you have big plans."

Maybe I should make him believe, after all.

"Eric, do you want me to tell you about your biggest fear?"

He leans back on the chair, hands on knees.

"Go ahead."

"You are scared of frogs. When you were three years old, you sat on a riverbank and threw stones into the water, which startled a frog. It jumped out of the grass onto your leg. It looked like some kind of monster to you, and you cried. It took some time for your parents to calm you down, they couldn't even figure out what had frightened you so much. You have been afraid of frogs since then. You even avoid going near rivers without realizing why."

As I speak, his expression changes. His sneer dissipates; now he looks puzzled, disbelieving, and a little scared.

"That's one of my earliest memories," he says at last. "What color were the shorts I was wearing that day?"

"Yellow."

He goes quiet. Sits, without moving and doesn't say a word.

"And you can answer any question?"

"I think so."

Another pause.

"Does God exist?"

Wow.

"Eric, I'm not going to answer that."

~~~~~

2020 (June 10, 21:03)

And back to the weather.

"The hurricane raging now in Haiti and surrounding areas will peak at eight in the morning. About two thousand houses will be destroyed and all means of communication will be damaged in many areas. Among those who choose not to be evacuated, twelve will die."

To tell the truth, it's already too late for them to change their minds. Besides, many of them have already been cut off from the world and can't even hear what I'm saying.

In the past, when the program lasted half an hour, it consisted mostly of questions and answers. At first it was hard for me to choose predictions by myself — after all, there were natural and man-made disasters, crimes and accidents happening in every country in the world all of the time. How could I choose what to tell people about, what to try to prevent? Even if I decided to make predictions twenty-four hours a day, I still wouldn't be able to cover even the smallest bit of what was happening on the planet. Knowing that, I was lost, trying to pick the most important events.

My instinctive choice was to cover incidents that affected many people at once, but even then the decisions remained subjective. I was constantly accused of being biased, of mentioning some areas more often than others, of neglecting third-world countries, of having racist preferences. When I prevented acts of terrorism, the press began to argue whether it was ethical for me to interfere with the struggle for independence in countries I had nothing to do with, and then when terrorists did strike, accusations of cruelty and indifference poured in.

It was impossible to please everyone. I understood that quickly enough, and cynicism began to replace my initial enthusiasm. I announced that I would only devote a few minutes of the program to predictions of my choosing, and the rest of the time I would answer questions from the audience.

It turned out that so many people had questions that the network crashed immediately, and questions had to be delivered in the old fashioned way, in paper envelopes.

Out of millions of letters, a few hundred were randomly chosen each night and brought into the studio in a black bag, from which I pulled out ten to fifteen letters to go through during the show. Each letter had to contain one question, no more than three lines long, written in English. If I opened a letter and saw more than three lines, it went straight to the trash for deviating from the format.

People were presented with a unique opportunity to receive answers to any kind of question, but the majority of letters concentrated on obtaining information relevant only to the writers themselves. People wanted to find relatives they had lost touch with years ago, to find out why their father had left home, or who stole the mail from their mailbox every day. Teenagers asked which profession would suit them best, how their parents would react if they came out, whether they should have an abortion or keep the baby. Sometimes I even received housekeeping questions, which could be answered by a simple Internet search without my involvement. A few months after I started answering the questions, renowned psychologists and sociologists began to publish books, trying to analyze why people, given the opportunity to learn the secrets of the universe, preferred to ask about trifles. What did it say about our civilization? Are we that superficial?

Sometimes I did come across interesting letters. People wanted to know what triggered the extinction of the dinosaurs, who erected the huge sculptures on Easter Island, whether aliens really existed and visited our planet. I answered some of such questions, refusing to answer others, knowing that the truth could lead to serious collective shock, and each refusal inspired a new wave of speculation regarding the limits of my knowledge.

The only question I couldn't answer was the one that Eric had asked. Did God exist?

I had asked this question and received an answer but couldn't understand it. It was like trying to read an encyclopedia in an unfamiliar language. The information was there, but I couldn't put it into words or even into recognizable images in my mind. I thought the answer was probably "yes," but this yes was extremely far away from anything that traditional religions taught.

I tried to explain it after receiving this question for the first time. But some regarded my answer as a negative and the ensuing skepticism resulted in numerous riots in different countries. This, in turn, almost caused a world-wide economic crisis. I was requested by several international organizations to issue a refutation and to be more careful with statements on such a scale. I had to go back to this question again and emphasize that I couldn't answer it unambiguously. That was enough to calm the storm, and since then I have considered my statements more carefully.

I answered questions for about half a year when a letter from a Mexican woman arrived. Her name was Johanna, and her question took up only one line. She wanted to know when the end of the world would take place.

Sure enough, she wasn't asking about the end of the universe; it was the end of the world as we knew it that was important to her. I actually found her question fascinating, and I was surprised that I had never thought about it myself. I concentrated and received the answer.

The date shocked me, even though, by that time, I had acquired such a thick skin that few things could affect me. I expected a cosmic scale but received a specific date awaiting us in just a few years. I looked at the camera, contemplating whether I should answer or not. It was clear that if people learned their time on earth was limited, all mankind would descend into anarchy. But, on the other hand, why did that matter if they were doomed anyway? Should I tell the truth and allow them to spend their remaining time as they chose, or leave them a few more years of comfortable routine, sparing them the knowledge of the danger hanging over us?

I refused to answer, adding only that we had enough time. The next day, the newspapers made a whole sensation out of it. Turns out that I had touched my nose while answering, and in body language this signifies that a person is lying. One newspaper even ran a "Did she scratch her nose?" headline on its front page.

It all seemed so absurd. I was tired of the questions, the headlines, the knowledge. The following evening I announced that the program was going to be cut from half an hour to five minutes, and I wasn't going to answer any more questions.

Since then the program has existed in its five-minute format, and I have stopped reading newspapers and listening to whatever they say about me on the news.

But now, with less than twenty hours left, didn't they have a right to know?

"And, finally, the main item for today."

I have my doubts until the very last moment. It is, perhaps, the most difficult decision I have ever had to make.

~~~~~

2020 (June 11, 17:10)

By morning none of the personnel remain in the hotel. It seems the tradition by which the ship's orchestra keeps playing even as the ship goes down is relevant to ships only. People ran away, and who could blame them?

Judging by what I see from the window, there is still some disorder on the streets, but in comparison to the mayhem that went on throughout the night it's getting better. During most of the night, crowds stampeded the shops, trying to stock up with goods, drugs, and weapons, while others stormed the airports, hoping to depart for somewhere — though there was no place to go.

At some point planes stopped taking off. Phones didn't work. Television and radio broadcasted government announcements urging citizens to take shelter and not surrender to panic, but very few bothered to stop their stealing in order to listen.

By now, the waves of those wishing to run away have died down, and through the side window of my room, I can see empty streets packed with deserted cars. People ride bicycles or go on foot now. Only those who have succumbed to their fate remain in the city.

Two guys pull a huge television screen out of a shop and load it into a shopping cart. A young woman appears out of the trashed window of an expensive boutique, balancing on high heels and holding a few paper bags full of clothing. In the cafeteria at the corner of the street, all the windows are smashed and most of the tables and chairs turned upside down. At the only table standing, a young couple is sitting. They talk, laugh, and with one spoon feed each other a pie that by some miracle has survived the night.

The question "What would you do if you had one day left?" is suddenly relevant on a universal scale.

Many chose to stay at home, play with their children, look at photo albums and tell each other things that should have been said long ago. Movie theaters show old movies in succession and are half-filled with audiences. Out of the big panoramic window of my room I can see the ocean and people on the beach, lying on the sand, playing, talking, and it looks like just another ordinary day.

Perhaps telling them my last prediction was the right thing to do.

However, many disagreed. During the night, a crowd stormed the Meridian Hotel where I was thought to be staying. They didn't find me. After each broadcast, my look-alike went to the Meridian while I was secretly taken to another hotel — less swanky, but good for privacy and with an excellent view of the ocean.

Eric is with his family now, on another continent. I miss him, actually. I know that he tried to call, but the phones don't work.

He wanted to ask one question: "Selia, it's not true, is it?"

And what if I had got it wrong?

Impossible. I never make mistakes.

"Selia, excuse me ... but it's not true, right? It simply can't be."

I turn with a half-forgotten feeling of surprise —after all, I usually know in advance everything that is going to happen.

It's just an elderly businessman who is staying in the room next to mine. I've been hearing his continuous muttering on the other side of the wall since morning — talking to himself, praying. Now he decided to pay me a visit. I haven't locked the door. Why bother?

"You know the truth." I turn back to the window, as my feet register the first slight shake of the floor.

"But how can it happen so suddenly? There are detection devices. Surely scientists had to have known; there must have been some time to act, to prepare..."

Some knew, that's for sure. Cataclysms of such scale don't occur without a warning. Some guessed, some knew for certain. There were folders with "Confidential" stamped on them, in which the forthcoming disaster was predicted quite accurately, but those responsible for making decisions chose to keep it a secret. Why spread panic if nothing can be changed?

But they couldn't predict the consequence the way I could. Bunkers with necessary supplies were prepared, evacuation plans were shared with the chosen ones, those who were meant to survive the worst and rebuild civilization from ashes. In fact, I was supposed to be among them, having received a secret government offer.

I refused. By that time, I just didn't care about anything anymore.

One more shake, almost imperceptible.

My guest doesn't even seem to notice them. That's not surprising, since the first earthquakes are supposed to begin far out in the ocean. Then tsunamis will hit the coasts of several continents, one after another, with more and more destructive force. Simultaneously, a series of earthquakes along the coastline of North America will trigger an eruption of the huge Yellowstone volcano. Apart from destroying everything on a large section of the continent, the eruption will be accompanied by the enormous quantities of volcanic ash. The cloud will spread and block the sun worldwide. Within several years, this will lead to the extinction of many species on the planet.

The end of mankind will not be immediate. Thanks to our knowledge, people will hold on for a few more decades, but they will never succeed in rebuilding a global civilization. For the various disconnected groups of people, it will be increasingly difficult to cope with living conditions so different from the hospitable climate and clear atmosphere that will cease to exist in just a few hours.

"Why didn't they know, then?" my neighbor goes on. "After all, scientists... research..."

A strong jolt shakes the building so unexpectedly that both of us are suddenly on the floor. Through the window, I hear the shouts and cries of the people on the beach. My neighbor starts muttering to himself again, not even trying to get up. I make it to my feet, balance on the vibrating floor, and get to the window. People are running away from the water. Primal instincts are stronger than the understanding that there's no place to run. Fear drives them to seek shelter.

I watch, captivated, as a huge wave rises slowly on the horizon.

Very soon, I will know nothing again.

_Jackie Bee lives in Israel, works as a computer programmer and loves to spend free time writing fiction. You can find her_ on Facebook _._

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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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