

### An anthology of writing from the University of Cambridge Pembroke/Kings Summer Programme 2012

Various Authors

Copyright Individual Authors 2012

Published by Trapeze Books at Smashwords

### Contents

P F C Humphries

Splintered

Seeing Christine

Sidewalk Etiquette

Nazi Gold - Prologue

The Outlaw

The Goddess Of Eternal Dawn

Mirror World

Fighters

Bone Mill

Chronophage

Excerpt From Run For Your Mind

Fine

Starr School Incident/Diesel's Backstory

About This Anthology

List Of Contributors

#

PFC Humphries

### Carson Bennett

#

Private Humphries, was not herself.

I guess she had been promoted to Private First Class, but that's not the full story—there was something else. I could just tell from the way she skittered into my office the first time back from Afghanistan.

PFC Humphries came in with an escort who began to introduce herself.

"This is PFC Hum..." a redheaded woman said while putting an arm around her shoulder and stroking the bangs out of Humphries' green eyes. First time I had ever seen her with bangs, or any hair for that matter.

"Yes yes, we have met before but who might you be? A relative?" I asked judging from her matching, curly red hair.

"I am her mother sir," she said looking at PFC Humphries. Mrs. Humphries turned to me and sheepishly continued, "and if you don't mind the bother...I'm just goin' to sit on down over here in the corner a while..."

"Mrs. Humphries, I'm sorry, but that is out of the question."

She hugged her daughter tighter, "But I'm her mother, I've got rights..."

I buzzed my secretary from my desk, "Eileen?"

Eileen entered the room, "Yes Captain?'

I stood up, "Please make Mrs. Humphries feel comfortable for the next 50 minutes." Eileen nodded but the obnoxious woman would not let go.

"Confidentiality." I said enunciating every vowel. "It's the law."

Mrs. Humphries closed her red lips and looked at her daughter who seemed to be oblivious to our entire conversation – she never used to stare at me with those green eyes.

"Trust me ma'am, I am here to help your daughter heal..." I said, getting up out of my chair and moving toward the door in between her and PFC Humphries, "both inside and out," I said tapping my finger against my temple.

She tried to glance one more time over my shoulder to see her daughter but then walked out into the waiting room.

PHC Humphries had a girlish spark that cemented her tanned face in a Botox-like smile. Peculiar, I thought as I returned to my desk to shuffled papers into stacks. I waited for her salute and reporting-in procedures.

Not a word.

Not even the greeting of the day, which by then would have been a hearty 'Good Evening Sir.' I glanced up, and instead of seeing PFC Humphries standing at attention, staring off 10 degrees above the horizon, she just looked straight at me with those emerald eyes and toothy grin. Her bloodshot eyes weren't matching her smile. She seemed on edge, I couldn't tell from her tense muscles – it was all in her face.

I told her to take a seat, which she did, tiptoeing over as if she were in high heels on an ice rink. We had a few appointments together before her deployment; back then she was still only a private: nothing more than an 18 year-old 'Air Force brat' who spent her childhood jumping from base to base across the states. Colonel Humphries, a logistics officer, would only give fatherly approval if she served her country in uniform. So when she was rejected by West Point, and Annapolis, and the Air Force Academy—she enlisted.

To be honest, back then I sat in more as a paid friend taking notes than a trained psychiatrist. I never wrote Humphries a single prescription before. She may not need any now, I thought, but then I remembered a line from her Commanding Officer's discharge notice: "Sleep issues; mentally unfit to serve."

"Good evening Humphries." I said.

"A huh," she nodded with her open mouth smile.

"Good to see you back in one piece."

Her head began to jitter like a bobble head. Her gaze drifted around my office.

"Do you remember this room?" I asked pointing at the bookshelves, the tree in the corner and the leather couch against the wall.

"It looks so foggy" she said. She folded her arms, held herself, and began to laugh, still looking around the room but sneaking glances over at me. "So foggy."

I nodded, scribbling a note on my yellow legal pad.

"Humphries do you know where you are?"

"America!" she shouted lifting up her hands like field goal posts.

The sudden outburst dwindled back to her holding herself. Maybe I should have turned down the fan; cool air wasn't quite the Afghan air she was used to.

"Do you like being back in the states?"

"When will it rain?"

"Come again?"

"The clouds, the clouds," she said, pointing at one of those motivational posters hanging on the wall. It was a framed Hawaiian sunrise with a phrase from Emerson under one word in all capital letters—PATIENCE.

I took a breath. "How was your time away from America?"

"American," she giggled.

"Yes, but how was it when you left America, PFC Humphries? How long where you in Afghanistan?"

"A huh" she nodded, and began to stare at me again. I stared back. I squinted my eyes as she began listening around the room. I couldn't hear anything other than the stand-up fan in the corner.

"Ms. Humphries, do you remember my name?"

"Captain Carlyle?" came a knock at the door.

"What is it Eileen?" I asked but Mrs. Humphries had opened the door, and began talking about how it was getting late and that her daughter needed to be home before Colonel Humphries.

"You got her all fixed up?"

"Time Mrs. Humphries," I said, noting a few prescriptions for anti-depressants. "Time heals all wounds." I remember thinking to myself, 'This case is D.I.D. and done. Dissociative Identity Disorders may be a handful for other psychiatrists, but not me.' After practicing with military personnel for 15 years I thought I knew it all. I remember jotting down the prescription for Chlorpromazine and Mellaril and handing it over with a smile like I just turned in an A+ paper.

Mrs. Humphries, surprised, looked over the paper, squinting into it as if it was giving off a glare. "Do these help her sleep Captain?" she said, silently mouthing the names of the drugs, "She is having the hardest time getting rest."

"Sleepwalking?"

"I hear her walking around in her room at night," Mrs. Humphries said then whispered, "and she sleep talks...she mumbles to herself all night."

I looked into PFC Humphries' bloodshot eyes again, and jotted down another note on my yellow legal notepad.

"All right" I said, sheathing my pen in my shirt pocket, "Goodnight and see that she gets some rest. She needs it."

***

I watched them pull out of the clinic parking lot and turned back to my desk to begin jotting down my post appointment notes. First line—'Red Hair.' Sounds silly doesn't it, but the first thing I remember when I saw her re-enter my office was her curly tufts of hair—red hair. By Jove, it had been a long time. Nineteen months ago she was pale and bald. She shaved her head during boot camp to fit in more with the other men in her company, "I don't like it, but they won't break me Doc, they can't break me."

I closed my eyes and started replaying those first few minutes in my mind. PFC Humphries definitely smiled more and was even tanner and frecklier than before, but she was still the same green-eyed Humphries—still little 'Humpty Dumpty' as she was called. What should I have expected? Did I expect to see her walk into my office the same way as she always did—opening the door slowly, reporting in 'as ordered' then walking to her chair, shoulders slumped and dragging her feet? I guess we all change. But Humphries would never look me in the face before...she would rather address her dirt-rimmed fingernails, the framed diplomas on the wall behind me, the fake tree in the corner, or the bookshelves to her left. Her new dead-end stare will take some getting used to.

From what I can remember the Bravo Company men did not buy into her army loyalties immediately; their bantering was what prompted her initial anxiety attacks, trouble sleeping, and paranoia. The platoon became quite clever, but I guess it's easy to find insults for a nervous, pale, bald girl. They called her 'egghead,' 'over easy,' (or just 'easy,' which prompted an investigation for sexual harassment), 'Humpty Dumpty,' and 'Benedict Arnold.' The last one took her the closest to tears I had ever seen, 'they're calling me a traitor for telling the truth.'

Two months later, Colonel Humphries called me over the phone for a progress report. PFC Humphries' condition had not improved much. I tried to explain the situation. "Sir there's a difference between psychological scars and physical scars," I said – but he would have none of it.

"Where is the progress doctor—the progress? I want my daughter back. When will she be back in uniform?"

"Like I told your wife earlier sir, this matter is confidential..."

"Don't you finish that word captain," he said. I could hear him spitting into the phone as he continued, "She doesn't remember nothing you tell her, so you might as well tell us how to help patch her up cause she can't do it herself, she doesn't even remember which to take when."

"Sir,..."

"So these drugs you have given her; this (pause...as I could hear the pills rattle as he raised it for closer inspection) Lithium and this uh... Olanzapine junk are just keeping her docile and zombiphied." From the fiery manner that he enunciated that last word, I could tell where Humphries got her red hair. "This is the second round of different drugs you have prescribed and none of them are taking effect."

"Sir," I said in a sharper tone than before, "with respect..."

"Respect my rank soldier!" He said so loud that I placed the phone a few inches from my right ear for the rest of the phone call. "I think you are using this confidential business to hide behind your own inadequacies as a physician. I don't care if it takes all of the king's horses, you just fix her Doc. Do your job and you fix my girl or I'll write you up!" Click.

I hate that ignorance. The human mind is not a clock that can be patched up with a little bit of spit shine and elbow grease.

I looked at the clock on my desk– already a quarter past nine. Time to go home.

***

My daughters were already in their matching rose nightgowns when I pulled into the garage. I nodded to my wife after I verified their minty, tooth-brushed breath and carried little Lisa on my shoulders to her bunk bed. Jessica wrapped herself around my leg and I carried both my girls to their room to read a bedtime story, chanting my best giant impression I could, 'Fee-feye-foe-fum.' That night Jessica handed me the book with Mother Goose on the cover. I thumbed through until Lisa said 'Stop' and the page fell open to 'Humpty Dumpty.'

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king's horses and all the king's men

Couldn't put Humpty together again.

When I finished, Lisa leaned over the top bunk and asked, "Why couldn't they fix him daddy?"

I looked up. "Some things just can't be mended, princess."

"You're wrong daddy." Jessica said, wrapped in her covers like a caterpillar. "Anything can always be fixed with the right spell."

"I guess they didn't know which one to use," I smiled back.

Lisa nodded, satisfied, and hugged her teddy bear tighter as if he might break if he fell off the bunk bed.

I switched off the lights and bent over the cow jumping over the moon nightlight in the corner. I walked back to the closed door and watched my girls for a moment. I looked up and the green stars that gave an artificial glow on the ceiling. I stood there in the dark, looking at those fake, green, plastic stars – so close I could scrape them off the white ceiling. I stared at those green stars and I felt them staring back at me, as green as PFC Humphries' eyes.

I broke the stare when I looked back at my silent daughters who were beginning to sleep. A sound sleep, full of colorful dream that insomniacs like Humphries would kill for. How could I tell them? My girls, my princesses, have learned from a world of fairy tales – a life of magic, where everything could be put right. Where good always triumphs, where a witch's spell can always be undone, the lost hero will always find his way home and even ugly ducklings become beautiful in the end.

I stayed there in the dark for several minutes among the green stars. Should I shake them awake and tell them the truth? Would it be better if I just let them discover it on their own? Am I merely delaying the disenchantment? The green stars stayed silent. I began to imagine what my princesses would think if their father shook them awake and whispered in the dark, "Some people break and stay broken!"

PFC Humphries was just one of the broken people I've seen over the years. Honestly, I try to forget her, and her parents, and the suicide note she left on the ledge, but I can always remember her whenever I read, 'Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall' and how I couldn't put her back together again.

© Carson Bennett. 2012

Splintered

### Kelly Bonner

I was only there because I had to be. The pieces of the broken lamp, which had fallen over while I was vacuuming, sat on the table, glaring at me from under the chandelier. I couldn't take my eyes off them, those glittering little pieces. They scolded me with just as much force as the lady, to whom they had once belonged was scolding me now.

I stood looking away, listening to the voice, imagining that it was actually coming from the pieces themselves. How could you do this? they reproached me. Together we were priceless. Priceless. Look at us now. I'm sorry, I wanted to mouth to them. And I was. It had been a beautiful lamp.

The moment it broke had spun into infinity. Time stretched and slowed as

I heard the crash, which had splintered the pieces across the carpet, leaned over to flip the vacuum switch, and reluctantly turned round to see what had happened. I drank the scene in gradually, the room now ringing with silence. I observed my vacuum wire tucked underneath the prostrate lamp, the lamp stand on the ground like a fallen tree, the pieces like an explosion of shrapnel across the floor. It was a moment of unreality, upsetting the balance of my life in one fleeting second.

Surveying the living room, which I had kept in order for the last three years, suddenly altered by the absence of the lady's beautiful lamp positioned beside the chair, I imagined how Laika, the first dog in space, had have felt. In grade school I had heard a story of how, during the Cold War, the Russians and the Americans had competed to see who could get up in space first. The Americans were on the verge of sending their first mission to space and the Russians, not to be outdone, were ready to do so, too-- but they had a problem. They had the technology to send things up into space, but not to bring them back down. The Americans were not aware of this problem, so the Russians knew they could at least send something up there before them, and show that they were more technologically savvy. They were not so barbaric as to send a human being up there, but they needed to send something living to beat the Americans to that mark. They chose Laika, the dog, to carry out their mission of crushing the competition. They shot Laika into space, she got in the paper, and was, of course, never seen or heard of again.

The moments directly following, when I looked over what I had done, I thought about that dog, sent to die in space against its will, with no way of ever coming back. I imagined how absolutely lonely and frightening that journey must have been, even for a dog, or perhaps especially for a dog, who had no idea what was happening to her. My image of the moment she hit the stratosphere was how I felt now-- isolated, terrified, unable to go back. Our roles mere casualties for the people who mattered.

Now I was a murderer, standing over the dead body. The lamp was still lying there, bleeding out its glass shards, waiting to be dealt with. I kneeled to gather the pieces of the destroyed lamp, digging my knuckles into the carpet for the hard to reach ones. I had the vacuum, but somehow thought that if I gathered every little bit, laid them out, examined the odds and ends, that they might be turned back into a lamp. Once they were together, collected, I looked them over. They lay across the table, a sweep of stars, twinkling under the chandelier. There were just so many. I sat at the table completely numb, awaiting the inevitable.

Her voice was not harsh, but soft, precise, poisonous like a snake. She continued to move her mouth, and I continued looking away, because I had to, because I didn't know how to look her in the eye. The words I did know, 'no' and 'pay', flickered by, but that was to be expected. I fidgeted, nodded, looked up, ready for it to be over. She glided over to the door, still talking, and I followed her, sweeping myself in slow motion over the threshold of the door, across the lawn, down the street, into my car. I sat behind the steering wheel, staring at the parked cars on the suburban road; splashes of sunshine reflected in the gleaming bumpers, rearview mirrors, those things on top of their hoods which proudly indicated I AM A BMW. They sat lazily bathed in the Sunday afternoon heat, in no way affected by the traumatic event which had just befallen me. In fact, they would continue to sit in absolute contentment, even after I had turned the ignition to my car, released the hand brake, and passed away from them for the last time.

***

The shadows of trees passed over my steering wheel, up my small body, across my face in profile. I felt vacant, rolling by the houses of suburbia, lined up like so many dominos out of eyesight down the street, like those lines on graphs with an arrow pointing off the page, indicating: continues infinitely.

I drove on autopilot, allowing that feeling at the bottom of my stomach to guide me wherever it wanted. I ended up at 7/11. I got out of my car, wandering in like every person at 7/11 does, prowling around the aisles of snacks, gravitating toward a particular item or two, each slightly surprised to find themselves there. I grabbed a cup and filled it with coffee, watching the boiling liquid trickle in, filling the hole and making the circle bigger and bigger. As I paid the Indian guy behind the counter, even the thought which always came to me at 7/11, the one where my friend had told me he planned to one day prove his scientific theory that "every 7/11 in the world is actually owned by an Indian," didn't make me smile as it usually did. It just reminded me of how hollow I felt now, how stupid and unimportant thoughts like that really are.

I slid back into my car, rejoining the company of the cars of the parking lot. Feeling the hot drink in my hands, in combination with the heat inside my car, injected me with the ultimate feeling of laziness, of being tired down to the soul. I was in life as I was in my car: keys in the ignition, sitting in a temporary space, nowhere to go. I thought about how I had enjoyed my cleaning job as the ideal space of limbo, as it paid the bills, meant very little to me, and most importantly allowed me to delay the start of what I thought of as "real life" for just a little bit longer. Being a maid was a safe space of not having to deal with things-- I did the tasks I was given, then went home and didn't have to think about it. Thinking about it was too hard.

I started the car, reversing out of the parking lot. The strong sense I felt now lead me uphill, climbing past the houses which grew larger and more stately. There was a stop sign at almost every corner, causing me to halt and start every few moments. It, too, was the maid's life, stopping and starting. Feeling like you were moving forward, only to be interrupted again. It had always occurred to me-- and it occurred to me now, at my sixth stop sign, in retrospect-- how maid's work was actually the ultimate, unfinishable task. No matter how hard you worked at it, it always slowly undid itself throughout the week, ready to be started over, and over, and over. It was a life of repetition for the actual maid, and one that could not be fulfilling in the long run for the girl masquerading as one. Someone waved me forward, even though I didn't have the right of way. I continued moving up.

Suddenly I knew where I was going, as the houses trailed off and the dry, sickly high, desert trees and dusty underbrush increased. I pulled up to a deserted bench overlooking the valley, houses speckled at the bottom of the bowl, nestled together like cocoa pebbles enclosed by the dish of mountains. The seat, in the middle of nowhere, watching the sun as it set, was the only place I wanted to be.

As I put my feet up on the bench, locking my beat-up Sedan behind me, I mused on how the world worked, how it felt to have change thrust upon me with such immediacy, within the span of an afternoon, especially since I had resisted it for so long. There was Laika again, condemned to drift in space, forever. I thought nebulously about the outside forces that governed these kinds of changes, how formless life is. It was like a fumble in the dark, change like taking one more, nonexistent step at the bottom of the stairs, the time ahead like the roads obscured by the lack of street lights as I made my way back down.

© Kelly Bonner 2012
Seeing Christine

### Shamae Budd

#

I was in college, at the time. I remember it was near the end of August, when the leaves were beginning to turn, and the air was suddenly charged with a crisp, cold smell, over-night. I had a paper to finish—a paper that I had delayed for weeks in the usual undergraduate fashion. I had exactly 12 hours to complete it.

Of course, I had planned to begin working earlier in the day. But I had brushed it aside in favor of more appealing activities: a late breakfast of fried eggs and toast with raspberry jam; an excursion into the bookstore round the corner; a lunch date with an old friend who'd come down for a visit...

Her name was Christine. She was a dear friend, back in elementary school days. She phoned me up—I hadn't heard from her in over a decade. As it happened, she lived only a few hours from the town in which I was studying, and she suggested we meet for a bite to eat and a chat. I could show her the sights, and we could become re-acquainted, after all those years.

She was rather quiet in grade-school, as I recalled. Sweet, and plain looking—almost benign. We couldn't have been more different; I was always being sent to the principle's office for some slight infraction or other—she sat at her desk without saying a single word, day after day. It was an all-girl school, and I'm afraid I earned a nickname my mother detested, which nevertheless stuck for years: Barbara Grey Scott was neatly shortened into "Barb the boy". I never minded it, myself.

At any rate, Christine and I were an odd pair. An unlikely friendship.

When she walked into the café _,_ I hardly recognized her. She was... well she certainly wasn't plain. Long, blonde hair—almost white—the color of butter; eyes a deep, fern green; skin, flawless; nose, slim and almost sharp at the end; high collar bones; soft-looking, powder-pink lips. She was lovely. I couldn't take my eyes off her.

I expressed the appropriate amount of surprise and enthusiasm, complimenting her astonishing good looks, and carried on being generally cheery and welcoming, ushering her toward the table, at which I had been sitting with a wave of the hand. But despite my honest attempts to make her feel at home, she seemed... distant, somehow. She was not cold, exactly. But removed. As though she were not in the same room, where I was sitting.

The conversation was a little awkward. But I can't help feeling it was not my fault. She said very little—only answered my questions with short, unfinished sentences, and let the silence linger, trailing off in the middle of a clause and never resurrecting it. She spoke without punctuation—she used no periods, asked no questions (and so, used no question marks), and never had need of a comma (her responses were so short they required no pause). When our food finally arrived, I gave up the effort, and gratefully filled my mouth with bites of smoked salmon sandwich. And Christine daintily picked at her house salad with the prongs of her fork.

"I hated you in school," Christine said, head cocked slightly, in an even voice from across the table.

I choked on the bit of salmon I was about to swallow, and put the sandwich down.

"I... uhh—come again?" I said, honestly unsure of whether I'd heard her correctly.

"I hated you."

"I'm sorry, Christine... Have I... Did you... Well, I'm just very sorry... about that...," I sputtered, searching the childhood memories, trying to pluck out an explanation for this strange revelation. I wondered if perhaps this was not the Christine I remembered after all. The quiet, shy girl in the corner who I had befriended, all those years ago.

"Oh, I don't feel that way now, of course. We're adults, Barbara. I just wanted you to know."

"Oh. Well. Thank you. That is very... yes. Well, thank you," I said, staring at her with a look of confusion on my face which was impossible to hide. "Do you mind my asking... why?"

"Why?"

"Yes. Well, why you... why you felt that way. Then."

"People could see you. All I ever wanted was to be seen."

I didn't know what to say. I said nothing.

Seconds passed—maybe a minute, maybe two. I couldn't be sure. It felt like an eternity, but I can't imagine it was nearly so long as it felt. I could hear the second hand on my watch, ticking. The café was busy, moving around us. But we sat still—I could not take my eyes from the beautiful woman sitting across from me. I might have sat like that for hours... weeks... if she had not finally shifted her gaze.

"Lunch was lovely" she said, standing up and pushing her chair back from the table, leaving her salad almost entirely untouched.

"Ah, yes. It was."

I remained seated, watching her turn to leave, no longer concerned over what to say – realizing that there was no point at all in exchanging pleasantries, in such a situation.

"Oh," she said, turning back again. "I brought you something. Wear it, please. It will make me very happy, if you do," placing a small, silver box on the edge of the table.

"Oh that was very thoughtful. How nice!" I said.

"Yes," she responded, with an amused purse of the lips.

"If you're ever in the area... do drop by to see me," I said, unable to bear the strain of the one word response without some kind of parting token of good will, some conclusive farewell.

"I doubt I'll be seeing much of you," she crooned, and then she turned, walked out the door, and was gone.

I paid the bill—a price too high to pay for a salad untouched and sandwich only half-eaten. Opening the silver box as I walked into the street, I found a thin, silver chain, with an eye-shaped pendent dangling at the end. I was puzzled by it, really **.** It was a strange gift—a strange gesture, really, given the circumstances. Was it simply to relieve her conscience—an apology, perhaps, for having hated me so intensely for something so completely out of my control? Possibly it was a sign of renewed affection and friendship... But the way she had acted in the café, I could hardly bank on _that_ as the probable cause. Dismissing the entire thing as completely absurd, I concluded that Christine was a strange girl, indeed. And with that, I reached my door, and jammed the key in the lock.

Once in my room, I threw the box on the nightstand and fell into bed—passing out or falling asleep as soon as I did. When I awoke, my windows were dark. I looked at my watch and then jerked out of bed, rubbing my eyes to be sure that I'd read the time right – it was 10:00, and my paper had yet to be written. It was due the next morning at 8:00 sharp, and I hadn't even begun.

As I grabbed my keys, my books, and my bag, I looked at the nightstand and saw the small, silver box... I turned to leave, hesitated a moment, and turned back. I picked the box up, and opened the lid, looking at the silver chain and the little eye-shaped pendent. It was a nice necklace, really. It was pretty. I lifted the ends of the chain to the back of my neck and re-fastened it there, touching it lightly where it sat between my collar bones, and shrugged. Sure. Why not?

Grabbing my bag once again, I clomped down the stairs and out the door, locking it loudly behind me. The library wasn't far, but it was chilly outside. I folded my arms and started walking, rummaging around in my head for some kind of workable thesis.

The crowds that filled the streets in the early afternoon were long gone, to the bar or to bed, and only a handful of night-time walkers remained. A man painting his doorstep white dipped his brush in a bucket of paint. An elderly gentleman slipped past on his bicycle, ringing his little bell twice at the man with the dog. A group of boys were congregated on the church steps a few yards ahead, and to avoid the confrontation, I crossed the street to walk on the other side—but there were no cat-calls, no obscene remarks. I passed to the other side unnoticed, and was glad of the reprieve from the hoots I normally received. A pudgy man with a roundish middle, obviously out for his night-time exercise, passed by with his two walking sticks—and though I smiled in his direction, his eyes remained focused on the sidewalk ahead. I laughed quietly at the man's concentration, and noted how little it seemed to have helped his physique. Just then, a woman in a blue coat turned onto the street a few feet ahead, and continued on walking quickly toward me. As she came nearer, I said a friendly "good evening," and she jerked her head up with a look of surprise. She gazed in my direction with a strange, searching expression, squinting her eyes—and then she shook her head, and continued on.

I was a little incensed by her rude response. But she was just an old lady, and it wasn't my business to bother about whether she was kind to people she met in the street. I reached the familiar library steps, and thought how strange people seemed, today. First Christine. Now that woman in the blue coat. As I pushed the door open, and stepped inside, I was relieved to see a familiar face. "Paul!" I said, walking toward the table where he sat in a pool of light which was spread across the books in a warm yellow glow. "So good to see you, it's been the strangest day."

He glanced up from his books with an expectant face, and then his brow furrowed slightly. He looked from left to right, and then back toward the door where I'd come in.

"Barb?" he asked.

"Yes, Paul, last time I checked, that's who I was," I said, as I reached the end of the table.

He jumped in his chair, and glanced around the room, looking vaguely concerned.

"...Where are you? How are you doing that?"

"Paul, I am right in front of you. Don't be an idiot," I said, becoming slightly exasperated with the game he was playing. I began waving my hands in front of his face, saying "Helloooo! See! Right here."

His face drained of color, and he didn't blink.

After a moment, he said: "Barb, I can't see you."

Feeling suddenly afraid, I said, "Paul, that isn't funny."

I looked at him, with a face that said I was done kidding around. But as he stared blankly ahead, I knew all he saw were the bookshelves behind me.

I'm sure you know already. The necklace. But certainly! Christine. Of course. You know, I see her in the streets, sometimes, now and then. Lovely as ever. But I suppose she was right, that day in the café—when she said, "I doubt I'll be seeing much of you."

You see, I've tried, but I can't seem to get it off.

_© Shamae Budd 2012  
_

Sidewalk Etiquette

### Averill Corkin

#

After a long day of classes, I was in a hurry to get home. I was keeping up a pretty good pace, eyes intensely focused on the ground, when I noticed someone in front of me, walking at _nearly_ the same pace. I was catching up to him, but not quickly. I recognized this person as Jason, an acquaintance with whom I shared mutual friends. I caught one subtle side-glance of his red-haired, short head. I knew that _he_ knew that I was there.

I was tired, and not in the mood to make cordial small talk. And obviously Jason was not either. If he wanted to talk to me, he'd turn his head around, say something to the effect of, "Oh! Hey! Didn't see you there!" and then pause long enough that I could catch up to him, then we'd both make small talk for the rest of our 7 minute journey home. Seven minutes is a long walk. With someone you are sort-of-friends with.

I scrunched my brow and pondered my options. 1) I could pick up my pace and speed walk, and wave as I passed Jason by. But at the pace we both were already going, I'd practically have to jog to pass him.

2) I could catch up to him, and say, "Hey! Jason! Didn't notice it was you there!" We would chitchat about "how long it has been!" and "how were our classes?" and, "we'll have to go to coffee and catch up sometime!"

Also, full disclosure, we're calling him Jason because I actually forgot his name. I'm pretty sure it _started_ with a J. So if I did option 2, then I'd have to avoid saying his name, and the whole thing just seemed like a lot of effort.

Option number 3) I could slow down to match his pace, try and walk quietly enough so that we could both keep pretending that we didn't notice the other person there.

So I justified this incredibly awkward and immature approach to sidewalk contact, and slowed down slightly, staying three feet behind.

Then he turned the corner. _Perfect!_ I thought. _He's on the same wave-length! Good plan, Jason. You pretend to go down that street, and pause for 30 seconds while I walk by, so we can avoid this encounter neither one of us wants._ Then I shook my head. _Oh my goodness! You're being ridiculous! He probably actually needs to_ go _down that street. Not everyone in the world over-thinks situations like this and is as paranoid as you are acting right now..."_

So I laughed at my silliness, and kept walking. But just for kicks, and probably because I _am_ a little paranoid, I did a subtle head turn. Jason was there, walking behind me at a safe distance. Dear goodness. He _had_ pretended to turn the corner to let me pass. I knew it! My faith in the awkwardness of humanity was restored!

© Averill Corkin 2012

Nazi Gold - Prologue

### Justin Dice

#

"Nazi Gold," Barnett said with a thoughtfulness in his voice , "Every great story our children write will begin with those words."

Mylarski rolled his eyes. He rarely dignified Barnett's nuggets of wisdom with a response. Instead, he took a long and hard draw on his cigar. Looking up as he exhaled, he watched the smoke dissipate into a cloudless summer sky. I sipped my coffee despite the relentless heat of the beating summer sun. Nights on the move had made caffeine a necessity. Barnett fell back into his cognitive stupor, continuing to look deeply into his sweating glass of ice water. We all continued waiting.

We must have looked out of place, three American boys in polos buttoned up to the neck, hair slicked, sitting at a small café on a cobblestone street in Baixa, a pedestrian neighborhood in the heart of Lisbon. I don't suppose we were boys then, though. We had each served in different capacities in the war, all classified of course. Mylarski had already acquired a reputation in the community by the time Barnett and I were picked to join his team. The head operative in our cell, he was the oldest among us at thirty-one. His attempts to control his beard on long missions went so poorly that he had acquired the nickname, "Wolfman." Even now, a three-o'clock shadow was becoming visible on his grizzled visage. The stark contrast his dark black hair and sharp green eyes threw against his tanned face only helped the persona. He was a linebacker in school, short in stature and barrel-chested. Barnett and I were both twenty-six at the time, still young enough to do something stupid and live to regret it.

Blond haired and blue eyed, standing at 6'3, Barnett fancied himself the descendent of Norse gods. Unfortunately for Mylarski and I, his arrogance was backed up by his physical prowess. Despite his quips, we put up with him because of his unique set of skills. When an angry German had a knife to your throat, Barnett was someone you wanted in the room.

The three of us sat there, waiting. Trying too hard to fit in, I'm sure we looked like we belonged in the seats of a convertible Cadillac back in the states headed to a cookout on the Fourth of July.

I'm sure that's what the men in three-piece suits thought when they would pretend to help us. These men stood behind glided bars meant to keep criminals from stealing their money. Men like us I suppose. But then, hiding gold bullion in a gilded cage is bound to draw attention. They were from Liechtenstein, Switzerland, and Portugal and had no business with this gold stolen from conquered peoples. They tried to distance themselves from the dirty gold, explaining to new hires full of unsullied ambition that it was not their concern where their business partners had gotten the gold. The Nazi's were always referred to in such ways, as a patron of the bank would be. But you can't explain these things away and I doubt the men ever truly believed it themselves. Regardless, they stood in the way of our objective.

Whisper as the bankers might, travelers in Lisbon at that time were welcomed, as the local economy could use as much stimulation as it could get. Still, the locals were suspicious of us. Life under a dictatorial regime does that to an average soul. The suspicion was fine, as long as it remained whispered words and no one looked too closely at our fake IDs. That's why we moved so much. They told us going in that we'd move to a new safe house every few days, never visiting the same place twice. The moving was fine really; it was the waiting that would kill you. The assignments came from every day to once a week. We were to tail someone, meet with an informant, case a particular locale. Always something new, but the variety would never fully hide the four or five days of downtime.

The city looks much the same today as it did in the 50's. Lisbon is filled with cobblestone streets lined by terracotta houses with red tile roofs. They crawl up gently sloping hills to the tops of greater hills. They run into each other suddenly, creating great intersections where lost travelers will crinkle paper maps in an attempt to decide which of the five ways presented leads to the ocean. Travelers might stumble upon a grand courtyard of many stones, adorned with sculpted statues of great men, men who sailed across the ocean to explore new lands. Men who conquered ignorant peoples and brought back gold to be stored deep beneath the cobblestone streets in cavernous halls filled with men busy dutifully serving the king and queen. Men like the ones who once again stuffed the city with stolen gold. It was these riches that men in uniforms, in foxholes, under frosted tree lines across from other men in different uniforms under different tree lines dreamt about.

"I'm telling you, everyone who's touched that Kraut bullion knows. Power is the impetus of history, and money used to fund that quest holds a special power," asserted Barnett. It hadn't been five minutes. Or maybe it had. Time crawls slowly on the edge of your seat. Mylarski didn't respond this time, but sat studying the street corner. We were supposed to meet an informant at the café an hour previous, and despite the slower pace of life in Lisbon, it was clear that Mylarski thought the tardiness less than routine. The longer we waited, the more Mylarski fidgeted. I'm sure that waiting with Barnett wasn't helping either.

"If I wanted to cook in the sun all day sitting on my hands I would have gone to Cuba," growled Mylarski.

Barnett didn't respond, just kept watching his glass of water sweat.

"I'm sure she's fine," I said, "just a little late."

"Just a little late can mean a lot of things in this business," said Mylarski.

"I'm sure she's fine," I repeated, more for my sake than his.

Mylarski took another long draw on his cigar and blew the smoke out his nose. He at least tried to hide his agitation most of the time.

"And if not?" he asked.

"What's gotten under your skin?" asked Barnett.

"Other than your asinine musings, Mighty Thor?"

"Cool it Mylarski. We've had to wait for informants before. I'm sure she's fine," I repeated, less sure of what I was saying the third time around.

I didn't care much about the "impetus of history," but I did know that everyone who touched that Kraut bullion had a good chance of ending up dead. That fact alone had given me pause when we were told the operation's objective. And that fact was causing me to worry about our informant's fate.

We continued to watch our glasses of water sweat, occasionally taking a mouthful, conscious to conserve what we had. The waitresses as well as the informants were slow in Lisbon. Barnett checked his watch, 3:10. He pulled a packet of smokes from his shirt pocket, ones he had rolled himself. I offered him my lighter as he put one between his lips. He lit it and took a long draw.

"As long as we are on the subject of wishful thinking," said Barnett, exhaling, "next CIA shipment to the Congo, I'm hitching a ride. I hear that's the place to be these days to see some action."

Mylarski's jaw tensed. Those green eyes of his narrowed.

"Can it Barnett!" he hushed, "The Agency's name isn't going to make you friends here."

"What, your ears burning Wolfman?" joked Barnett.

"They should be," I said, straightening in my seat. Two men in white fedoras were motioned to their table on the other side of the café by our waitress. My compatriots were smart enough not to turn around.

"The one with the scar?" asked Mylarski.

"Yeah," I said. The man ordering his drink turned his head towards our waitress and I got a better view of an ugly war wound that stretched from just above his eyebrow to his jaw line.

"I told you fools something was up," muttered Mylarski.

"Who taught the Russians the concept of subtlety?" asked Barnett to his cigarette.

"Maybe they aren't trying to hide," I said.

Before Mylarski had the opportunity to curse the sun, moon, and stars that he wasn't in Cuba, Barnett tapped the table three times, indicating that he saw our informant coming around the corner.

The way I was situated at the table meant that she was behind me, but I didn't need to get a look at her to sense something was wrong. A moment after Barnett indicated that he saw her come around the corner, he furrowed his brow, squinting into the sun that was cooking the back of my neck. A moment later, his eyes widened as he put down his cigarette. I looked at Mylarski, whose mouth was slightly open. The clinking of forks and knives on plates seemed to slow and stop as the patrons of the café turned to look behind me. Even our waitress stopped taking the Russians' order. My gaze moved to the scarred Russian, who was looking right at me. He cracked a smile as he put down his teacup. I slowly turned in my chair.

The first thing I noticed was her hair. When we had met her, she had such beautiful long black hair. Now her head was shaved. Sloppily, like the kids in the camps. Her eyes were downcast. As I followed her gaze, I saw that she was still in her bank uniform, no longer cleanly pressed like it was all the times we met after work. As my gaze tracked her, I was struck again by how beautiful she was, a true daughter of the Mediterranean. Like a tanned Helena of Troy. No wonder they let her get so close. After a brief moment I noticed that she was limping. I looked further down and saw that her slow and deliberate steps had left bloody footprints on the cobblestones leading around the corner. They had cut off all her toes.

She stopped and looked up at me. I don't know why she looked at me; she had dealt with all of us equally over the past three months. I can still see those eyes when I close mine, hazel and deep as the sea. I had seen those eyes worried, but what I saw that day was fear like I had never seen. That look made me tremble. I still don't know why she looked at me.

My head swiveled around to meet the eyes of the Russian. He paused for a moment then, smiling, he mouthed the word, "Bang."

I've talked to men in uniforms, in foxholes, under frosted tree lines across from other men in different uniforms under different tree lines who dreamt about Nazi gold and the riches of a liberated Europe. What they have universally told me is that when the opposing tree line lights up and bullets start flying overhead, all thought of gold goes out the window. But then I had always thought that the gold was the most important part.

I heard a gunshot ring out.

My head swung around to our informant again to see a red mist rising from a hole in her chest. Dishes shattered as the café patrons collectively dove screaming from their chairs.

I froze momentarily.

"ABLE X-RAY," shouted Mylarski as he took off across the street, indicating the safe house we would meet at after the standard 24-hour period.

Barnett threw his chair to the side and stood to bolt. Realizing that I wasn't moving, he reached across the table and grabbed my collar. Pulling me to my feet, he leaned in and said in a whisper forceful enough for me to hear it the maxim we had been repeated before the outset of the mission, " _Above all you may not allow yourself to be captured alive by any communist state or agency_."

I couldn't stay. I turned and sprinted down the street; the sound of screaming citizens and my blood feeding my pumping legs filled my ears. But no gunshots. I turned to head down an alley, but paused before I rounded the corner, looking back towards the café. Everyone was either huddled under his or her table or sprinting for the closest door. My eyes caught those of the Russian. They held a giddy malice I have never seen in a sane man. Still sitting sipping his drink, he smiled.

© Justin Dice 2012
The Outlaw

### Evan Hembacher

'Parently, "you got the wrong man!" is a common claim o' those poor saps on the long road to the gallows. Boris the Executioner certainly aint buyin' it. That probably aint his name, but hey, if the hood fits. Those dumb, sunken eyes stare slightly past me at lord knows what, and I'm gettin' the sudden urge to smack him right across his dumb, smug face. If anyone should be hangin' it should be the guy who strapped a noose 'round three necks just this mornin'. Instead, it's me who's gonna die, Joe Nobody, a mean lookin'sonuvabitch with not much meanness to back it up.

Pardon my brevity, but I aint got much time. You see, growin' up, everybody just assumed I was trouble – I got big bones, see, big bones and big meaty fists, and a big snarlin' mouth full o' big crooked teeth. I reckon there must've been a real serious debate 'bout whether to jail me up when I was just a tot, as a preventative measure. For the sake o' human kind, civilized folk, and all that.

Now Boris is givin' me a toothy grin. Like he knows somethin' and he aint gonna tell me. What's there to know? I aint got nothin' but a broken neck to look forward to, if I'm lucky that is. If I'm unlucky...well, the fall will cause a right unbearable pain, and I'll writhe and wriggle and wither away as they all do. My tongue'll hang out all purple like, my eyes'll bulge and maybe, if I'm havin' a real bad day, they'll pop right out, give the townsfolk their money's worth. Some youngin'll have himself a handy souvenir to show off in the schoolyard. I reckon that's the way I'll go, out o' the world as butt ugly as I came in.

The War for Southern Independence should'a been a god-send, but if there's one thing I've learned, it's that god's got better things to do than mess about with my sad lot – my life's just a long, dusty road piled high with cow pies. That's cow shit, for you city folk. Like all boys from Shiloh, I marched about with Lee's army, ate hard-tack and sang Goober Peas like a good soldier. For the first time, lookin' mean worked in my favor, and I weren't given much trouble. Then the great battle came along with the roarin' cannons and head-splittin' rifle fire, and by the seat o' my soiled pants I made it through with not but a scratch on my cheek and a bruise on my ass. Apparently, this weren't good luck at all. I got hauled off to the stockade, they claimed, for desertin' the battlefield, and got beaten somethin' fierce for the crime. Nobody could believe a sucker like me would come out o' a battle like that alive, let alone with my arms and legs still attached. I reckon they wondered why I got to live while all those handsome young men had to go and die.

Excitement seems to have fallen over the townsfolk here on this scorchin' day – a little bit o' violence goes a long way in a town like this. The mayor, the shopkeep, even the banker took off work to watch me sway – I can't hear what they're goin' on about, but if I could guess, they'd be discussin' what a right blessin' it is to see a festerin' boil like me wiped clean off this miserable Earth. Hangin's are always a good time, but I reckon mine's the most popular one o' the year. The season, at least – when Jedediah Burls was strung up, I do believe they threw a parade for the occasion. But I aint Jedediah, and while my face's made many a child cry, his is just about the meanest this side o' the Mississippi. That, and I hear he had "relations" with cattle and other livestock. A real unsavory sort.

After the war, work was hard to come by, and I found myself ridin' a train to the frontier lands, workin' on the tracks as a wheel-greaser. Manifest destiny an' all that. It weren't easy, but I found a home in all that muck n' grime. That is, until the robbery o' '67, a real ugly affair to be sure. A whole car fulla gentile folk mowed down by a crazed out o' work miner, come right off o' Sutter's Mill. Guessin' things weren't workin' out so good over there. Sad to say, that miner didn't make it off the train – he ate his own gun, brain bits all over the wall. Don't know if he meant to blow himself away from the get-go or if he saw all the blood he had spilt and just snapped – that much blood'll change a man. I should know, I was there – and the only man, woman or child left standin', as it goes. Apparently, bein' the only person left at a crime scene and bein' a hulkin' creature like me aint a good mixture, and I was carted off to jail. This weren't the East, though – due process an' all that out the window. Western-style justice, they call it. I guess that's another way o' sayin' they aint gonna bother with that fancy "constitution" like all them rich lawyer-types back in New York. Hang 'em high, quick and dirty.

I met a fellow in that cell where they left me rot. Name was Seamus, an Irish lad who'd come West for gold and stayed for whiskey and women. 'Parently for a fellow like him, mixin' the two aint the best idea, an' one night he beat a whore somethin' fierce. A real righteous sonuvabitch, let me tell you. He was due to be released, that woman-hatin' puddle o' piss, while I was set to hang. Thank cow pies for Western justice, my friends, aint it just a wonderful thing.

They want a show, let's give it to 'em, that's what I say. I watch as the banker shifts idly in his seat, the wooden stool barely supportin' his fat ass, his dusty pin-striped suit burstin' at the seams. Once upon a time I held no ill-will against these folk, but a man can only take so much.

Bang! The ungodly blast of a Colt 6-shooter echoes through the street. I see Seamus ride up on a stolen horse, poor beast's rear end scarred with Bertrand Farm's unmistakable brand. Bertrand don't seem to care much, he's under his seat clutchin' his ears and havin' words with his Lord. Right on time, Seamus.

See, I befriended that Irish bastard, gave him reason to think we was partners in crime. A hangin's a real good distraction you see, what with the banker and his boys watchin' the only show in town – hell, whole o' Main Street's deserted on a day like this, only thin' missin' was a written invitation from the ol' banker himself. I see the hemp bags full o' cash laid over the horse's rump, enough money to retire a whole gang o' outlaws on. This was for me, my justice in an unjust world. My compensation, if you will, for all the shit that's been brought down on me.

Seamus rides up real close and chucks me his knife. He's got his revolver pointed at the sheriff, shoutin' obscenities and promisin' violence if anyone was to try an' be a hero. I saw through the rope and, with a bow to my audience, I jump down onto the horse's rump. Seamus keeps his pistol held high, wavin' it about at the townsfolk as we begin to ride off. "Nobody move now, I aint afraid to shoot!" I'm sure he's not, and I can't have a rotten criminal like that hangin' around. I grab the gun and, with a little wave "goodbye!" I chuck him right off that horse. Good riddance.

As I ride off into the desert, I can't help but wear a big ol' grin on this ugly face o' mine. I got money, and I got time to kill. Damn it feels go to be me.

Let 'em come after me. I weren't no criminal, see. I just wanted to be left alone. But then again, if the hood fits.

© Evan Hembacher 2012
The Goddess of Eternal Dawn

### Daniel Hernandez

Despite the planet having two suns beside its ecliptic and the time being the afternoon, it was dim outside. Dark clouds consumed the sky. In the middle of its shadow stood Phil laboring through a muddy forest that stretched far across the horizon. It was a rainy day and cold rain pounded against Phil's skin. The rain drops felt like little knives that cut into his senses to produce an awareness of chill. Phil's body became more tortured with every step. It was reaching the same level of exhaustion that he already felt both mentally and spiritually.

Phil's task was not an easy one. In his arms he carried a large, long, heavy object wrapped in a plastic green tarp. The load caused his lungs to drain themselves of relaxed breaths. His legs became tired as he trudged his way through different depths of light brown mud. His heart racing, and bulky muscles soar, his senses became weak in his errand, and his eyes blurred by the onslaught of water that fell from the sky.

After walking two miles, he was able to see the blurry silhouette of an aircraft concealed by a brush of trees. As the metal craft became more illuminated by strikes of lightning in the distance, he felt the mingled sensations of relief and sorrow. Phil's hardship became harder to endure as he moved closer to the ship. His legs wanted to fail him. This was probably due to the continued strain of his muscles carrying what was inside the tarp, but perhaps it was something else, perhaps the weight of his own heart.

Phil dropped to one of his knees that buried itself in the mud. Simultaneously, he lowered the tarp and its contents to the muddy earth below him. He then reached for a button, next to a bright blinking blue light on the side of a collar that surrounded his neck. He pressed it. The collar sent out an electronic signal to the air craft ahead of him. The craft responded to the signal by opening its back platform to reveal a crack of bright light facing Phil's direction.

Before Phil picked up the rolled-up tarp from the ground, he had seen two exposed feet, sticking out of the tarp, covered in white socks stained in blood. He readjusted the rolled up tarp and pushed the two feet back inside the confines of the tarp. He didn't want them to get cold and wet, along with the person's head covered in black hair. Phil continued on his path, unwillingly allowing despairing thoughts to reemerge into his consciousness. The rain washed away much of the blood on his shirt, but it couldn't wash the blood away from his memories. An image of Diana appeared before him. She was smiling. He regretted what he had done. "I wish we were both born under different stars," Phil thought. "I wish you were born under a different star, along with your sisters, where you didn't have to meet me."

Meanwhile, the sound of creaking metal and air released from the door hydraulics echoed from within an empty cargo bay inside the transport vessel. The opening between the platform and the metal frame was becoming larger. It caused fresh air to replace the staleness that previously resided in the space. As the threshold of the aircraft widened, the blue and grey darkness from the outside seemed to contest against the fluorescent illumination inside the vessel. Phil was a dark figure as he stood before the aircraft's entrance; but due to the flashing blue light attached to Phil's collar, his emotions were not hidden. The light on his collar kept half of Phil's face illuminated. His face was creased so deep with guilt and anger, one would think that it could be seen 40 yards away, penetrating the darkness and blurring the screen the storm above provided him.

" _I just wanted to be free. I'm tired of being a slave. Nothing will detach me from that desire. Nothing."_

Stepping out of the storm and onto the aircraft, Phil left a trail of water and mud across the metal floor. He moved to the middle of the cargo bay and placed the body inside the tarp gently down against a cold surface. Shivering and examining her positioning, Phil stepped backwards towards a wall of the cargo bay. All the while he kept his eyes on the tarp and its contents. It was too early for him to forget the five bruises across his neck and the wound on his head that person inside the tarp had caused.

Phil left muddy foot prints that trailed from the body on the floor towards a grey container on the wall. His steps had made squishing sounds with every step. His boots were drenched in water.

Opening the container, he pulled out two pairs of steel handcuffs, and then blew his warm breath into his cold hands to alleviate the chill that had made them feel numb. He continued the repetitions of breathing into his hands till he got a medical kit on a different section of the wall he walked along. Thereafter, Phil moved towards a phone on the wall. Picking it up, he pushed one button, and leaned against the wall as it rang. After two seconds a man appeared on a holograph image. The man had curly blonde hair and only the upper part of his body was showing. The man in the hologram said "Aircraft control, reference code 1875 – Talice. How may I help you?"

"This is 7674-Phil, I've recovered a level 5 package with a type 8 mutation. I have brought her to the cargo bay. Bring two security teams with plenty of artillery and a steel cage, sh..." Before Phil finished the word "she", he paused for a breath to correct himself. "It's alive."

"Alive?" Talice said, extremely surprised that someone could accomplish such a thing. "Congratulations. That means citizenship?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I will let the security team know about your status right away. Before that though, did you hit it with one of the tranquilizers issued to you? If so, how long ago?"

"About half an hour ago, I don't know how long it will last, so hurry.

"Okay I will let a security team know, Stay where you are for further instructions, and be careful."

"Understood." Phil said, raising his head in the air to sooth the strain on his eyes. Phil sighed and ended the conversation by slamming his thumb against a button on the wall. Unsatisfied, he then slammed his thumb into the button again. This time with more force, again, again, and again till he started to slam his fist into the phone's casing till it became dented and utterly impossible to press the call button again. He then looked at it and thought about how the Prometheus company would probably make him pay for the damages. Wanting his previous life back, Phil didn't want to spend one more day on the aircraft trying to repay his debts. Phil tried to fix the casing on the phone, but found that it was futile. He tried to ease his frustration by smoking, but when he pulled out a pack of soggy cigarettes from his pants pocket, he found his effort was of no avail. Unable to satisfy himself with a simple pleasure, he crushed the pack and threw it across the bay room. He slid his hands across his black hair to take off excess water and leaned back against a cold metal wall. Phil slowly slid his whole body down to the floor, leaving a wet streak against the wall as he stared at the tainted person in front of him.

Phil felt like a coward for what he had done and what he would continue to do.

Phil, still holding onto the handcuffs in his hands, moved back to the tarp and uncovered it to reveal a female - what others labeled as the Goddess of Eternal dawn – humanity's highest ascension of evolution, who he called his key to freedom, and the person whom her siblings had called sister.

©Daniel Hernandez 2012
Mirror World

### Samantha Hyun

I'm Alice, ten years old and I live in Berryland, which is a remote small town in the south of Britain. Berryland is so small that you can walk around it in one hour. I don't have any friends because I don't want to. What interests me is that every morning I can wander around Berryland alone and when I walk, I always come up with six impossible things in my mind. If I fail, I'll continue my wandering until I finish this little treat for myself.

As usual, before a brand new day starts, I go out for a stroll. Today is quite foggy and full of cold, fishy-smelling air, but I like that, the mysterious feeling it creates. On my left is a limpid brook – though the water is brown, the colorful stones and marshy weeds are clear underneath. Like a lady's laughter, the sweet sound of water is a strong temptation to me. How I wish I could meet a gorgeous mermaid! But they're only several fish in there. I try to catch one, yet it is so flexible that it edges from my hand quickly, and instead, I see a colorful pebble lying in the riverbed. It looks so beautiful, just like a fish, that I bend down and pick it up. The moment I touch it, it is like a magnet, pulling me into the stream. I mean a deep rolling river, in fact. I'm going down, down-own-own. The bubbles surrounding me are growing bigger or it's me that is shrinking. I'm not sure. More and more curious yet I feel no fear. Not until a pair of giant fish shows up do I realize that I have become small. They have bubbled for several minutes like a serious grown-up conversation. I couldn't help laughing. They give me a black look and "Shush!" I warned myself; my hands are sweating a lot. Zip my mouth, as my mother nags all day long, I know that. It seems to be a universal law.

Just then one of them takes a look at me and swims forward. I stand, or to be precise, float in the water, looking at it. After a while, the other one begins to push me. I feel quite annoyed at first. How could it be so rude to me? Then I figure out maybe they want me to follow them. We swim to the bank, and there is a dog waiting for us. It helps me climb out and gives me a nod. "Dogs here know politeness?" I wonder. What is ridiculous to me seems pretty normal to it. Am I just as common as the fish caught in the net are in our world? I start to worry at the thought, "So what's next? Am I going to be roasted or fried; and then sold with chips? Am I stepping into some land of human killers?" Bad day! Fear spread through my body.

I see a man walking down the road. Excited, I wave at him and shout loudly, "Hey, Pal!", yet he only responds with a poker-face. When he walks past a row of dandelions, unexpectedly these dandelions blow over him as I blow over a dandelion and his body begins to scatter. First his hair flies with the wind like raven's feather, then his head just floats in the air and one of his eyes pops out. I am scared to death and dare not look at it anymore. I dodge past those creepy monsters while the dog leads me into a forest. Those trees, green and fresh, reaching the sky, make a vibrant picture. I'm always fond of those silent trees, defending this land. Feeling that I step in a pool of water, I look down and realize it is a splatter of blood. "God!" I bounce out and step back. The sound of falling can be heard nearby. It is a robust tree who is chopping off a strong middle-aged man: of the first gash, his head lands heavily; after the second and third gash, his body tumbles down with a loud crush; and a pair of feet is still standing there. The bleeding head on the ground still has no expression on it and the tree claps its branches in contentment. I try my best to lower my head so that I can keep it on my neck. Would it hurt, I wonder.

Across the woods is a noisy and lively town, but this town is filled with animal sounds and quiet human beings. "Purr-purr." A green-eyed cat jumps from the roof; a mule brays to an old man who pulls a cart hard and on whom there is a board reading Remy Martin; baaing softly, a couple of sheep are shearing a row of women's hair. These scenes look familiar to me yet extremely strange here like being twisted by a magic mirror. Here we reach a beautifully landscaped park. But it's not the perfect time to admire the view since a huge pigeon is lying lazily on a couch, feeding a group of people. Those old ones bend down and pick up rice one by one while the young gobble a lot. I'm not sure who I should feel the most sorrow for. The square opens onto an amusement park which is not amusing at all. Ice-creams are in a queue to buy ice-human cones. Some are dipped in chocolate and some are coffee. When they are licking ice-human cones, those people begin to melt little by little. The dog turns around, barking at me. I have to catch up with it directly.

We come to a residential district and all kinds of animals live here. Rats run from the underground rooms, rabbits pop from the apartments and crows caw at the attic. As I'm wondering where humans would live here, I walk past a butcher's. It's like a horror movie: a fat pig is chopping a chubby guy. His limbs have already been cut down and hung there, and I can still see his muscles. Oh, I feel my muscles go into spasm. Beside it is a decent restaurant. I know it's not for human beings for sure, but I'm wrong again. The place is stuffed with people, starving people. They are all greedily wolfing down food in their plates. Some pigs stare at their guests with a pleasant look under a post that says "Fill your appetite, dear human friends!"

I know I cannot make friends with animals here or anywhere. I want to escape but I don't know how and the dog is keeping an eye on me. I pray for myself. What am I for?

The dog takes me to a villa and ties a collar on me. He gives me to an Irish water spaniel. It just looks like my little cute puppy at home, so I pet it gently. But it pulls the collar indifferently. I see lots of people here are doing the same thing - being raised by dogs. They all look so handsome that I appreciate dogs' taste deeply – I am a handsome creature here. Nevertheless, it's so weird to watch a man in a suit using a toilet outdoors with a dog looking at him.

Even so, I appreciate that I could be the upper class in human society here compared to those who are meant to be killed. I try my best to get used to life here and learn the animal sounds. Well for me, maybe it's better to zip my mouth forever – nobody listens to human voices.

© Samantha Hyun 2012
Fighters

### Katherine Konietzko

Claude parked his car outside the Baja Fresh and walked into the building with the big 'FF' sign on the door. He drove by this shopping center almost every day – he worked at the county office a mile up the street – but he did not remember this particular building with its green letters. Claude had found that some buildings, and even some people, were hard to notice before a formal introduction.

Opening the door, he felt a gush of cold air as a voice greeted him. "Hi there, you must be Claude. Everyone, this is the new member I told you would be joining us today. Welcome to your first Food Fighters meeting, Claude."

When his eyes adjusted, Claude found himself standing outside a circle of blue chairs, half of them empty. Seven people were scattered among the rest. Some needed two chairs to sit comfortably.

"Welcome, Claude," they chorused.

"Please take a seat, Claude. I'm Leader Maureen, and I speak for all of us when I say how happy I am for you to be here." Of indiscriminate age, Maureen was tall and sinewy, with Botox assisted lips covered in bright pink lip-gloss. She had the complacent aura of a queen whose subjects were few, and easily terrified.

"Claude, as our newest fighter, why don't you tell us a little about yourself?"

"Hi, everyone. My name's uh, Claude Rubin, I'm 47 years old and I'm here to lose weight. And, uh, sorry I was late."

"Thank you Claude, that was wonderful. And I'm sure there was some traffic," said Maureen, encouragingly.

"No. No traffic. That won't happen until around 3 p.m."

"Did you have a hard time parking?"

"Nope, this lot's usually pretty open. I guess I didn't leave on time."

"Well, Claude, that's very brave of you to say. We were just in the middle of Chuck's warrior update. How about we continue listening?"

"Uh, sure." Claude hadn't yet taken up Maureen's offer to sit, but now she gently tapped the plastic chair next to her. Claude sat.

Chuck took a deep breath and continued his story. He was a big man – 300, maybe even 400 pounds, Claude guessed – with a blonde ponytail that thinned into a wisp in the middle of his back. "I was just sayin' how my sister's wedding went this weekend. Which was badly."

"Now Chuck," Maureen intercepted, "Chuck, we talked about that kind of language. Did you mean the weekend went challengingly?"

"Okay the weekend went challengingly. But what difference does a word make? I still ate half of the hors d'oeuvres and one of her wedding presents that I knew was a box of See's candy."

"But Chuck, what of your victory?"

"My victory? Oh, yeah, my victory. I only ate one piece of the wedding cake." Claude wondered why Chuck didn't mine that word choice. He watched as everyone in the room nodded approvingly.

"That's right. A perfectly portioned amount. A social, no-fuss amount. You know what, Chuck? You get a fighter star to put in your journal for that." Maureen reached into her bag and pulled out a roll of green stars. "Here."

Chuck shrugged like a humble Oscar winner and opened his journal. Just at that moment a young man a few chairs to the right started whimpering. Claude saw a squat man in a tight white work shirt and slacks cradling his head in his hands.

"Heavens, Timothy, what's wrong?" Queen Maureen looked up from her knighting ceremony.

"I – I just, I've gotten so many stars that whenever I see one I feel like a failure. To have lost 70 pounds three times, three times – I'm a failure."

"That's why you get blue stars now, Timothy. So that you don't upset yourself with the green stars anymore."

"I know, but I –"

"Timothy, you are not a failure. You are a fighter. A Food Fighter whose journey has taken him to exciting heights. Say it with me: I'm a fighter, not a failure. You know what? Let's everyone say it. Ready?"

"I'm a fighter, not a failure." Claude chanted along with the rest, although quietly. Timothy hugged his arms around his stomach, momentarily assuaged.

"Kelly, why don't you give us your warrior update. How was your week?"

Claude was surprised to see a woman like Kelly here. He guessed she was about as old as Maureen. She wore a tight blue pencil skirt and neurotically played with her thick brown hair, spinning it into a bun, taking it down, and re-spinning it. She frowned and crossed her legs.

"Well, I've got tell you. I don't know when these ten pounds are going to come off. They are stubborn little bastards. I drank lemon and vinegar cocktails all day Thursday and Friday, and what do I get? I'll tell you what I got: one fourth of a pound gone. Nice."

"Some of us would be happy with that," boomed Chuck, who had moved next to Timothy and was rubbing his back.

"Why does that frustrate you, Kelly?" asked Maureen, shooting a warning glare at Chuck.

"Because I've been here three months and I only have one more to go before my Cabo vacation. Do you think I'm going to get in a bikini looking like this?" Kelly gestured to her slight-to-normal frame. "I'll tell you: I'm not. It's ridiculous to think about."

Silence followed this last comment.

"Kelly, I don't.... We are all fighters here, and I don't want to diminish your battle. But I encourage you to re-organize your perspective. Last week you got two green stars. Shouldn't you still be celebrating those strong choices? What do you think?"

"What?"

"You only let her be here because she pays the dues on time!" yelled Timothy, who this time unleashed a flood of tears.

"Timothy, that's not how a fighter responds to another battle! I'm disappointed in you." Maureen's eyes widened theatrically as she put her hands on her hips. Claude wearily wondered if Timothy cried every meeting, but no one else in the room seemed surprised at his second outburst. Claude looked at his watch: he had been here 30 minutes. How many warrior updates were left?

"That's it. I'm not here to be insulted. I'm done. I'm done. You're all just jealous of me. I don't need this. I'll lose the weight without this program." Kelly stood up with her purse clamped to her side and stormed through the door.

"Don't worry, she does this every week," whispered a man near Claude.

Not to be upstaged, Timothy grabbed an empty chair and tossed it into a corner. He let out a squeal of rage and stormed back to his seat.

"Tim-o-thy!!!" Maureen's court was under siege. An older woman wearing a leopard print tunic took advantage of the momentary mayhem to slip a cookie into her mouth. Maureen rushed to Timothy and whispered in his ear, while Chuck stood by like a protective giant. Timothy sat, bowed and trembling in affected concentration, and finally calmed himself down.

"All right. Well, we've certainly had some excitement," said Maureen as she perched from her new throne across the room. She took a deep breath. "Let's move on to Emily's warrior update. Emily?"

"Oh, Maureen, my week was fabulous. Since switching from the Flex Points Plan to Flex Points Plus with Whenever Snacks I feel like a new woman. You probably all remember when I first joined I was – I was 280 pounds." Emily smiled sheepishly and she pulled on her sweater. "But today, I weigh 274 pounds! A year later and I'm in the 270's. Gosh, I never thought I'd see the scale down there."

"Emily. Yes! That is just incredible. How do you feel?"

"I feel so good."

"I bet you do. Why don't we give Emily a round of applause?"

Everyone clapped, and Timothy was suddenly smiles and sunshine. Chuck sat back with his elbows couched on his stomach, bringing his hands together in loud smacks. Chuck took Claude's shocked expression for one of support, and mouthed amazing, right? to him in between claps. Claude shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked at his watch again.

"The thing is, I know I look different. Maybe this time next year I'll be in the 260's? Gosh, that'd be a trip! But I shouldn't think too many green stars ahead." Emily giggled amiably.

"Emily, I am so proud of you. You are a hero. What a great, great note to leave on." Maureen paused dramatically. "I think we all learned a lot in this meeting. I'm excited to see you all next Tuesday, and we'll get to hear our first warrior update from Claude! Here is your journal Claude, and I've already put one star inside. That's for coming today and putting on your armor. Fill it with any feelings you have this week, and if you have questions please email me." Maureen handed him the notebook and smiled.

But Claude never wrote a word in his notebook. Instead, he quit his job at the county office and spent six months living with the Afar people of eastern Africa. He lost 40 pounds, and was happy to live among the warrior tribe, none of whom had ever seen a roll of green stars.

© _Katharine Konietzko 2012_

Bone Mill

### Maria Lechtarova

It was not a terrible start. In 1856, everything in America started from the bottom up. So, when I sided with one of the local lynching clubs to slaughter the remnants of Chicago's Driscoll gang and start the hell over in the backwoods of Illinois, I did not start by buying a new hat. I built myself a tavern. A small tavern, didn't need more than two rooms besides the bar and kitchen. The main roads were ten miles away from Mill St. I was the first one here, so I named it. Mills give a sense of motion, round and round she goes.

I wanted to run this place my way. The most important furniture of any tavern, is not the tables, of which I have just two. It's the chairs. Once the feet are happy, steady but resting, then the behind can be happy and comfortable, then the belly can be fed, and _then_ one can relax his head with some spirit. But the bungling of these steps makes brothels and general stores, not taverns. I also had some smaller signs installed in town indicating my whereabouts. I figured that setting up camp a few miles from the town center would keep me in winking distance of customers, but still out of focus for drunken, rowdy bandits. Even though I trusted my craftsmanship to make the walls and roof of the place, I had ordered my chairs special from Rockford Furniture and Undertaking, of Rockford city, the industry of northern Illinois - about 130 miles northeast of here. My chairs had first arrived about four months before, when the moon still shone through the roof at night. Nice, continuous-armed Windsor Chairs of solid white oak, coated with black milk paint. I could only afford 8 at the time. The first time they broke, Charlie had claimed the pieces of one of them to make a birdhouse for some wounded redpoll he had caught. It had long healed, but Charlie's wife wouldn't let him keep it in the house, so now it fluttered in the back end of the bar.

Charlie had told me about Rockford's. He frequently complained about failing to measure up to their coffin standard. He was the first friend I made in Preemption, and this was mostly due to the fact that his wife was constantly kicking his drunk rump out of their house. He was the local undertaker. Preemption was a small town, and people here just weren't dying fast enough. This freed a lot of his time to run errands for me, but he also just kept me company at the tavern when business was slow, which was most of the time. He was a good addition to the occasional guest in the otherwise humdrum life of the backwoods. The bird strangely helped to liven things. Its call sounded like the high-pitched, shallow gasp you get, dying of laughter.

That day, I had the great luxury of proudly gloating over my brigade of seven chairs from behind the bar, fully intact. Charlie came in around nine o'clock. The bird was asleep on its post.

He passed between my two small, circular tables, the wheels of the saloon. The one cornered by the bar and the kitchen had four empty chairs around it, and the other, by the wall opposite the kitchen had three. The bird cage stood like a strange wallflower behind the three-person table. "That was some night last night, eh Walt? Prob'ly be a while until we get some more sorry pawns to play with in this joint. So what're you gonna do now? All these chairs and no asses to sit in 'em? You think those signs are really working?"

"You know the signs work on their own schedule. I'm sure the three of us will be this establishment's most frequent visitors, so we might as well take our seats."

"Right," mumbled Charlie. "I keep telling you, y'overshot yourself buyin' eight. We never need more than three, even with the company!" He and I took our whiskeys from the bar and the two of us claimed our thrones. We were only able to sit for about one and a half seconds before the two chairs that we had chosen, without even groaning, just collapsed in a bunch of black sticks under our overzealous behinds. The redpoll squawked awake. It couldn't have been an accident.

I saw Jeannie stare in horror at the sight of dismembered furniture from the kitchen door. She was my cook, as well as my professional inspiration. The young spinster did spend many evenings in our company, but she was always on-duty. She had terrified me when she first asked me for employment. But what could be more terrifying than a woman selling "domestic craftsmanship" in the middle of the night. As I fled the outskirts of Chicago, on my way to Preemption, she had been stalking me all the way by foot, carrying nothing but a hat and a little revolver. She had stopped me at some 40 miles outside the metropolis, passing through Aurora, Illinois. There, her apparition had materialized under a lit factory window in a ghostly haze. Jeannie's dress had been quite tarnished for that to have been her primary journey, and its shape had been deformed where, out of breath, she had removed two of the bones in her corset. I'll never forget those shoes, bloody from blisters.

"What the hell, Walt! What kind of chairs are these?! I thought you fixed them!" Charlie shuffled to his feet.

"That Burpee's lackey returned them just yesterday! I think Burpee's just given up on fixing them, and the devil's just leading me on now!"

"I aint no specialist, Walt, but I reckon these parts were just glued together like lady fingers and marshmallow. I mean, look, man! The bars aren't even fitted into the arm at the top!"

The black curve of the continuous arm did not show any circular marks where the spindles could have been. In fact, the spindles seemed to be painted completely separately before being glued, as even their ends had been covered in black milk paint.

"Damn it, you're right, Charlie. Where's that label...!" Usually there was a message from the craftsman carved on the bottoms of each chair, and then painted over, just barely visible. This one read,

"Dear Mr. Walter Mulberry. We appreciate your continued loyalty to our institution. If you find the faculties of your investment are still lacking, please visit our factory in Rockford, il. Sincerely yours,

A. Dowery."

"Aw, he done wrote, 'sincerely yours!' Aint that sweet." Charlie could get quite cheeky sometimes.

"'A. Dowery.' Strange that he writes 'faculties,' like the chairs _know_. Must be one of Mr. Burpee's new assistants."

"You mean at the 'institution'?" Charlie quipped.

"These chairs are a very serious business, Charlie. You should know better. They're built alongside death and coffins. The last delivery we got was from that brash young man. I didn't care to remember his name. Do you know any Dowery at the factory, or did you see anyone new the last time you went, perhaps? "

"No, I don't think so, Walt. Just ol' Burpee and his son. You sure that's the message? I can't read no better than a possum, but that sounds mighty strange to me. Maybe your eyes are playin' tricks on you again. These things seem to happen at night. Maybe he meant, 'qualities' instead of 'faculties.'"

"Never you mind my eyes. We've got to get to this Dowery character. I'm not the only one whose evenings will be ruined without any chairs. I am sure that Jeannie will be quite miffed as well."

"Oh, I'll never tire of your Jeannie-talk, Walt. Those women's shoes you leave lyin' around are kinda unsettling. When business does pick up, you really should put 'em away."

"If business ever does pick up, those shoes will be busy enough in the kitchen.."

"Oh yeah, making your specialty. Air biscuits, aint that right?"

"Biscuits are difficult to make, Charlie. Especially for women, very contrary to their nature to make things that are solid and warm inside."

"Ha! I'd love to hear you lay that one on my wife! Way too much soda in her biscuits, too. Yours actually might be better. Well, anyway, if you can't fix those chairs, I'd be happy to make you some more feathered friends in cages!"

"One's enough, thank you. Charlie, can I borrow your hearse tomorrow? I'll need it for two days to drive the chairs all the way to Rockford and back."

"Oh, sure thing, partner!" He replied sarcastically. "I'll just get that body in the back to the post office!"

"If you have business to take care of, just say so. There's no need to get fussy."

"Fussy? I'm only cleanin' shop, partner. That boy's body's still fresh, but who knows how long it'll take to find a buyer! Why don't you just take his carriage, much better'n mine anyway?"

"Don't be a fool. I already divided up the parts and burned the rest. The horses are out back, though. Did you botch his face well?"

"Sure did. He should be pretty easy to forge. I was plannin' on takin' him to Springfield, seein' as things around here are getting' a bit stuffy. But if you're really in a hurry, I can try hoppin' the border to Davenport again, I suppose. Could I switch my horses with those then, just for this trip? Mine are all skin and bones and I don' wanna be my own omen."

"Alright, Charlie. Go take care of your charge, but come back here straight away. I'll need your help taking the chairs."

"Hell, I should get started shovelin' my own grave anyway! Wife's in quite a stink over some ruined dress of hers, and leavin' her unattended for three days'll be the last straw!"

"Tell your wife I'm helping you purchase some high-quality coffins for some well-to-do bodies and maybe you'll escape her wrath. Your wife won't mind. Doesn't she trust me?"

"Walt, I'm not even sure I trust you, but I'm sure my wife don' even like you. And quite frankly, I should like to keep it that way, thank you very much."

"Just come along, Charlie. These chairs seem to be getting more an more fragile every time. Who knows, maybe you'll find some more business on the way." I said to the kitchen, "Jeannie will stay here and hold down the fort. Right, Jeannie?"

Charlie managed to crack a smile. "You're probably right, Walt. Alright, I'll come with you. Just be a pal and feed my bird for me while I'm away, will ya?"

"Fine. Come get me as soon as you're back from Davenport."

***

"Father, customers are here!" A chirp announced. I wondered what the little bell on the door was for then. Mr. Burpee, looked more withered and twisted than a clutch of bad tobacco, much worse than in previous times. "Hello, gentlemen!" The voice's cheery owner announced, disregarding the ill-fated old relic. "What can I do for you?"

"Um, yes. My name is Walter Mulberry. I am here about some defective chairs I received from one of your craftsmen, 'A. Dowery?'" Burpee didn't budge. But the girl quickly stepped in.

"Ah, Mr. Mulberry from Preemption, I presume? I remembered from the records. Glue malfunctioning this time?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. I read the message from the Dowery, so I..."

"I write the inscriptions, actually," she interrupted, "which is why they're in such a shaky hand!" She giggled anxiously. "My name is H. Odmary, actually. But you may call me Henrietta. I just try to use initials because customers sometimes get worried when women... Never mind!" She paused for breath. "So business must be booming at your establishment! You seem to be getting quite a run for your repairs!" She seemed a bit nervous for managing a typical chair restoration order.

"Well, no, not really. You see that is in part what I came here..."

"Please excuse my father, by the way, sirs" she cut in once again. "He's very ill. I have taken over much of the business recently, since my brother left. My husband takes care of our accounts at the bank."

"Yes, I see." The better indication of Burpee's state was the incredibly focused stare Charlie had cast on him.

"So, Mr. Mulberry, about your...services...." She wrung her fingers worriedly. "I have a somewhat unorthodox proposition for you, which I sincerely hope you will accept. I would not normally be at liberty to discuss such things with strangers, but given your... particular history with us and the gravity of the circumstances, I will risk my discretion."

"Excuse me, Miss Dowery, I mean Henrietta, but what are you suggesting?"

"I need to go to Preemption and investigate my brother's disappearance. I believe he may have made the last deliveries in your area. If you take me with you to Preemption, I will replace your defective chairs with brand new ones - the, ah, glue-less model, if you wish - with no surcharge."

"And if I say, I'd like my chairs now please?"

"Please! Good sirs! My husband controls the factory accounts and if ransom is what you want, I'll be plenty. But since he will not tend to my pleadings, I must go on this journey myself, and I have to leave right away!" When business was looking good, the hairs on Charlie's whiskers seemed to curl themselves. Like a pirate, you know?

"Damn, Walt! Don't you wish you still had your wife to whisper such sweet nothings in your ear!" Not pausing after his tasteless joke, Charlie hammered on, as was his nature. "Too bad she done whispered in two ears at once!"

Even more desperate now, Henrietta, wound up a last effort. "You don't seem to be too keen on my offer, Mr. Mulberry. Please, I beg of you!"

"Darlin' if this schmuck doesn't do you good, I'll take you wherever you wanna go in my chariot over there!" For someone preoccupied with a giving thing like death, Charlie was tenacious.

Henrietta's dress was cut outrageously low. I was surprised she could breathe in that corset. Women like that were always thinking of leaving their unsuspecting husbands. I forever regretted paying for an equally low-cut gown for Rose. That's really why women of the frontier, including my late wife sadly, got into so much trouble attracting attention from all the wrong men. I especially couldn't imagine why Henrietta wanted to desert her husband like that – and for a lost cause, none the less.

"Why do you think your brother is still in Preemption, Miss Henrietta? If he was the one who delivered my chairs last, that was two full days ago. Don't be fooled. The woods around Preemption are quiet, but treacherous."

"Well you see, my brother had gotten involved with some of the Driscolls' business and might have been followed by one of the local lynching clubs. Since he was probably last around Preemption, I thought he might have encountered some trouble and decided to hide out around town for a while."

"Listen, Miss Henrietta, I am sure that your husband would be mighty displeased with me being your accomplice. However, I need those chairs. So how about, I take you to Preemption, take these chairs off your hands, you can get some rest at my tavern, and then you can go from there."

"Yeah! I'd be happy to be your trusty chauffeur. Miss!" chimed Charlie. "There be plenty of dirt where the Driscolls garden!"

"Wonderful! Thank you so very much, gentlemen! So when do we leave?" As soon as you've repented, I thought. Charlie turned to me and chuckled in a hushed tone.

"Hey, Walt. You can't say she isn't the spitting image of your Rose! Just like in that little photograph you showed me! It's unbelievable! All the more reason to take her, don't you think? It'd be almost as good as getting Rose back in the flesh! Actually, can we make it a twofer? Her daddy's soon to be out of print anyway...!"

"Oh, shut up, Charlie." Turning to Henrietta, I explained, "It's about 130 miles from here to Preemption. We'll have to find a place to stay for the night, and reconvene in the morning."

"That's just fine! You gentlemen can stay here, in the workers' lodges! The company is still quite new, and we haven't filled all the rooms yet. I hope you don't mind, there are some coffin parts lying around in the hallway waiting for the lacquer to dry." As she led the way through the factory floor, Charlie sauntered behind her muttering, "Not at all, miss. Not at all!" It was almost nightfall when we returned to Mill St. the next day in the old hearse. I really just wanted to get my chairs and get rid of this woman as soon as possible. After my wife, Rose, died last year, I really didn't want to deal with other women. I would never forgive that Driscoll for taking her from me. Our clubs were still fighting the Driscolls for control of the territory southwest of Chicago, and the Driscolls were finally dying out. But as far as I was concerned, Charlie too for that matter, and any other man with a business to lose, staying with the clubs was the only way to go.

***

Even though I hated her for leaving me, I always kept the best things from Rose. I still kept her most striking dress. I just counted it as the dowery I never got from her useless father. Those Driscoll louts loved defiling pretty girls - pretty, laced-up city girls. Especially ones with tight, light shoes, ready to run after excitement. They would have had to kill me for her, if I hadn't already suspected that she would betray me.

That was the other great thing about chairs. When you sit in one, even if there's no one in the other chairs, you still don't feel so alone. It just feels like you're the first to arrive at church. Calm. Chairs, like pews, can't try to amuse you with empty stories.

As we approached the house, Henrietta gasped, "Your sign! Did my brother make it for you when he was here?" That sign. That's right, the boy had thrown in free signs in return for a quiet place to hide out. I tried to explain that the sign maker, her brother, was probably the worst in Illinois, probably in the world, but was the only person who had been _briefly_ available to paint cheap signs. Without my consent, the snake had painted _me_ on the signs. But the imbecile had run out of space on the board for my legs and just appended my shoes where my knees were supposed to be. I didn't wonder about his future business. Now, though, the signs had grown on me and I didn't mind the distortion so much. Firstly because I somewhat didn't believe that I was going to be getting many paying guests. But also, I took a bit of glee in the accidentally telling nature of the portrait; a guy with his legs cut out from under him really did sum up my predicament.

"Yeah, it's not exactly drawn to scale, but I got the legless discount."

"Good thing it wasn't the headless discount, eh?" Charlie laughed.

"So he was here?!"

"Well, Henrietta, he did stay here. But only one night. He did have good right to be scared to death of the lynchers coming after him for what he had done."

"It's damn hard to stay outta the earth bath if you're ca-hooting with Driscolls around here. Aint that right, Walt." Charlie added, sniggering.

"Indeed."

"In fact, if you don't mind me sayin' so, little lady, you'd be much better off forgettin' the long dreary road, and plantin' yourself here with us." Charlie suggested smugly. The night boded well for his wife's closet. If he could find a plausible family for Henrietta in Springfield, or the 'site of exchange' as he sometimes called it, he'd make a profit from the coffin. Henrietta was definitely wary of us, though. She had good right to be. But in the end, realizing she didn't have much choice, she entered the tavern and I led her to the guest room at the right end of the bar.

After she had gone, Charlie and I had returned to our places in front of the bar, now with the glorious chairs I had intended from the beginning. I did not want for customers. After all, customers were merely insurance for the livelier years when Charlie's work dwindled and the Driscolls behaved.

"So, Walt, when's Jeannie gonna come out to play?" Charlie smiled. I leaned back in my chair. The legs were the perfect length. I was always temped to snap them in half with my shins curled around them from either side. Those thin chair legs always seemed so helpless beneath me, creaking softly under my weight. The spinets, on the other hand, were just too quiet to break with satisfaction. But if pressed enough, I was sure they would get creaky, too.

I didn't bother straightening myself out to answer Charlie's question. "She's probably tired." I said wearily.

"Yeah, we did have a long day today, partner." That was true. My legs were already getting numb below the knees. I thought of my tavern signs, and remembered that I needed to take some precautions.

"I'm glad you were able to get a good price for that sign-boy's burial in Davenport," I said. "But really, Charlie, he had his hand on his holster when you threatened him. You were lucky that volley of yours bled him to death before he could pull the trigger. You really are a terrible shot. Next time, before you blitz _my_ targets in every limb and organ, could you just let me get my Colt from the bar? At least for the bullets' sake."

Charlie chuckled, "Well, cowboy. Gimme a little credit. If I couldn't shoot down at least some my own pickins in this town, I'd be as poor as Job's turkey! Besides! That bastard was eyein' my wife! You know you woulda done the same!" Feeling how the back of the chair securely hugged my shoulder blades, spine snuggled between two spinets, I thought, this is the best support blood or money can buy.

"I don't see why you had to bring her over in the first place." I said.

"To let her see the signs! Let her laugh a little! Damn I nearly died when I saw him pull 'em out of his carriage!"

I had skipped the middle of my own business philosophy, going from feet directly to head without getting Jeannie to cook me something. My stomach wasn't very happy with nothing to mill, but the philosophies of a real man should be able to take a hole or two sometimes. Jeannie was surely still lurking around in the back.

"Look, Jeannie's due to make her nightly rounds. You hungry?" I met Charlie's jeering smile.

"There's really no rush. Walt, I know you're a better lyncher than me in any weapon, you can rub it in all you want, I don' mind. But if you want to get started on the girl, go ahead. Now that you mention it, we should pro'ably take her to Springfield. It'll be a better luck of the draw at the old relative-gamble, and a ways away from any husband who might be on the prowl!"

These days, Jeannie only came out at night, after the second round of drinks had gone down in the candle light. Now, the rays bounced nicely from each of the lacquered chair frames. With all the chairs here, the shadows on the floor looked like a prison, one with very dainty bars. Jeannie came out of the kitchen and Charlie howled, "Oh, Walt, way to tighten a corset, man! No wonder that fox of a wife you had was a Driscoll magnet! I don't know if even I would've been able to stop myself!"

From the kitchen door, Jeannie met my gaze as I turned to meet hers – my spine writhing, spindles digging into my back. I imagined that was what the whale bones in a corset feel like.

Charlie rambled on in his chair to my left. "Speaking of which, Walt. You know that trollop, Rose deserved what she got. In fact, she was a pure stoke 'a luck for the lynching clubs. They're really pretty lucky they snagged you when they did. You're probably the best weapon against the Driscolls they got this side of Chicago. They could use a little backwoods-guerrilla-surprise on their side, and that is certainly your brand of dress, my friend."

Suddenly we heard a gasp across the room. We had woken Henrietta, who stood frozen not five yards away, just outside her bedroom door behind the opposite end of the bar. Jeannie had taken a step to the bar counter. Calmly pouring herself a another glass from the sour mash that had been left on the counter, she somehow managed to shoot Henrietta a contemptuous glance even with her shoulder turned to her.

"Mr. Mulberry..." choked Henrietta.

"Looks like our guest will be able to join you for dinner, Walt," Charlie grinned.

"Well at this hour, the only thing I can whip up is a batch of biscuits, I'm afraid." Jeannie grumbled, turning a right eye to Henrietta.

Sipping my drink, I thought back to Chicago. When my wife's cooking had first started to decline, I had taken to studying her dresses when she was out. It was then that I realized what great mercenaries women could be. In addition to having an unbelievable amount of trunk space under the petticoats, women could also carry weapons in their corsets, in the form of finely sharpened whale bone lances, easily removable once the top inch of the outer cloth has been cut.

Henrietta stammered, staring at the unflinching Jeannie, "I knew...he was here. I just...didn't know you...What kind of lynching club is this?!"

"Well actually, Miss, it was I..." Charlie began, but the confession was too slow for Henrietta, who had darted to the end of the bar closest to her, and grabbed my revolver she must've seen stashed behind her end of the counter. With one eye closed and the other glaring at Jeannie, the release snapped. But the explosion sounded from the end of the bar opposite Henrietta. Charlie, who had suddenly shot up from his chair, now stood shaking, clutching a smoking barrel in his hands. Henrietta had dropped the revolver, and now clasped her pulsing shoulder wound, screaming in agony. I watched a feather escape from the flurry in the birdcage behind her, and softly descend to soak up a healthy drop of blood the wood floor didn't want.

One of those whale bone harpoons slid out very slowly from the top of Jeannie's corset. I always loved this part. What was Henrietta thinking would come out? A pin, a little fan perhaps? No woman ever guessed. Bones I thought were a lot like wood, a lot like women, really. Porous, vessels of life, which when empty made for the most light and vicious weapons. And gracious, too, in a way - giving the bones a little life back, warming them at the chest, and then quenching their thirst in someone else's blood. The foot-long curve of the whale bone spear cut through the air in step with Jeannie's explosive, headlong gate; and with the same cold whisper of flight, sliced a devilish, gaping mouth on Henrietta's throat, that could only gag and cough, spitting blood in our direction.

"No!" Charlie's boots stumbled, pureeing the down in the bloody spatter below the cage into the cracks of the floor. I listened to the cage quake in his coarse hands. The empty swing clattered against the cage of spinets.

Jeannie paid him no mind. "Isn't it remarkable how you can never really mar the body of a beautiful woman, even in death?" Jeannie mused, watching the warmth trickle down Henrietta's neck. She tried to slouch but Jeannie held her firmly around the ribs forbidding her to loosen completely. Jeannie examined her work. "Just look at her, Charles." The petticoats rustled as the painfully tight shoes turned the marionette to face Charlie behind her. Jeannie had to prop the back of Henrietta's head on her shoulder like one does with a limp, sleeping baby to maneuver her. Henrietta's mouth had stopped spouting flaccid chains of diluted blood. One or two of these chains that had fallen from their upward fight, landing across her eyelashes, waiting to slacken into her frozen eyes. "Even pale, with those shining eyes, that slit at her neck has bled something beautiful." Jeannie carefully placed Henrietta in one of the chairs at the far table.

Charlie shuddered. "I didn't mean to shoot the bird, Walt! But she was going to kill you!"

"Doesn't it look like an incredible necklace?" Jeannie smiled, eyeing the gaping, mortal wound with maternal wonder. With Henrietta's head slung back over the top of the chair, the wound opened her new face. "Especially in this light, you can barely tell that it's red, it looks more like long, onyx jewel drops hanging from a black ribbon of crushed velvet! Like the way the black lacquer shines where our chair spindles fatten at the bottom."

Charlie let go of the cage. "You and your stupid chairs. All they do is taunt! And seven is overkill, do you think?!"

"We only need three because I'm always on my feet like a good cook." I hadn't even shifted my weight, slouched in my favorite chair, by the kitchen.

"And now, the only chair that was really put to good use is empty!" Charlie grabbed the cage and dislocated it from its one-legged base. Lifting it over his head, he was about to send it crashing, but Jeannie grabbed it with both hands, mid-trajectory. The heels dug into the hardwood floor switching directions and twisting another blister open.

"Now, now, Charles," she said calmly as she replaced the cage atop its pole. "Not everything is about you!" Charlie was stunned silent, but only for a moment. "Now, help me undress her. We should save her gown from the blood. I think your wife would like this one."

"Damn the gown, Walt! Jesus! Why didn't you just shoot her! You knew I'd shoot her, and now look what you made me do!"

"Charles, Charles," Jeannie murmured as she peered into the cage. She opened the crude hatch and picked up the redpoll, shaking it off a bit from the feathers shed in fear. She found where the bullet had hit, on its right side, just under the crest of its wing. Instead of taking the bird out, she turned it in her palm so that the wound faced up. The red stain on the black-striped underbelly had been fully absorbed by the whites, but together, forged by the fast-drying blood, all three colors grayed at the edges. The new accent complemented the natural crest of red on the bird's forehead; it even had an established preamble of light, red spray, bleeding down from the bird's crimson crest, cascading down from under its little, golden beak and finally introducing the wound, the most handsome pigment of all, at the belly. Jeannie carefully positioned the bird against the inside of the right half of the cage, with its tail toward the inside of her left wrist, and the beak at her fingertips, so that the wound would be framed between two of the spinets. From outside the cage, all that was visible was the red crest, the lacquered-bead eye, the flush on the chest, the wound, and the dark end of the tail. She pulled forward, pushing the bird toward her, like saliva through teeth. The hollow bones crunched as easily as if they were biscuit crust. The two spinets extracted a fresh layer of red from inside the crowning orifice. It reminded me of pressing a piece of tender chicken breast with a fork so that the filaments could fan out and absorb all the sauce in my plate.

"Walt! What are you doing!?" Charlie watched in horror, his every thought rendered pointless with the next crunch or tear. As Jeannie's hand flattened to the point of inversion, the palm knuckles pushed the wound even further through the two spinets, while the tail and head were slacking behind the flanking spaces. But the wound finally burst, after the spine had doubled its vertebrae, after the eye had bled humor, and the beak had opened a gruesome silent scream. The propulsion scratches on the grey lead ball, shimmered under the vermillion, making the bullet look more like a highly polished garnet than a monster. With one last push, the ball popped out into Jeannie's right palm.

"You know better than _that_ , Charles." She said, turning towards him. She rolled the ball between the middle finger and thumb of her left hand, inspecting it curiously as the bird's blood greased her skin. "We only use bullets for men." Then with a smile, she tossed the little bullet at him coquettishly, hitting him straight in the chest.

Charlie jumped, immediately trying to strike off any blood that had been stamped on his shirt. "What the hell's the matter with you! That's enough!"

"Come, now, Charles," she giggled. "We still have a guest. Walt?" She said turning, to my place by the kitchen door. "Would you help me bring her in, please?" It was easiest to prepare them in the kitchen, and it also had a direct exit to the hearse outside.

After neatly packaging and stowing the body, I returned unscathed and alone to the bar. Beaten Charlie had taken his seat again, as comfortable as he was dejected.

"You know, I'm really glad that we got our chairs back," I said easing into my own. "And without marrying anybody either. All this, you know, going to Springfield to collect tomorrow, dealing with the Driscolls, it's all for the tavern, for sitting in the tavern, sitting here with you and Jeannie. Jeannie does remind me a lot of my late wife. She was quite something. But Jeannie is lovely too." Charlie squirmed. "She's just too close for marriage. But when we're in our chairs, watching her work, then. Then, we're in our proper places."

"Walt, if some crazy Driscoll scum ever hired me to whack you, I wouldn't even know where to start."

I tried to explain. "Don't worry, Charlie. I'm easy to find. Just behind the bar. People don't realize how many forms bars really take. They're everywhere. Tailor made for me at every turn. Like a coffin, I suppose."

"I've been designin' yours since we met."

"I'm sorry about your bird, by the way, Charlie. I was quite fond of it, too."

"Just like you were fond of Rose, I bet, huh, Walt?" Charlie wouldn't even look at me.

"Well yes, I suppose. I do miss her dearly."

"Oh come on, now Walt! You're nothin' but a common coffin-packer like me! The bodies are all great and steady earnin' and the dresses make my wife real happy, but it's been six months since you came around here, Walt, and you still ramble on like Rose's death wasn't on your hands! I know the only dress you got in this house is hers. It's your goddamn favorite uniform! And let me tell 'ya! I done buried plenty of violated women, and none of their captors had raped their corsets for dessert. So, tell me, Walt. Tell me you did it!" I sat stunned, and hurt. "And how, Walt? Was it that great marksmanship of yours?" When he did jeer at me, he could be quite cruel. "Oh, no! Maybe something requirin' a little more _panache,_ huh?! Tell me! Tell me how you killed Rose without Jeannie!"

I leaned my heavy head back in my chair. "Oh, Charlie." I sighed. "How many times do I have to tell you. If I told you that, I would have to break these chairs all over again," I said rolling my spine from post to post. "We were having such a nice night. It would be a shame to get ourselves so upset. But if needs be, I'll fix them myself, if only to get this wretched image out of my head, now. I can't stand to look at these chairs when I think of Rose." The son of a bitch grabbed the back of the chair to his left, slammed it on the floor, and with the heel of his boot, smashed two spinets in the middle, grinning as he replaced it at the table facing me. "Especially that one, Charlie! Damn it, you know I can't stand seeing missing blades! Jeannie is going to be very upset. Jeannie? Jeannie!" My calls went unanswered. Charlie had stood up. He, calmly and coolly, went to fetch my hammer from behind the far end of the bar, on its shelf under the gun's. He placed it in my hand and said eyeing me down with pure malice, "See you tomorrow, Walt." You couldn't forget that grin. But when had I seen it before?

Before the thrashing commenced in full fury, I was able to catch two verses of Charlie's favorite song as they floated out the door and into his hearse.

How happy the soldier who lives on his pay,

The drum is his glory, his joy and delight,

And spends half a crown on six pence a day;

It leads him to pleasure as well as to fight;

He fears neither justices, warrants nor bums,

No girl, when she hears it, though ever so glum,

But pays all his debts with a roll of the drums,

But packs up her tatters, and follows the drum.

With a row de dow,

Row de dow, Row de dow,

And he pays all his debts with a roll of his drums.

© _Maria Lechtarova 2012_

Chronophage

### Brooke Lyon

8.1.11 : JULIE

He threw piles of clothes on his bed and I folded them neatly, tucking them away into his suitcase.

"I can't believe you waited until today to pack," I laughed.

"You really can't believe that? It's not like I'm exactly thrilled about going on this trip to begin with," he replied from the depth of his closet. He appeared again holding up two grey hoodies.

"They look the same to me," I said and he threw them both into the pile.

"I hate the idea of jackets in August."

"Come on, Brandon. I'm sure it won't be that awful. It's only nine days anyway."

"Yeah, nine days of rainy misery. At least Pete and Kathy will be there to brighten them up."

I could never think of an appropriate response to his snarky comments about his parents. Truthfully, I loved his parents-- they were a part of the reason I was always over at the Dunn's house, aside from Brandon of course. He was so lucky to have them both around to cook his dinners, do his laundry, take him on trips. I will always remember how Kathy used to make us milkshakes if she could sense that Brandon had a bad day at school-- it had been years since someone had done something like that for me.

My eyes trailed off after his comment and he noticed.

"Look, I'm just ready to move out, ok? I don't need them to do everything for me anymore. I can take care of myself. It's been a long summer already, and a family vacation isn't going to make the time pass any faster."

"Brandon-- Julie-- Dinner!" his mom called from downstairs.

"Coming!" I called back. He rolled his eyes at me and said, "Why don't you just go in my place? I'm sure they'd love that."

"Yeah," I laughed, "I wish."

We walked downstairs and sat down at the kitchen table. Pete at the head, Kathy to his right, then Brandon, then me, as always. I loved occupying that fourth chair.

"Looks great Kathy," I said, "How did you have time to cook such a lovely dinner? Haven't you been getting ready to leave today?"

"Oh Jules, Kath has been packed for weeks."

"Not weeks, Brandon," Kathy defended herself, "6 days tops. And I'm sure I've still managed to forget something!" she replied with an embittered cheerfulness.

Brandon raised his eyebrows and grabbed another piece of bread. He really was trying to make it through the summer without completely blowing up at his parents, which I had to respect. I guess they could be a little much at times, but in such a loving way I couldn't help but envy him.

"So, where are you going to visit while you're there?" I asked to fill the silence.

"We'll head to Cambridge first," Pete replied, "then Bath, Stonehenge and back to London."

"Sounds amazing," I replied, "Make sure to take a ton of pictures for me. Not sure what I'm going to do with myself while you're all gone."

"Oh it's only a few days dear, I'm sure the time will fly by," Kathy said encouragingly.

"Let's hope so," Brandon murmured under his breath. I pretended I didn't hear and so did his parents. We finished up our meals, put the dishes in the dishwasher and loaded my car up with their suitcases. We drove for a few hours, the silence only ever broken by my attempts at conversation, or Pete's mumbled attempts to sing the songs on the radio. Both failed.

We arrived at LAX as the sun set, and I hugged them all goodbye.

"Take care of yourself, Jules," Brandon said as he hugged me.

"I'll miss you," I replied as he let go.

"See you on the other side, if I make it out alive." He ran to catch up with his parents and I smiled as I climbed back into my car. Before starting the journey back to my apartment, I fumbled for my phone to send him a text: "The countdown starts now. Good luck, soldier."

I couldn't help but sigh as I put the keys into the ignition. This would be the longest nine days in the history of nine days.

8/3/11 : BRANDON

It didn't take long for me to snap. I couldn't sleep at all on the plane, and after twelve hours of being sardined with a bunch of strangers all I wanted was my own bed. We arrived at the hotel and I struggled to keep my eyes open as Pete checked us in.

"Alright," he said, handing me a keycard, "Room 247."

"Great," I replied, excited by a chance to be away from them for a few hours, even if it was just to sleep, "What room are you guys in?" My mom laughed.

"You must really be a sleepy bear. Your dad just told you-- 247."

"So then what room am I in?" I asked, actually genuinely confused as to why my dad would hand me his key card instead of my own.

"I thought we would be fine to share, Brandon. Hotel rooms in London aren't exactly cheap."

And that was it. I lost it, right there in the lobby. I asked how long they planned on smothering me for, if it was just for the summer or if maybe they'd be coming with me to college in the fall to suffocate me there too. I told them I didn't want to be here. That this was the worst punishment I could imagine, and that I must have done something pretty awful to deserve sharing a room with the two of them. They stood there silently, just absorbing it all, so I gave them more. I said I wished I could fast forward through this trip and the next two months so I could finally be rid of them, but that instead it seemed I was cursed to endure what felt like eternity with them. I said they were the reason Jesse never came home anymore. That's when Pete stopped me.

"Brandon," he said with an attempted sternness, "Let's just go to bed. We're all tired."

Sometimes I just wish they would fight back, maybe then we could actually resolve something. But it was always the same. I would rant and they would listen. Then they would both try to forget about it until the next time I snapped. Nothing ever changed, and I felt stuck. We got up to the dreaded 247 and I fell asleep instantly-- the deepest sleep I've ever had. When I woke the next day I felt like I had slept for weeks, which still didn't seem like enough. We each showered and dressed, half watching BBC and not talking at all. Kathy made some small talk about work over breakfast and we got a taxi to the train station. I slept through the train ride and then we were there.

We arrived in Cambridge and checked into our rooms at St. Katherine's by noon. They were small, so this time I got my own. After settling in we headed out to explore the city, Kathy armed with her traveling fanny pack and Pete with his huge camera. As we walked towards King's College I noticed a crowd of people surrounding a bizarre-looking clock.

"That is the corpus clock," Pete declared, always ready to offer his knowledge of insignificant things.

"Looks creepy," I said, and Kathy nodded in agreement. The huge gold clock was encased behind a glass wall. Blue lights circled around the center of the clock as an ominous ticking was created by a devilish winged creature at the top. It reached forward to grab each second, and I think I saw it blink twice with ostensible satisfaction.

"It's supposed to be creepy, to remind you that time is constantly being devoured by the chronophage."

"What's a chronophage, dear?" Kath asked as he had wanted.

"It means 'time eater', it's the monster at the top of the clock. What's really interesting is that the clock is only ever accurate once every five minutes. See how the lights on the outside seem to slow down, and then speed up to make up for lost time?" He kept talking about some guy John Taylor who invented electric kettles or something, and how his clock represented the 'relative experience of the passage of time.' I checked out pretty quickly, more interested in the crowd around the clock than the lame research Pete had done before coming. I noticed a man with long grey hair in a torn up coat and dirty jeans staring intently into the eyes of the chronophage as everyone bustled around him to take a few pictures and continue on.

"That guy seems pretty into it," I said, pointing to the enamored man who was now kneeling in front of the clock.

"Ah, I read about this too. This must be Cambridge's Crazy Cornelius."

"What a name," I said, laughing at how ridiculous Pete was.

"No one really knows his name, but they say he comes to the corpus clock everyday at 12 noon and stays for an entire hour, mumbling crazy theories about the clock. The students affectionately named him Crazy Cornelius."

"Fascinating," I said.

"You must be getting hungry," Kathy said to moderate the situation, "Let's go find some food. We can't all feed ourselves with the eminent passage of time, but wouldn't that be nice!" We made our way out of the crowd and continued on toward the city center for lunch.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, filled to the brim with useless facts from Pete who thought remembering what he read about the Cambridge colleges on Wikipedia made him some kind of scholar. After dinner it started raining, so we turned in for the night. I tried for a few hours but couldn't sleep in the creaky old room, and even worse than that, I couldn't get my phone to connect to the wifi. Around 11:30 I decided to take a walk to get wifi from outside of a cafe-- it was 3:30 at home. The rain had stopped and King's Parade was empty. I sat on the ground outside the Cafe Nero and texted Julie. "2 days down." She replied immediately. I looked up and saw a shadow approaching. I looked back down to my phone and continued texting and checking emails, hoping the approaching figure wouldn't stop to talk to me.

"Almost time for the tic tock time of the tock tic time it is." The shadow was getting closer, and his song louder.

"Almost time for the tock tic tock of the time tock tic it is." I looked up as the man with the grey hair passed by.

"Crazy Cornelius!" I said, "It's you!"

"Oh no," he replied, "Vern."

"I'm sorry, Vern. My dad told me everyone calls you Cornelius."

"Who's Vern?"

"You just said you were Vern."

"Don't be ridiculous, child, I'm Ivan."

"Alright," I said, uninterested in what his name really was, "Well have fun with your clock."

"S'not my clock! But oh that it were. If only they had picked me. But I just didn't make a thermometer and that's that." I had no idea what he was talking about or why he had stopped to talk to me, I guessed he really was crazy.

"Come along," he responded to my silence, "Let's have a look." I thought he was harmlessly fascinating, and I wasn't going to bed anytime soon, so I followed as he continued to sing.

"Almost time for the tock tock tic of the clock clock tic tis it. Sing along!" he commanded.

"No thanks Ivan, you're a much better singer than I am."

"Who's Ivan? Never mind. Here we are, isn't she pretty?"

"Not really," I replied honestly, "she's kind of terrifying."

"A terrible beauty is born," he said as he knelt down at the bottom of the clock. Next he started chanting, "Mundus transit et concupis centia eius. Mundus transit et concupis centia eius. Mundus transit et concupis centia eius."

"What does it mean?" I asked, genuinely curious. I recognized the words from the engraving at the bottom of the clock.

"It means 'I worship you your worship crownship chronopoulou, you are my master.'"

"Really?" I asked, sure that this man was completely insane, "I thought it was a chronophage, what's a chronopoulou?"

"You said chronopoulou, Darien said chronophage."

"Well, who is Darien?"

"I am you fool! On your knees please or you'll sees and sneeze."

"You want me to worship this clock with you? No way," I laughed, "but I enjoy watching you."

"They all enjoy to watch the clock and she will have them learn." I shook my head, unable to believe his nonsense, and pulled out my phone to take a picture to send to Julie. As he saw me in the reflection of the glass he jumped up and grabbed my hands.

"No. No. No. No. No," he yelled, then whispered, "she doesn't like the photos, you see. All the people in the photos will be the first when she has decided."

"Alright, alright," I said, pushing the man off of me, "I won't take a picture." It really wasn't worth it to make him so upset, not that I had any idea what he was talking about. I thought I may as well ask what made him so obsessed with this clock.

"So, why do you worship this clock?" I asked, not expecting a comprehensible response.

"Tis a very simple thing that the lady from the other world doth wish for us to worship our time and no one else, you see, not you but me seems to know what she can do with little people like you. They come and go and she always knows and I knows and Johnny didn't know but they told him so he made the clock. And now he knows and I learned and the guards know of course, but no one seems to notice them although they stand here everyday even longer than I but not at night because the light keeps them safe and so I come to see to her to be okay this way. So when she decides and releases the chronopoulous I will not lose the time and all the other humans will. And it is soon my friend, so on your knees please or you'll sees and sneeze!"

"Ok, so you think this clock is an alien?"

"Knows it sir, on your knees."

"And you think the alien is upset because no one worships her like they should?"

"Only me and Johnny and the guards, sir. Knees please." I knelt to my knees before he yelled at me again.

"And you think that this alien is going to..." I trailed off trying to figure out what exactly he had said.

"Let the chronopoulous suck the time away fast like the clock."

"Take time away from humans? Like years?"

"Death sir, tis the penalty. Sooner rather than later. And soon for everyone too I believe."

"Well, Darien--"

"Vern."

"Vern, thank you for the elucidation. And good luck with the alien invasion."

"To you too sir, and to know when it is that to the second star and straight on till morning is where to go of course!"

"Ah, Peter Pan," I said, "of course. To stay young, keep your years from the chronophage. I see. I like that bit. Have a good night, Vern."

"Who's Vern?" the man said, and I walked back to St. Katharine's.

The next morning we had breakfast at the Copper Kettle, just past the corpus clock. I told my parents about the run in with Crazy Cornelius the night before and they laughed.

"So you worshipped the clock with him, did you Brandon?" Pete joked. "I hope that'll give you some bonus time at the end of your life."

"Maybe the all-knowing clock already gave it to him," Kath replied, "he was born a week early!" They found this hilarious. I looked past them at the crowd around the clock.

"Who are those four guys with the clipboards standing across from the clock?" I asked.

"Oh, those boys just sell punting trips on the river Cam. They stand there all day trying to get people. We should go for a punt, I heard it's just transcendent."

I couldn't take my eyes away from the four men standing among the crowd. They didn't seem to be selling anything really, just standing there talking to each other. Two of them leaned in to whisper something and another looked around suspiciously. The fourth had his back to me, facing the clock. He was the most oddly shaped person I have ever seen-- broad shoulders and huge biceps with a tiny waist and short shorts to show his thighs and the ivy tattoo crawling up his sculpted left calf.

"Shall we take a picture of your new madonna, Brandon?" Kathy joked.

"No no dear, that will upset her."

"Ok guys, you can cut it out. It was just a weird night, alright?"

"Well, you don't have to be in the picture if you're scared, dear. We'll ask someone else to take it." They got up from the table on the patio and Pete handed his camera to one of the several Asian tourists passing by. He over-gesticulated, asking the woman to take his picture, as if she didn't understand. They posed and I rolled my eyes. It was like they were deliberately driving me insane. 9/10/11 : JESSE

After graduating from Cal and moving in with Ted there was no reason for me to visit southern California anymore. I mean, looking back now I guess there was. It just didn't seem like a priority before. Life just kept happening. Temp jobs and interviews. Friends getting engaged, baby showers. Weekend trips with Ted were always to escape stress, not to find it. And that's why we never visited home. It wasn't that I didn't love my family, I do. I miss the days when my mom would make me coffee in the morning, or when I had to drive Brandon around before he got his license. But life moves on and I can't blame myself for that. I just wish I had made more of an effort to take my family along with me as my life took off.

"Are you almost ready, Jess?" Ted asked from the threshold. I turned to see him standing in his black suit and I couldn't hold back the tears. The sight of him forced me to realize my dad would never walk me down the aisle.

"It's alright darling," he said, "let's just head out now. We don't want to be late."

9/10/11 : BRANDON

Funerals are awful. When I die, I want whoever is organizing my funeral to look at the plans for my dad's and do the exact opposite. We were all crammed in a stuffy church on the side of the 10 freeway where everything looks grey and dirty. A man I have never met told a story of my dad's life, as if he knew him, and my mom and sister sobbed. Two kids from the local high school came in playing bagpipes-- it was all so sinisterly insincere. I can't be remembered like that.

A month ago we were returning from our England trip. A month. My dad was in perfect health then. Maybe a bit more tired than he was usually, but that just seemed to be an effect of travel-- he was in perfect health until the day he died. I guess my parents are a little bit older, I was a bit of a mistake-- they already had their perfect Jesse before they had me. But as old as he was he was healthy. He was a know it all dad, of course he was healthy, he knew everything about vitamins and workout routines. The man biked up and down California like it was nothing. And the doctor said he died of old age.

And I know it's crazy but I can't stop thinking about the clock. Thoughts of it ticked off my brain throughout the whole service. Of Cornelius. And time. Of unreasonable death and of time. There was no reason, only time. Everyone came to our house afterwards. My mom and sister cried. Grandma did the dishes and I pictured the blinking red eye of the chronophage. Julie was there. We were all destroyed and she was the hostess. Taking condolences for us and serving people drinks. I couldn't watch it or hear another apology so I snuck away to my room.

I couldn't help it, I started to do research. About the clock and John Taylor. Born on November 25th 1933 from the Isle of Man. The clock was to be terrifying he said. It was to run for 250 years assuming the world lasts that long he said. Why would he add that bit? Assuming the world lasts that long. I felt myself going crazy and I texted Julie. "Help." She was there in less than a minute.

"Hey Brandon," she said as she knocked on my door, "can I come in?"

"Jules, aliens killed my dad." She stared at me. I thought she would laugh but it was worse, she just looked at me with the most pitiful eyes.

"Brandon, maybe you should just get some sleep."

"I don't need sleep Julie, I need answers. My dad died for no reason and my mom is next. Do you see how tired she looks?"

"Maybe because she's mourning Brandon. You're scaring me."

"That's the point. I'm scared, we should all be scared and we need to know how to protect ourselves. We need to go to England."

"You can't just fly to England, Brandon."

"Why not? I have the money. Enough to take you with me."

"That's for college, which starts in two weeks for you, by the way."

"It doesn't matter. I'm going. Don't bother coming if you're just going to tell me I'm crazy." I stormed out, found my mom and sister on the couch with an old photo album.

"I'm going back to England. I'm going to find out why dad died." They gave me the same pitiful look that Julie had, and my mom started sobbing again.

9/12/11 : KATHY

Brandon was a miracle. As Jesse got older, Peter and I started to grow apart. I was always busy with dance recitals and spelling bees and he was always at work. The only time we came together was to pay the bills. We weren't expecting another child, and honestly, I was expecting a divorce.

I swear we didn't change anything. Brandon was a serendipitous occurrence, and I truly believe he was a blessing. I found my love for Peter within our shared unconditional love for our baby boy. We became closer than we ever had been before through raising Brandon-- it was so much easier the second time. Until he got older. Snarkier. More independent. When he didn't need us or Jesse to drive him around. It was like he thought we didn't notice how awful he was to us. But Peter and I could never fight with him. We were so thankful for him. So it got worse and worse, and I'll admit that we enabled it. But sometimes I could see it, the love he held for us. I figured he was just a teenage boy, that he'd come around. Boys are so different from girls. Jesse always expressed her love, but with Brandon we had to look for it.

Now Peter is gone. There just wasn't enough time for him to wait to see how much Brandon loved him. And that's why I couldn't say no. I let him fly to England, because I hoped that somehow, Peter could see how devoted his son was to him. Even if he's being erratic, unstable even, I know it would make Peter happy. And that makes me happy. Or, makes me feel like I can be happy again. 9/13/11 : JULIE

I couldn't let Brandon be crazy without my supervision. I say that to acknowledge the fact that I know he is being crazy. Kathy and I both know, but I just want him to be safe, so long as I can't stop him from being crazy. So, that's what finds me here, on a train from Heathrow airport to Cambridge.

"The hills are so beautiful. And the sky. It's all so green." I said, looking out the train window. Brandon didn't seem interested. He wasn't talking, no matter what I tried. I sighed.

"Well, what's the plan? When we get there, what are we going to do?" I asked, hoping maybe that would instigate a conversation.

"We're going to the clock. We'll wait for Cornelius."

"Cornelius is your transient friend?" I asked.

"Julie, like I said, I don't need your sass. If you're going to be here I need your support, okay?" His sternness frightened me into submission. The rest of the train ride was silent.

"This is it," he said as we approached the end of Trumpington Street.

"Wow," I mumbled. It was terrifying. I looked into the red metal eyes and felt a shiver down my spine.

"It's 11:30 now," Brandon said, "he should be here soon." So we waited. Soon it was 12, then 1. Brandon refused to move. I found the grocery store and walked back with a sandwich and chips for him. He didn't touch them. Hundreds of people passed us by, and I hoped that every passing face was the one he was looking for. I left again to get us coffee. Again for fudge samples. He didn't want any of it. Soon enough it was dark.

"We have to wait until midnight," he said. I nodded and pulled out my book. The clock devoured another hour and we were the only ones on the street. By midnight nothing had changed.

"Alright," he said, "it's worse than I thought. It really is happening. He isn't here, he isn't coming. We have to go to London."

"London? To go home?" I asked, surprised that he would give up this obsession so quickly.

"No, to find Peter Pan. In Kensington Gardens, that's where he'll be. He'll know what to do, I promise."

"Brandon--"

"Jules, you're already here. Please. I need you to help me." I couldn't understand what he was going through, but I knew it was driving him mad.

"Okay, let's talk about it on the coach."

We bought tickets to London at 2 am and left straight away. I asked him to tell me what he expected to find. He retold the story of his interaction with the crazy man. He said he believed the clock was some kind of control base, that aliens disguised as men protected everyday.

"Did you see the way they looked, the guys with the clipboards?"

"They looked bored, I guess."

"They looked suspicious to me. Especially the one with the big shoulders. Like they couldn't get him to look exactly like a human, but they thought he would pass." I couldn't say anything. It was crazy, but he believed it, intently. He had a reason for everything, an explanation, a justification. He had talked himself into believing in an alternate reality, and I couldn't be the one to tell him he was insane. It wouldn't work anyway-- he would have to learn for himself.

"So what's the threat?" I asked, hoping he wouldn't think I was mocking him.

"The bug at the top of the clock is called a chronophage. I think it's real."

"So, another plague?" I asked again, trying to be sincere.

"That's what I think. But they're small, so small we can't see them. And I think they're already out there. They eat time. They make people die for no reason and they killed my dad. They're going to kill my mom too."

"Why your parents? Tons of people have passed by that clock, you and I sat there all day."

"Because they took a picture. Cornelius said she doesn't like pictures." I couldn't ask anymore questions, I didn't want to hear anymore of his rationalizations.

We arrived at Liverpool Street Station as the sun rose, bought two tickets for the tube and got on the Central Line towards Lancaster Gate. The tube was full of tired people. It was early, but they seemed more tired than morning tired-- life tired. An Indian couple sat directly in front of me, the woman's head limped to the side and the man's hand on her leg, perfectly still. Like a statue, the man's wrinkled head only moved with the bumps of the train. A young girl beside them with headphones in her ears struggled to keep her eyes open, and it seemed her head was too heavy for her neck. Brandon looked nervous.

We got off at Lancaster Gate and walked past the Italian Fountains toward the hidden statue of Peter Pan.

"He'll be here," Brandon said as he sat down on the grass. I couldn't do it. I wanted to help him but I just couldn't refrain from telling him how crazy he was being. It was too scary, all of it. I looked directly at him and it was as if he could read my mind.

"You can leave, Julie. I told you that from the beginning. But I'm going to figure it out. I'm going to save us." There was nothing I could say. Before I knew it I was walking away, back to the tube station to make my way to Heathrow.

I slept in the airport for six hours, waiting for the first flight I could get. I worried about Brandon but there was nothing I could do. I couldn't talk sense into him, and I couldn't stop myself from trying. I had to leave.

It seemed like days before I landed in LAX again. I paid for parking and drove back to the Dunn's house. I would have to tell Kathy that I left him; I'd tell her that hopefully he'd be home soon. Jesse's car was in the driveway when I pulled up to the house. I knocked on the door and Ted answered.

"Hey Ted, is Kathy home?" Jesse appeared from behind the door. Sobbing, she pulled me into a wet embrace.

"She's gone, Jules. Mom's gone too." She let go and I ran away, too scared to say anything. I raced back to my apartment and locked the door. I didn't know if I should call Brandon. This would just make it worse. But for a second, I thought I had to tell him, because he was right. I dialed the number and as it rang fear filled my heart and lungs. My head was racing. He wasn't in the picture, I thought. So he's safe. But he was so tired, delusional. Everyone in London was. The chronophage plague was coming to London and Brandon was going to die. My phone, my clothes, my suitcase had all been in London. I stripped my clothes from me and threw them into the bush outside my window along with my bag and my cell phone. I sealed myself in and showered three times, all the while wishing I hadn't left Brandon alone. I could hear my phone ringing incessantly outside my window, but I was too afraid to go outside. It rang every five minutes for 2 hours, and then it stopped. I assumed it died.

© Brooke Lyon 2012

Fine

### Victoria Selzer

Three years ago, I left for college and it's been three years since I was happy. Was I ever happy? Then she came this year and she made happiness an option. She came this year, with her stupid pink hair and her stupid bestselling novels and her stupid, stupid obsession with musicals.

I was fine, you know. I mean, in the way that everyone is fine when you ask.

How are you?

Fine.

Exactly.

I was fine. Briana was so much intensely more than fine. How was I supposed to be a functional, practical human being when there was so much more to life than fine? Briana was the only chemistry student I knew who would bankrupt herself for Broadway shows, and she'd walk in the next day like she'd had a night in Shangri La. Stupid.

I don't mean to say I was in her chemistry class. She was in my calculus class. I gave up on the hard sciences when I was thirteen and realized that Bill Nye the Science Guy wasn't a normal scientist, and that not every experiment is super fun and simple. I fully plan on crunching numbers for a living. Clean. Most importantly, simple. I work with receipts and paper records and make sure the numbers add up. None of those long hours in a chemistry lab working with nasty-smelling chemicals. Plus, accountants make bank. You show up, do your job, and get paid big money to do it.

Briana saw me drawing in my calculus notebook in class. I mean, normally I take notes on a computer but we were starting more complex integral work and I didn't want to bother with all the typing of the symbols. She said my scribbles were good and I flipped the page. I hate it—hate it when people give compliments just to be nice. She whisper-asked if I was an artist. Shut up, pink hair. I get it. You want friends. Look elsewhere. I know the margins of my notebooks aren't worth recognizing. I'm not twelve anymore.

One time, in the seventh grade, I sent my dad a drawing to cheer him up and I said maybe I could paint or draw for a career or something. My dad hung it up with other photos in his canvas tent and said that art classes were for people with extra money. But the shed in the back yard probably needed to be repainted—at least, it had before he was deployed—so I could work on that if I was feeling artsy.

She piled the books out of her bag to get out her notebook. Her small hands then flicked through the stacks on her lap and she pulled out a thick novel. She winked. For when lecture inevitably got boring, she said. It was one of those New York Times Bestsellers that aren't actually any good but they sell a lot so people read them because even more other people read them. She saw me looking. She wiggled her eyebrows. "I know," she said. "It's total crap. I just love it." She smiled.

Earlier this year, Briana told me she used to act in high school. She didn't sing much in front of people but she sang happy birthday to me once and that was kind of lovely. So I guess she did musicals a while ago. I've never liked musicals. They're too showy. I asked her a few months ago if she ever took acting classes.

She shrugged. No classes, just auditions and performances. Not any more though but did I know of any community theatres? Nope. Musicals weren't really my thing. I didn't really have a thing. I tried not to think about the art class elective from my last year of high school, the feeling of a perfectly bristled brush on new canvas. She cocked her head, but she didn't say anything. I mean, my only thing was accounting. That was fine.

After a few moments of nice silence, she said she considered art a necessity, not a luxury. I shrugged. I mean, I wasn't about to argue with her over the prices of oil paints. Definitely a luxury. That's why we did it in high school when the state funded our education, and stopped when we actually became adults. Unless we were Briana and paid through the nose just for a night at the theatre. But really, I had no response for her.

And then, she hit me with this one: "Come on, how are we supposed to be happy without it?"

Jesus, Briana, no one asked you to be happy. Everyone in the world is doing just fine, thanks. I'm glad she has enough money to enjoy it all but I just want to work on accounting. At least there's practical money to be had. And health benefits. Whoever heard of paying an artist in dental insurance? Not me. So no, I was going to be fine.

It wasn't long before Briana stopped sitting next to me in class.

I stopped paying attention and started doodling. Mostly views of the back of her head actually, with the silly pink strands peeping out of a long, curly, curtain of hair. I just learned everything from the course book anyways, its not like class helped that much. I drew her backpack, finally noticing the hand-sewn stitches on the front pocket. There had been a hole in the corner. And she always brought a brown bag in with her, crumpled in one hand, and as soon as lecture was over she'd grab a piece of fruit or something out of it. I guess she was penny-pinching as hard as I was. Maybe more.

So I just drew Briana for a little while, then one day her friend, one day the professor, one day the building. It was probably my favorite calculus class I've ever taken. I actually looked forward to it every day. Plus, calculus has a practical application in real life.

That's why, when calculus ended and we turned in our final exams and we left that class, I was always going to be just fine. Fine in the brain-numbingly average way of fineness, but fine all the same. The only other option was happy, and unfortunately, it was a luxury I couldn't afford. Who has time to draw when real life is going on? No one. That's who. Or, I mean, people with pink hair even though pink hair doesn't even make sense. I'm not going to be happy. But I'll be fine.

© Victoria Selzer 2012
Excerpt from Run For Your Mind

### Katherine Thayer

#

During my first few months as a rescuer, I came to like a certain common room in Outpost A. I liked the worn brown couches, the small stone fireplace, and the way the heavy red curtains could be drawn against the night. Sometimes I felt that I was about to see my parents sitting in a corner, laughing quietly as they discussed the days' events.

One night, long after most people had gone to bed, I entered the common room and saw Lizbeth sitting alone on one of the couches. Papers were scattered on the table in front of her. Her graying hair was even more frizzy than usual, and she looked exhausted.

"Long day?" I asked.

Lizbeth glanced up from her work. "Ah, Gwen. Can you bring me a folder from my office? I need to sign the monthly report for Richard Penn—I almost forgot."

"Sure."

"The folder should be on top of my desk, right in front of the computer monitor."

"Won't your office be locked?"

"Here." She tossed me her keys. "Make sure you lock it again on your way out."

I headed to the staircase, surprised that she trusted me with the keys to her office. I didn't blame her for not wanting to go up four flights of stairs when she was tired—still, it was unlike Lizbeth to let anyone into her office without supervision.

I reached the door to Lizbeth's office, found the correct key, and struggled with the stiff lock. Finally, the door opened. Feeling like an intruder, I stepped into the small, dark room.

A folder on the desk...yes, there it was. I turned on the lamp to read the label.

To Mr. Richard Penn

From Ms. Elizabeth Redfern

Rescuer Program Monthly Report

Richard Penn was the manager of the Wall. He was in charge of all the outposts and everything that went on inside them, including the rescuer program. Curiosity seized me—what was Lizbeth telling him about us?

The folder hadn't yet been sealed. With a glance toward the half-open door, I opened the folder and removed the papers within. I flipped to the second page, which contained a list of statistics.

Missions attempted: 12

Missions successful: 9

Children taken: 398

Children rescued: 43

It shouldn't have surprised me that only ten percent of the missing children had been rescued. I knew what kind of resources the converts had, and what the rescuers were up against. I knew that not every mission would be successful.

But we had only attempted twelve missions. Were we even _trying?_

I frowned, trying to think of some explanation. The rescuers didn't have more work than they could handle—sometimes I spent days doing nothing but chores around the outposts. Perhaps we didn't know where some of the children had been taken? But our surveillance missions and the hacking efforts of the mission controllers had given us detailed knowledge of the near and far compounds.

I turned the page, jostling the computer mouse as I did so. The monitor flickered to life. I looked up, surprised to see a series of instant messages from about an hour before. Lizbeth had been talking to Gloria, who was in charge of the mission controllers.

Gloria Cramer: We just discovered that two children were taken to the near compound this morning. They're being held in a central room under heavy guard. We expect they'll be taken to the far compound for conversion within a few days. Mission?

Elizabeth Redfern: No.

I stared at Lizbeth's reply. Why would she say such a thing? I had no other missions scheduled for the next few days, and neither did many of the other rescuers. Gloria's message proved that we knew the children's location. So what was the problem?

My hand tightened into a fist, creasing the pages I was holding. We were the only hope for those children, and we were sitting around the outpost doing nothing.

I stuffed the pages back into the folder and switched off the lamp. Exiting the room, I slammed the door shut, stabbed the key into the lock, and turned it with shaking fingers.

When I reentered the common room, I threw the folder down on the table with more force than I intended. Lizbeth took one look at me, sighed, and asked, "What is it?"

"Why aren't we rescuing the two children?" I demanded. "The ones Gloria told you about."

"Oh, Gwen." Lizbeth turned away. "I should have known better than to send you into my office."

"Don't dismiss this!" I snapped. "We're talking about _children_ , innocent children who _we_ are supposed to help!"

"Gwen..."

"Just think—they're out there as we speak, in some cell in the near compound, terrified out of their minds, and we're the only thing that stands between them and conversion! And you're _sitting!_ "

"Gwen!" Lizbeth's eyes flashed.

I fell silent.

"If I sent rescuers after those children, the rescuers would be captured and converted."

I dismissed this reasoning impatiently. "Even if the odds are against us, we have to try. That's our job."

"Our job is to hand ourselves over to the converts? Please!" Lizbeth rolled her eyes. "And then who will be left to save next month's children? Oh, but you didn't think of that. Give up on your heroics, Gwen, they do no good."

"Fine!" To my deep humiliation, I felt hot tears welling in my eyes. "But why bother sending rescue missions at all, when they do so little? Four hundred children taken last month—so we saved a few dozen, what does it matter?"

Lizbeth frowned at me. "Have you ever seen a taken child returned to its family?"

I shook my head. By that point, the children were always out of my hands.

"If you had, you wouldn't say it didn't matter," she said shortly. "Now go to bed."

My pride smarting from her last command, I walked stiffly out of the room. Oh, sure, maybe the rescuers had made a few parents happy, but who could take comfort from that when they knew the full horror of the larger picture?

Reaching the staircase, I clutched the banister, suddenly feeling weak. I knew then that I could never reenter that common room without seeing those two children staring through the windows, my failure peering in at me no matter how closely the curtains were drawn. I had become a rescuer thinking that my sacrifices could somehow change things. Guess I was wrong.

© Katherine Thayer 2012

Starr School Incident/Diesel's Backstory

### Katherine Weinberg

The colonies do not have clouds. Not really. The precipitation is manufactured and regulated by grown-ups on Agne. The pre-rain mist might have been clouds before, but it is not like the pictures he sees of the planet in class, where they span many shades of white to dark and tumultuous grey. Light and dark, tumbling and still, they move quickly over the planet's surface. He does not see those growing up on B6. Instead, the clouds just... remain. There is a lot of wind, but it does not change their movement. The clouds move lazily, if at all. Rain, light as it is, can linger for days. And it does little to nothing for the ground. The plants are, after all, imports from Agne. There are pinecones and flower petals, but they are precious. Trees aren't for climbing, even though they are the perfect height for it. Grass cannot be walked on, or picked. There are entire forests placed within the colony for more oxygen production. He feels like that is somehow wrong, like life is somehow less real when nature is off-limits.

After seeing videos of what's on-planet, he knows the clouds on the colony are listless and uninteresting in comparison. Even at eight, he finds no joy in watching them anymore. So instead of looking up at the sky during recess after lunch, he watches his feet on the concrete pavements. Another kind of grey. It is everywhere on the colony. All the buildings are made of concrete, as are the sidewalks. It did not bother him until he saw the pictures in class. Agne has blues and greens and yellows, mountains and forests that continue on for hundreds of miles. There are deserts that rarely see water (do they have not-clouds, too?), but they have a beauty of their own as well. He could travel for days and never see the same land twice... but B6 is small. And grey.

At least his shoes aren't grey. They're red.

Recess is only for thirty minutes, which does not feel nearly long enough. The playground is small, and sometimes they are not allowed to play on it because the tire swing is broken again, or someone has fallen from the monkey bars and fractured a bone. Rion did it last week, and he still has not seen the doctor. But he says it's because his parents can't take him there. There isn't a lot of money on the colonies, though they do not understand what that means at this time. They do not know that there is a life outside of dirty old shirts too big or taking turns sharing food at lunch. Andrew Tamer does not like to play with other kids, and he doesn't know why. It would mean being on a team for tag or some other game, and he does not have many friends at this age. They think him odd, but he is too young for it to make him sad or lonely. He prefers disappearing into the world in his head, where the clouds are colored like watermelon and orange juice.

He is watching the movement of his feet step over cracks amid the shrieks of other children chasing each other around the sandbox and monkey bars, so he does not see her until he nearly bumps into her. Her shoes are red, too. When he lifts his face to hers, she is watching him with wide blue eyes. Her hair is shorter than his, and so blonde it borders on white. Her pale mouth is closed. They stare at each other longer than he thinks they should have.

"Hi," he dares finally. She purses her lips and shakes her head. A finger touches her mouth and then her ear. He recognizes her as the girl who never speaks, but uses her hands instead. He doesn't know her name, but he likes to watch her speak with her fingers.

He touches his ear and shakes his head. "Can't hear me?" he asks. She smiles a little and shakes 'no' again. He nods. A stern old woman wearing a purple dress finds them and starts moving her dark, wrinkled hands at the girl. The blonde responds, and eventually the adult turns to Andrew and speaks.

"My name is Shelby," she says. Andrew furrows his eyebrows.

"You or her?" he asks, pointing. The adult points at Shelby, who looks like she is trying to keep herself from rolling her eyes at him.

"I speak for her," the purple woman explains. Her hands move again, and Shelby has a brief conversation with the adult. It looks like their discussion is important. He is entranced by how quickly her hands move. He wants to do it, too, and is filled with the impatience of a child who wants everything, and quickly.

"Can you teach me?" he says, knowing it is rude to interrupt. The adult hears him and stops moving her hands, but Shelby keeps going. The older woman waits until she's done and then makes some signals with her fingers, pointing to Andrew. Shelby glances at him and smiles for the first time, showing off a gap in between her big front teeth and bright, happy eyes. She nods her head emphatically and makes some signs at him.

"What's your name?" the older woman asks.

"Andrew Tamer," he answers back, looking from the girl to the woman. Who should he answer? Shelby seems to understand and points at her chest, a warning in her eyes. He nods and repeats himself hurriedly.

"I'm Andrew."

The woman makes some more signs and Andrew asks her to do it again. She teaches him how to spell his name, so he does it to Shelby. It takes a few minutes, because his fingers seem unwieldy. His pinky has a life of its own and never goes where it's supposed to. But he is proud of himself for learning so quickly; Shelby laughs at him.

"You have a hearing accent," the interpreter says for her. "I'll teach you how to do it better."

The bell rings to signal the end of recess. Shelby does not hear it, but sees all the other children dislodging themselves from fights and games of Four Square to pile inside the small portable units. The not-clouds cover the sun and they are cast in shadow. He looks at the other children for a moment, and then back at Shelby.

"Tomorrow?" he asks. The interpreter makes a small movement with her hands, and Shelby smiles.

He comes home from school, new signs filling his head with each passing day. It takes him an hour to walk there, and he walks with as many kids as he can. The streets are dangerous at any time of day, and they look out for each other. He is one of the last to break off from the group, into the grey building that stands on top of The Chopstick Diner. He rounds the corner to enter the side stairs, and climbs seven flights, and counts the number of steps, making the signs with his clumsy fingers. Learning multiplication, he can count many times as fast as before, but he doesn't get to the apartment any faster. Before entering, he can tell if Cadi is home by the way the hall smells. Usually, she isn't.

Andrew does not know if Cadi is his mother. She won't let him call her that, but they have the same deep-set brown eyes, and their mouths only seem to smile on one side. She is older than him as mothers should be, but he still knows she should be in school instead of working at the factory.

"I'm just Cadi," she says, hands trembling over the stove whenever he asks. "Isn't that enough?"

Her hair is lighter than his black head of coal, and much longer. It is brown like chocolate, swishing softly when she moves, and smells of the glue and heat of the sewing machines at the factory. Hers is one of many on B6; he is told in school that their specialty is textiles for Agne and other colonies. She stands in front of the stove with the sink just behind her, crouching a little under the slanted ceiling, while Andrew sits at the table next to her and works on his homework. The dining room, kitchen, living room, and bedroom are all the same. They call it the Mansion. When he's done with homework, they fold up the table and put it up against a wall, then pull down the bed. They have three folding chairs that don't match. His favorite is the blue one, because it has cushions but no arm rests, and he squirms a lot when he has to sit down for long. Cadi sometimes puts down her oven mitts to help him with his maths, but then has to go back before the food overcooks. She knows how to burn just Mainak's food when he comes over. He is Cadi's boss, but Andrew doesn't think he should be allowed to come over when it makes Cadi cry. He wishes he could use the new signs he's learning with Shelby to tell her to make him leave. But Cadi doesn't sign with Mainak around.

There is enough room when it's just the two of them, but Mainak makes things cramped. He is taller than her, and skinnier. Somehow, he still manages to eat more than both of them. He has eyes that bulge out of his skull a little, and so it's easy to see how closely he watches Cadi while she maneuvers from around the table, arms moving before the rest of her. Mainak watches the hem of her skirt, the movement of her hips, and really likes her apron. Andrew doesn't know why it makes his skin crawl. Mainak doesn't talk to Andrew much, and will sometimes ask Cadi for him to leave. She pulls Andrew to her with one arm as she cooks and shakes her head firmly.

"He eats with me," is all she says, but he knows she wants to say more than that. Mainak smiles. He does that too much. His big eyes are always wide open, so he looks surprised, but it doesn't seem like Mainak notices all the things she wants to say to him. He wouldn't listen anyway. He likes to talk instead, about the factory, exports going to Agne and the other Betas. He says he is getting very busy and needs a personal assistant. He asks Cadi if she wants to make more money. She never says yes.

When he leaves, he speaks to her softly just outside the door. Sometimes their voices are hushed and fall into silence. She sometimes asks him to stop, don't, please leave now. He never does the first time. And when he finally goes, she cries softly in the bathroom where she thinks Andrew can't hear. He cleans up the kitchen for her and finishes his homework until she's ready to come out, eyes puffy and nose raw from tissues. They fold up the table and pull down their mattress from the wall.

They share the small bed, and sometimes she thanks Andrew for it, because that way there's no room for Mainak. He doesn't understand, but he doesn't have to.

Night falls on the colony in those precious minutes before he falls asleep. It means the orange lights are supposed to be lit, blinding every street with protection, but so many of them have burnt out that they're essentially useless. Sirens scream as soon as the sun sets, and when they get really close to the Mansion, Cadi will pull him to her, even in her sleep. He can feel her sweating and shivering, sometimes at the same time, and he wants to fix it somehow. No matter the temperature, her hands are warm when she puts her arm around him. Sometimes her fingers will trace patterns on his back, and she hums softly. He can smell the hot machines and thread from the factory in her hair.

Mainak stops coming around after a few months. Sometimes the phone rings, and Cadi pretends to ignore it. Andrew can see her frown at it sometimes, and she bites her lip in nervousness. When she sees him watching her, she gives the half-smile, and he gives one back. She never listens to the messages that Mainak leaves, just deletes them. But one time when she ran down the road to get their laundry, Andrew listens to one.

"Cadi, answer your goddamn phone," comes his voice. It is not as friendly as he tries to make it when he visits. He's practically snarling, and Andrew imagines those bulging eyes rolling in anger. "This is ridiculous. I lost my _job_ because of you. I'm sorry, okay? I went too far. We need to talk about this, though. I want my job back, you—"

He deletes the message and doesn't ask about it.

A week later, new people start knocking on the door. Cadi always closes her eyes and keeps herself from crying when they arrive, but she is smiling. They still make the small space cramped, but Cadi does not burn their food when she makes it for them. Sometimes they bring groceries, and money for laundry. They wear dark blue pants and matching button-up shirts. They don't stare at Cadi or want to talk about work. They bring toys for Andrew, and help him with his homework. Cadi smiles more when they're around. They carry guns, and let Andrew look at them. He knows that they plan things there while he is at school, but he does not know what. He knows that these people are angry about grown-up things, but never with him. One of them even knows how to sign. Peter is nice that way. He makes Cadi smile, too. When he stays behind after the others leave, she doesn't ask him to go.

Andrew is at school when it happens. Cadi asks him not to go that day. He promises he won't. He has never lied to her. But he wants to see Shelby. And he built a robot for science class. It isn't fancy like the ones he sees on videos of Agne. But it has the engine of a remote control helicopter so it flies and has flashing lights. He changed the bulb so they're not blue anymore, but red. He wants to show Mr. Renner, because maybe he can enter it into the science contest. He would like that.

He sneaks out when she is talking to Lee in the Chopstick Diner, counting the steps in sign as he goes. He is late for school by an hour, but he hasn't missed Mr. Renner's class yet. That happens at eleven, and it is ten fifteen. He carries his backpack in his arms, even though it is heavy with the weight of the robot. He starts running when he gets close to the portable building, sweating and panting as he enters. Everyone looks up at him when he arrives, but he smiles and wipes his dark hair out of his face. He sits beside Shelby in a little blue chair, still clutching his backpack. She asks him why, and he tells her that he has a surprise. He knows she will like the robot.

At eleven, the class gets up to move to a different portable for Mr. Renner's class. He has long black tables with science equipment on them. Andrew likes it the best; more than music class with the instruments, especially because Shelby isn't allowed to join in. She says she can feel the drums, and likes to play loudly, but Mrs. Truax doesn't like her there. Mr. Renner helps her and started learning some signs though. They walk outside in a straight line. The not-clouds are gone, and the sun is shining bright and hot on them. They wait for the principal to arrive, because she moves them from one portable to another so no one runs away to the playground early. She's late again. They wait in the hot sun.

Andrew and Shelby sign quietly to each other. She wants to know what's in his backpack, but he won't tell her. Not yet. As they talk, the principal rushes over, her pale pink heels crunching on the gravel. She is moving so quickly, her ankle is nearly broken when she steps on a big rock, but it only makes her run faster. She is frowning, and her eyes are wide.

"We won't be having science class today," she says, and her breath is coming out in pants. She keeps looking over her shoulder. "Now come back inside, quick as you can."

Andrew doesn't follow the other kids inside when they return to the portable. "I have something to show Mr. Renner," he says quietly. Shelby and the principal are watching him. The pink heels dig into the pebbles beneath their feet. "Please, Andrew," she says hurriedly. "Now isn't the time. There are—bad men here."

He hears a _pop_ from the direction of Mrs. Truax's portable, and then a series of shouts. The principal starts shaking, and begs him again to come inside. Shelby doesn't understand what's going on, and she's signing frantically at him. Andrew sees a group of people in a familiar blue uniform rounding the corner with their guns out. He sees Peter at the front, and he knows that things will be all right. His boots crunch the gravel, and he sweats profusely from beneath the heavy clothes. A young woman with a bright red shirt follows them with a video recorder.

"The Colony Advancement Alliance is a rebel group determined to wipe out any planet-sponsored schools. They have told us they plan on removing its administrations by force," she says into it. She sounds like a newswoman, but there aren't many on the colonies so maybe she isn't. "They have asked that the media be witness to the first of their many planned attacks against the criminally negligent rule of the planets, including Agne, our closest neighbor. Peggy Hill, B6 Reporter."

"Peter!" Andrew shouts. "What's going on?" he signs too, because maybe Peter can see better than he can hear. Peter shakes his head a little, but doesn't say anything. Andrew tries again. " _Peter!_ "

"He recognizes you," he hears a panicked voice say. The group is small—no more than five people, including Peggy. There is a short man who wears an arm band of yellow, who watches Andrew with hard, wrinkled eyes. In a low, polished tone, he says, "Well, you know what to do about that."

Peggy presses a button and turns to them. Andrew jumps when Peter points his gun in the same direction.

***

They tell him, once he wakes up, that he was a very brave boy, and that he's going to be all right. They say a lot of things, but he understands very little. His mind feels fuzzy, and when he tries to talk it's as if his jaw is loose. Colors dance behind his eyes when he closes them, and take on shapes he thought he could only see in dreams. There is a dull, repetitive ache in his chest. He cannot be sure if he is in pain or not because of the fuzz in his head, like the clouds of B6 have invaded his mind. Everything feels grey, despite the colors. He cannot see his red shoes from beneath the blanket. Sometimes, he thinks he can hear Cadi, but she is never there when he opens his eyes, so maybe he is trying to dream some color into the hospital bed. He cannot be sure.

It takes time—he does not know how much—before he can ask what happened and remember the answer. Good men did a bad thing, he is told. Peggy recorded the whole thing. The footage was shown to the Agnean government in protest. He does not know what it means for grown-ups to see two child beaten and shot the way they were. He does not know why it speaks to the protection given to children on the colonies, or to the medical facilities available. But he nods when they tell him Shelby is not coming back; died in the bed beside him, and when they also say that a war has begun, because of the Colony Advancement Alliance... and him.

© _Katharine Weinberg 2012_

About this anthology

The writing in this anthology was created by students who participated in the Creative Writing module of the University of Cambridge, Pembroke/Kings Summer Programme, 2012.

It was edited by Maria Lechtarova.

Cover photography by Matthias Schumann & Harry Freeland.

The copyright of each work reproduced in this anthology resides with its author and no part of the work may be reproduced without the permission of the copyright holder.

List Of Contributors

Carson Bennett

Kelly Bonner

Shamae Budd

Brooke Lyon

Averill Corkin

Justin Dice

Evan Hembacher

Daniel Hernandez

Samantha Hyun

Katharine Konietzko

Maria Lectarova

Brooke Lyon

Victoria Selzer

Katherine Thayer

Katharine Weinberg

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