

### Bardic Tales and Sage Advice:

### An Anthology of Fantasy, Horror, and Science Fiction

Edited by

Julie Ann Dawson

Colleen Schonat, Julie Hedge, and Stijn Hommes

Assistant Editors

Smashwords Edition

©2009 Bards and Sages Publishing

http://www.bardsandsages.com

### License Agreement

This ebook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser and should not be copied, transferred, distributed, traded, or sold to third parties without the expressed written permission of the authors. Please respect the copyright of the authors by not sharing unauthorized copies.

Print book details:

ISBN 1-4116-6029-3

Bardic Tales and Sage Advice © 2006 Bards and Sages. Individual stories copyright their respective authors. No portion of this book may be reproduced without the expressed written permission of the copyright holders.

Contents:

Introduction

Winter of the Gods

Reflexions

The Cat Lady

The Face She Remembers

The New Guy

Through the Data Storm

The Lucky Card

Netherlands Roulette

The Glass Eye

It Is...

Pirates

In the Beginning

Again—Les Fleurs du Mal

Them

Heroes

Dragon's Ire, Phoenix Flame

About the Authors

# Introduction:

Welcome to the mouth of the dragon's cave.

To the west lies a town overshadowed by darkness. To the right lies a shining glass city with strange alien species. In front of you the entrance to the old worlds of magic. Behind you the mundane world you have left, if only for a while, so you can free your mind to explore the fantastical worlds you are about to discover.

The lines between fantasy, horror, and science fiction have always been blurry at best. A monster is a monster, after all. And it doesn't matter if the monster is a mythical dragon, a supernatural serial killer, or an alien intelligence. A hero is a hero, whether wielding a sword, a gun, or a futuristic laser rifle. Some refer to these genres collectively as "speculative fiction" for this very reason.

These selections represent the best of the 2005 Bards and Sages Writing Competition. Selected from over 200 entries representing writers from 11 countries, this collection typifies the incredible range of speculative fiction. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as we did putting it together for you.

Sincerely,

Julie Ann Dawson, editor

# Winter of the Gods

by Elena Clark

The men riding behind Kira Svetliyevna were not Mersians. Even from a distance Yana could tell that. They were not from the Tribes, either. This gave Yana a bad feeling.

"Galya," she said to the girl next to her, "what do you see?"

"Kira Svetliyevna and some strange men, Aunty Yana," Galya answered promptly.

"Run back to the cloister and tell Mother Yevdoksiya what you see," Yana commanded her. "Warn her that I think they may be Beinens. Tell her I will stay here and meet them, if they are in fact riding to speak with us."

"And if...What if..." The girl's face had gone very white, making the red hair that had fallen forward out of the shawl over her head appear the color of drying blood.

"If they meant to attack us they would not have brought Kira Svetliyevna," Yana told her sharply. "Now! Quickly!" The girl ran off obediently.

Yana waited patiently for the riders to come up to her. She was standing in the pathway, making no attempt to hide. She was still in the woods, but right at the edge, where she could see the fields. It was not yet time to plant, but even when it was, these fields would lie fallow. The Sisterhood of the Wolf preferred to have plenty of space around them. Kira Svetliyevna was their closest neighbor, and she must have started out before first light to reach the Wolf's Wood by midday.

The wind was cold. Yana put her fur hat back on. When setting off early that morning she had chosen to take the hat but leave her fur coat behind. Early spring was a time when one always needed one or the other, but rarely both. A few snowflakes started to fall. Yana pulled her shawls up around her chin. She looked across the muddy path, the bare field, and the leafless birch saplings that were retaking the once-plowed land for the woods, and was cheered by the bleakness of the prize the Beinens had won for themselves.

Yana stood in the middle of the path without moving or speaking until Kira Svetliyevna and her men rode up to her and came to a halt. One of the men said something brusquely in a foreign language and gestured for Yana to move aside.

"Strange guests you bring us, Kira Svetliyevna," she said.

"Did you receive word of our coming, Sister Yana?" asked Kira Svetliyevna. She was dressed in her finest riding clothes, but she looked tired, and her voice was that of a person who wished she was somewhere else. It was a voice many Mersians had, these days.

"The wolves told Mother Yevdoksiya that strangers were riding on our lands," replied Yana. "She sent me out to investigate."

"I bring a message for your Mother, and a delegation of Beinens," said Kira. "Are the wolves close by?"

"Only if I call them," Yana told her. "Should I? They can kill the Beinens, and leave you unharmed."

"No! I have news for Mother Yevdoksiya. Will you take me to her, Sister Yana?" Kira trembled slightly as she spoke.

Yana cocked her head and eyed the men one by one. She had never seen a Beinen close up before. They were obviously foreign, not just in dress but in the cast of their faces and the way they looked boldly back at Yana, which no Mersian man would have done. The fact they were light-skinned and light-haired like Mersians made them seem even stranger.

"Give me a ride back to the cloister," Yana said. "We will make better time that way."

Kira said a few halting words in Beinen to the men, and then rode over to a log to allow Yana to climb up behind her onto her horse's back. They began walking down the path, into the forest. Yana put her arms around Kira's waist and rested her head on her shoulder. Kira was shaking slightly, and her hair, usually so well-kempt, had not been washed or perfumed in days. If Kira was bringing the news that Yana suspected she was, they would invite her and her family to live in the cloister, Yana decided. They would be safe there. Wolves cared little who proclaimed herself mistress over the land.

The men behind them talked, first loudly, and then, as they rode deeper into the woods, in quieter and quieter voices. They left the birches behind and came amongst the evergreens. The tall tops of the trees blocked out the gray sky, and snow lingered under the long sweeping bottom boughs. The men began glancing nervously from side to side.

"Stop," ordered Yana. "Tell the men that they must not draw their weapons. They must not harm the wolves."

Turning to face them, Kira did as instructed. The man who appeared to be in charge said something back.

"He says that we cannot give him orders, and asks why he should not harm the wolves," whispered Kira.

"Tell him the wolves are hungry in springtime," answered Yana mildly. "Tell him they will kill him."

Kira must have conveyed her message, for there was much muttering amongst the Beinens.

They rode up to the cloister in early afternoon. It was a large wooden building inside a stockade, situated in a clearing that was just large enough so that no tree branches touched the fence. The tops of the fence boards were pointed and had wolves' heads carved on them. The two towers of the cloister building were visible above the stockade. The towers were crowned by square-edged domes built of wood shingles. The point of one dome was decorated with a wolf's skull, the other with a human skull, there to keep a lookout. Both were looking directly at Yana and her party as they rode up to the gate. She waved to them. The gate unbolted and opened.

"The archway is too low to ride under, and the yard is slippery," said Yana. "We should dismount here."

The men were unhappy about it, but as there was no way for them to fit through the gate while mounted, they were forced to give in.

"Girls!" Yana called as soon as she was inside the stockade. "The horses!" A dozen young women came cautiously out of the stable, which was at the back of the main building.

"Guests for our Mother have arrived," announced Yana. "Do not speak to them or harm them. Take good care of their horses. That is all." The girls hurried forward to take the horses from Kira and the men. The Beinens seemed dubious about letting go of their mounts, but relinquished them eventually. They followed Yana, their muddy boots slipping on the boards that paved the entire yard except the vegetable gardens, and entered the building.

"Tell them they must remove their boots and put on house slippers," said Yana, who was doing just that. Kira explained it to them, mostly with actions. The men balked. Several were smirking and laughing to each other.

"They are saying that they must be in a house of women," whispered Kira, slipping on her house shoes. "They don't want to be bossed around by a bunch of Mersian women."

"Why do they have no women with them?" asked Yana. "I know that many Beinen women are soldiers." She gave no indication of what she thought of women who had sunk down to doing men's work.

Kira shrugged. "How should I know? I think they do not trust their women around us."

The Beinens were watching Yana. She remained sitting on the bench in the entrance room, and gestured at the row of house slippers under the bench against the other wall.

"Perhaps we should...let them in without house slippers?" suggested Kira half-fearfully.

"No," said Yana, still mild. "No one tracks mud on our floors. And they must learn who is mistress here."

"Yana," said Kira, upset, "I think, I think that...that maybe we are no longer mistress here in Mers. The Beinens...They..."

"Kira, the Beinens have been trying to add Mers to their empire for fifty years now. They may be under the impression that they have finally succeeded, unless I am badly mistaken as to what this visit means. But the woods will never be theirs." She leaned back against the wall and watched the men. They were beginning to mill impatiently. One of them said something to Kira. She answered slowly and uncomfortably; he responded quickly and angrily.

"He—his name is Anders Derrensson, and he is their commander—does not like being kept waiting, and he demands that we bring him to someone in charge," Kira told Yana miserably. "He says that you are too young to be giving him orders."

Yana eyed Anders Derrensson with interest. She guessed he was about thirty-five, or ten years older than she was. He was short and stocky, with short wheat-blond hair and a square face that was turning redder and redder.

"This is my cloister, not his," she observed. "I am old enough."

After a furious outburst from Anders Derrensson, and some menacing looks from the other men, they reluctantly began removing their boots and putting on the borrowed house slippers.

"Excellent," Yana said briskly when they were finished. "Follow me." She led them down a corridor to the Great Hall. They seemed to be having difficulty managing their slippers, which was unsurprising, considering that the slippers were mostly sized for women.

The long delay in the entrance hall had given the girls plenty of time to arrange the benches in the Great Hall. The long tables had been pushed back to the sides and two benches had been set up in front of the Mother's chair on the dais at the far end of the Hall, so her visitors could sit there before her.

"Mother Yevdoksiya," said Yana as she came up to her. She bowed very low three times. So did Kira Svetliyevna. The men, Yana noticed, looked faintly contemptuous.

"Come stand beside me, Yana," ordered Mother Yevdoksiya. She was dressed warmly, in protection against the Great Hall's drafts. Her silver hair was covered by a dark unpatterned shawl, which draped over her back and shoulders. Her wool dress was a color somewhere between charcoal and black, without embroidery. Mother Yevdoksiya did not believe in excess adornment. Sitting up straight, she was tall enough that her head reached Yana's shoulder. Yana was not very tall. Mother Yevdoksiya's dark eyes examined the men standing before her. None of the lines on her face moved; she did not seem surprised or shocked to see them.

"What news do you have for me, Kira Svetliyevna?" she asked, her voice carrying strongly across the Hall. "Who are these visitors?" She did not sound alarmed.

"Mother," began Kira hesitantly, her voice quavering. "I have...I have the gravest of news." She stopped.

"Tell me," commanded Mother Yevdoksiya, when it became apparent that Kira was not about to continue.

"The Empress...The Empress has surrendered!" The words came bursting out from Kira, and she began to shake visibly.

"Control yourself in front of the foreigners, Kira Svetliyevna," said Mother Yevdoksiya. "So, Raisa Nadyezhdovna has surrendered to the Beinens? Tell me everything." She did not seem to be much shaken by the news. Yana, who had guessed what had happened, was able to keep her face impassive, as was appropriate for someone standing to the left of the Mother of the Sisterhood of the Wolf, although she could feel her face and neck flush from agitation.

"It happened a week ago," said Kira weakly. "The Beinens...They closed in on Krasnograd ten days ago, and took the outskirts of the capital. They had already taken the borders...And so many of our villages were destroyed...And the army is in pieces...There was no other course for the Empress to take. She surrendered. Mers is to become just a part of the Beinen Empire."

"A rather large part," observed Mother Yevdoksiya with a faint smile, "since it is considerably bigger than all the rest of their empire taken together.

What will happen to Raisa Nadyezhdovna?"

"She is no longer Empress, but will be titled the Lady of Mers, in the Beinen style," answered Kira, choking slightly. "She will still be ruler of our country, but one appointed by the Beinen king, and responsible to him. There will a garrison of Beinens stationed in Krasnograd, and perhaps more across the country. And she says...The Empress says...If she is no longer Empress, then she is nothing. She has declared she and all her descendants will dress as peasants, and there is no longer any magic in their blood."

Kira looked ready to cry. "But...Oh, Mother...That is not the worst. That is not the worst!" Now she did begin to cry.

"What is the worst, child?" asked Mother Yevdoksiya calmly.

Kira took a deep breath and then began speaking very quickly, as if hoping her words could outrun her tears.

"The Beinens say...Their king has decreed...That we must all become Erbensalmites. That the old ways are forbidden, magic is not to be practiced, and the cloisters are to be closed." Tears started running silently down Kira's face again.

Mother Yevdoksiya sat back in her chair. She did not appear shocked, or frightened, or hysterical, but rather as if someone had suddenly set her a difficult riddle.

"That is why these men are here, then?" she asked. "To tell me to shut down my cloister, abandon my girls, and take up a foreign religion?"

"You have two days," Kira answered dispiritedly.

"I want to hear him say it," said Mother Yevdoksiya. "I want this man to look me in the eyes and tell me why he is here."

The man called Anders Derrensson stood up at Kira's request and began talking at length in Beinen. To Yana's eyes and ears he did not seem especially cruel, or stupid, or vicious, or gloating in his victory over the Mersians, but just a man who had a job to do. Yana found little comfort in this. She guessed that the sisters were not in danger of being molested or assaulted, but she also guessed that his air of competence was not a bluff, and if he had come to disband the Sisterhood, it would be disbanded. She felt no hatred toward him, but she felt no desire to cooperate with him, either. He was too alien.

When he had finished speaking, Kira said, "He mentions that if you refuse his orders, he will close the cloister by force and bring you to Krasnograd for judgment."

"Will he?" remarked Mother Yevdoksiya dryly. "Well, Kira Svetliyevna, please inform him that he and his men are our guests for the night. They will be furnished with lodging and food. I will give him my decision in the morning. Yana, please summon some girls to show these men to their quarters."

Yana obediently crossed the Great Hall to the kitchen and told the girls there to show the Beinens to the Men's Tower. "They will not harm you," she assured them. "They will take no action till they hear our Mother's decision tomorrow morning. They must be fed later; they can eat in the Men's Tower."

"Why are they here, Aunty Yana?" asked the youngest girl, who was thirteen. As an adult, a full-fledged priestess, and assistant to Mother Yevdoksiya, Yana was called Aunty by the girls, not Sister.

"The Empress has surrendered and the Beinens have taken Mers," answered Yana, who did not believe in lying, or softening a hard truth that was unlikely to go away. "Now girls, be calm, and be polite to our guests. Remember, they must see that you are wolves."

With that bit of wisdom she led them into the Great Hall, where they escorted the Beinens off to the Men's Tower and Kira Svetliyevna to the Guests' Tower.

"We have much to do, Yana," said Mother Yevdoksiya as soon as the Great Hall was empty.

"Yes," agreed Yana.

"We could kill these men, but more would be sent," Mother Yevdoksiya continued. "The Beinens have spent fifty years trying to take Mers, and they will no doubt spend fifty more trying to take this forest if we resist them."

"So you mean to do as they bid you, then?" Yana's voice was even and noncommittal.

"There are many methods of resistance," said Mother Yevdoksiya, smiling a little, but not happily. "Yana, I have already passed my seventieth year. I do not have the time, nor, to be honest, the strength for what must be done. And appearances must be maintained. The Beinens must be made to believe that they have gained our compliance. So the task of resistance must fall on you."

"I am ready," Yana answered calmly.

"Yana, as you know, the gods have seasons, just as we do. But theirs last so much longer. For years now it has been their autumn. Magic is ebbing in the earth, the gods' voices are falling silent, leshayas walk these woods but rarely. We are entering wintertime for the gods. We cannot stand against these foreigners with soldiers, and we cannot stand against them by other means either. But that will change. Someday—many years from now, perhaps, when you are an old woman—it will be springtime for the gods, and Mers will awake. Then you will be ready. The Sisterhood will survive."

"How will I know when it is time?" asked Yana.

"You will know. As the gods awake, the woods will no longer be so empty. And people's hearts will begin to burn. When you see that fire, you will know that the time has come."

"And what shall I do until then?"

Mother Yevdoksiya shrugged. "Wait. Live in the woods. Speak with the wolves. Prepare yourself for whatever may come." She thought for a moment. "There is an abandoned cottage near the Eastward Road. Walk to the road and go west about five miles. You can live there, at least for the time being."

"I will do so," said Yana.

"You must leave tonight," Mother Yevdoksiya went on. "When people ask for you, I will tell them that you killed yourself rather than give up the Sisterhood. We will kill a pig and make it look like you. Now go, pack, and meet me in the pigsty when you are ready."

Yana walked unhurriedly out of the Great Hall, in case anyone was watching, and climbed the stairs to her room on the second floor. It was small and dark. Its windows showed the gate to the stockade, and a small bit of woods. Yana set the burning candle she had taken from the Great Hall on her windowsill and began to pack. She placed a large sack on the floor, and surveyed the contents of her room, trying to decide how much she could bring with her. Any kind of bedding would be too bulky and heavy. She would have to sleep in her clothes. She placed her sheepskin coat and two plain wool shawls, one woven and one that was knitted and fuzzy, in the bottom of the sack. On top of that she put an unembroidered brown linen dress and a matching blouse, then a pair of fuzzy wool stockings, underclothing, and a pair of mittens. The felt boots would have to be left behind, she decided, because she could not carry both them and her book. The book was a record of everything of significance she had done since joining the Sisterhood: every salve and potion, every time she had spoken with the wolves, every encounter with a god, spirit, or leshaya, every answered prayer for magic. She wrapped it up in another shawl (Yana was of the opinion that it was impossible to have too many shawls), stuffed a small jar of ink and two quills into a fuzzy wool hat, and put both things in the sack. Last of all she added a hatchet, flint and iron, and two bowstrings, and tied the sack shut.

She hefted it experimentally. Heavy, but if she fastened it on the end of her walking staff and balanced it over her shoulder, it would not be any worse than carrying home game from a hunt, or a large pair of skis. Yana spared a moment of keen regret for her skis, which her father had made for her, but there was nothing to be done: they were too heavy, and it would look peculiar if a supposed suicide made off with all her prize possessions. Yana hoped that no one would think to search her room too thoroughly.

She would have to go to the entrance to retrieve her fur hat and her boots, and to the kitchen to get food. She took up her sack and staff, looked out her door in case anyone was coming, and, seeing the corridor was deserted, began hurrying down it. The second-floor corridor was rarely used, and so luckily she met no one as she went halfway around the building. She made two stops, the first at the entrance, where she went down the narrow stairs and exchanged her house slippers for her boots and hat, and the second at the kitchen, where she took two loaves of bread and three pies. She ended up at the back of the building, and climbed down into the storerooms. From there she took some cured meat, several wizened apples, and as many turnips and beets as she thought she could carry. The storerooms being connected to the barns, she was able to sneak fairly easily to the pigsty without being seen. Mother Yevdoksiya was waiting for her there.

"Are you ready, Yana?" she asked. Yana nodded.

"Are you frightened?"

"No," answered Yana truthfully. In fact, she felt very calm. When she had heard what the Beinens were planning to do she had felt a little shaky, as if her knees and elbows didn't quite work, but now that she had a plan she felt fine, ready to do whatever needed to be done. She wished she could tell Mother Yevdoksiya that she was glad to be the one who was running into hiding, and sorry that she might not see any of the sisters again, but she couldn't quite say the words. Yana had been working on keeping her mouth shut for years now, and the habit of reticence was too strong in her.

"Which pig shall we use?" she asked instead.

"Spots." Mother Yevdoksiya pointed to a black-and-white pig standing slightly apart from two pink pigs. She sighed. "I am sorry to kill her like this. We should take her into the woods; it will work better that way."

Spots docilely allowed Mother Yevdoksiya to put a rope around her neck and lead her out of the sty, through the small back gate of the stockade, and into the woods—animals normally did what Mother Yevdoksiya wanted. Yana followed silently, carrying her sack.

She, too, was sorry to be killing Spots like this, but as she saw no better choice, she closed off her heart to that regret, just as she did every time she had to slaughter an animal.

They walked along a narrow path until they were out of sight of the stockade and had reached a clearing filled with logs with faces carved on them.

"The gods are already falling into their slumber," said Mother Yevdoksiya. "But they should still be able to hear us here."

"Mother?" asked Yana, to whom a question had suddenly occurred. "When the gods are sleeping, will we still be able to do magic? Will they still heed our prayers? Or will we have to steal it from them, as the godless do?"

"That, I do not know. That will be a task for you, to observe whether your prayers are answered. Now, Spots..." Mother Yevdoksiya and Yana had both slaughtered animals before, and they had spent far too much time with wolves to be squeamish about necessary killing, but neither of them took any pleasure from it, either. Yana had to separate her thoughts from her hands as she slit Spots' throat with her belt knife, and was uncomfortably aware that in that mood it would not be much more difficult for her to slit a person's throat. She knew that when someone has trained herself to overcome distaste, there is very little she is not capable of.

Once Spots was dead, Mother Yevdoksiya took a flask of vodka out of her dress pocket and sprinkled its contents over Spots. She and Yana knelt down and began to pray out loud to the gods of the forest to change Spots's body to Yana's. No spirits or gods appeared, but gradually Spots took on Yana's form and face, a slow, almost imperceptible change, like winter sunrise.

"You must cut her throat again," Mother Yevdoksiya said when the transformation was complete. "Otherwise people will be suspicious." Yana did so, surprised at how calm she was about cutting what was, to all appearances, her own throat.

"Now, Yana," said Mother Yevdoksiya when it was done. She took a deep breath. "Good luck. I doubt...I doubt very much that we shall ever see each other again. I intend to give in completely to the Beinens' demands, disband the cloister, and send all our girls home. If the chance comes to re-form the Sisterhood during my lifetime I will, of course, do so. I may charge some of the other girls with preserving the Sisterhood, if it is possible. But you may be the only one, Yana, so if you think it safe, take on a girl or two and train them in our ways. I would advise you to stay hidden in the woods for the most part, but go amongst people from time to time, to find out what is happening. And...And...That is all, I suppose. I trust in you, Yana. Do the best you can. You'd better go now, before it gets too late."

Yana was unsure whether bowing was appropriate at such a time, but she decided it was better to do so than not, so she bowed deeply and said, "thank you, Mother. I will do all I can to justify your trust." Mother Yevdoksiya caught her up and hugged her hard.

"Don't lose hope, my Yanochka," she whispered. "Don't lose hope! Now go!"

They turned away from each other and set off in their different directions: Mother Yevdoksiya back to the cloister, and Yana towards the Eastward Road. It was now mid-afternoon, and she figured she had about ten miles to cover to reach the road, and then another five to get to the cottage, providing the cottage was still there and inhabitable. Somewhat grimly, she resigned herself to a night spent out in the woods. She was capable of it, of course, but early spring was no time to be leaving shelter lightly. A few snowflakes began drifting down again.

There was a very faint path leading from the gods' place towards the Eastward Road, although the bottom boughs of the firs and pines reached across it, almost closing it. There were still drifts of old snow under them. Yana walked steadily forward, pushing aside or stepping over the branches, watching out for icy patches, and switching her bundle from shoulder to shoulder.

It had not been very bright all day, but soon the darkness began to gather. There was not enough sun and too many trees for there to be shadows, but there was a definite feeling that the sun was sinking and darkness was rising. If a person were to be afraid of being out alone in the woods, now would be the time for it, but Yana was accustomed to the forest, and she was not in the habit of being afraid, anyway. She was tired, though, and so she stopped before it became full dark.

Sitting on some cut pine boughs spread with a shawl, she ate two of the pies and part of a loaf of bread. She had chosen to stop at a wide spot on the path, near a stream, so she had both room to lie down, and water. She put on her coat, her mittens, and both her hats, wrapped herself in all her remaining shawls, and lay down on her uncomfortable bed. Her supper had not been very satisfying. But there was nothing she could do about that easily, so she tried not to think about it. She wondered instead when Spots' body would be found, and what would happen when it was, and whether the Beinens would be fooled and therefore not send out a search party for her. Even if they did think she had run away, how much would they care? She had no idea how serious they were about closing all the cloisters and converting everyone to Erbensalmism. She supposed she would find out. Eventually she fell asleep.

She was awakened by the sound of something heavy moving through the woods. She lay perfectly still, listening hard. The only thing that could possibly be that heavy would be an elk, unless...It stepped out of the trees and started splashing down the stream, clearly walking on two legs. Yana got up.

"Mother Leshaya," she called softly, standing on the stream bank. Something like a pine tree was walking towards her. Its eyes shone very faintly.

"Woman," it breathed, sounding like the wind blowing through pine needles.

Yana bowed three times so deeply her nose nearly touched her boots. "I am honored, Mother Leshaya," she said respectfully.

There was another wind-in-the-trees sound, this one from the leshaya inhaling. "You are the one," it said, after a long silence. "The one the forest is speaking of." Yana bowed again.

"I am honored," repeated Yana. She had come across leshayas before, but this was the first time one had spoken at any length with her.

"There are strangers in the woods," continued the leshaya. Yana thought of it as female, although of course leshayas, like trees, were normally neither male nor female but could be whatever gender one wished to ascribe to them. This one had not objected to being called "mother."

"I know, Mother Leshaya," said Yana. "I have seen them."

"They are unfriendly," said the leshaya.

"They would seek to turn us away from our gods," Yana told it.

Leshayas' faces had no expression, but when it next spoke, it sounded sad. "We leshayas are sometimes at odds with you humans," it said, "but to the gods we are sisters. They created leshayas as their first companions, to have friends amongst the trees, and then they made women, because they loved us leshayas so, and wished to have something like us amongst the animals. We must not turn away from the gods, wolfwoman."

"I know," said Yana. "That is why I ran away from the strangers. So that I can continue to serve our gods, not theirs."

"Even as we are preparing for spring, the gods are preparing for winter," said the leshaya. "Soon they will settle into their sleep, and be unable to protect us against the foreign gods. That is why they have asked me to help you. They have heard many prayers on this subject, and have decided to answer them."

Yana bowed again, her heart beating hard. She had always believed in the gods, but in the same way she believed in the Empress—everyone said that she was there, and occasionally decrees would come out, giving apparent proof of her existence, but Yana had never laid eyes on her, nor did she expect to. She had chosen the Sisterhood of the Wolf precisely because wolves were unarguably tangible. Now the Empress was no more, and the gods were acting directly for Yana.

"I will carry you," said the leshaya. "Gather up your things and climb into my branches."

Yana hastily re-formed her bundle. The leshaya obligingly came out of the stream so that Yana wouldn't have to get wet. It was about twice as tall as Yana, with the basic shape of a pine tree, but bifurcated, with roots for toes. It did not appear to have hands or arms, but it was able to move its branches in a way that allowed Yana to climb up into them easily. She settled on a good sturdy branch about five or six feet off the ground and leaned against the trunk, gripping her sack firmly with one hand and the leshaya with the other. It had a nice piney scent, and its bark was rough against Yana's cheek. It began to walk quickly down the path, carrying Yana in the direction she wanted to go. It did not seem to be particularly burdened by Yana's weight. It did not speak throughout the entire walk.

Yana held onto it tightly, and tried to experience what was happening as clearly as possible, so that she would never forget, and could bring up the memory if ever there was any doubt that magic and leshayas existed. She did not bother trying to speculate where the leshaya was taking her, or what she would see when she got there, or whether or not she was safe. It was very dark in the woods. For a long time Yana was unable to see very much, or hear anything other than the rustling of the leshaya's movement. Then it seemed to Yana that there was a voice in her head that did not belong to her. She relaxed and let it grow louder. It was not words, exactly, but rather a call, telling her "Here I am. This way. This way. This way." It gradually grew stronger, and then suddenly it began to come towards Yana very fast. She could hear the noise of something large running through the woods.

"A wolf," she said to the leshaya. "A wolf is coming." The leshaya said nothing in response, but stopped, as if waiting. The wolf came bursting out of the trees and onto the path in front of Yana. It was the size of a large pony, much larger than a real wolf.

"Gray Wolf!" she exclaimed. "You have come for me!" The tales said that Gray Wolf waited in the woods for those who were desperate, helping those of pure heart, and dealing death to those filled with evil.

"Climb onto my back, Yana my love," he said to her.

Delighted, Yana swung herself and her possessions down from the leshaya, bowed to it, and climbed onto Gray Wolf, who had knelt down to make it easier for her.

"I'm not too heavy for you?" she asked anxiously.

"I can carry whatever must be carried," he answered. "Now hold tight." Yana pressed her legs against his sides and sank her hands into his thick fur, and they were off. It was like riding a horse, only not: his run was different from a horse's gallop, and despite his size he felt lighter and less bony underneath her. Yana couldn't tell how long they ran, although it was long, or how fast they were going, although it was fast. She ducked low over Gray Wolf's neck, holding onto her bundle and his fur, and was very happy. They passed out of the pinewoods into birch trees. A wind picked up, blowing away the clouds and revealing the moon, which shown brightly on the white birch trunks. They came to a stream and followed it till it ended in a lake.

"Set down your bundle, Yana my love," the wolf told her. She did so, and then nearly shrieked in surprise as Gray Wolf waded into the water and began swimming rapidly across the lake. The cold of the water on Yana's legs was so shockingly painful that for a moment she was afraid she was going to be sick. She forced herself to breathe, and soon regained control of her senses. She looked around her.

To the right were fields on low hills. To the left the lake gradually became a swamp. Yana was relieved to see they were not swimming that way. Here and there the tops of dead trees stuck out above the surface of the water. As they swam by one, Yana instinctively shrank away from it, shuddering slightly at the thought of a whole submerged world existing ghostlike, fathoms below them.

Ahead of them the shoreline was completely flat at first, and then rose sharply. There were small pine and fir trees on the flat part, and very tall ones on the hillside. As they drew closer, the flat ground appeared to rock and move slightly. Yana suddenly knew why it was so flat.

"We're not going...under that, are we?" she asked apprehensively.

"Of course not," the wolf answered, to Yana's tremendous relief. "We're going to climb on top of it," he finished, which was only slightly better.

What looked from a distance to be flat shoreline was in fact a floating island of moss, merging on one side with the real shoreline. It was about a foot thick, and had small trees growing on it.

"This is our destination?" she asked the wolf.

"I would crawl on my belly for a ways before standing up," he said by way of a reply. "You wouldn't want the edge to break off under you, or to plunge through."

Miserably, Yana threw herself belly-first onto the moss, disentangled herself from the wolf, and began slithering toward a more secure resting place. Once she was a safe distance from the edge, Gray Wolf clambered up onto the island and followed her cautiously. The ground, if it could be called that, undulated alarmingly. Yana had always thought that these moss islands were creepy, and nothing was happening to disabuse her of that notion, although thankfully she had not gone through yet. She was unhappily aware that her boots were not only wet but filled with water, and her clothes were sodden. Not only would she sink like a stone if she fell into the water, but even moving she was so cold she was shivering uncontrollably, and her head ached and her stomach was a cold hard knot. Her blood made icy lines through her body as it flowed from her skin inwards.

"Stop," Gray Wolf commanded when they had reached the middle of the island. "Cuddle up against me," he ordered, and Yana gratefully obeyed. Once he had shaken himself off, he was almost dry, and very warm.

"They will come soon," he told her.

"The gods?"

"Yes."

"Gray Wolf?" asked Yana, "are you a god?"

"No, Yanochka my love, I am not. The gods can make both life and magic; I can only use it, like humans. Once I was an ordinary wolf pup, until the gods changed me. Much as I suspect they are going to change you."

"Will they make me bigger?" asked Yana curiously, trying to imagine being twice the size of an ordinary woman.

He laughed, a deep rumble in his chest. "I doubt it," he said, "because you will not need to be bigger. The gods know that they are falling asleep just as enemies are coming into their land, and they are arming themselves with guards and soldiers against this threat. They created me as a fighter. You, I think, will be something else."

"Are you immortal? Will I be?"

"I will not live forever, and neither will you, but I, and probably you too, will stay alive until our task is done. How long that will be, not even the gods can tell. They are coming."

The island rocked, sending waves splashing out across the lake. Yana had the sudden impression of a presence, and realized that there were...things surrounding her. At one moment it seemed as if the trees were crowding around her, then the next as if the air were filled with faces, both animal and human.

"Woman," said the voices. "Daughter of our past. Preserve our future. Do you accept our charge?"

"Yes," whispered Yana. She felt as if she had been crouching down for a long time and then had stood up suddenly, so that her head reeled and spots swam in front of her eyes. The only thing she could feel for certain was Gray Wolf's fur pressing against her back.

"The bargain has been struck," said the voices, and there was a rush, and Yana felt as if the...things were clustering all around her, or as if she were standing against a strong wind, or caught in a swift-running stream, and then everything was pouring into her...

She and the wolf were alone on the island, which was lying still, with no trace of any other presence on it. Yana supposed she must have fallen asleep or passed out. She sat up, and a tingle ran through her body. The only time she had felt anything similar had been the time she had been with a man and everything had worked out the way it was supposed to, and afterwards she had felt little shocks and shudders when he had touched her shoulder. This time was much stronger, though. She grinned to herself, and decided not to share that story with Gray Wolf.

"What have they done to me?" she asked him instead.

"Given you what you need to carry out your task," he told her. "Given you all the magic you will ever need, most likely."

"Fair enough," she said. The tingling was abating.

"Dawn will come soon," the wolf told her. "I will take you to where you need to go, if you have a destination."

She told him about the cottage off the Eastward Road. He said he knew of it, and could take her there. When they swam back across the lake, the water felt pleasantly cool, not shockingly cold. Yana was very aware of her own heartbeat, but it was reassuring, not annoying the way that sensation usually was. She could also sense Gray Wolf's heart and blood, and more faintly, that of other animals in the nearby woods.

They stopped at the side of the lake to pick up Yana's bundle, and then Gray Wolf began to run, with Yana on his back. They ran as the woods slowly changed from black to gray to the flush of dawn. They joined the Eastward Road and ran down it, heading west.

Suddenly, Gray Wolf darted off the road and down a side trail that Yana had not even noticed until they were on it. He came to an abrupt halt in front of a tiny run-down wooden cottage.

"Here we are," he announced.

Yana looked over the place that was to be her home, at least for a little while. It had no fence, no garden, nor a stable or barn. All it had were four wooden walls, each with a shuttered window, and a shingle roof. There was no carving or fretwork on the eaves, no paint, or anything else that would make it attractive.

"Well, the walls are upright," she said. "Who lived here last?"

"Trappers, when they were setting their traps," the wolf told her. "Yana, my heart, this is where I will leave you. Are you prepared for what you must do? The wait may be long."

"Will I grow old?" asked Yana.

"All things fade and pass away," answered the wolf, "even those that have been touched by the gods. But your time here may be longer that of normal women. Be warned, Yanochka: what has been done to you cannot be undone, what you have sworn cannot be unsworn. You may come to regret the promise you have made, but nothing can be done about it."

"All actions can bring sorrow," Yana said evenly. "I will regret my decision no more than any other, and less than most."

"I must go now."

"Will we see each other again?"

"We are the guardians of the gods now, Yana, bound to them and to each other. This is not the first time we will say farewell, you and I. Watch now, and wait: that is your task. The gods will reawaken."

Then he was gone.

# REFLEXIONS

by Deanna Marie Emmerson

1 FRAGMENT: AMARINTH AND MAGNOLIA

I{Amarinth}

Amarinth stands

at the edge of the perfect circle

perfectly beautiful

beautifully complete.

The perfect circle

black-ice/glass pond,

water,

as frozen as her blood and the darkest thing

amidst miles of snow-white powder

powder-white snow,

her eyes of icicles and cream flesh

and a tear-gray sky.

The darkest thing except, perhaps,

for her shadow-shaded hair

in this place where no shadows fall.

II

Something mars the perfect ice

something white and unknown.

Amarinth's tentative hand

stretches towards this enigma;

her almost nude body

kneels in the snow.

She feels no cold

she leaves no mark

as she glides onto the ice

to take the unidentified

lying object

and there is no time for questions before another new thing.

Beneath the barrier,

pummeling the glassy margin

trying to scream for help--

in horrified recoil, silent Amarinth

is certain of only one thing:

never before now has her reflection tried to escape.

She wonders wordlessly what is happening.

She looks bewildered at the flower she holds, brittle and white,

wondering what it is.

When she dares to peer towards the ice once more,

her reflection is mimicking her as it should.

III{Magnolia}

Magnolia runs,

flees in terror from the beast.

The only light in this forsaken place

is dim and far from her.

It is towards this light she races

for perhaps she can outrun the monster--

within the light escape or at least confront it

or even, feel less fear--

anything.

The light swells brighter as she approaches:

she is near.

Near enough to see a pale hand, stretched out towards her like a

promise,

and holding a paler flower.

Towards the blossom she now races

and almost, it is within her grasp.

She nearly registers something odd,

something wrong,

something bizarre about the face behind the promise.

But then she is upon the egress,

and then, unbelievably, she is hammering upon glass

(and this glass is cold, so cold--)

and then finally, the beast is upon her

and mercifully, she awakens.

IV

"I had the dream again"

"With the monster?" asks

the friend

slowly sipping a cup.

"The beast, yes.

but something, this time, was different.

This time, I saw

something strange."

"You saw the monster?"

Magnolia's friend

is curious, a practitioner of the Craft

a child of psychology and mythology

and dreams. A student of magics

and meanings, and other

worlds.

But this is about Magnolia, not her friend

and Magnolia says no.

"I saw-- a light. I saw an escape.

Yet still I could not get away.

I saw a pale hand,"

she looks at her own pale hands

"and a flower, a rose.

The light, it was so bright.

But I couldn't reach the place from whence it came.

Friend, tell me true.

What does it mean? What does it mean?"

Magnolias friend looks at her own hands,

color of cappuccino,

contemplatively,

thinking of all of the things she could say to this pale, bewildered,

ink-haired girl

with eyes like icicles

if only they were not friends.

Words about allowing one's self

enlightenment

something about how

flowers, even roses,

do not remain beauteous

and something of beasts in the dark.

A mention of how we build our own dreams

words on dooming one's self.

Instead she looks up

with a smiling shrug.

"Just a nightmare

don't worry

Just a dream."

They look out windows silently sipping

pretending that words help

that they could be true.

V

Nighttime.

Magnolia and her friend

(who perhaps is of import after all)

pass a cemetery, a library

and other old sanctuaries

on their way to Magnolia's house.

They pass also, fast food restaurants

shopping mall, arcade--

some things are perhaps

less significant than they seem.

The two walk hand in hand

they are not more then friends, with the love of friends, though

sometimes if the wind is

especially lonely

or the moon is just sweet enough

Or one has a sadness trying to drown her heart

they will hold close.

And confessed it must be,

that on a lonely night, maybe,

they might come so close as for lip to brush lip

and perhaps closer

not parting 'till morning

They stay together some nights

to ward off bad dreams and sad-sickness.

On this cold night, neither

could wish to be alone.

VI {Amarinth}

Amarinth sprawls, discarded upon ice-glass

for the first time wondering

what lies beyond

Her reflection mocks her every movement

no matter how quick.

She stops trying to fool it

and sits up to examine

that which she found before.

She doesn't know how long before,

she doesn't wonder.

Here, where nothing changes

there is no time.

VII

She tries to decide

what this phenomenon is made of.

It is not ice.

Ice is black.

It is not snow.

Snow is powder.

It is not dress.

Dress is flimsy and pliable.

And it cannot be Amarinth.

For she is Amarinth.

And this object is not she.

It has pale thin pieces at the end

of a slender, long thing

that has several small bits running along it.

She touches one of these and

it s a new sensation.

Firmly she presses her finger against it

until she has to pull away,

shocked

in realization that she dislikes the unfamiliar sensation.

Dimly, in the back of her mind, the word for it awaits her.

She closes her eyes to seek it

and finally thinks

pain.

She opens her eyes again to her finger

and baffled, her mouth falls agape.

This is something she has no word for

(a trail of blood runs down her finger).

Afraid,

Amarinth does not know what to do.

Never before has she felt a pain

never has she known red.

VIII

Amarinth knows about blood.

How could she not, when

time to time, too many times to name, she will

be, perhaps, walking through the snow

and feel a trickling tickle

on the insides of her thighs.

When she looks,

blood stains her soft and incorruptible flesh.

Always, her blood is a thin, sticky gray

and always, in time, it goes away.

This is not like that.

IX

Magnolia dreams a place

where a clear sweet river rambles.

And drinking from the river,

her mind is gradually

set free of thought.

When again she drinks,

taste of clear, deep truth

brushes against her realm of thought.

She longs for more.

Kneeling at the waters

submerging her head far beneath the surface

the liquid pours right through her ears

directly onto her mind.

Her parched and questioning brain is quieted and quenched

with tickling trickles of comprehension.

As the pulsing waves

soothe her conceptions

her racing heart slows

she begins to feel peace.

Eyes coming open,

she perceives

the beautiful dimension beneath the waves.

Curious creatures she does not

recognize

approach her gently

touching tenderly her uncertain face.

She longs to be like them.

All that is required

is understanding--

this can be granted

only by the waves.

Magnolia's instincts begin to alarm her

telling her she needs to breathe.

Telling her to pull up her head

telling her to leave.

The lovely creatures kiss her sweetly,

mournfully

they desire that she should stay.

Yet she is certain that she cannot.

She lifts her head from the stream.

All of the beings,

each imbued with love and grace

hold hands for safety and

comfort

and swim so far below that she cannot see them.

She intakes deeply of the

hot, dry air

and her lungs thank her.

But her soul already becoming dry and dusty

and crumbling away...

Magnolia rolls in her sleep

tears chasing her unaware face.

A friend, with love,

holds her closely

knowing of this dream

knowing of the need.

She cannot tell Magnolia.

Magnolia must learn on her own,

or spend lifetimes trying.

This has always been the way.

Magnolia's friend whispers secret,

old words

for peaceful,

good sleep

and closes her own eyes.

She dreams nothing

nothing at all.

X

Daytime, and Magnolia's companion must leave.

She thinks:

I wish I could cast protection for you

delicate one.

But it is impossible to protect

anyone from their own mind.

The two will meet again when the time is right.

Soon, Magnolia

leaves the uncertain

safety of her home,

for in the waking world

money still matters

and the rule is,

seek enlightenment on your own time.

Magnolia forgets her dreams for the

sake of a two-dimensional

reality.

There is an illicit

relief in monotony

for life does, indeed, go on.

XI

Amarinth too, sleeps and dreams

dreams of places and people

she never knew

that she could imagine.

She dreams loud things

and colors so sharp

that behind closed lids her eyes ache.

She sees cemeteries and libraries

cars houses and fast-food chains

and churches old as the paved-over hills.

She dreams of smells of cities

and a girl with cappuccino flesh

and when Amarinth awakens,

all is forgotten.

XII

This is not her story

already, this we know.

Yet perhaps, nonetheless,

Magnolia's friend dreams too.

Perhaps she is beneath those

clear, sweet waves

floating on her back utterly submerged

beneath a liquid so pure

it cannot be explained

like water, only--

more.

She does not float to the top

because she was once there

and needs that security no longer.

She does not sink to the bottom because

she is not yet ready

to go that deep.

She is surrounded by drifting,

seeping figures, almost

liquid themselves

yet discernible entities each one.

They swim and float around her

pleased that she is within their midst.

They whisper in her ears

into her neck and the

palms of her hands

with tiny, intangible kisses

and caresses gentler than the waves themselves.

Her entire body absorbs the secrets

one swell of knowing after another

rising into the core of her being

turning it into a core of understanding

such beautiful understanding.

Yet she has not yet been completely taken

soon she will be ready.

The lithe and phantasmagoric creatures

are friends, always

their streaming hair

and elongated, sinuous bodies

tickling and touching when they brush by.

And then, something in the waters changes

a collective anticipation,

rising up from the aura of each being.

A single being swims from the depths

sending currents of comprehension before her.

She is the collected, concentrated essence

of the powerful pleasure, the wise knowing

of all the others combined.

Every creature stares in awe and beholds

in love

the epitome of themselves.

Magnolia's friend awaits

throbbing with anticipation.

The shimmering being swims up, slowly,

gracefully, lovingly

between the woman's legs

and most tenderly,

privately, whispers

the final secret

to the cappuccino girl

reverberating the truth into the core of her body

and following with delicious kisses of meaning.

As enlightenment finally,

ecstatically

explodes through the girl

she transforms.

Soon she is one of them

not a girl but a sweet awareness,

incarnate

and like shadows

they slide together towards the deep.

XIII

Magnolia sits at a table

trying to break through

trying to write.

Trying

to get a moment

of being psychic,

of knowing what is happening

in another universe.

A universe she has created-

that in bits and flashes

she drags through into this world.

But she cannot push through

to understand another reality.

She stops trying

and gradually, it comes...

an image, so faint,

of dove sky and miles

of unblemished snow

a circle of black and a pale finger

stained with blood.

As she puts her pen to paper

the image fades

taking every shred of meaning with it.

Something aches deep inside her

she knows not why

she rests her head upon her arms

she does not cry.

XIV

The beast chases Magnolia

once more.

Through the ferocious dark she flees.

Yet this time, something is different.

She slips,

landing in water.

As her skin soaks in the moisture

she realizes it is the liquid

enlightenment

that she had encountered before.

How could it be

in this dark, vile place?

She doesn't care, knowing that

the beast cannot hurt her here.

She swims down.

A few of the friendly beings

that had loved her so well before

reach out to her.

They tell her something of the nature's beast.

Before she has a chance

to grasp this gift

she awakens,

alone.

XV

Amarinth dreams of a hideous beast.

Never have tender eyes beheld

such a splendor of ugliness.

Because she has not before seen

such a thing

she does not know to fear.

She croons softly to it,

nonsensical kindness with no meaning.

It lays its heavy, hideous head

upon her bare white feet

and silent tears slip from its jaundiced eyes.

Gently, it licks at her bare toes

and still tearing

clamps broken teeth upon her tender flesh.

Amarinth is too shocked to scream

instead, her whole world becomes black.

When she opens her eyes once more,

she is sprawled upon black ice

surrounded by familiar gray

her foot thrown upon painfully sharp

(thorns?).

The ice is streaked with red

and she does not know if waking hurts

any less than sleeping dreams.

Her shoulder begin to quake.

Broken, helpless, lost

she weeps

and cries, and cries, and cries.

XVII

Very well.

The beast.

What does it dream?

What does it cry?

His teeth are crusted and rusted, brown and red with old blood

the thick stench of decay

rests heavy in the back of his throat.

Bile rises in his stomach, and sleeping,

He chokes. He dies.

This is mercy, twisted,

and not any true release

for it does not matter that the thing dies.

Another day, he will be forced back into existence

to stain his lips and his

tongue with gentle,

undeserving flesh.

His joy is destruction

his punishment, to loathe his own existence

his eternal life to die and then relive

over and over.

For now at least.

He comforts himself with the fantasy

that eternities can change

although sometimes, it would seem they never do.

The reek rises into his mouth;

he expires once more.

XVII

Amarinth

lies fallen in the snow

as silent gray tears

tiptoe along her temple

because she doesn't understand

because she is afraid.

She stays away from the ice

she does not touch the flower

and hopes that the

\--red--

blood has been released, forever,

from her veins.

She longs to become as she was

innocent, and empty as the skies

and she awaits, not knowing what to do.

Her emptiness has been stolen away

replaced by something for which she has no name,

no meaning,

no comprehension.

And so she does nothing,

with no help from whatever

caused this to happen.

Amarinth just continues to exist

more or less like she always has done.

XVIII

Magnolia seeks release

Begging the gods and devils,

all possible powers for help.

For a sense of absolution, of peace.

She knows something is missing,

something simple

and almost within her grasp.

What is the answer-- what is the question

?

XIX

Amarinth dreams haunting melodies

and a beast: a monster-thing

cruel, yet compelled, and perpetually heartbroken

and because of this

much, much more horrific,

for it is less than a monster, after all.

It only exists in dreams, but

what is the difference, if the waking world sleeps?

Amarinth almost understands

and she wants it, the sense of owning

of knowing, to be thrust upon her.

Something she can hold,

not to let go.

But she knows not the answer, nor even the question.

2 FRAGMENT: TRANSGRESSIONS {BOUNDARIES OF FREEDOM}

There have been two worlds.

One has, and desires release.

One has not, and seeks possession.

Each world the mirror of the other

each seeking to achieve that which rests between them

and neither truly

understanding for what they long.

Neither understand from what they run, to what they run

or that running only plants them

more firmly in place.

None understand that to release,

one must firmly grasp

and to possess one must let go.

Possessed by ideals of freedom

it is hard to acknowledge.

Yet to escape, one must first be bound

And it is impossible to be bound if free.

On rare occasions, some reach comprehension

which, forever,

alters them

making a beast or a sweet sea-creature

hide alone in the dark

or come together in the deep.

And either of these can create more

more of themselves, or more of each other

in their extreme of

sanity

or create nothing, nothing at all.

3 FRAGMENT: BEASTS AND CREATURES

I.

I remember

my first taste of blood

which is every

I recall

my final taste of flesh

which is each.

I remember running through the

Dark

to chase the scent of blood

and fear

the scent of something

truly lost.

Rare is the odor

of complete despair

the aroma of the truly lost.

Yet this human I trailed

tempted and teased

with that

undeniable scent

driving me on

with an uncontrollable

compulsion to destroy

I hate my need to kill

but I cannot escape

and my only comfort is to know

when the hunt is done,

and I cower, quivering in my cave

I will be hunted by sweet predator death

time and time again.

Perhaps some day

I will create more than destruction

and thankfully, mercifully,

never be born again.

II

We reside beneath the waves of truth

and know nothing, nothing at all, but this:

that we live within

the waters so pure

and know nothing, nothing at all.

We understand all, moving

on the pulse of the universe

we ebb and flow, flow and ebb

on and on into eternity

and know nothing for certain. Nothing at all.

A whisper, that the universe

alters but cannot change.

For the universe is the rhythm

and in this deep, the rhythm doesn't change

and splash becomes displaced

into the perpetual

ebb and flow

so nothing really changes

and we still have no knowledge:

know nothing at all.

III

I am the darkness

and sometimes the safest place to hide

for unlike light

I cast no shadows

and within my embrace,

all are equal.

As the womb or the tomb,

you are safe in me.

Within my protection,

any could believe

that their course of action

is the only right one.

Whether to flee or chase or wait,

perfectly still,

waiting to be transformed into the escape for which they long

waiting for someone to dive in

and shatter their illusions

and piece them back together

to become more or less

than another's reflected dreams.

Come to me,

do not fear.

True, I hide monsters

but beauty also lurks

within my depths.

4 FRAGMENT: CHANGES

I

Amarinth stares

uncomprehending

into a mirror.

She does not know what has happened

Is this reality or a dream?

Perhaps an illusion

a figment

of a fractured imagination.

Amarinth has never seen a mirror

or a wall.

This world, she somehow knows

is not her world.

Her realm is a realm of gray vagueness

and endless bland expanses

her world is a single black

circle of ice

and the reflection beneath it.

Yet this place where she stands is

sharp borders and defined edges

how does she know that

here, the gray that overcomes everything

does not belong?

There is nothing in the mirror

not her reflection,

nor that of her unfamiliar surroundings;

there is no image at all.

Just black.

She stares into the sharp-edged

square

and slowly,

horror creeps up on her

beginning to devour her

like a soulless beast,

eating her whole.

II

Magnolia treads with

trepidation

towards the pond of ice

her hand clenching

someone else's white rose.

Her aching and tormented feet

leave a trail of blood behind her.

The weight of her body bears down

on the once-unmarred skin

of the snow

leaving indentations

(scars. tattoos.)

The memory of her presence

stains the white.

Magnolia is cold

sore and afraid of something

but she does not know what.

Finally she reaches the ice and

stands upon it

looking not down but around her self

at the magnificent and horizon less sky.

And although she has never before been in this place

she knows that what happens

has never before.

The sky fills with reds

-the red of blood on her skin,

or blood on the snow,

and multitudes of others

which she cannot name-

has never seen.

This is the first sunrise that has ever been

in a desolate and unchanging land.

Unbidden, a lone word

floats

into the atmosphere of her mind.

A word for which there is no comparison

no definition, other than itself

No certain use, other than

the bloody, unfamiliar, painful scene

surrounding.

Beautiful.

III

The mirror cracks

IV

The ice cracks

V

Within the depths of the waters of enlightenment,

all the creatures gather

holding each other,

encircling a place of power.

Closing their eyes

they seek with open minds

the worlds of Magnolia

and Amarinth,

seeking to watch

and wish them well

and send all the blessings there are.

The being that was once

Magnolia's special friend

watches especially closely

giving all of her love

for that solemn, uncertain girl

not knowing this love

will change everything

not knowing it will keep the girls safe.

VI

Soon.

VII

Magnolia crouches,

staring into a cracking pond of ice

as it implodes

Amarinth leans,

gazing into a cracking mirror

as it explodes.

5 FRAGMENT: LINKED

Magnolia and Amarinth are nowhere

where there are no discernible borders

nor dimensions.

Yet clearly this nowhere

is not endless

as Amarinth's homeland

nor confined as Magnolia's was

The darkness is broken

by dim, shifting images

and constantly changing colors.

The muted shades surround them

and though they stand on no surface

above and below them also

reign the meaningless expanse of everything.

None of this matters

as they take no heed of their environs

yet only gaze at one another.

One has hair loose and flowing dress

bare of foot and unadorned

the other bound by hair

and clothes, and tightly shod

yet one face precisely mirrors the other

without a single flaw.

When four floating hands find their partners

and the two girls are irrevocably linked

the constant shifting backgrounds disappear

replaced by a blinding light-

or is it darkness?

They are falling into each other

each other's eyes

each other's minds

neither do they

know

nor care for darkness and light.

And what is meant to be

what has been destined

finally comes to pass

The two kiss

and the entire universe collapses.

FINALE

Utterly forgotten within the void

where the universe once was

a white rose pulses gently

no longer stiff, but supple and soft.

Yet the thorns remain harder than rock

and somehow resemble the fangs of a beast

stained by the red blood

of uncertain infinity.

This blossom cannot exist,

for nothing exists

yet alone and unknown in an un-(I)-verse

it blooms on beautifully, heedless.

# The Cat Lady

by Melissa Herman

"Ok. Here's the deal. You gotta walk all the way up to the porch steps. Do that and you can join the club." Jimmy looks around at his buddies and grins. They wait to see if the new kid bites.

"Just to the steps? I mean, I don't have to go up onto the porch do I?" Mark's family just moved to Cottonwood a month ago, but he's heard enough stories about the "cat lady" to know that this dare scares the hell out of him.

"Nah. I won't make you go up the steps. But, you have to walk. You run and it doesn't count." The two boys crouch in the azalea bushes that hide the gated yard of Canary Lane's most infamous resident, Miss Marjorie Hammond AKA the "Cat Lady." For years, Miss Margie's been the subject of many a camp-fire ghost story. After all, everyone in town knows she's a witch.

"Ok." Summoning up all the courage a boy of twelve has, Mark leaves the cover of the azalea bushes and follows the sidewalk to the wrought iron gate. He eyes the spiky tops of the fence. They remind him of the spears the gladiators fought with in that movie his brother rented last weekend. They sliced right through a body like butter. He shakes off the image and grasps the latch to the gate. It squeaks and moans as he pulls it open. I must be crazy, he thinks as he crosses the threshold and into the cat lady's yard.

The yard is overgrown with more azaleas and two enormous magnolia trees canopy the walkway. Mark's eyes dart from one area to the next trying to anticipate an ambush from the old witch. His neck prickles- he knows there's something in the bush to his left watching him. Probably just a cat, he thinks. Keep going- nice and slow.

By now, his brow is sweating and he really has to pee. But, the end is in sight. Only a few more steps and he'll be at the porch. He wonders if any of his new friends have ever done this.

Mark lets out his breath in one whoosh as he reaches the base of the steps. He didn't even realize he'd been holding it. He turns to face them with a triumphant smile and sees fear dawning on their faces. That's when he hears the creak of a screen door and the yeow of a million cats.

He looks over his shoulder and the old hag is coming out on to the porch. He sees probably twenty cats swarming all around her. The scariest thing is the old lady though. She lurches towards him with her arms stretched out like a mummy from some cheesy old horror movie.

"Holy shit!" Mark takes off at a run and leaps over the gate. He turns in time to see that the old lady is down on the walkway now. She's grunting and grabbing for him.

His buddies take off as soon as they see her. But, from the safety of the sidewalk, Mark takes a moment to look at the cat lady. Her wrinkled old face is so pale, it seems transparent. Skin hangs on her bones like a sheer drape and milky white eyes stare but don't seem to see anything.

The cats slither in and out of her legs as she lurches toward the gate. One cat catches Mark's eye and holds it. It sits regal like at the top of the porch steps as if observing the commotion. It's jet-black and has long fur, but the most intriguing feature is its electric green eyes. Even in broad daylight, they seemed to be glowing.

The old lady is almost to the gate and Mark shakes off the weird feeling. He turns and races up the sidewalk to catch up with the other guys. Behind, he can still hear the grunting and shuffling of the old lady and the rattle of the gate. He knows she won't come after him though because she never leaves the yard. Everyone says the cats go out and do her bidding.

Watching the boys speed off down the street, Margie sighs, disappointed by her failure to reach the boy, and goes back into the house followed by her entourage. She spies Kali perched on the table in the foyer. Kali was her first cat. She clearly remembers the day she found the beautiful cat in the alley behind the library. Kali was scavenging in the dumpster. The cat was well groomed though so it didn't appear to be a throw-away.

The bright green eyes compelled Margie to take her home anyway. She'd just watch for "lost" posters or ads in the paper. This was also the same day her aunt passed away and the last time Margie ever left the house. But, her family grew anyway. Now, she has more than thirty cats depending on her to care for them. She's tired, so very tired.

She sits at the kitchen table with a glass of milk. With all the stealth expected of a cat, Kali appears at her elbow and shares the glass with her. Margie stares into Kali's eyes and nods. She gets a pen and paper from the desk in the hallway and starts to write.

* * *

Two weeks later, Margie gets a lone letter in the box. Being a recluse, she doesn't get much mail. Her great-niece, surprised to hear from her, agrees to come out and go over Margie's options concerning her health. "Perhaps there's a nice retirement village we can move you in to," she writes. The letter states that Mary Ann will arrive on the 7th, tomorrow. Margie's heart quickens as she realizes that it's almost over. She feels a small twinge of guilt, but there's nothing she can do about it. Someone has to help.

The next day, Mary Ann drives in from Birmingham in her little BMW convertible. She's never been to her great-aunt's house, so she stops at the little general store on the corner of the main road.

A little bell jingles her arrival. She feels like she's stepped in to the past as she looks around at the soda fountain and the wooden floors. The place doesn't seem to have changed since the forties.

"Can I help you?" A young man, his name tag says "Brad," stands behind the counter ready to whip up an actual cherry coke if that's her pleasure.

"I'm looking for Marjorie Hammond's place. Can you give me directions?"

Brad snorts out a laugh and says, "Are you kidding me? Don't you know the cat lady's a witch?"

"That's enough Brad. Now go stock those shelves like I asked you to this morning." The manager turns to Mary Ann and offers her an apologetic smile.

"Well, you know it's true. She'll curse you if you go near her." He mumbles to himself, shrugs and heads to the back of the store.

"Sorry about Brad. He's just spouting off little kids campfire stories." He extends his hand to Mary Ann and says, "I'm Hank, the manager here. So, you're looking for old Margie?"

"I'm Mary Ann, Margie is my great-aunt. She wrote to me asking for some help because her health is failing. To tell you the truth, I was surprised to find out she was still alive."

"Well, Margie does keep to herself- and those cats of hers. Yep, I hope you like cats!"

"Ah, that probably explains why the kids think she's a witch huh? That's alright, we had a "town witch" when I was growing up too." They share a laugh, though Hank's is more of a nervous chuckle.

"Well, when I was a kid I was scared of her too. And I don't want to offend you, but she is pretty creepy- never leaving the house and those cats. She must have twenty or thirty of 'em now." Just thinking of all the cats, Hank shivers. He's never been a cat person himself and doesn't really understand the attraction. All the cats he's ever met have been obnoxious and moody. Now a dog, there's a pet, he thinks.

"Great. So, I guess I'll need to find homes for them too." Mary Ann starts to wonder if she's committed herself to a job bigger than she wants to handle. She thought the hard part would be convincing Aunt Margie to move. Now, finding homes for all those cats will be the biggest chore.

"So, who helps her out around here? I mean, you said she never leaves the house so how does she get her food and stuff?"

"Well, she's got a standing order once a week of food and necessities- mostly tuna and milk, oh, and litter of course. The boy, Brad, delivers it to her gate and there's always an envelope of money waiting for him." The manager frowns. "I never thought about it really. We've been doing it for so long- long before I took over here."

Remembering what he'd been told, Hank continues, "The story goes that the store received a letter from Margie just two days after her aunt's death. The letter detailed the arrangement for groceries and such. It was weird. I think everyone in town decided she had lost it after finding her aunt dead. When they came to take the body, she was distraught and incoherent. I think that was the last time anyone has been in to that house until now. I guess you'll get to see what Margie's been up to all these years."

Not looking forward to that, Mary Ann thinks. "Same stuff every week huh? I don't suppose a bottle of wine or some steaks are on the list." Mary Ann dreads more than ever the visit to Aunt Margie's. She just knows they'll dine on tuna and milk tonight. Peculiar order, but Mary Ann figures she shares with the cats.

Eager to get the whole thing over with, Mary Ann gets the directions to Canary Lane. She grabs a few snacks on her way out too.

It's a small town, so Mary Ann quickly finds Canary Lane and her aunt's old Victorian house. She spots a gang of boys following her on bicycles. She smiles and shakes her head at the silly myth that's grown about her aunt.

She opens the iron gate, her heels click on the stone path. Over her shoulder, she hears the rustling bushes and the whispers of the boys who followed her. Mary Ann catches snippets of their conversation.

"...she's crazy..."

"...cat lady..."

"...a witch....bet she's a witch too..."

Mary Ann stops and turns around. She hears gasps from the bushes and then the sound of sneakers slapping the pavement.

She hurries up the porch steps and rings the bell. Nothing. She tries the knob and it's unlocked, so she lets herself in. She staggers back as the acidic odor of urine and litter hits her. Great! Even if I can get her to move out, this house is going to be impossible to sell, she thinks. From the smell, Mary Ann doubts the boxes have been changed recently. Everything is covered in litter dust. She knows the walls and carpets must be permeated with the odor and dust as well. Taking one last deep breath of fresh air, she steps back into the house.

"Aunt Margie? It's Mary Ann." Several cats greet Mary Ann in the foyer. Well, they certainly look healthy, she thinks.

"Hi, kitties." She kneels down to pet a large orange tabby. A growl rumbles deep in its throat and it flashes its sharp teeth, ears plastered to its head. Mary Ann snatches her hand back before the tabby takes off a couple of her fingers.

"Ok. Don't like me. I get it. I'm a dog a person anyway." She backs away and calls out again, "Aunt Margie!" Even if she answered, Mary Ann doubts she'd hear her. The din of the cats, milling around in the foyer is distracting. They almost seem to be talking to each other as opposed to begging for attention from the new human in the room. Each one has a unique sound. Mary Ann laughs at a large calico with a puny meow- it sounds much too sweet for the at least 20 pound cat.

Mary Ann passes through the archway to the living room. She lets out a scream as she comes to the edge of the couch. Sitting with an eternal smile on her face is Aunt Margie. Mary Ann reaches out to touch the body just to be sure and it's still a little warm- almost as if she just died.

Getting over her shock, Mary Ann notices how peaceful she looks. "You seem to be ok with passing on," she says to her aunt.

Finally, she notices a cat is sitting in Aunt Margie's lap. It's a beautiful cat- long black fur and bright green eyes and a delicate purr. Mary Ann begins to feel uneasy under the stare of this particular feline, but she can't look away. She must be seeing things, but the eyes seem to be flashing like a strobe light.

Suddenly, Mary Ann is aware of voices in the room. Dozens of different voices, chattering, but nothing she can understand.

"What in the world?" Mary Ann staggers back from the couch and tries to pull her eyes from the cat she's decided is the "queen cat."

A velvety smooth female voice stands out in her head now- seducing her.

"I sent for you, Mary Ann. Margie called me Kali. Her mind was rotting and it was time for her to go. You will be our guardian now."

"No...no." Mary Ann continues to back away from Kali, but the voice is in her head. She can't block it out.

"This isn't happening." She looks over her shoulder to find the path to the door blocked by dozens of cats, including the orange tabby and the calico she laughed at. They all weigh at a minimum of 20 pounds. Must be the tuna, she thinks to herself. A madwoman's laugh escapes her lips as she feels her hold on reality slipping.

"Yes, Mary Ann. This is indeed real. There's just one last thing we need to do." Kali's still lounging in the old woman's lap. She glances to the curio cabinet at the end of the couch.

Mary Ann follows her gaze and her body freezes with fear. She hadn't noticed the huge gray cat looming just above her. He's as big as a puma, she thinks. His amber and green eyes flash as he yawns, showing off his great fangs.

"What has to be done?" She asks, but she knows she doesn't really want to know.

At that moment his eyes dilate and he leaps from his perch, slamming into Mary Ann's chest and knocking her to the ground. She screams and at the last second, she realizes that was a big mistake.

* * *

"Now that all this ugliness is behind us, shall we discuss your responsibilities?" Kali is now sitting on Mary Ann's chest. She primly bathes herself, a light purr rumbles in her throat. Kali is clearly pleased with herself. Blood runs from the corners of Mary Ann's mouth and down her cheeks, mingling with her tears. She cries and whimpers- her eyes wide with fear.

"What's the matter, Mary Ann? Cat got your tongue?"

Aunt Margie's death smile is clear to her now.

# The Face She Remembers

by Swapna Kishore

Ignoring amber swirls in her crystal goblet, Shafira stares at the entrance, terrified.

"Picture he who should kiss you awake. Hurry; the Beast comes," whispers faithful Asma. The Beast's heavy steps and clinking armor grow louder as the air thickens with dread.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Shafira raises the goblet and pictures her handsome Alafa instead. But as the potion trickles down her throat, Asma screams. Shafira's eyes jerk open. Asma's head is rolling in a pool of blood; her face, contorted in agony, haunts Shafira as she slips into eternal slumber.

# The New Guy

by Ashley Tamerline

Russell straightened his tie for the third time. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck. Why was he so nervous? It was just a mortal.

His supervisor wouldn't have sent him to purchase the guy's soul if he hadn't passed all the tests. Still, it was his first sales pitch, so maybe he had a right to be a little on edge.

Russell straightened his tie again and looked at his watch. What was taking his prospect so long? He took a deep breath and remembered the first lesson: be patient. If you appear too anxious, you can scare the prospect off and send him flying to the local church.

The door finally opened and out came his prospect...with Sylvia? She was fixing her hair and adjusting her too high skirt. "Sorry, kid," she said as she walked by him, shoving a contract in her red leather briefcase. "I got a quota to meet."

Perhaps this whole soul-purchasing agent gig was gonna be harder than he thought.

# Through the Data Storm

by David Lawrence

Pour Tania— _Évidemment_

This is for you, T.

I always knew that words were my tool, but it was you who gave me a reason to use them; it was you who showed me that through words I might one day escape my prison. So, with words, I will paint the story of you and me, and summon my own salvation. I know that one day we will meet in person; sooner or later I will hold you in my arms. As I write this now, I pray for sooner...

I haven't touched much of anything, least of all another person, for almost as long as I can remember. After all, physical contact is one of the first things to be denied in a Data Prison, which is where I am now. Of my life before this, I have only the dimmest of recollections, of a brightly lit place called the Island of the Sun, where everyone enjoyed their day-to-day existence in the most regulated of ways, free from any emotional or intellectual complications. I think I used to be a person of some importance. I had a job. I was a Communications Monitor, always feeding modified media to the sheep-like public, reinforcing their fears of the outside world and their love of the Island's God. I don't remember too many details, only that I was a discontented worker. Apparently my discontent was enough to land me here, in this Data Prison.

It's a nice enough place, as far as prisons go. If you could stop by and visit, you'd think I lived in a fine apartment well stocked with all the necessary amenities. I have an efficient fridge, filled with healthy food. I have a kitchen that can do just about anything in the cooking department. I also have an orderly restroom with a clean bath-and-shower combo, and a toilet. So, washing, eating, and shitting are well taken care of.

But I can never leave. There's no front door, just a glass panel in the back that looks out on an inaccessible garden. I only get out in my dreams, or in front of my media monitor, which is how they try to control me. You see, whenever I wake up, I find a new disc waiting to be put in the player. I have to watch it, unless I learn to like the pain. For, if I ever displease my unseen captors, a ball of electricity appears and zaps me almost to the point of unconsciousness. (Actually, that's a lie. It's not like that now, only how it used to be. But I'm getting ahead of myself.)

Until you arrived, I found it more than a little difficult to resist my media programming. I was losing all sense of self-worth, of meaning, and it looked like I would soon break down into abject submission. But then my captors (or so I thought at the time) added a new feature to my prison. Next to my chair, in which I sat to watch my media display, there appeared one morning a wooden podium. Subsequently, there would be placed atop the podium a daily stack of anywhere from 5 to 10 sheets of paper, and an erasable pen. Intrigued by this apparent opportunity to express myself, I began to write down my thoughts either during or after my daily programming. I was free to write whatever came to mind, as the electrical goad never punished me for anything I might pen down. But I was certain my captors read what I wrote, because every morning, when I awoke, I found my papers vanished from whatever place I might have hid them in the night before.

Just as regularly as my writings were removed, a new disc would appear in my living room, next to the player, and fresh paper on my podium. I would slide the disc out of its paper packet and use it to feed the machine, which would then regurgitate its digital information into the crevices of my increasingly pliant brain. I saw so many things, witnessed the unfolding of so many stories, and heard so many takes on the nature of this joke called reality, that I lost nearly all sense of perspective. I saw murders of every kind, from the animalistically physical to the devilishly social. I watched a thousand people partake of every possible combination of sex, drugs, and rock and roll, and still saw new people engaged in new combinations every day.

It wasn't all sordid and depraved, for I did witness moments of beauty and grace and kindness. But, repeatedly and without fail, these moments were rendered meaningless by their context, a context of the absurd. I'd go entire weeks believing that I was finally being fed the truth through my media player, as I was shown any one of a number of carefully constructed lies that seemed to tie the nightmare of my existence into an acceptable and necessary construct of experience. But then, inevitably, a thread would be pulled, and it would all unravel. I found myself sinking ever deeper into a hopeless abyss, one that my captors seemed determined to bring me to the bottom of, if such a bottom existed.

Then I played the disc you hacked.

My monitor was displaying images of a man being raped by giant roaches when the picture suddenly arrested and dissolved into visual static. Over this static, in yellow letters, I was able to make out your first transmission:

Can you read this? If you can, then please know that you are not alone. Get up now. Go look out the window. I am waiting.—T.

Deciding to play along with whatever new trick my captors had invented, I walked to the only window in my apartment-like prison and looked out into the garden to see something I had never seen there before: a person, separate from myself, and not just an image on my media monitor. It was you, and you were beautiful. You looked at me in silence, and I think you almost smiled, before you disappeared.

I found it difficult to sleep that night, wondering who you were and what might be your purpose. So I wrote down my thoughts. Were you my captors' latest attempt to manipulate me? Had I been exposed to enough passive media stimulation that now it was time for something interactive? I had never known anything outside the forceful control of my captors, so there was no reason to believe that you might be contacting me for any purpose not somehow sanctioned by them. Because my prison was such a small, encapsulated environment, I could not imagine you were able to reach me unnoticed. So, obviously, you were one of them.

But what was I to do about it?

The next morning, as usual, a new disc had replaced the old one. I slid the disc into the player and settled down to watch. Again, as before, the images on my monitor's screen gave way to static and more yellow text:

Hello. You are probably wondering what is going on. I will try to explain. The media flow in these data prisons is bi-directional. It is possible to reach out to others through certain conduits. In your case, that conduit is pen and paper. It was through your writing that I first became aware of you, for words are your most effective means of transmittal. You would probably like to know how I am able to put things inside your prison and hack your media discs without your captors becoming aware. The specifics are too detailed to get into right now, but I will say briefly that I can manipulate the perceptions of the data prison guards. As far as your captors know, you are taking your daily dose of programming. In reality, you are receiving my transmissions. But, enough words. I speak more effectively through images. Are you ready?—T.

You did not wait for my answer. Almost before I had finished reading, your words disappeared from my monitor's screen to be replaced by a series of pictures that touched my very soul. I saw hope and beauty, anger and the desire to change. As I beheld your images, I became undeniably aware that there had to be more to existence than the mere continuation of the species. Going to work each day, smiling and trying never to offend, this was the death of purpose, the death of meaning. All of the sheep on the Island of the Sun spent every waking hour shutting themselves off from personal growth and expression; they were no better off in their supposedly free lives than I was in my Data Prison. You made it clear to me that reality should not be so horribly limited. You presented images of beauty that stretched beyond the physical. I could see that you were unique. You reveled in your uniqueness, and this helped me to recognize and value the precious facets of my own individuality, an individuality that my captors constantly tried to stifle and define.

Not all of your images were comforting. You covered the full range of human emotion, celebrating the polar opposites of love and fear, and every point in between. I witnessed tears and smiles that finally touched me, expressions in which I was finally able to share. Before, I had been immersed in visual and auditory stimuli with the sole purpose of deadening my sensibilities. Now, through your images, I found myself eager to connect with the other behind the screen. I yearned to touch the beauty that was touching me. This was something truly interactive. But your presence was still locked behind the images on my screen, and eventually those images stopped being transmitted. You wished me pleasant dreams and sent me the picture of a kiss. Then, the disc played no more.

You had awakened something in me, and I was suddenly seized by the undeniable desire to express it. With pen in hand, I wrote on the sheets of paper you had given me the first and most deeply felt love letter I would ever write:

To My Angel of Meaning,

I have been searching for you all my life. Here, in my prison, where I am instructed in the ways of emotional detachment, here is where I have found you, or you have found me. Your images are beautiful, even as you yourself are beautiful. I have always known that I wanted to break free, but until now I had no idea to where I might escape. You have given me a destination, and that destination is you. Since you are able to contact me through words and images, I must ask, are you able to free me from my confinement? Say yes, and my soul will belong to you for all eternity.—D.

I wanted to tell you how much I longed for you, how much I wanted to be saved by you. You were a potential messiah, for whom I would do anything within my (extremely limited) power. Later that night, as I lay in bed, visions of you spun in my head for hours. It took some time, but eventually I did fade off to sleep.

When I awoke the next morning, I found yet another disc waiting for my attention. My love letter had been removed, taken, I hoped, by your very own hands. Trusting that I would hear from you once more, I put the disc in the player and took a seat. Again, yellow lettering displayed a message:

Don't put me on such a pedestal. This may be hard for you to believe, and even harder for you to enact, but trust me on this one, you are the only one who can free you from your Data Prison. Your dreams create your reality, and the only reason you have suffered as you have suffered is because you have not learned to express your dreams in a manner free from fear. But truth must be expressed, for the expression of truth, of the self, is the most holy act that can be performed in this universe. Right now, I have much to teach you, and then you will no doubt have much to teach me...—T.

I didn't know what to make of this. Was I being told that I was somehow responsible for my own imprisonment? Were you incapable of saving me? But, according to you, it was up to me to be the source of my own salvation, and I began to wonder what else I might be the source of. What if my Data Prison were really just some kind of hospital? What if I were trapped within my own mind? What if you were nothing more than the product of my own deranged imagination? Could I have somehow created you? But you seemed so real, so perfect. You could give expression to emotions I didn't even know I had. So, what was I to think?

Despite my doubts, I listened to your instructions for several weeks, and began to learn about the nature of reality and how it might be influenced. You taught me how to manipulate my captor's perceptions, and how to investigate realities beyond my prison. Most importantly, you taught me how to rely on my own intuitive instincts in order to recognize and solve problems of a deeply metaphysical nature. I was beginning to see a light at the end of my tunnel, an end to my sentence. And yet, I was reluctant to stand on my own two feet. Although I tried to be self-sufficient, I came to rely on you more and more, not out of weakness, but due to the fact that I was, deeply and truly, falling in love.

Then, one day, I was forced to stand on my own. You, the object of my blossoming love, sent me a final transmission:

You are growing, to my deep satisfaction. But now there is a problem. Forces beyond my control are shutting down my ability to communicate. I am afraid that this is going to be the last message I send to you for quite some time, perhaps for all time. I cannot go into details. All I can say is that I wish you well, and hope to see you, one day, on the other side of this.—T.

I felt the wind of hope let out of my sails completely. Had my captors, knowing all along that this would happen, devised this as some new form of torment? Had they planted you in my life, only to be taken away? I felt fearful and alone. I sulked for days.

Then, I decided to try something, which brings me to this present moment. I do not know if it is safe, but I have nothing better to do than to search for you, to try to find you, and to save you from whatever has happened. I must do all that is within my power to reach you. I must express myself in such a way that you can hear me, for to lose you is to lose hope. So, I will now begin a campaign of expression. I will make manifest my hopes and dreams. One day we will find ourselves in a land free from boundaries. And, most importantly, I will hold you in my arms and touch your very soul.

This letter to you is just the beginning...

Are you receiving this transmission?

# The Lucky Card

by Jenue Brosinski

Jake was thrilled as his friends sang Happy Birthday to him. There were at least 25 people in their apartment living room, some of whom he didn't know. His live-in girlfriend, Jenna, had organized the whole thing. She invited everyone she knew, ordered party food through a catering service, and baked the birthday cake herself. It was Jake's 30th birthday and she wanted to celebrate it right.

"Blow out the candle and make a wish", said Philip. He was Jake's best friend. They knew each other since grade school and Philip was always there through both good and bad times. Jake closed his eyes, made a wish, and blew out the one candle that was on the cake.

"You know you're old when there's only one candle on the cake," joked Simon. Simon was Jake's business partner. They owned a small law practice called Berg and Matthews.

"All my body parts still work and I still have all my own teeth, so I'm doing pretty good...for an old man," replied Jake.

"That's the perfect line to open your first present with," said Jenna handing him a nicely wrapped small square box. Jake ripped the package open and pulled out a very sexy, black, see-through night gown with matching underwear.

"I don't think this will fit me, Sweetie", said Jake completely embarrassed.

"Later we'll test if everything on you still works" winked Jenna.

The whole room laughed. Jake grabbed Jenna and gave her a big kiss and whispered "thank you" in her ear.

The party was a big success everyone had fun and when it was over Jake still had lots of presents and birthday cards to open. There were the usual meaningless gifts: a tie, a coffee mug, box of chocolates, a book. Most of the cards had money in them, except for one. Instead of money, it had a little card that read good luck on the front. It looked like a business card but on the back there were directions. Jake only read the first sentence, for maximum good luck place card in your wallet. What a cool gift, Jake thought. He doubted if it really worked but he put it in his wallet anyway.

"Good Morning," Jake said to Laura the office secretary. She was standing in front of the juice machine.

"Good morning, Jake. That was a great party yesterday."

"Glad you had fun," Jake smiled and walked in his office. Laura continued to fight to with the drinks machine. It had taken her money and failed to give her any orange juice. She finally gave up and went back to her desk. Jake went to the machine about 15 minutes later. Laura was busy on the phone so she didn't see when he went up to the machine. If she had, she would have warned him. Jake put his coins in and pressed the apple juice button. The machine not only gave him the apple juice but it also returned his money to him. Laura completed her phone call and notice that Jake had juice as he was walking toward her desk.

"How did you get that? The drinks machine is broken," wondered Laura.

"Oh...maybe that's why it gave me my money back," said Jake enjoying his apple juice. Laura knew that it was her money that the machine gave to him but she couldn't really tell her boss that, so she let it go.

That afternoon Jake was in such a good mood that he decided to treat Simon to lunch. They decided to go to the little Greek restaurant across the street. As the waitress brought the drinks to their table she accidentally spilled cola on Simon's expensive suit. Simon, being a gentleman, calmed her down and told her that is was no big deal. To make up for her mistake, lunch was free. When they went back to the office Jake had three new clients eagerly waiting for him in the waiting room. Simon however, was not so lucky. At the end of the day, he went into Jake's office and sat down with a troubled look on his face.

"I can't believe what bad luck I've had today," complained Simon. "My best suit is ruined and I've lost not one but two of my best clients."

"It's Friday, just go home, relax and try to enjoy your weekend. I'm sure that next week will be better." That was the only thing that Jake could say. His day had been wonderful but he couldn't help feeling sorry for his partner's bad luck.

On Sunday Jake went fishing with his best friend Philip. It was a nice sunny day with a little breeze. Philip had a comfortable, medium sized boat that they took to the lake. He was really good at fishing and took it very seriously. Jake always made fun of him because on every fishing trip he wore this old raggedy fishing hat. He never told Jake that this hat was so special to him because it was the last thing that his father had given him before he died. They were on the lake for about an hour before either of them caught anything. They spent the time talking and joking around.

"So, when are you finally going to ask Jenna to marry you? You've been living together for about 3 years now. What are you waiting for?"

"I'm waiting for the right moment. I was thinking about taking her someplace romantic and making the proposal there. I have no idea how to buy an engagement ring. They all look the same to me. Who helped you pick out Dana's engagement ring?"

"Dana was happy to pick out her own ring," laughed Philip. "I think you're over thinking the whole thing."

Just then a fish tugged on Jake's fishing line. He struggled with the fish for a second before reeling him in. A minute later, another fish was on Jake's line. Then he caught another one. By the end of the fishing trip Jake had 15 fish.

"How did you catch so many fish and I have no fish?" asked Philip. He was more than just a little annoyed because he was usually the one who took home lots of fish to his wife.

"It's my lucky day,"said Jake.

The air conditioning in Philip's truck had been broken for weeks and it was hot outside. They opened the windows so they wouldn't die of suffocation. Philip decided to take the highway home and as he was driving his fishing hat flew off his head and out the window. He couldn't stop. He couldn't turn around. There was nothing he could do. He was crushed.

"My hat, my hat, damn I can't believe I've lost it."

"It's just a hat. Why are you so upset?" asked Jake

Philip explained to him in tears that the hat had been his father's, and that was why it was so important to him. Jake didn't know what to say. All he could do was put his hand on Philip's shoulder to console him.

When Jake got home he kissed Jenna hello and handed her the fish. "Wow how did you catch so many fish?"

"I was lucky," answered Jake. He had not told anyone about the good luck card and now it was clear that it really brought good luck. He was a smart man and could easily see the string of good luck that he had since his birthday: free juice from the soda machine, free lunch, so many new clients, and now the fish. The lucky card had one side affect that he could not swallow. Every time that he had good luck the people around him had bad luck. And since he was always surrounded with friends, the card stole their good luck and gave it to him. He enjoyed being lucky, but not at the expense of hurting his friends. He had to get rid of the card.

The next day, as he was leaving for work, Jake took the card out of his wallet and threw it in the trash can. He felt extra confident because it was garbage pickup day. He wanted to get the card as far away as possible. He was surprised when he noticed that he still had good luck. Maybe it takes a few days to wear off he thought. The drinks machine still gave him free drinks and there were several new clients asking for him by name. Laura got stuck in the elevator for two hours and poor Simon had a horrible day in court. At the end of the day, Jake searched in his wallet for parking money and was shocked to see the card. His heart raced with fear and he hurried home.

When he got home he did all he could to tear the card. It should have been easy because the card was pretty thin. It felt just like a normal business card. He strained and strained, pulling each end of the card vigorously with his hands but the card just would not tear. He quickly searched in the kitchen for scissors. This has to work he thought. He began to cut the card with the scissors but it would not cut. It was like trying to cut steel.

"Ok, I'll just burn it," he thought. He found some matches and held the lit match at one end of the card. He waited, and waited till the fire almost burned his finger but the card would not catch on fire. He tried again and again but the same thing happened each time. The match burned down to his finger but the card did not ignite.

Then he came up with a brilliant idea. He would outsmart the card. He hurried to the store and bought himself a new wallet. He left the card in the old wallet and threw it away. He thought that the card would never find the new wallet.

Jake woke up early the next morning to check if the card was really gone. To his dismay, he found the card in his new wallet. He decided to call in sick, at least then Laura and Simon wouldn't have their luck stolen. He was scared, frustrated, and out of ideas.

Jenna found him crying and staring at the card. She asked him what was wrong and he told her the whole story.

"Let me see the card," said Jenna with a faint disbelief on her face. Jenna grabbed the card and looked at it. "Good luck," she read aloud. Then she turned the card over. "Oh it has directions: for maximum good luck place card in your wallet. When luck is no longer needed give card to someone that is worthy. This card is lucky and can not be lost or destroyed."

"Did you try giving the card to someone," asked Jenna.

"I'm so dumb," said Jake. "All I had to do was read the back of the card". He hung his head in his hands.

"Don't be embarrassed. Sometimes the answer is too close for you to see it and you need someone to point it out to you. You should think about who you want to give the card to."

"Do you have any suggestions?" asked Jake.

"You should probably give it to someone who is really down on their luck and who doesn't have so many friends."

Immediately Jake knew who he wanted to give the card to. "Come with me," he and Jenna drove to the park. They walked around until they saw the homeless man sitting on a bench. He had been homeless for years and he always sat on that particular bench. As they walked passed him they threw a dollar and the card in his begging cup.

"Thank you," said the homeless man.

That was the last time they ever saw the card. Things got back to normal pretty quickly after the card was gone. Simon made some new clients. Laura finally got the drinks machine to give her something to drink. She, however, never took the elevator again. Philip's hat was mailed back to him. He had forgotten that his name and address was written on the inside. The hat had tire marks all over it but he didn't care. He still wore it on every fishing trip.

The homeless man was never again seen on the park bench.

# Netherlands Roulette

by Ross Raffin

The revolver wasn't loaded with bullets. It lay on its side in the center of a $93 faux oak table, pointing towards an empty chair as if frozen at the end of a round of "Spin the Bottle." And, in a sense, it was. Andrew Carnigan picked the revolver up with two gloved fingers and dropped it into a Plasti-wrap bag along with blood samples from the self-victims. Even through the bag, the barrel of the revolver gleamed as particles of artificial light bombarded it. A male American-Hispanic lay in the chair nearest to Andrew. The second self-victim was a male American-Aborigine. The third chair, where the gun had been pointed, was empty.

"Did you check for spare shells?" Timothy asked. Andrew silently cursed. Whenever he was on assignment with Timothy his mind wandered. It didn't look very impressive. Something about the blond, tied-back hair and enormous biceps distracted Andrew in a way he wasn't quite sure he liked. A way his wife wouldn't like either.

He fished the revolver out of the Plasti-wrap bag and looked for the catch. How long had it been since he'd seen a revolver? Timothy noticed Andrew fumbling, and stepped forward to help. Andrew almost simultaneously stepped backwards, keeping his eyes on the revolver. With a triumphant snort Andrew pushed a tiny metal lever above the trigger, and the cylinder rolled out.

The revolver wasn't loaded with bullets. It was loaded with pink pills. Two of them. Andrew withdrew one and held it up towards the light bulb above them. Inside the small clear capsule were hundreds of minuscule pink beads. A helmet with an ornamental spike was printed onto the capsule. A Prussian.

"So much for homicide taking this one. This case is all ours, Andy."Andrew continued to stare at the pill. "Yeah." Two dead teens, self-victims, and one missing. The winner. The American-Hispanic and American-Aborigine wore the same peaceful grin. Rigor mortis kept them smiling.

Swallowing pills, Andrew thought. No mess of brains and blood to clean up, just the body. No metal slug involved.

For some reason he was reminded of a cartoon. "No more buwets," Andrew murmured.

"What?" Timothy asked, looking up from the empty chair with one eye. Tweezers in hand, he kept the other eye on the chair, searching for evidence. Andrew hated that, among other things, about the new generation. People just shouldn't be able to look in two different directions at the same time.

"There was this cartoon I used to watch, about a rabbit, a duck, and a hunter with a lisp. The rabbit and the duck tried to save their own lives by telling the hunter that they were out of season. So in this one part the hunter has just shot at the rabbit a few times, and now his gun is empty, just making a clicking sound."

Timothy placed a hair into a Plasti-wrap bag, and then a wood chip. One eye remained focused on Andrew. "So the hunter is trying to shoot the rabbit," continued Andrew. "but he's got nothing in the chamber. The hunter says 'no more buwets' and then the duck runs up and looks down the barrel of the gun and says 'no more buwets!' The hunter pulls the trigger again and shoots the duck in the head."

"They allowed children to watch that type of violence?" Timothy asked, grimacing.

"It wasn't that bad. He hunted with soot back then, so everyone just ends up dusty with ripped clothes," he replied. "Anyway, the hunter says 'what do you know, one more buwet' and the rabbit says to the duck, 'hey laughing boy, there's one more...' and then the duck says 'I know, I know!' and it ends." Andrew waited for laughter, or some response, from Timothy.

"That doesn't sound very funny. Just violent." Timothy said as he stood.

"It never seemed that way. The bad guy points a gun at you point blank, fires, and you get a sooty face." Andrew said.

Timothy didn't respond. Andrew turned away, and pretended to search along the floor for evidence.

* * *

"So," Andrew said, spinning the cylinder of the revolver. "They put money on the table and put a Prussian in all of the chambers." The clicking of the whirling cylinder faded as it slowed. "They spin the gun around; whoever it lands on takes whatever is in the barrel. Just open wide and pray."

"I don't understand why they would do such a thing." Timothy said.

"Simple. No two Prussians are alike. You have approximately a one in three chance of dying if you swallow one. So you pray the chamber lands on a good pill," Andrew said.

They stood outside the forensics lab in a remodeled hospital waiting room. It took seven minutes for each sample at the crime scene to undergo Gel Electrophoresis. The revolver came through clean, no fingerprints. They were waiting for the hair.

"They go in order. First the Indian-"

"American-Aborigine." Timothy corrected.

"First the American-Aborigine, then the Hispanic-American-"

"American-Hispanic. It's best to call any U.S. citizen born in America with over two generations of family..."

Andrew zoned out. It wasn't like the old days, when words much worse than "Hispanic" or "Indian" were commonplace. Back in the days of baseball, violent movies, and un-synthetic apple pie.

* * *

Andrew entered his apartment, flopped face-down onto his Nobb Hill sectional jet-black sofa, $2,199. It was his sanctuary, bed, and office. The sofa shifted under him, and he knew his sanctuary had been breached.  
"Rough day?" His wife asked. They were congenial, like friends who meet every week for lunch. But that was the extent of intimacy between them, mutual concern.  
"Three kids playing Netherlands Roulette, one left."

"Netherlands Roulette? Don't you need a gun for that?" The wife asked. Although she was within arms reach of Andrew's knotted back, she didn't touch him.

"One of the kids must have gotten it from their parents or grandparents; someone who was alive before the 30th Amendment passed."

"I think it was the 31st outlawed guns. The 30th amendment allowed judges to revise the first ten amendments..."  
"I'm not interested," Andrew said. He wished she would leave; he wanted to be alone for several hours. Drink some diet-calorie-lite-carb-beers, maybe scream a racial slur into a pillow.

"Don't be grumpy towards me," the wife scolded, standing up, "It's your job that makes you so depressed. You shouldn't be working in Suicide. Find something more cheerful."

"Like Homicide?" Andrew suggested.

"Very funny," the wife retorted, walking towards the kitchen. "I ordered a movie for tonight but left some options for you."

"Which actors did you pick?" Andrew asked. Around Mrs. Carnigan, it was better to talk without listening than listen in general.

"Jenny Schwarzenegger and Matthew Bowen. I set it in Paris. You can choose the genre."

"What are my choices?" Andrew said. Something was ticking in the back of his mind, a thought slowly forming. He guessed that it wouldn't surface for several more minutes, so he continued the conversation.  
"Drama, Comedy, Romance, Romantic comedy, historical," The wife responded, reading off a computer screen attached to the refrigerator.

"Any historical ones with war in them?" The husband asked, knowing the answer.

"Of course not. Are you just joking with me? You know violence on television is outlawed."

"Violence in general has been outlawed. Doesn't stop most of them." Andrew murmured into the sofa.

His wife heard him. "I'm not going to have this conversation with you if you are going to just mope around. You can get me when you're in a better mood."

Andrew heard the bedroom door slam, and groaned slightly. The "Forever-last" hinges were beginning to rust, or whatever plastic does when it falls apart.

He sat up and waved at a small black box stationed in front of him. The television turned on. Snap.

"...five more fatal crashes, four involving driving at extremely high speeds and one caused by drug use..."

Andrew waved his hand again. Snap. The screen shut off with a sound comparable to an antique mouse-trap shutting. Hadn't televisions once gone "click"?

Andrew closed his eyes and wondered if he'd remember the night's dreams tomorrow. He never could, no matter how hard he tried.

The television snapped on. Andrew sat up and stared at the black screen. "San Arnold Police Department" flashed across the screen, along with a phone number. Andrew waved at the television.

"We've got a match on that hair follicle," Timothy said as the focus adjusted. His shirt was loosened, and Andrew noticed several beads of sweat on his temple.

"What took so long?" Andrew asked, cracking his knuckles.

"It's seven minutes to get a print, but this time it took a few hours to locate a match in the National DNA Collection." Timothy said. "Homicide was already searching the bank for another case."

Andrew mentally cursed. Homicide. They hardly had a job anymore, yet received a paycheck nonetheless. Andrew checked the clock, and weighed his options. On one hand, there was no overtime pay. On the other...he looked towards the bedroom door. "I'll be there in twenty." Andrew said.

* * *

Timothy was already waiting next to Andrew's desk, looking through a small stack of paper. He noticed Andrew and waved the front page at him.

"Look at this. Just look." Timothy said, and pushed the stack towards him.

Andrew glanced at the cover. Mortality and Death Rates, 2035 edition. He could guess what the contents held.

"Tripled. The teen suicide rate has tripled in the past 20 years. The entire generation Alpha is at risk," Timothy exclaimed.

"Alpha? Is that what you're called now?" Andrew asked. He looked up. Timothy had taken a shower recently. His flowing blond hair was still wet and glistening. Andrew quickly looked down.

He sat on the desk, dangling his feet off the side. They barely touched the floor. 38 years old and still 5' 6", he thought. "So, what'd the bank come up with?"

Timothy snatched a sheet from the bottom of the thick pile, which barely quivered. Damn, he's fast, Andrew noted. Most of them are. Genetic engineering. Timothy handed the sheet to Andrew, who skimmed through the first section, and stared at the black and white picture surrounded by words. "Jesus, he's only 16." Andrew said.

"Oh, turns out they all were around that age. One 18 and the other 17," Timothy replied.

Andrew looked up at Timothy and saw nothing. No real reaction to this news. It wasn't that he didn't care, Andrew realized, it's that he is so used to it. "Alright," Andrew said. "We'll find, make him give us the name of his supplier, and nail that guy."

"Isn't that narcotics job?" Timothy asked, biting his lower lip.

"Not with Prussians. Those are for killing." Andrew said bitterly. "What time is it?"

Timothy checked his $75 Gunmetal-Gray Fossil Watch. "8:30 p.m."

"Then we can catch him at home, let me suit up." Andrew jumped off the desk and briskly walked towards his locker. He passed several others in his department, all signing forms or consoling relatives of the recently deceased. One had pictures of a car crash strewn on his desk with notes scribbled on them with a Sharpie

He passed an invisible line and entered into Homicide. They also sneered at Suicide, telling them that at least in Homicide they had to figure out who the killer was.

But they knew nothing, Andrew thought. Finding a killer after the crime was one thing. Stopping a killer before the crime was another. Andrew failed every time someone died by his or her own hands, and he failed more often than he'd like to admit. Timothy will never understand why those kids willingly risked there lives for a thrill. I'm not even sure I do anymore.

He reached his locker, and pressed his finger against the pad. The lock snapped open, and Andrew began pulling out equipment. First, the standards: air taser, telescoping electo-prod, and handcuffs. He attached them to his black belt, the only article of clothing on him not blue. Andrew refused to wear the hat.

He reached to close the locker, and paused. Then he stuck his hand back into the locker and pulled out the optional equipment. Bulletproof vest. 9 mm Glock model 42.

* * *

"Do you really think this has all been worth it?" Andrew asked as he leaned back in the squad car. The plastic covering squeaked under him.

"What's worth it?" Timothy said, momentarily glancing at Andrew, and then back towards the road.

"All these laws. The changes, the amendments, the bills."

"Turn left in two miles," The Navigator 220 ordered Timothy. The small flat screen sat between the two in a spot Andrew remembered once held a shotgun.

"The anti-violence laws? Of course they were. Ever since violence was banned from television and radio, the murder rate has dropped 30%. Crime rate in general has dropped 80% ever since the Ingleberg versus United States," Timothy said, as if reading out of a book. "Adding the death penalty for all major felonies has made the U.S. one of the safest countries in the world."

Andrew sighed. "Do you even know what Ingleberg did to get the death sentence?"

"Turn left at the next stop light onto Merisel Avenue." The Navigator 220 said in a flat, dull tone.

"He stole a Senator's car," Andrew continued and looked down at The Navigator, checking their distance from the house.

"Yes, and there have been almost no major crimes in 20 years," Timothy said, staring at a red light in front of them.

Andrew shrugged and turned to look out the window. He suddenly felt disgust towards Timothy, which for some reason made him feel relieved. Then again, the disgust wasn't just towards Timothy, but towards all like him. The new generation that just couldn't understand.

"Destination in 35 meters," The Navigator 220 noted.

"Goddamn Metric system," Andrew murmured.

"What?" Timothy asked.

Andrew didn't answer.

The Navigator beeped twice, and Timothy stopped the car in front of Complex 223. "The family name is Periander. Father Matthew and son Jason Periander, age 16," he recited from the rap sheet.

As if previously rehearsed, they both exited the car at the same time and in the same manner. Open the door, two feet out, push off the plastic seat, and straighten up.

"Let me do the talking this time," Andrew said as they fell into step walking towards the door. He punched the doorbell, and heard three chimes reverberate behind the wrought-iron door. Andrew stepped back and scanned the perimeter of the house. Metal bars on one window. Inside and out.

A lock snapped, and a key turned. The door opened a crack, and a pair of blue eyes stared at them. Before Timothy could protest, Andrew held out his badge. "San Arnold Police. Open up sir, please."

The door swung open to reveal a short, balding American-European. "Mr. Periander?" Timothy asked.

"We were in the middle of dinner," Mr. Periander said accusingly.

"May we please come in for a moment?" Timothy asked.

"Do you have a warrant?" Mr. Periander asked.

"Do you have a 2015 Colt 45 revolver in your house?" Andrew replied.

Mr. Periander's eyes widened and he motioned for them to enter. As soon as they were past the door, he quickly shut it. Timothy gave Andrew a reproachful look.

"I have a permit for that gun. War memorabilia. My permit is in my bedroom. I don't own any bullets," Periander said quickly. "I haven't taken it out of its safe for years, and I'm not even sure if it works anymore. It might have jammed up or the barrel could have rusted or-"

"May we see the gun, Mr. Periander?" Timothy asked.

"Yes, it's right along this way. It's in a safe, and I probably have to look up the combination it's been so long-"

Periander talked rapidly as they walked through the complex. Andrew scanned as he walked; peering inside whichever rooms had open doors. He stopped.

Timothy turned around and looked at his partner. Periander continued walking, still talking.

Andrew cocked his head to the side, towards the closed door to his left. A yellow octagonal sign hung from it. "Knock or Stay out!" It almost saddened Andrew that this was the most rebellious a slogan could be without going outside the law The room the sign hung in front of was also behind the barred window Andrew had noticed outside.

"Kid," Andrew mouthed. Timothy nodded, and stationed himself in front of the door. Mr. Periander finally realized he was talking to himself and turned around. "Are you coming?" He asked anxiously.

"Yes, I'll just wait in the hall," Timothy said.

With a slight nod to Timothy, Andrew followed Mr. Periander into his bedroom, next to Jason's room.

It was very small for a complex in San Arnold. The bedroom consisted of a single bed and closet. A steel safe sat in one corner of the room. Periander hunched over it and slowly turned the dial. "We can't really afford on of those finger-print activated safes, that's why we're using this one. It really does work well, I haven't had any problems with it and WHAT THE-" Periander said as the safe swung open. It was empty save for an envelope full of bills and several manila folders.

Mr. Periander, pale as chalk, spun around. "What is this all about? Do you really not have a warrant?" he asked, his voice raising in pitch.

Andrew reached into his pocket and fished out his badge and a folded piece of paper. He handed the paper to Mr. Periander and opened the badge. "Andrew Carnigan, Suicide Department. Your gun, along with your son's DNA, were found at the scene of an attempted suicide and two successful ones."

Behind them, a door slammed followed by swift footsteps. "Jason," Periander yelled. He rushed towards the hall, but was halted by Andrew's firm grip on his shoulder. "He won't go far."

They exited the bedroom into the hall to find Timothy holding a red-headed teenager by the shirt at arms length.

"Leggo' of me you Aryan sumbitch." Jason yelled, thrashing wildly. His blows landed quietly on Timothy's rock hard pecs.

* * *

Timothy firmly pressed the "Intercom" button in front of him. "Just give us a quick name, and we'll let you off with the mandatory 96 hour hospitalization period."

From across the glass divider, Jason mouthed an obscenity. Andrew pointed to his own intercom button, and then Jason's. Jason held up his middle finger.

Andrew sighed. Before the sound-proof partition and lack of one-way mirrors, interrogations had been much more personal. And usually much quicker.

"Jason, this isn't your first offense. I could easily transfer you to St. Anthony's for the rest of your adolescent life," Timothy said calmly.

If the threat had any effect, Jason was hiding it. It was much more effective, Andrew fondly reminisced, to yell that same sentence into the offender's face from close proximately.

Andrew lightly tapped Timothy on the shoulder. Timothy released the "Intercom" button and looked up.

"Tell him you'll charge him for assaulting you and for the attempted murder of those two kids," Andrew said.

Timothy bit his lower lip. "But we can't charge him for murder. It's already been profiled as suicide."

Andrew blinked in exasperation. It helped him when he released stress in small motions. Cracking a knuckle, a quick intake of breath, all served to let go of a bit of the tension inside him. "Mind if I try?" he asked.

Timothy, who had worked with Andrew for years, read his tone perfectly. Without a word, he relinquished the tall black plastic chair in front of the divider.

Andrew rubbed his temples and closed his eyes, preparing himself. Then, with a deep breath, he opened his eyes and fixed a stare on Jason that had kept Andrew safe on the streets of San Arnold since he was seven years old. "Jason, this is Detective Andrew Carnigan. You can either tell us who gave you those Prussians or I'll personally make sure you get put in San Juan Batista Juvi for the assisted suicide of those kids and hindering a police investigation. You have exactly ten seconds before I give the chair back to this man here and go file the paperwork."

Four and half seconds later, Jason pressed the intercom button, and started talking.

* * *

It began in the pit of his stomach. A quiet fluttering like a hummingbird trapped inside his intestines. Then, the hummingbird's nectar flowed out, into each and every vein in Andrew's body. He breathed shallowly, eyes wide open, and looked at his hand. It was shaking again for the first time in many years. He grinned, and behind each muscle movement felt a surge of energy.

"Can you feel that?" He asked Timothy.

"That's just the engine," Timothy replied, keeping one eye on the road.

In several minutes they would enter the bad part of town. The part the homicide department called home. Even the Navigator 220 was surprisingly silent, as if full of awe or full of terror.

"You can't feel that excitement? You can't feel life running through your body?" Andrew asked hurriedly.

"No, my arteries are functioning normally. I'm just mentally preparing," Timothy replied.

"We're going to arrest one of the biggest death-drug dealer in the city and you aren't excited?"

Timothy shook his head and stared at the road.

The Navigator 220 said nothing.

Andrew toyed with his gun, running his fingers over the barrel and checking the clip. He could barely feel the Kevlar vest pulling him down into the seat.

And then they entered the South-East section. Navigator beeped twice, although it had no reason to.

It was sudden shift. The block of complexes morphed into rows of houses. Some seemed new, other decrepit, all unique.

"I don't like this place," Timothy said, "it's so...random."

"Doesn't it worry you? Doesn't it get you excited at all?" Andrew asked.

Timothy shook his head.

"Turn left in twenty meters." Navigator chimed in, breaking the sudden silence.

Stores replaced houses. The illuminating rays of sunset were replaced with neon and street-lamps. Scowling teens and hard-set men walked or jogged or trotted down the streets. Occasionally they would disappear into the ground, into one of the under-doors.

"Turn left now." Navigator said.

"Stop the car." Andrew ordered.

Timothy hesitated, as if unsure who to obey. Navigator beeped, and Andrew growled. Timothy pulled over.

In synchronization, they both opened their doors and stepped into the street, right foot then left. Andrew tucked the gun into his coat pocket. Before leaving, Andrew had donned a trench-coat that lay abandoned in the back of his locker. It covered his uniform entirely. Timothy, however, was in full regalia, with his hair tied back in a ponytail.

It made no difference, people stared either way.

"We'll walk there so as not to attract," he pointedly looked at Timothy's uniform, "too much attention."

Timothy nodded, and they set off down the street. Andrew looked fondly back at the squad car, almost positive that it would be either wrecked or stolen by the time they returned. If they returned.

The street pulsed with the same nectar from a different hummingbird. Andrew felt it run up his shoes and ground itself in his body like electricity. In the faces of others, Andrew saw the same almost blissful look; the knowledge that at any time, something dangerous might happen.

As they made their way through down the avenue Andrew felt a kinship with these pedestrians that he couldn't experience with Timothy. Timothy was the goal of the new generation. Logical, muscular, non-violent...and eyes that moved in different directions.

* * *

The under-doors were all similar save for the number beside it, the bouncer in front of it, and a differently shaped door-knocker. Almost no door in the city was level with the ground; there was always a small flight of steps, only ten or twelve, leading down to where a basement might be.

Door 6646 fit the pattern. Real oak. Thick oak. The bronze door knocker was a docile Doberman with two extra heads surgically sewn onto his neck. The bouncer was a not-so-docile American-Cuban with the name "Tony" in steel hanging from a thin iron necklace.

Andrew wished Timothy had put on a trench-coat of some sort.

Tony stared fixedly at Timothy's uniform. Veins popped out of his gigantic arms, dwarfing Timothy's physique in the same way that a house-cat is not as formidable next to a jaguar and, as with a jaguar, the thin layer of fat coating his body still betrayed hints of the muscular masterpiece underneath. "What do you want?" Tony asked.

Andrew opened his mouth, but Timothy beat him to it. "We'd like to see Mr. Raul Izquierda Berra."

Tony licked his lips and lifted his hands slightly. His legs parted, and one moved backwards, staggering his stance. Andrew knew the grappler stance from anywhere. Tony was probably about to bear-hug one of them, crushing his spine, and then punch out the other.

From the corner of Andrew's eye, it seemed as if Timothy's hand merely quivered. One moment it was empty, and suddenly it held a taser set to 90,000 volts. "Please direct us to Mr. Berra," Timothy ordered.

Tony scowled. "I am Berra, too." He turned around and pressed his finger against a small metal pad on the door.

Timothy looked questioningly at Andrew. "Brothers," he murmured, leaning so that Timothy could hear him.

The door swung open, and a blast of music from inside nearly threw Andrew back into the flight of stairs leading to the street. Door 6646 lead to a night club.

Tony quickly pressed his index fingers into his ears, and then retracted them, leaving two small foam cylinders. They expanded until they completely filled his ears

"Want to offer us some earplugs?" Andrew asked, but Tony's back was to them, and if he heard them, he made no sign of doing so. Without looking back, he motioned with a wave for the policemen to follow. His fingernails had been chewed to the cuticle.

Hands over their ears, Timothy and Andrew followed Tony into the club.

Even through his hands, Andrew could hear the guitar. He could feel the vibrations from the drums. He could almost make out the band. Oldies music, back from his age. A group called Styx.

Neon and ultra-violet lights flashed and whirled above. In front of him was a black sea of arms, legs, and neo-Gothic clothing. The ultimate form of rebellion these days, a culture focused on death.

Tony walked right into the crowd, arms out. Like a Biblical story, the sea, this time black, parted.

Andrew and Timothy ran to catch up. Once Tony had passed, the sea closed back up and continued its ebbing tide. Andrew threw his arms in front of him like a wedge and pushed into the crowd. Arms flailed out at him, pushing and grasping and pulling.

"We're going to lose Tony." Andrew yelled. His voice was no match for the sound pulsing and rocking around them.

Timothy, however, seemed to understand, and quickly unsheathed a small 6 inch black plastic cylinder. He released the catch located on the bottom of the cylinder, and a metallic rod telescoped out. With another flick of a switch, the electro-prod turned on.

Andrew punched at the forms in front of him, fending off curious and sometimes vicious hands. Above the sea he could still sea Tony wading through people, heading towards the back of the dance floor. In the corner of his eye, Andrew could see a shimmer, a quick jab, and he smiled. Timothy had the electro-prod working.

Like a fencer, Timothy stabbed the prod repeatedly into the crowd, lightly touched every limb near Andrew. Bodies crumpled, and for a moment the entire sea faltered, as if the tide had gone out.

And then, just as with the real sea, once the tide of people had retreated a far enough distance, it rushed back, ten times taller.

Andrew unsheathed his own electro-prod and gripped it like a club. Timothy stood beside him. Almost gleefully, Andrew swung at the nearest drop in the ocean. The boy, 17 at the most, opened his mouth to scream and instead fell onto the floor. The crowd paused.

"Who wants some?" Andrew yelled, smiling, into the music.

Nobody wanted anything. Andrew followed their stares, all focused on Timothy. More specifically, his uniform.

Andrew frowned. The attack was over. The crowd began to disperse, slowly shuffling towards the iron door. The wave had broken onto the shore, and left no sign of ever having hit.

The music abruptly turned off. Unconscious bodies were picked up, dragged, and pushed towards the exit. Andrew stared at some of the passing dancers. There was something wrong with them, their faces. Then, Andrew noticed it. The same foam tubes that Tony had inserted into his own ears were also in the ears of the dancers. Everyone wore earplugs, dancing to music they could barely hear.

"Let's find Tony." Andrew said, and heard nothing. He repeated the sentence, but only heard a slight buzzing in his ear. He turned to Timothy, who was pounding his left ear with his palm, as if trying to dislodge a foreign object. He yelled something to Andrew, who merely shrugged.

With the dance floor now abandoned, it was easy to find Tony. He stood across the room from them, arms crossed, in front of a second oak door. The swinging neon lights never passed his area, leaving Tony in the middle of a shadow.

Andrew straightened up and walked purposefully towards Tony. By the time he had crossed the floor, he could faintly hear his own footsteps. Even though he couldn't feel Timothy beside him, Andrew knew he was there, keeping in synchronized step.

Smiling, Tony grasped the bronze door-knocker and slammed it against the wood four times. Andrew couldn't make out its shape; even up close it remained hidden in the shadow.

Andrew waited hands behind his back as if in an "at rest" military position. His right hand now held the 9mm Glock.

Grunting, Tony pushed open the door and stepped through. Timothy and Andrew followed. The buzzing in Andrew's ears was quickly receding to a quiet hum. His hearing was good enough to be able to catch the distinct sound of the hammer of a revolver being pulled back as he stepped through the door. He felt cold steel pressed against the back of his head.

"Espera, friend," a low voice from behind Andrew said.

Andrew froze and cursed, audibly this time. He followed the Cuban beast right into a trap. American-Cuban beast.

A hand tugged the Glock out of Andrew's closed fist. The gun clattered onto the floor, and the same hand came back and reached under Andrew's trench-coat, quickly picking out the various weapons.

Andrew looked up. Timothy was having a harder time. One of Tony's monstrous arms encircled Timothy's neck as the other searched him as well.

"Sit," the voice whispered to Andrew. In front of him was a hard wooden desk and matching chair behind it, price unknown. To the side of it lay a short circular table fitted with two more chairs. Faux oak.

The room itself seemed like an enlarged janitorial closet. Metal racks hung from the walls and the only light came from a single hanging bulb above the desk. The walls were concrete.

Andrew sat down in front of the desk. Tony Berra released Timothy, who immediately grabbed a chair from the table. Tony raised his hands to ward off an incoming blow, but Timothy simply sat down on it beside Andrew.

Tony Berra methodically picked up each confiscated item from the two policemen and placed it under his arm. Then, he left the room, leaving only the glowing light bulb and low voice behind them.

Slowly, to the point of melodramatically, the owner of the voice walked towards the desk. His footsteps reverberated off the concrete floor. Finally, he appeared in view, and sat down in front of Andrew and Timothy.

Raul Izquierda Berra wore a white beret and purple shirt. His dark skin almost camouflaged the slight moustache running below his nose. Unlike his brother, Raul was short and skinny. Varicose veins ran up his neck.

"How can I help you?" he asked, smiling. The pronunciation was perfect, better than most English-speakers Andrew had known.

"Mr. Berra, you are under arrest for the illegal sale of narcotics with intent to assist suicide." Timothy blurted out before Andrew could silence him.

Raul continued smiling, hands under the desk.

"Your drug-pushing days are over," Timothy added upon noticing the lack of reaction.

The smile vanished, and Raul stood up. In one hand he held a late 20th century revolver, and in the other he held Andrew's Glock model 42. He leaned over, supporting himself by pressing the barrels of the guns onto the desk. For a moment he stared at Timothy, directly into his eyes. Then, as if coming to some conclusion, he nodded and sat back down.

"I do not push," Raul said. "The days of drug-peddling are over. People beg me for this. They plead. And I deliver. I do not force my substances upon others. I am not the cause; I am the effect."

Timothy straightened up in his chair. "You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used..."

Raul lifted the Glock up and pointed it at Timothy's chest. Andrew tightened in his seat, readying to leap towards Raul.

"...against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney-"

Raul stared down the barrel of the gun. Then, he nodded to himself, as if deciding upon something.

Before Andrew could leap, Raul swung around in his chair and fired.

Andrew felt a sharp tug in his shoulder. He fell backwards off the chair and onto the floor. Timothy, his blond hair still pulled back in a ponytail, stared down at him in horror.

"That," Raul said softly, "is one of the best ways to ensure an adrenaline rush."

Suddenly, Andrew saw stars exploding in front of his eyes. A wave of pain engulfed him, sending him writhing across the floor. His back hit the wall. For a moment he wondered if a small grenade had gone off in his armpit.

"I could see it in your eyes. That's what you are missing. You are just like the rest of them." Raul said, staring down at Andrew. He pushed back his chair and walked around the desk. "I'm the one to blame? Do you think the Prussian, or drugs like it, didn't exist twenty years ago? I'm the one killing them?" Raul was yelling now, keeping a gun trained on both Timothy and Andrew. "I am providing a service people can no longer provide themselves. I am the whore that stops a would-be rapist. I am the assassin who kills the mob boss. I am the savior."

"What are you saving them from?" Timothy asked, keeping one eye on Andrew and the other on Raul. "How is helping people kill themselves saving anyone?"

Raul suddenly smiled. "I'll show you."

The nectar rushed fiercely through Andrew's body, flushing through his muscles, washing onto the fire in his shoulder. The world in front of him dimmed, and suddenly the pain was gone.

* * *

As Andrew rose out of the depths of unconsciousness he heard a continuous stream of clicks. The click of an old television turning on. The click of a lock with a keyhole.

He opened his eyes.

The barrel of Raul's revolver was spinning, clicking every time a chamber rotated past the metallic hammer.

Andrew lay propped up against the wall, facing the desk. Timothy sat at the far end of the circular table, hands folded. On the other end stood Raul, staring patiently at the whirling cylinder.

"Just twice. Play twice and both of you walk out alive." Raul said, keeping his eyes on the cylinder. "You will understand."

The clicks slowed until the cylinder finally stopped. Timothy held his hands out like a cup, and Raul dropped the gun into them. He held up the Glock and waved it in front of Timothy. "No pointing that thing the wrong way now or your chances of surviving decrease."

Timothy looked at the revolver in his hands. He tucked the barrel under his chin.

"No." Andrew gasped, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

Raul twisted around. "Awake? Good." He turned back to Timothy. "Go."

Timothy's hand quivered but did nothing more. His index finger curled around the trigger.

"Go." Raul repeated, holding the Glock at arm's length, aiming between Timothy's eyes.

Timothy's hand started to shake. The revolver quivered.

Raul leaned forward. "Scared?"

A glassy point formed in the corner of Timothy's eye. A tear.

"Yes." He whispered.

Moving only his arm, Raul swung the gun around and pointed it at Andrew. "Shoot or he dies."

Timothy turned slightly, facing Andrew. The tear slowly descended down his perfect, pale cheek.

"Don't-" Andrew yelled. Before he could finish, Timothy pulled the trigger.

Whether out of fear or reflex, Andrew closed his eyes. The blast seemed to rock the entire room, twisting its very foundation. The dark world behind Andrew's eyelids churned and spun.

Suddenly, the hummingbird died, replaced by a weight inside his stomach. The nectar ran dry.

Footsteps started and then stopped. Andrew opened his eyes. Raul crouched down, filling Andrew's view.

"Do you know why I shot you first?" He asked quietly.

Andrew tested his wounded arm. It no longer responded to his commands. The weight sank deeper.

"I saw it in your eyes," Raul said pointing at Andrew with the revolver.

How many rounds had Raul loaded into the gun? Andrew shifted his eyes quickly. The Glock lay on the table behind them. How many bullets were in the revolver?

"You could fight. You were alive. When I looked into your eyes, I saw the Life" Raul yelled.

Andrew looked up at Raul, looking into his eyes to find whatever Raul saw in him. There was nothing. He glanced once more down at the revolver.

"No more buwets?" Andrew murmured.

Before Raul could respond, Andrew swung his arm up. He grabbed the revolver by the barrel, and waited for the punch line.

# The Glass Eye

by David Stephenson

I stole the glass eye by mistake--Maryann was what I wanted. And she wanted to be a model, so I borrowed a camera and paid her a visit. Her parents barely responded when she introduced me as a school chum. She explained that we needed to cram for a math quiz and led me downstairs to admire her glass collection before we began to work.

The basement had been beautifully furnished and decorated. Shelves along one long wall sparkled with crystal shapes. "Murano glass," she explained. "It's very rare and valuable. My parents' darling--more than me, I think."

For a few moments I forgot my purpose, especially after I had set up a rack of floods and turned them on, a fantastic zoo of light sprang to life. Glass zebras danced with lions, sharks with butterflies, centaurs with dragons. Vases, bowls, chandelier tears, pyramids and pylons of clearest crystal sparkled here and there among the animal forms, marking out a course for them to race their own reflections. Threads of color traced each shining contour--veins of milk or blood; nerves of silver, gold or ebony; a skeleton of emerald or topaz. Each beam of light splintered into a thousand fragments to paint the walls. We both blinked amazed in the dazzle.

The spell held me for a long time. Maryann recovered first.

"Would it make a good backdrop?" she asked with a smile almost shy.

I gulped, tried to find words. "Umm... Your skin will... shine in the glow," I said. "And it would make even more effect if you removed your blouse. Don't worry. Just standard procedure. You'll see."

Unfortunately she did see. My knowledge about cameras at that time could be summed up in three words: point and click. I pretended to fuss about the lighting, the camera tripod elevation and angle, the aperture and speed until Maryann grew impatient. When the sparks began to fly--a second rack of floods blew a fuse as soon as I plugged it in--Maryann screamed. I jumped so hard that I knocked my head against one of the shelves, and in the darkness struck hard against a sharp corner. I almost passed out with the pain. Scratches stung my face. I felt something sticky oozing out of my left eye.

When the lights came on again I saw that Maryann had thrown on her blouse, but torn it in the process. She began crying hysterically. Her parents arrived quickly and interpreted the situation in the most obvious way. Her father held me at bay with threats until the police arrived.

No one expressed any sympathy for my wounded eye.

But before I left for the station I managed to snatch one souvenir.

The police were trying to get some statement out of Maryann, but she just wept and refused to explain herself or defend me. I stood with my back to the wall next to the display shelves, my hands in cuffs. Behind me I felt something round, smooth and hard and automatically closed one hand around it. On the way to the station I managed to slip the object into my pocket. It wasn't until later that I discovered just what I had found.

The police released me into my parents' custody. They drove me home in silence. I snuck up to my room and threw myself on the bed. The trophy of my shame made a lump in my pocket. What had I captured? I fished it out and held it up to the light. An eye glared back at me, an eye made of glass, but so finely molded that it seemed alive. The azure of its iris shot glints of silver, delicate red veins traced its milky whiteness. For a second I thought I could see the pupil dilate. The suggestion of a tear even glossed its surface. I shuddered.

Hardly the prize I would have chosen. Would Maryann notice its absence? Would she care? Would she hurt? I hid it quickly in the back of a drawer and buried my disappointment in a blanket. But I couldn't get rid of the feeling that the glass eye maintained its vigil from the back of the drawer. I didn't sleep much.

When the pain became unbearable I appealed to my parents. They took me to the hospital with grudging resignation.

The doctor shook his head after examining me. "Your left eye looks bad. It may be too late to save it," he said. An ophthalmologist confirmed his forebodings.

"I'm afraid we'll have to remove that eye and think about prosthesis. Otherwise the infection could spread. The pain will only get worse if you wait."

That was when the realization struck me that I had to adopt the stolen eye. Had to. The eye was my destiny. And the only way to turn its gaze away from me was to wear it myself. I told the doctor about my resolve.

"Why on Earth would you want to use an old glass eye when modern materials have made them so much more comfortable?" he puzzled. "These things should be custom made to fit and to match the other eye."

I retrieved my treasure from its hiding place, carried it to the hospital and showed it to him. "I inherited this from a distant cousin," I lied. "Call it a tribute to him, a sentimental attachment."

He examined it dubiously. "Looks like Venetian glass," he said. "A real antique. True, it's just about the right size for you, but you will look strange with one blue eye and one brown."

I insisted.

The operation went smoothly. "Surprisingly good fit," the surgeon informed me when I woke. "Except for the color it could have been designed for you. How does it feel?

"The discomfort will subside after a few days," he assured me. "You'll feel better than you did before."

He was right. Within a month I had adapted myself quite well to monocular vision. The pain vanished completely.

The escapade at Maryann's house had earned me suspension from school, so I took up photography seriously, picked up a few dollars working at the Same-day photo shop, and studied how-to books in the public library. It was a good choice of professions for me--squinting through a viewfinder only requires one eye. Uncle Harry loaned me some books and one of his old Kodaks. He gave me a few pointers and let me accompany him on a professional shoot. Before long I sold a print to the local paper and began assembling a portfolio of my best work to send around to agents.

Then the strange images began. I started to see double. I was practicing some candid shots of passers-by downtown when they suddenly flickered into transparency. For a second I both saw them and saw through them. I blinked and the fit passed. A few days later it happened again. It took several more incidents to persuade me that it was more than an illusion, and that it had nothing to do with the camera. The ghostly images began to recur randomly and more frequently.

The ophthalmologist made some tests but found nothing he knew that could produce such an unusual condition. I tried to invoke double vision in his presence without success. He prescribed some eye drops and recommended a psychologist. He stopped me as I was leaving his office. "There is one thing that puzzles me," he said. "It doesn't explain your hallucinations, but it does make me wonder about that glass eye of yours." I turned and faced him. "I'm sure I told you how to care for a cosmetic prosthesis. They need periodic removal and cleaning. Have you followed my instructions?"

I shook my head. "No. I tried but I couldn't. It seemed to be..." I hesitated, "attached somehow."

He nodded. "That's exactly what I noticed. Normally the muscles that rotate the eyeball don't function well with an artificial one. But in your case..." he moved a finger back and forth in front of my face, "both eyes seem to track perfectly. Very unusual. Any other symptoms besides the double vision? Irritation? Pain?" I shook my head.

I couldn't leave without offering my own explanation--"Doctor, it's the glass eye. I'm sure that it sees somehow."

He laughed. "Impossible. Artificial retinas are just coming within our reach now. Nerves in an antique glass eye? Never."

But I knew that it was my theft's gift.

Photography kept me sane. Photographs can't penetrate the surfaces of things. The prints always bring me back to reality (if by reality one means the view of the world shared by most people) when the glass eye makes me doubt it The camera became my best and only friend.

I didn't see Maryann for a long time. Then one day she wandered into the camera store. I'll bet she knew I was there, though she pretended to be surprised.

"How come I never see you at school any more, Armand?"

"You know the answer to that. I can't attend school. The principal won't let me. And we can't afford anything else, so I just study on my own. And shoot pictures."

"Oh." She hesitated. "You know, I'm real sorry about what happened. When the lights went out I panicked. I thought maybe you were going to attack me or something."

"You could make it up to me if you would go out with me now."

She gave me a coy glance. "You can walk me home if you want. I won't tell anyone if you won't."

"O. K." The manager would probably fire me, but it was worth it.

Double vision had not bothered me for several days, but now I noticed signs of its return, flickers on the edge of sight. I tried to ignore them as we strolled towards her house. For a while I did most of the talking.

"I'm real serious into photography. That's all I've got now, with school off limits. But I found something to aim for at least, something I'm good at. It's a practical science anyway, something you have to learn by doing it. And I have my own way of doing it, too, a unique way of looking. That's what people tell me.

"So maybe that whole bizarre mix up with you and your parents did me a favor after all.

Not that I didn't suffer. If I ever had any friends before--and I'm not sure I ever did—they abandoned me as soon as they found out I'd been arrested. And you never contradicted the rumors..."

She shrugged. "You're not going to make me feel guilty about that. As you say, it's turned out best for you, hasn't it? You can focus on your photography instead of wasting your time at school. I saw your picture in the paper recently. So you've started to sell stuff. Maybe you'll become famous. You can thank me by taking me along for the ride when you achieve success."

"What do you mean, 'take you along for the ride'?"

"Oh, you know. Make me a model like you promised."

That shut me up for a while. I changed the subject and tried to explain the double-exposure techniques that I hoped to exploit, how I could see things in a new way. I didn't dare tell her about my x-ray eye, but pretended to some original discoveries about lighting and emulsions. She looked away, yawned.

"Technical stuff bores me blind." She giggled at her little joke.

"Whatever sells is O. K. with me, I guess." She moved closer and took my arm. Did I still want this girl? Had I ever wanted her?

When we reached the front door of her house she turned to me with a laugh.

"Looks like we were meant for each other. You see too much and I see too little. A perfect couple!" She laughed again, opening the door. "No obligation of course, but please come in. My parents aren't home. You brought your camera didn't you? We could finish where we left off."

My answering laugh choked when I saw her standing on the threshold, the light from within outlining her figure. This was the moment I had been waiting for so long and yet I hesitated. Her invitation had awakened my double vision. Now the glass eye gripped me hard. I stood gazing at and through her for a long time, paralyzed by what I saw. She began to pout.

When she spoke, her voice almost whined. "If you're not going to come in at least I wish you wouldn't stare at me. It makes me feel funny. Especially since your eyes are two different colors. I never noticed that before. One's brown and one's blue." She grimaced. "Oh, I'm sorry. Is something wrong with them?"

I forced myself to speak. "The blue one is glass. It's glass because I lost my natural eye when I knocked my head in the dark. But it's really yours. Now I'm wearing it."

"Mine!"

"Yes. I stole it from you."

"What do you mean?"

"It was part of your crystal collection. When I visited your room I took the blue eyeball as a souvenir. Don't you recognize it?"

She frowned and shook her head. The movement drew my unwilling attention to the fluids coursing through her body, blood pulsing through arteries and veins, lymph seeping through the glands in her neck. Nerves sparked in her brain, muscles flexed along her limbs and jaw, her spine writhed. I closed my eyes and the sensation only intensified the contours of her body paling to a shadowy outline. I watched all her internal organs churning and seething. My own stomach convulsed. I opened my eyes and turned to leave, and as I turned I saw her lungs spasm to puff air through her larynx and the plasma of her throat and tongue ooze into shapes that would mold the words of her reply:

"Oh, no. That's impossible. You can't fool me. I know every object in my family's collection. If you had stolen something I would know immediately. And we never would have kept anything as disgusting as a glass eye, anyway. You must have found it somewhere else."

"No. I..." But I couldn't finish my protest. The eye took hold of me irresistibly, sent me staggering. I ran away as fast as I could, racing through streets of light. The vision pursued. It has never left me since in all my moves.

The whole world has turned to glass.

# It Is...

by Anthony Cooke

It is: the Springtime of the just.

Vulgar seasons have said their piece.

The elect dead rise from thawed soil with valid tongues.

Small flames blossom on flowers, sprout from branches, inextinguishable.

Rivers of vocals, great lakes of music resume their songs.

The Wilderness thickens into shape, migrates into dreams,

spins faster than ever before.

Deep in his subterranean nest, the Circle of Lightning, the Inventor rages,

undistilled.

The electric ache and split of birth is in the air;

hail with the circumference of Edens,

flashes that cut throats.

Tunnels contract, expand:

hallways to crawlspaces closets to bedrooms

attics to verandas balconies to basements

and back again.

There, he mixes music with emotions, reason with action,

captures elusive heavens, breeding them with rare hells.

"Listen! Listen to me! I have not died in vain!

The song of my last life faded with this phrase:

'I am a phantom-foul, disrupted.'

It is my hearts' New Year: what mortalities will I wear this time?

What genii return with me? Play antidote to my pious hostility?"

"I still remember them, gutting, hanging me from the lamp post

as if it were yesterday, not a lifetime or two ago

for hawking unheard-of wares, plying new remedies

in a language of elemental definitions.

As I died, I became one of them,

holding the flashlight to inspect my stiffening body,

cautiously prodding myself with my foot.

With my own hands, I stuffed myself into the sack.

With a knowing wink, a shrug,

I cast the soul down through the depths

far beyond the landfill.

"Weeks later, I answered invitations to cocktail parties in their homes,

accompanied them on their travels,

made small talk between drinks on the rocks,

watched for turnoffs from the car.

At the same time, I was pick-pocketing their choicest joys, hopes, fears

pawning them in exchange for my own

to those who govern the hourglass.

"The powers all belong to me again.

I will never be as liberal with my sorcery as I was then.

Besides, I have been there so many times, only boredom can successfully

kill me, nothing else.

"The clock is the only natural enemy I fear.

"You! In that foreign land

You! In that blighted city

do you sometimes wonder what I will become,

whether I'll be genial, or obscene?

"My trademarks are everywhere!-stamped on your earth,

re-shaping environments into impertinent images,

changing the tiers of life into impossible canvases."

"Up around the entrance to the Circle of Lightning

all wildlife is assembled...for me,

passing the time in idle copulation, watching topsoil rupture,

listening to thunder throttle nightmares and their terrors,

the formal execution of thirst, hunger.

"Those who were buried without proper rites attend me.

'The bitter solstice of malcontent has expired,' they say.

'Rise! Climb! Walk!

The spirits of the re-tilled soil are waiting.'

"Electricity washing me of the scourge, I

rise

climb

walk-

Inventor! Demon! Magician! Technician!

on my way to meet the true allies of biology-Progress, Nature, Reason...

bathed in light, clothed in a radical oasis."

# Pirates

by Bob Quinn

Life at sea in the age of sail

was hard for the common man,

harsh discipline bad food and sickness

was as much as they could stand.

Many of them given half a chance

struck out on their own as pirates,

this desperate bid for survival and wealth

branded them as tyrants.

With no family and no prospects

this bothered them not at all,

what they had to anticipate

was their fair share of the haul.

These men were bold with hearts dead cold

as they prowled the bounding main,

evoking fear and many a tear

at the mention of their name.

Sky so blue o're the hungry crew

as they closed in on their prey,

with a lust for gold and mayhem untold

eagerly awaiting the fray.

A peaceful merchant vessel

suited their talents the best,

quick and easy plunder

with no dangerous contest.

But Royal Navy warships

dispatched to hunt them down,

reminded them of what they left

and why they hated to be found.

Because it meant pitched battle

often ending in death,

if not by sword or musket ball

then by hanging above the deck.

No, pirates did not live long lives

but enjoyed them while they lasted,

always pushing the envelope

one way or another getting blasted!

Spending life upon the sea

weather was often the foe,

few things frightened them as much

as a violent stormy blow.

So when skies darkened and winds picked up

they cast a wary eye,

at conditions above and that's because

their fate came from the sky.

Watching thunderheads pile up

and whitecaps throwing spray,

struck fear into the hardest heart

and tempted some to pray.

The howling gale tore at the sail

as the crewmen clung to the mizzen,

stung by the rain they invoked the name

of whatever God would listen.

Some were Muslims, one was a Jew

but mostly they were Pagan,

very few Christians in that crew

hoping there was no hell to take them.

Not sure if this was punishment

for lives of murder and plunder,

terror clutched at hears like a claw

with the next great clap of thunder.

For with it raised a towering wave

one like they'd never seen,

grown and hardened men did quail

some were heard to scream.

When the onrushing wall of water collapsed

it nearly sank the ship,

holding on as tight as they could

so as not to lose their grip.

Washed over the side, some of them died

in the foaming water below,

when the wave had passed some of them laughed

as they stubbornly would not let go.

To their surprise they were still alive

but there were many more waves to come,

they needed to be strong and keep holding on

'cause there was nowhere else to run.

Living aboard a pirate ship

made it their only home,

well-defended and hard to find

with the entire world to roam.

Thought of as brigands and cut throats

they still were a disciplined crew,

teamwork was the only way

as all among them knew.

Legendary fame was theirs to claim

with short harsh lives at sea,

leaving their mark on seafarers hearts

in the age of piracy.

# In the Beginning

by Jerry Kline

Her footsteps made a crunching noise on the soil beneath her. It was hot. Again. The endless landscape that stretched before her was nothing but red and orange rock. No water in sight. What little they had was underground. Very few animals. Plants were just beginning to grow back after the Great Catastrophe. Her thin, graceful body crossed the wasteland as it had done a thousand times before, dark eyes staring straight ahead, darker hair still spilling down past her shoulders, the metallic click-click of her cybernetic wings as she did her best to flex them. Large, curved wings of a foreign metal. Not from this world or any other.

They once had been in one piece, before the Great Catastrophe. Now they were missing chunks of them, damaged, barely worth anything. They had little mobility anymore, let alone enough for flying.

She kept walking, the same standard pace, until she saw the old settlement spread out below her in the valley. Her eyes scanned it. There was no life of course, but she could only imagine what once was. She closed her eyes and imagined it as it would have been, teeming with life. No doubt children had played nearby, their mothers gathering water from the well in the center of town. The men had probably hunted nearby. Had there been forests here? She didn't know for sure, she could just assume.

She made her way down to the ruins, the gaping holes in the roofs of what were houses and the darkened walls that once supported them rising closer to her. She made her way to the crumbling well. She raised a bucket up, only to find it laden with sand. She made her way slowly through each one of the crumbling houses, listening closely for any sound. None.

Finally she found what she was looking for, hiding in the last house on her right. It was a small, timid creature. Pale, sickly looking, with blue eyes and knotted blond hair. She was a human child. Maybe ten years old at the most. She hid between an old bed and a crumbling wall of the house. Wedged in like a sardine in a can. Peering out at the strange creature before her. Unlike anything she had ever seen.

She knelt down in front of the child, her wings clicking in harmony, the tiny motors whirring inside. The child looked frightened. She crept as far back into the corner as she could, as if this was somehow a better place.

She thought that they needed to get going. That she was here to help the child. To take her to a better place.

The child gasped. The first sound it had made the whole time. The initial shock was strange. She had heard a voice in her head. The stranger was talking to her. She was reassuring her. Suddenly the child relaxed some. The voice wasn't necessarily the kindest voice, or the roughest. It was the voice of someone that was old and tired. Very, very tired.

Yet, it was still somewhat comforting to her. Like her mother's had been. She did not protest when the stranger picked her up and removed her from the crumbling house.

The stranger looked at the girl and smiled. The first time she had done that in awhile. The little girl remained expressionless.

They walked on in silence for awhile, the dreary landscape passing them by slowly. Minutes turned into hours.

"Are you hungry?' The voice asked the girl in her head. She shook her head no. 'Tired?" She shook no again. "Thirsty?" Still no.

She still doesn't trust me, the stranger thought.

More silence as they walked on. Alone with only the hot sun overhead to remind them of their existence. The stranger's wings made tiny clicks as the motors whirred occasionally. They still had some life in them, after all these years. Not enough for flight though, but enough to catch the attention of the little girl with every noise they made.

"Who are you?" She asked.

The stranger stopped and stared into the blue eyes of the child, looking up at her like two twin jewels struck by the sun.

The little girl repeated the question.

The stranger snapped out of it. She spoke aloud, "Call me E. That's what my fr - er, others call me."

"Where are we going E?"

"Someplace safe."

"But where?"

She sighed. Kids. She forgot how curious humans were; especially the younger ones.

"I'm gonna take you away from all of this. There's a safe place where we're headed. Good food, water. Shelter. And other kids too. Have you ever played with other kids before?"

"I used to."

"Before all this happened?" She motioned toward the barren landscape around them.

The little girl nodded.

"The big explosion? Do you remember that?" she asked.

The girl hung her head.

Stupid, stupid you, the stranger thought. She's just a kid. She doesn't understand. And now you've gone and opened up old wounds.

The stranger put her hand on the child's chin and tilted it upwards. "I'm sorry hon. Let's get going."

She nodded, and they continued walking for awhile, until the sun slowly began sinking past the horizon.

The stranger worried about the girl. Had she hurt her? She tried reading the little girl's mind, but couldn't. She was too confused; scared. The thoughts came muddled, blurry. She could see or hear nothing from the little girl.

Cautiously she asked her what she was thinking.

The girl's deep blue eyes stared up and penetrated into the very depths of the stranger's soul. "I remember the explosion." She said it so calmly. Too calm.

A shudder ran up the stranger's spine. The motors' powering her wings whirred in agreement. Her lips grew dry, and she licked them. Her gaze broke away from the girl's.

"Do you know what caused the explosion?" she choked out, her eyes starting to water. But you can't stop a dam under that much pressure and the tears began trickling down her face, into the corners of her mouth.

The little girl looked at her curiously. She reached over and wrapped her arms around the stranger.

"Don't cry," she said. "My mommy said there's nothing to be afraid of."

The stranger pulled the girl closer, wrapping her slender arms around the frail body of the child. I'm the reason you're mommy doesn't exist anymore, she thought. Why everything's barren. Don't tell me not to cry kid. If it wasn't for me...

No. It's not your fault, she thought. You were young, stupid. You found favor with Him, and you let it slip. You made love to one of the night, the Darkness. And in doing so you brought on the explosion. The end. You fool. You ruined everything. And for a love that couldn't last. And now you have to ask yourself, was it worth it? Was it a risk that should have been taken?

No, of course not. But try telling that to the survivors.

# Again— _Les Fleurs du Mal_

by Lynn Veach Sadler

They housed us in Pamplemousses,

not Signal Hill or Curepipe

as I'd assumed. The village,

north of Port St. Louis,

surrounds the Church of St. Francis,

oldest on the isle Mauritius.

My earnest young wife Thérèse was

enceinte with our first child.

They greeted me at red carpet's end,

hurried me away.

I had time only to note,

over my shoulder,

Thérèse being treated more royally than I.

I was glad, for I'd feared Thérèse's loneliness.

The tedium of confinement,

the strangeness of this land,

walled in by coral reefs, you see.

Strange, at least to Thérèse,

for I'd been posted before at Reunion,

another of the Mascarenes,

but a hundred miles away.

I need not have feared.

Thérèse joined me every sunrise

for petit déjeuner on our balcony,

greeted me evenings when I returned

for our late dinners,

spoke of mes amis escorting her to and fro,

"Flic en Flac"—she teased with the name

of the village she'd come to admire.

"Tante Calla," "La Bourdonnais,"

I thought she said.

The latter was somehow familiar,

but the moment passed.

In truth, I was always so intrigued with

the music, the silvery tinkle,

of Thérèse's voice that I breathed in

her tones sans sense.

My sweet Thérèse made the air

sing around her. She prattled of

lagoons, bamboo, waterfalls . . .

of tamarinds, gardens of spices,

bright hues of earth . . . hideouts of slaves . . . .

Was it slaves in cirques,

or do I think of Reunion?

Dr. René came often to the Embassy

to assure me Thérèse and our enfant were

en bonne santé.

Thérèse seemed to drink in Pamplemousses,

prated of how we were meant to come here.

I reveled in my good fortune.

Her parents had been reluctant

to see their only child

travel to a strange land in her condition

and with the time so upon her.

Thérèse's high spirits lifted my own,

and I was willing to have them lifted.

Not that Thérèse could ever

have burdened mon coeur!

Thérèse was my heart!

Unlike many young women of her class,

Thérèse read. She told me Pamplemousses',

Mauritius' legends—of its Romeo and Juliet,

Saint-Pierre's Paul et Virginie;

of Baudelaire's Fleurs du Mal;

visits by Conrad, Twain.

(I was more interested in Darwin's

disembarking the Beagle,

though I refrained from saying so.)

She was très enchantée I'd once met

Mauritius's poet Edward Hart.

"Do you think, then, to be a poetess, petit chou?"

Her laughter cascaded like a waterfall.

"I'd rather be the legend, je pense,"

was what she said, more than chirping.

"Not like Saint Teresa, ma chere!"

We laughed together,

her flute mingling with my bass.

From what I gleaned through her twilight lilting,

their favorite haunt was the Botanical Gardens

built by the Great Governor.

Mahe de La Bourdonnais

established the first sugar factory.

Hence Mauritius thrived—

until the Suez Canal was built

and isolated Mauritius from the shipping routes.

Then came cyclones, epidemics . . . .

"Dear Pierre Poivre planted the spices,

the trees and flowers.

They call him 'Peter Pepper.'"

"Well, well, well," I said,

"if only yon Pierre Poivre

could have re-grown the dodo!"

I left, I fear, for work,

though noting Thérèse's stricken look.

I assumed she thought I took

her confidences lightly

and resolved to listen better,

to tell her the Mauritians took the dodo—

at least its demise—quite seriously.

Why, the dodo would be the answer I sought—

a creature unique—could it be born again.

My task?

To grow a Mauritian tourist industry.

Pink pigeons are somewhat rare,

tortoises a specialty,

but Mauritius needs a thing unique . . . .

We went on. Happily, I thought.

Thérèse talked constantly of those water lilies—

Victoria regia—so cold,

so gros in her small tones.

I teased her for la fleur à la française.

She informed me, in something of a pique,

these lilies she fancied

were brought from Brazil, had a special purpose.

The Victoria regia were cold and gross.

I saw them afterwards. In the middle of the

Botanical Garden in a rectangle of cement

meant to keep them in.

I could see how they would seem.

Their leaves opening in perfect circles,

the perfect white blossom in the middle.

The legend said they could hold

a new-born child. Thérèse would have

thought herself helping me.

Hard men shot the dodo for the sport,

annihilated the simple bird.

If the mother of a new-born babe,

a mother fair, her complexion

the creamy-white privet flowers

on the Plaine Champagne,

as white, as delicate as the froth on champagne,

if that mother freely placed her new-born babe

on the water-lilies' reaching leaves—

if she did it at the precise moment when the

blossom went from white to pink,

just when its one-day's-life turned to death,

then the dodo would come again.

If only they had told her—if only she'd told me

it was our baby's time—

if only they had told her of the water-lilies'

sharp spines—I see—oh, God, I see.

I see the water of that wretched place

turned red with the blood of our sweet son.

I see my small Thérèse

break from the evil arms restraining her.

The evil arms of La Bourdonnais.

She throws herself into the water

when the blood and cries begin.

I see her snatch our child to her bosom.

The thorns refuse to

loose their hold, send their brothers

for the mother's bosom. I see her floating,

babe in arms, her hair afloat around her.

The giant leaves climb the bodies

of Thérèse and babe,

beat them like an angry swan

flailing wings, like Zeus on Leda,

weight them down 'til all goes silent.

The onlookers have only watched.

They used my guileless Thérèse

to their guiled end.

Nor does the dodo come again.

# THEM

by Mark Torrender

I don't like the feel of Their skin. But there's nothing I can do, now. They've taken me.

For as long as I can remember, beings that could only be referred to as 'alien' have been in my life. It was nothing I asked for.

And it's not just Their skin that gives me the creeps; it's Their eyes. Everyone talks about those eyes, the way they stare right through you. They're cold and... oh, what the hell, I have to use that word again, alien.

The only way I have kept sane is by telling myself, over and over, that They are scientists just like I am. Well, Their science is different than ours, incredibly so, and it seems as though it's sole purpose is for the study of us. Sometimes I feel as though its sole purpose is for the study of me.

When I was younger, I was totally unaware of Them. I had heard things, of course, but never in my lifetime did I think I might actually one day interact with Them! Oh God, just the image of Them: the eyes, the difference in height... I've got to get a grip.

My Boss at the lab was nearly as cold as the aliens. He was a tall individual who rarely smiled, and was of indeterminate age. His lab coat was immaculately clean, and he had to have every instrument and pipette clean as though new. By nature, I am immensely more laid back than he. Rub the Boss the wrong way and... well, they were days that did not bear thinking about. I was one of many who worked under him, and we all had to walk in his antiseptic footsteps, and keep the countertops clean enough to lick spilled water from, and, most importantly, not foul up the experiment of the moment. If he knew what I was going through now, the fear, the total out-of-placeness, it might just break him. Then again, it might just make him want to turn me into his next project!

Ughh! They're hurting me! Those weird fingers are touching my body, my head. Probes are coming at me! They don't even care that I am frightened! Damn those bright lights! I wish they were gone, dead, wiped out. Shit – can they read minds? I had better curb thoughts like that!

I want to know if They'll put me back in my room when They're done with me. They've been in my dreams up until now, but this is something new. I've been abducted for real, taken against my will. Where had I been only moments before?

Oh yes. The field. My Boss had engineered this little outing for me; the lab needed some new specimens, though I was only really keen on observing from afar. And so there I was, away from the lab and amongst all Nature's glory. It was better than a day off!

Specimens. I was especially interested in insects, always had been. I had my box, and a little rod for the bugs to crawl up on to. By the end of the afternoon I had gathered six different species of arachnid, and five types of beetle. The spiders were all kept in different compartments, so as not to attack or eat each other, er, like last time. The Boss wasn't too pleased with that particular specimen-gathering excursion.

The box filled, I returned to the side of the road, at the spot where I was soon expecting one of my work colleagues to pick me up. He was late, as usual. He was like me in many ways: loved his work, hated the Boss. Ok, maybe 'hate' is too harsh a term, here. We... tolerated him. There, nice enough.

Anyway, he was like me in lots of ways, height, age, and disposition. Curiosity was our main trait. You needed curiosity in order to be a good scientist. I guess even the Boss was like that once. Now everything he did was of a predetermined, perfunctory action. Ah well. Somebody, somewhere, probably loved him.

Why is it that every time I think of my colleagues or my work or pretty much any damn thing, the Boss comes back into my mind! Is he really that intimidating? Or do I just want to do a good job for him? If that's so, then I question my reasons behind it. Is my desire to do a good job for the sake of the work, or to please him? The only reason I might want to please old starched-breeches is to get him off my back. Ah! The big question has been answered.

Ok, so he preoccupies me. Maybe I'm even a little bit afraid of him. Especially so now that I'm not where I should be, and if ever I'm returned, will have to lie as to what happened to me. Can you imagine what he would say if I got back to the lab and spilled forth the excuse, "Oh, sorry sir, I was out gathering specimens as per your instructions, when I was abducted by aliens!" It would be pretty much 'chalk one up to insanity'. At least I wouldn't have to wait for the guys in white coats – I work with them.

Several of Them are staring down at me now as I lay on the slab. Their faces are so cold! These aliens are so alike, like clones. Am I on some craft? Am I in one of their own labs?

Oh god, there are others here, others like me! I can see someone on an examination table, by the far wall. There's someone else, near to an observation window. More of those cold, staring, horribly similar looking faces are peering through that glass.

Their hands are all over me. Ugh, that skin of theirs! It is not pleasant to the touch like ours, it's... different. I don't have the words to describe it, what to liken it to. I want to close my eyes but I can't. Some part of me wants to see all that is happening. When will this be over?

Someone new has entered the room. Tall, severe – his demeanor reminds me of my own Boss. This one is dressed differently than the others, more colorful. Those eyes! I have got to be strong. Will it use its mind to communicate with me? None of the creatures in this room are saying anything, so there must be some thought transference going on here. If only I could make a study of this! But who would accept it?

The colorful one flows over to me. He's taller than the rest, and bends at the waist to look at me. Is he using mind probe techniques? No, he's just looking at me. This being is not at all shocked by my appearance; it is well used to abductees. Just another specimen on the table. Now I know how those insects must feel. When, or if, I am returned to earth, I will let those bugs go, and be more than happy to present and empty box to the Boss when I get back to the lab.

The colorful one is opening his mouth, and is uttering a strange language! I don't understand it! Is it addressing me? No, it must be to his subordinates...

"You said you found this creature where?" the colonel asked the technician.

The tech cleared his throat. "Near the base, sir, incredibly. The men were out on morning maneuvers and just saw the little fellow walking in the field. It had a box. Apparently it was collecting specimens."

"Or planting spy mechanisms,' the colonel said dryly. 'They've been coming to Earth for so long you'd think they'd learned everything there is to learn by now"

"Yes sir."

"All right..." he squinted at the lab tech's name badge, "Davis. Send this one down to Level Twenty Four."

"Sir," began Davis, somewhat timidly. "I thought that maybe, just this time, we could return the creature to where we found it."

The colonel's eyebrows shot up so fast that they nearly knocked his hat off. "What in blazes for, Davis?"

"The EBEs aren't exactly friends with us, not with the military anyway, but they never make an attempt to rescue the ones that end up in these labs. I know these gray guys have the same cold, emotionless faces, but for all we know, this little chap might be terrified right now, terrified that he may never see his home again."

The colonel laughed. "Have you been watching 'E.T.' or something?' He shook his head. "You've just transferred here. Right?"

"Uh, yes, sir, from Wright Pat. How did you know, sir?"

"Because every new transfer thinks like you do. After a while you'll see these invaders like the rest of us do. They're specimens to be studied. And if we study them right, we may just be able to protect ourselves from them."

"Yes, sir, I understand,' conceded Davis.

The colonel left the lab, hands behind his back.

Davis turned his attention back to the little gray specimen gatherer who was strapped down on the examination table.

Davis smiled at the alien. "I bet you hate your boss, too."

# Heroes

by Anthony Cooke

"When you're running toward that death ray, your insignia shining, have you ever thought, "What's this all about?"

Two heroes stood on a skyscraper rooftop, smoking and watching a young girl lounge by a bus stop.

"Yeah. Years of busting villains and still they show up monthly, like clockwork," one said, pulling off his mask.

"We should quit. No notice," his friend said, wrapping his cape around him to keep warm.

Gunshots rang out below, where they had flicked their butts. The two heroes shrugged, and flew off. They knew the money from back issues would tide them over.

# Dragon's Ire, Phoenix Flame

by Meghann McVey

A dull gray shine illumined the sky as the company of armored men approached Death Dragon's Peak, the mountain said to house the continent's largest dragon. Despite their different ages and levels of experience, the men's faces mirrored one another, wide-eyed dread that deepened as the mountain abode of the Death Dragon loomed closer.

At the head of their group, Joshua rode atop an ash-gray stallion. He alone showed no fear. The proud banner he carried, that of a man running a dragon through with a lance, did not tremble in his hand, even though he had ridden for many hours. At one time Joshua had possessed a family name like any other man. However, over a decade of dragon killing guaranteed that not blood nor water nor time could cleanse the name Dragonslayer from him.

"Master Dragonslayer," one of his men said, running to catch up with the stallion's long stride. "Where shall we fight the beast? On this field? In his lair?" his armor jingled as he gave a little shiver.

"That is the decision of the dragon," Joshua answered truthfully. His eyes, as gray as dragon smoke, met the man's with the intense stare that some said came from gazing without fear into the very eyes of the wyrms he slew. "If we are prepared for anything, then no disaster can befall us," he said with confidence that made all in the company wonder if Joshua already knew the wyrm's mind.

Suddenly the ground rumbled, and several men cried out in fear. Joshua held up his hand and turned in the saddle. "Be at ease. It is merely the wyrm stirring as he dreams."

"Hopefully not a prophetic one," someone muttered darkly.

They pressed on toward Death Dragon's Peak. The closer they came, the more frequent the fitful shaking of the ground became. At length they stood at the very foot of the rock face. Lightning flashed. Several men drew their weapon with trembling hands. Others murmured prayers.

Joshua stared at them, amazed at the cowardice of those who practically lived and conducted their daily business in the dragon's shadow. The sky darkened with the onset of evening. Rather than scale the cliff that night, Joshua ordered a halt. His comrades made camp and set up watch. Joshua sat at the forefront. He did not desire any food, as the foul air made even their water taste sulfurous. Oppressive heat emanated from the mountain, a disorienting sensation since it was the beginning of spring. Men whispered about bad omens as they set up the crossbow cannons and readied their catapults. Others, restless, sharpened their swords endlessly, as if a blade would avail any aid against a dragon's scale armor.

Joshua mounted his banner in the rocky ground and took up his lance. His stallion pawed at the ground. Although the gray horse had faced many trials with Joshua, something vile clung to the air of this place.

"Master Dragonslayer!" A gray-bearded man approached Joshua from the side. He exhibited none of the confidence appropriate to a warrior. As he came closer, he bit his lip and twisted his hands together by turns. "The men in the camp have reached a worrisome conclusion. The dragon lives miles away from the nearest town. Though admittedly his fiery breath has scarred these lands and his presence wards off any attempts at settlement or expansion, he has never touched the men in the town. The others debate the merit of attacking this creature. There is mutiny in the air, sir."

Joshua laughed harshly. "They should have thought of this before they entered the mayor's mansion and boasted of their fighting capabilities. His silver even now weighs down their pockets. Remind them that they should not be so quick to abandon their duty."

"Sir, the fact that this attack is unprovoked concerns me as well."

"Does it now?" Joshua said, with a hint of irony. "The wyrm is a dragon, isn't it? That is reason enough for me to attack."

"Very well, Master Dragonslayer," the old man conceded. "But I warn you, you may find your numbers diminished in the morning."

"You whine and nag as well as my wife," Joshua murmured as the graybeard left.

The terse night wore on into an even tenser sunrise. Just as the sun's wan, sickly light shone over the stony landscape, the Death Dragon emerged from his lair. At the sight of his shadow, half of Joshua's company fled in panic. Those who stood to fight moved at half their usual efficiency. The sight of the dragon seemed to make their veins overflow with adrenaline, so they forgot everything but the simultaneous need to run and stand and fight. The most competent of them managed to fire their cannons and fling the tremendous heavy spears into the dragon's direction. Whether they ever struck him or made an impact, they would never find out, for the presence of these projectiles in his flying space annoyed him enough to arrest his attention. He paused in mid-air.

At this point Joshua, who had stood watching and waiting, came to life. He mounted his stallion and seized his lance. Then, shouting for his men to do what they could, he rode out across the field, daring the dragon to expose more of itself. The dragon answered his challenge.

Initially all Joshua had seen of the wyrm was its head, which, though horrifically tremendous, seemed smaller than it was because of the great height from which the dragon had approached. Now as Joshua rode across the battlefield, he saw that the dragon's snake-like body followed and followed and followed until the dark scales seemed to obscure the entire sky above the rocky field. For the first time in his illustrious career, Joshua felt a twinge of fear. He pulled back on the stallion's mane, bringing the horse to a halt. The stallion's eyes rolled wildly as he pawed the air. Seeing that there would be no convincing the beast to stay to battle this wyrm that could swallow him whole, Joshua slid down from his back, lance in hand. Sweat ran down his ashen face. The dragon's roar brought him to his knees. With an effort, Joshua stood, using the lance to help him.

The dragon stopped in the sky, hovered there for a moment. Joshua knew from long experience that it was preparing itself to dive, that he would be dodging claws, teeth, and tail. He braced himself. The dragon's descent brought with it a wind like a cyclone. Joshua threw himself to the ground, rolling this way and that until the danger had passed over him.

"Give up, puny man thing!" the Death Dragon roared. "Or I shall obliterate you!"

"You are wrong, wyrm beast," Joshua shouted, though the crashing flap of the dragon's massive wings obscured his voice. "It is I who has come to decimate you!"

The Death Dragon paused in midair. His scales flashed crimson in the morning sun. For a moment the beast hovered. Then it threw back its head and laughed. "Such a preposterous boast from one so small," it remarked and opened its tremendous maw. A fireball ignited in its mouth and shot straight toward Joshua. The warrior's hair sizzled in the heat. He sprang away, barely in time, and landed on the hard-packed earth. The ground beside him, shattered and sunken from the impact, smoldered.

Joshua recovered his feet, panting heavily. The dragon prepared another fireball. With the aid of his running start, Joshua launched himself into the air, his lance held above him. When he reached the apex of his jump, he thrust the lance upwards into the dragon's underbelly. His arms shook from the impact, and the lance pole quavered dangerously. For a minute Joshua thought that the weapon would snap in two. Luckily it was intact when he hit the ground.

The dragon spat the fireball to one side and glared at Joshua with his eyes as tremendous as warhorses. "You are a fool if you think something like that is going to intimidate me. Even a blessed lance is no match for my scale armor."

"That will not stop me," Joshua said, his visage grim.

"Have it your way, man thing. You had best keep me entertained, however. I could be dreaming right now atop my pile of gold." Suddenly the dragon threw back his head with a roar that made Joshua's ears sting.

"You should pay attention to the things that entertain you," Joshua chided the dragon, shoving his lance in further. "I suppose you did not consider that I would get in more that one strike. One scale might not seem like much, but it is the perfect opening for a puny man weapon like mine."

The dragon snarled and looked down at the lance protruding from the single scale that Joshua's previous attack had knocked loose. Black blood ran down the handle, but despite the slipperiness, Joshua held on. "You will regret this, man thing!" The dragon shot another fireball, this one smaller than the last. The lance went up in flames, forcing Joshua to withdraw his hand. "Not so confident without your weapon, are you?"

Joshua laughed harshly. "Only a fool carries one weapon into dangerous territory. And I am no fool. I am Joshua Dragonslayer." He withdrew his tremendous two-handed sword from its scabbard. "I advise you to caution, wyrm. This blade is blessed."

The dragon smirked. "We shall see how the blessing fares against my dark magic, Dragonslayer." The Death Dragon spoke the words to a spell even as Joshua invoked the prayer of his blade. The two finished at the same time. Joshua charged at the dragon, which flew straight toward him, his talons, like a triangle of lethal spears, outstretched. Somehow Joshua managed to duck under the talons. With a battle cry, he jumped again into the air. His sword slashed the dragon's underbelly, deepening the wound owed to the single missing scale. White light flared from the sword, causing the Death Dragon to swoop back in pain. Joshua landed on the ground sweating and panting. The dragon withdrew to the sky. In the pale light of the sun, the myriad scratches on his scales were visible. The white light from before played along them. Each time it flashed into being, the dragon winced at the unexpected pain.

"Dragonslayer, you may have forced me to withdraw from this battle," the Death Dragon said. "But do not think you have won. With the blood of your people, I will make you rue this day. Dragonslayer and Kinslayer you shall be! On the fires of the sun, I swear!"

Joshua's eyes widened. The sword clattered to the ground as the dragon wheeled once in the sky. As though he had not been battling at all, he darted after the dragon. I must warn the townsfolk! I must somehow avert this catastrophe! As he ran, he flung his armor from him until he was stripped down to his tunic. The plate mail lay discarded like tremendous silver coins. He sprinted, his lungs afire from the acrid air. The Death Dragon's curse resounded in his ears. Kinslayer.

A fierce pain caught him in his side before he was even halfway through the field of death, and there were still well over three miles to go. I must go on! Somehow, with his parched throat burning, with his blood throbbing in his temples, he kept his legs moving. The blue roofs of the city houses, the soaring church spire came into sight. No more smoke than usual and no flames. Then, to his horror, the shadow of the Death Dragon fell over him.

"It was a fine race, Kinslayer," the dragon said. "But the victory is mine." Before Joshua could react, the dragon wheeled about and smacked him to the ground with his tail. Joshua could only lay there, helpless, with the wind knocked right out of his lungs.

The Death Dragon, meanwhile, mounted the sky. His roar brought the people out of their houses, roused them from their beds and their work. No! Joshua wanted to scream. Stop this, I beg of you! It had been many years since he had begged for anything, let alone mercy. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a hoarse croak. Flames erupted from the dragon's mouth, arching out into a ring of fire that wound around the entire city, ensnaring the dry wood and drier thatch of the roofs. Screams resounded through the afternoon. Joshua remained motionless for a moment, torn as to whether he would rush into the danger to save his loved ones and risk being incinerated himself or stop the blaze at its source. In a flurry of madness he waited until the dragon had lowered its head to emit another fiery blast. Then he leaped as high as his aching muscles would allow. He landed right where he had planned, upon the wyrm's nose. Once there, he wrapped his feet around the dragon's curling horns to make sure he wouldn't be shaken off. Then he wrapped his arms around the dragon's mouth, endeavoring to keep the source of the fire in.

However, the Death Dragon's jaws proved stronger than even the Dragonslayer's arms. He managed to open his mouth and let free another blast that seared Joshua's skin. When Joshua relaxed his grip in shock and horror, the Death Dragon shook him off. Joshua lay on the ground staring upward with eyes glazed over in horror.

"You have only yourself to blame, Kinslayer," the dragon said, gliding into the air like an angel of death. With that, he flew off.

As if he were hypnotized, Joshua watched him go. Then the spell over him broke and he struggled to his feet. "Surely there are survivors," he mumbled through his chapped lips. He had to go look, in any case. On wobbly legs, he stumbled into the remains of the inferno.

Amidst the amber and ashes, he found only the dead, their eyes staring or sometimes hollowed out by knives of flame. At first he was unaffected, as though his mind were incapable of understanding that the city lay in ruins. It was now a tomb to people and the ruins of their lives.

At length, as he wandered the maze of cinders and corpses, he came upon his own house. "Lydia," he whispered. Silence incinerated his wife's name. "Kelsea? Corwin?" His children's names, likewise burned away. He moved further into the site of the burning, not wanting to see the house as his own. It worked well enough until he found their bodies, fallen together in huddled terror at the room in the back of the house. Then he remembered everything, from building their first house when he was a youth, to his and Lydia's wedding night, to the births of their two children. He knelt. Ash-marked though his family was, the flames had not taken their bodies, only the roof from above their heads. It was breathing the smoke that had destroyed them in the end. He cradled each of their forms in turn, remembering treasured moments with them, moments that became fewer as his career became more illustrious. Lydia, who had always called him "My hero" in her mocking way, Lydia who seemed a fey girl of nineteen, even at thirty. Corwin, who was just coming into manhood, his only son who Joshua had planned, would follow in his footsteps. And Kelsea, his youngest, who was always so kind and good. She had not Lydia's spirit; rather, she was a gentle girl who would make many hearts flutter when she came of age. But now, that day would never come. Joshua would remain forever older than his children.

The rest of the day he spent in an exhaustive search for survivors. He ignored the tremors of his legs that warned him of approaching exhaustion, the growling of his stomach, and the growing pinched sensation in his throat. He was a Dragonslayer, and it was his first duty to thwart the Death Dragon's plan in any way he could. However, by nightfall the fire had died down to coals, and Joshua had no more light to search by. At this point, he threw himself down on the ground. With ashes as his pillow and residual heat as a blanket, the Dragonslayer fell into a dead dark sleep.

The next day he awoke and found the site of his house. With rocks and rubble, Joshua buried his wife and children together, then said a prayer. He marked the spot with his blessed two-handed sword which had been bestowed upon him after he slew his first dragon. Sharp pain filled him as he shoved the blade into the ground. Although he longed to walk backwards, to watch the tomb grow ever smaller, he forced himself to face forward, to move in the direction opposite of both village and the Death Dragon's mountain.

For several weeks Joshua wandered into the lands of the forest country, where he had slain his first dragon. Game here was plentiful, so he ate well. However, no amount of washing could scour the scent of ashes and death from his clothes and skin. At the end of that week, Joshua reached the village where he and Lydia had grown up together. He had been so absorbed in dragonslaying that he had never brought the children here, much to Lydia's frequent protest.

With a minimum of inquiry, he relocated his parents' house. Though Joshua was famous as a Dragonslayer, he looked more like a vagabond than the hero who had left this place years ago.

The sun hung low in the sky as he trudged up the familiar path to the porch. When he knocked at the door to his own house, his mother almost asked him his name and business first. Joshua knew; he had seen her do it many times. Then the blindness fell away from her eyes, and she gasped. "Joshua!" She did not move to embrace him, however. He knew it was from the smell.

"Come inside," his mother said at last, though Joshua was certain she was reluctant to let him enter, reeking as he did. Guilt ached like a hammer blow upon his heart.

"Where is Father?"

"He is within," she said, gesturing that he come inside. Upon entering, the shock of memories nearly made Joshua forget why he had returned. He recalled the sweet scent of the wooden walls and floor, the cozy beauty of the house when decorated for Yuletide, the crackle of flames within the fireplace, the aromas of his mother's cooking... Then the horrendous night he had been cursed as Kinslayer flashed through his mind, and he knew there would be no returning to those idyllic times. Together he and his mother walked to the parlor where his father sat contemplating the flames of the fire, the book before him forgotten.

"Joshua," he said without even looking back.

Goose pimples rose on Joshua's arms. His father had always known him by step, even before he came close. "I have something I need to tell you both," he said. "It is a rather long tale. Might I sit down?"

The hours passed as Joshua retold the tragedy that had befallen him as a result of the Death Dragon's curse with his mother listening at his side and his father in his chair.

"I was a fool," he concluded. The fire had long died away into ashes and smoke. "An arrogant fool. No man could have slain that beast...and not even a kingdom twice that one's size could have withstood the wyrm's wrath." He bowed his head, the weight of his folly and sorrow dragging him down.

"Lydia, dead?" his mother whispered. "This can't be!" She buried her head in her hands and wept.

"We will never see our grandchildren," his father added, shaking his head. "Never, never..."

Joshua said nothing, recalling well that Lydia had insisted many times, despite his protests, that he leave off dragonslaying for a while and return to their home village with the children. "I am under the Death Dragon's curse," he said. "I cannot pursue dragonslaying any longer; I haven't the heart for it. Won't you grant me shelter until I can find the path of my redemption?"

"Of course, my son," his mother said. "Stay with us for as long as you need."

That night Joshua found that he could not sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the ruins of the city and the pallid faces of Lydia and his children. Finally he cast his sweat-soaked covers away from him and let himself into the tranquil green night. He wandered through the village for almost an hour until his feet took him to the shrine where he used to pray and make offerings as a boy. No one attended the shrine at this hour, but he was certain that no one would mind his using it. He climbed the wooden stairs of the porch and slid one of the two doors open. The inside smelled of wood, incense, and wax. Warding off the flood of memories, Joshua found the candles, still stored behind the altar. Then he withdrew his own flints from his pockets and clicked them together. He placed the first candle on the shrine altar, then lit two more. His heart heavy, Joshua reached into his other pocket and placed three silver pieces beside the candles. Then he knelt and prayed.

He must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he knew, he was sprawled out before the altar. Smarting pain crowned his head, and sunlight flooded the windows. A look at the altar showed that the candles had burnt all the way down.

"Kwah!" came the crow-like sound of an old monk's disgust. "It's lucky the shrine didn't burn up," the green-robed man declared, stumping toward Joshua who merely stared at him in a daze. "And only three candles," the monk added. "I'd think a Kinslayer would light more...more money for us that way."

Joshua's eyes narrowed at the old man's statement. He got to his feet and rubbed the back of his head. Although he did not like the monk's statement, he had to admit that the truth of it. And there were no secrets kept in the village, after all. He could not go back to the glorious days of being Joshua Dragonslayer. Those days were no more.

"I will think about what you have said, master," he told the monk, who had left off his dithering to collect the silver piled on the altar.

"See that you do, m'boy," the monk said. "There's a lot of wisdom in it, you know."

As Joshua walked home, he found himself thinking that although little had changed in the village, the monks had become far more surly and bold of late. He waved to his father, who was working in the fields, then let himself into the house. The minute he entered, his mother threw her arms around him, sobbing. "I thought I had lost you last night, too," she bawled. "I know it's hard, Joshua. And I can tell you honestly that it won't get easier. But your father and I are here for you. Remember that."

"I shall, Mother," Joshua promised, closing his eyes for a minute to savor the love in her embrace.

It was nearly a month before Joshua worked up the courage to return to the shrine. He decided instead to seek truth in everyday life and decide for himself if he really were responsible for the deaths of so many. At his father's side, he turned the dirt of the field and laid new fences. He called on villagers with his mother and attempted to answer the questions which always led back to the same point. Why had he left an illustrious career in dragonslaying to return to the sleepy little village? Where were his lovely wife and their children? Joshua, with his head held high, tears held back in the corners of his eyes, recounted the truth in all its horrific detail, unless his listener were a child.

"Must you add to your suffering this way?" his mother hissed when he had answered the same question three times in one day, shocking the inquirer each time.

But Joshua did not consider it suffering. Rather he thought of the matter as a part of himself, something that would not be discarded with wishful thinking or lies. "The mantle of shame is mine to wear," he told his mother when their arguments became too heated. "I do not wish to deny what is. Telling them that Lydia and Corwin and Kelsea yet live would only add to my burden." What he did not tell his mother was that he would never have told anyone in the outer cities. The people there were vindictive folks living in a vacuum of values. They believed that bad things happened to bad people. They would have shunned him for his misfortune, lest it rub off on them. The villagers, however, knew that even a righteous man's crops withered in an unexpected frost. In addition, they recognized that such a person would need more support in a time of misfortune, not less. By telling people what had happened, Joshua found his supporters growing in number. He took comfort in the fact, even though many of them had only kind words to offer.

At the end of the month, Joshua returned to the shrine in the dead of night. Although he did not feel any more sorrow than he usually did at this time, he felt driven to do it, wide awake. As he walked past the sleeping houses, the chilly night air making him more alert, he remembered what the cranky old monk had said. "Was I responsible for all their deaths?" he murmured. Then, recalling how kind the villagers had been to him, a Dragonslayer who left in glory and returned with an overburdened soul, Joshua reached his decision.

As before, he entered the shrine and laid his silver upon the altar. He did not really know how many people had perished in the dragon's ire. Once the entire altar was covered in slender white candles, Joshua lit them all. I'd best be careful to not to fall asleep at my prayers this time, he thought. The shrine really will burn down if I do. He lit the candles one by one. Their flames winked into being like stars emerging in the night sky. When they all were lit, they cast parts of the shrine in a light as bright as day. Other parts remained black as pitch, an eerie contrast to the lighted places.

Joshua knelt before the altar. Unbidden, memories stole into his consciousness. He saw the luxurious threaded carpets of the mayor's house, his paintings and sculptures. The mayor himself, a plum-shaped man with a tremendous bald spot, smiled uncertainly. His lips quavered as though his smiling muscles had atrophied. "It is so good that you have graced our city with your presence, Joshua Dragonslayer," he said in hardly charismatic tones. "Long has the beast stolen miles of lands that righteously belong to..." his hands fumbled against one another like fish flailing in a net "her citizens. Yes." The golden rings on his fingers twinkled. "If you could recapture them, we will have fields for crops, room for expansion. It will be a happy time for all."

Even then Joshua knew that the ultimate motive for the slaying was corrupt. This mayor looked as likely to use the new land for crops as a dragon was to donate its gold to a shrine. However, Palsesuit was a wealthy city, and the notoriety if Joshua could slay the renowned Death Dragon would be enormous. "I'll do it," he heard himself say. Before the candles, Joshua shuddered.

"There is no reason for you to go alone," the mayor added. "Many of our citizens already long to slay the Death Dragon. They need only a leader under whom to unite."

Joshua's previous consternation about working with others faded. He would be called the man who led the expedition to eradicate the Death Dragon! The possibilities that the resulting fame and glory could bring surged through his blood, intoxicating him.

"Forgive me," Joshua prayed as the memories flickered away. "I brought forth the Death Dragon's anger by leading the expedition. I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway. Initially the wyrm did no harm to anyone; it only coexisted beside the greedy..." He would have said more, but at that moment, he heard heavy footsteps on the wood behind him. Joshua lifted his head and looked behind him. It was the same monk from before.

"I see you took my advice," he said. "You are wise to think before you act. And then to act with such exemplary humility. You make me proud, m'boy."

Joshua's heart ached as if to tell him he did not deserve the monk's praise. The monk, too, seemed to sense that he was being unusually kind, for he crossed his arms and added, "Though now we both have to stay here...can't have you falling asleep like last time. I don't think the shrine would be so lucky."

"Don't worry," Joshua said. "I won't fall asleep." By the time he finished praying for as many people in the city as he remembered and offering a prayer for the peace of the unknown souls, the light of the dawn was creeping in through the cracks in the shrine door. The monk had remained there the entire time, slouched on a bench and snoring softly. Joshua laughed and was about to go, when the man sat up.

"Before you leave, young man, I've something to tell you."

"What is it?" Joshua braced himself for both compliment and reprimand, which he supposed would hurt equally after his pain-filled prayers.

"At the end of the world resides a bird called the phoenix. Legend has it that every millennium or so, he dies and is reborn. His is the secret of resurrection."

"If I could get him to tell me the secret," Joshua murmured.

"Be wary, m'boy," the monk warned. "The phoenix will not appear to those who are not pure of heart."

"How do you mean?"

"That is what you must determine if you hope to find him."

"I see. Well thank you, old man. I really do feel better after praying...for everyone. I wish the shrine had enough candles so that I could pray for all of them every day."

"Or fall asleep for them every day," the old man scoffed, though his eyes shone with a kindly twinkle. With that, he raised his hand in farewell. Joshua bowed, wondering at the strange feeling of finality that had come over him.

As he returned home, he could smell baking bread. Joshua let himself into the house and sat down at the table, savoring the aroma. Along with his enjoyment of the smell, he experienced a keen sorrow from within. The monk had pointed him in the direction of redemption, but the quest would be long and arduous. It was a sobering thought to think that he might not return from the journey while his parents lived.

"Hello, dear," his mother said. "Were you out walking again?" There was a searching look in her eyes and a desperate fear of losing her son. Joshua's heartfelt even heavier as he realized that this time he would be breaking the news to her himself. After all, those who journeyed to the end of the world were given up for dead; he had never heard of anyone who had returned alive.

"Last night, I was at the shrine we went to when I was a boy," he said. "I lit many candles and prayed for the souls of the dead in Palsesuit. The monk at the shrine told me a legend of a tremendous bird called the phoenix..."

The entire time, Joshua's mother listened quietly. Only her trembling hands betrayed her reaction.

"It is my intention," Joshua concluded, "to go to the end of the world, find the bird, and plead for his aid. Only in that way do I believe I can find redemption." His tale finished, Joshua braced himself for her inevitable outburst.

However his mother wept no tears, nor did she wildly implore him to stay, to think of what it would mean to attempt such a foolish quest. Rather she only shook her head. "How odd," she murmured. "How very odd."

"What is?" Joshua said, confused.

"You say you were at the shrine we went to when you were a child, right?" Joshua nodded. "But that shrine was abandoned shortly after you left with Lydia. Everyone goes to the one at the center of town now."

Chills wriggled up and down Joshua's spine. "But the candles, the monk..." he trailed off. "It must be a sign of some sort," he concluded.

"Yes," his mother agreed. "It grieves me to think that I may never see you again in this life. But I will not stand between you and redemption. Your father would feel the same way."

Joshua smiled and hugged his mother. "Thank you," he whispered. "In that respect, you are the strongest woman I know."

Joshua began his quest at sunset, the time at which the villagers buried their dead. His parents saw him off as far as the abandoned shrine, which marked the edge of the village. With the help of his mother, Joshua had thrown together his traveling supplies in haste; they included a map of all the known lands, bread, cheese, apples, a waterskin, a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a cloak. As he walked down the well-beaten path, it struck him that his supplies were hardly sufficient to withstand the journey. Of course, there would be villages along the way where he could replenish them; he knew of many wherein he could stop, even taking the most direct route. The difficulty would arise when he reached the end of the lands he knew. But that would be in time; there was no sense in thinking about it for the present.

The first hundred miles of Joshua's journey took him through the deep forests. He set snares for rabbits and felled squirrels with rocks, always keeping his arrows for the last, when he would need them. Clear streams ran through the lovely lands, and flowers filled the air with their perfume. It would have seemed a pleasant stroll if not for the baby green dragons frolicking from tree to tree. These, the first creatures he had killed in becoming Dragonslayer, reminded him all too often of the grim purpose of his quest.

By the time he made it out of the forest lands, summer had lost herself in the rough embraces of autumn. He had come to the plains, where tall grasses waved like golden flags in the almost perpetual wind. Here he made friends with the tribes of wandering people and traded them stories for shelter and safety within their camps. One group, who traveled by wagon, told him of a town called Chanderdance, where he could replenish his supplies if need be. Knowing that it would be less and less likely to find food the closer winter became, Joshua decided to visit Chanderdance.

However, his directions proved inaccurate by a wide margin. Joshua was nearly out of supplies and halfway to the mountains before he realized his mistake. He reached Chanderdance within a week afterwards, but with all his supplies exhausted. He wandered through the market ignoring the glares of the venders as he picked up vegetables and fruits – the last of the harvest - that had fallen to the ground. He did not even care that he looked like a beggar with smears of dirt around his mouth. At first he was determined not to accept charity, but then he found a bread stand. More posh bakers would disdain having their wares out in the open air, but in the growing cold, Joshua found the warmth and sweet scent of the bread to be a great comfort. He did not realize he had stood there for so long until the lady at the booth left her post and pressed a roll into his hands.

"Here," she said. "You look like you could use it."

Joshua eyed the bun suspiciously for a minute, then crammed the whole thing into his mouth. Divinity engulfed his taste buds. "Thank you," he said.

"That accent," the lady answered, her eyes distant. "Where are you from?"

"The north," Joshua said. His village, even now, had no name. "I'm on a quest, but winter has forced me to come to town for a while."

"I see. Won't you tell me of some of your adventures?" she asked. "I have meat at home and more bread. You are more than welcome at my table."

"How can I refuse?" Joshua said with a laugh. He held out his rough hand. "I am Joshua."

"No family name?" the woman asked as she took his palm with her floury fingers.

Joshua shook his head. "My name is one that brings shame to me."

"Ah." Though she spoke nonchalantly, there was no mistaking the hunger in her eyes. She wanted to hear the story. "I am Roadrin Manetheir. Come," she said, still holding his hand. "My home is this way."

They threaded their way through alleys that were beginning to fill up with snow until they came to a modest house made of red brick with blue shingles.

"Mother's home!" screeched a little girl. Feet pattered on the wooden floor. A girl with hair as golden as Roadrin's and a youth who also bore a golden crown appeared in the entryway.

"Corwin, did you watch over Annya as I told you?" Roadrin asked.

Joshua swallowed hard. His mouth suddenly soured.

"Yes, mother," Corwin said impatiently. "I'm starving! Why won't you let me start dinner while you're away?"

"Because," Roadrin said with an apologetic look at Joshua. "You're still too young. If you burn down the house, we'll be in trouble for the winter."

"When will I be old enough?"

But Roadrin was in the kitchen retrieving pots and pans, making no small amount of ruckus. Meanwhile, Annya approached Joshua with an avid curiosity in her eyes that mirrored that of her mother. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Our dinner guest," Roadrin called over her shoulder before Joshua could answer. "Corwin, Annya, come help with these vegetables!"

So it went, with merry chatter the whole time. Joshua offered to help, but Roadrin only told him to sit at the table and try not to starve. Joshua watched the front door with interest, wondering what Roadrin's husband would be like. However, the entire time he sat there, no one came. Roadrin did not seem at all worried when she started setting down the platters and the other dishes.

Despite his growing curiosity, Joshua waited until after dinner when he and Roadrin were sleepily washing the dishes to ask her.

"Well, it seems that you will get a story out of me before I hear one of you," Roadrin said wryly. "My husband Dein was a guide. He helped people through the mountains that are about fifty miles south of here. However, one evening, he and his party were ambushed by brigands. They beat him to death..." she trailed off. "That was the night that Annya was born, five years ago. Sometimes I forget that he's gone and I watch for his face at the window..."

"I'm sorry," Joshua said, not really knowing how to react.

"Really, it is fine," Roadrin said as though she had forgotten Joshua were there, "though I still miss him..." Then it was as if she had come back to herself. "But let's not talk of sad things. Tell me what adventure brings you here. You look like an adventurer, you know."

However, there were to be more delays in Joshua's relating his quest. Right when he and Roadrin had sat down at the table with steaming mugs of tea, a shout came from the back of the house. "Mother, it's time for bed. Tell us a story."

Roadrin gave Joshua an apologetic look. Joshua, exhausted from his travels, started to find even the hard wooden chair he occupied comfortable. He tried to stay awake, but awoke the next morning with his head on the table and a woolen blanket thrown over his shoulders. He rose from the chair rubbing his eyes and crossed the kitchen to the pump. He attempted to work the lever, but it was stuck fast. Then he noticed that the window, through which he had seen diamond-bright stars the night before, was completely white.

"Gods," he whispered.

Soundlessly Roadrin appeared behind him. "A blizzard," she affirmed. "This is hardly the earliest we've had one, though. We are in the foothills of the mountains, after all."

"I hope you don't mind my staying here until the storm blows over," Joshua said.

"No, not at all," Roadrin said. Actually she appeared as delighted as a child presented with two sweets instead of just one. "I'll start making breakfast. We have extra water stored in jugs in the basement. If you could fetch those for me and a cord of wood, I'd greatly appreciate it."

"Sure," Joshua said. "Who cut the wood for you?"

"I did," Roadrin said.

With new respect for her, Joshua went to the basement to get the wood. The blizzard endured for three days. Nonetheless, Joshua never had the opportunity to tell the tale of how he became Kinslayer. On account of the foul weather, the children were always around. Joshua had no wish to frighten them, or worse yet, incur their wrath, which, after the nature of all children, made no allowances for those in the wrong. He did not think that he could bear seeing the accusation in their faces. He knew in fact that he would not see Annya and Corwin's faces, but those of his own children. Maybe Lydia, too.

When the blizzard ended, at around midnight on the third day, Joshua was awakened by the jarring silence. In all too short of a time he had become accustomed to the ceaseless wailing and howling of the wind. He left his pallet and went to sit in the kitchen, thinking. Roadrin, also startled to wakefulness from the uncanny quiet, came into the kitchen.

"You're awake," she said.

"Yes," Joshua said. "I have been thinking. There is no way I can proceed with my quest without going through the mountains. Yet I have no arrangements in this town save for with you and the children."

"I know what you are asking," Roadrin said slowly. "And you are a kind person for asking first."

"But you are certain I am not imposing?" Joshua insisted.

"Certainly not!" Roadrin answered, the fierce stubborn light entering her eyes. "And don't you ever mention it again. You've already proven that you are a patient hard-worker. It will be an honor for me to have your help this winter. And..." she murmured something that Joshua did not understand at first. It was not until she had gone back upstairs that his mind put the seemingly disjointed words together so they made some kind of sense. "It's almost like being a full family again."

Her words chilled him at the time, and as the days passed, her unconscious invitation became an even stronger temptation. With the worst of the blizzard behind them, there were walks to be shoveled, wood to be chopped, and snowball fights to be had with the children. Although he slept in the parlor, Joshua began to feel more and more the bond between him and Roadrin strengthening as though they were becoming man and wife just by being close to one another. Yuletide passed, then the New Year. The children had accepted him as a permanent fixture of the house, and a radiant happiness surrounded Roadrin. It was as though she had become a child again. She even joined in with the snowball fights and told many stories when the children lay tuckered out by the fire.

However, as the days grew longer, a kind of dread descended in Joshua's heart. His quest called to him with the coming of spring. And yet, he knew it would rip a great fissure in his heart to leave Roadrin and the children. More and more often in the night he wondered if redemption was really worth the pain caused by his leaving.

The time of his decision came when the snows were but a sheer covering on the ground, when Corwin and Annya returned to school. Roadrin waved good bye to them and warned them to be careful and to study well. When they were out of sight, she turned to Joshua. Her blue eyes burned into his. "You made a promise many months ago," she said. "You were going to tell me of your quest."

Joshua's heart suddenly felt dragged down by steel weights. Duty crushed his shoulders as old pain tore at him from inside. Noticing his expression, Roadrin put a hand on his shoulder. "If there is no tale, I can forgive you," she said. "I think our meeting was blessed by the gods-" Never had she seemed as childish as she did now, so utterly innocent of what he was going to say.

"There is a quest," he told her. The quiet intensity with which he spoke silenced her near-babbling. "Long ago I was called Joshua Dragonslayer. There was no washing the reek of dragon stench, ash and smoke, from my skin. Hundreds of beasts had fallen to my lance. I was so engrossed in my career that I moved from town to town offering my aid in exchange for wealth and glory. My wife Lydia and our children came with me everywhere. One day I took on a dragon more powerful than me, a dragon that had committed no crime, save for imposing limits on the mayor's greed. The dragon defeated me and burned Palsesuit to the ground."

Roadrin gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth. "Your wife! Your children?"

"Dead from smoke inhalation. I returned to my home village in the north. There I was given a sign by the gods, a way to seek for my redemption. I am traveling to the end of the world to seek the phoenix that holds the secret of resurrection. And I must move on soon, for the journey is long and the way I have yet to travel is vast."

"It is an incredible story," Roadrin said. "And so much more. I can see the truth in your eyes." She touched her heart. "I can feel your pain." Her eyes narrowed. "But I still think your quest is foolish. The end of the world, you say? You are trying to win back their lives with your own!" Tears glimmered in her eyes, escaped down her cheeks. "Even if they are resurrected, you will die shortly thereafter. Who knows what strain such a journey will put on you? You don't benefit in any way from bringing them back! I never told you before who Dein was before the brigands killed him. He worked for two years as a member of the city guard. However, there was a robbery one night. Dein gave chase to the thieves... They were only youths. He overpowered them, but it was too much. His sword blows killed them. He was never the same afterwards. That was why he became a guide, so he would never have to face that choice again. And that was why he was killed by brigands just like those for whom he mourned."

"That's as may be," Joshua conceded. "But the situations are not the same. I was responsible for the deaths of my loved ones. I seek my redemption in undertaking this journey."

"Is redemption really that important to you?"

Joshua nodded, and as he did, he felt something between Roadrin and him change. Once she had been a vibrant flower. Now she was a mere flash of color buried beneath a thick layer of unexpected ice.

"You are a fool, Joshua, to throw away your life for the dead! It is still winter in the mountains. You should wait until summer to attempt it. You should-"

Joshua bit his tongue. How could he tell Roadrin how he agonized in the night, the times his mind mistook the children for his own, the times in the night when his desire for her pulsed with such strength? Sometimes her children were a daily reminder of what he had done, how simply turning back could have kept him with Lydia, Corwin, and Kelsea. How he reconciled the situation by rationalizing that Roadrin was a temptation the gods had put in his path – a temptress and savior. "I can't. I'm sorry." The words sounded both flimsy and false.

"So am I," Roadrin said. "But go if you must go." She wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.

And so Joshua went. Though he had left Roadrin and her children forever behind, her words, pain-filled yet truth-laden still lingered in his mind. "You are a fool, Joshua, to throw away your life for the dead!" They rang out as he attempted the mountain passes, which were indeed filled with snow and susceptible to storms. Her voice spoke again in his mind as he crossed the barren wasteland on the other side of the mountains, starving and weakening with each step that he took.

Again he heard Roadrin speak when he reached Sith-Thasay, a town at the edge of the wilderness. Beyond this town where the rich squandered their money on gambling, drugs, and whores lay the sea. Some of the less educated folk considered the sea to be the edge of the world. But Joshua, from his vision, knew better. However, he had not the money to procure passage across the ocean, so he was forced to work in the city, which, for all its finery and wealth, was still like an apple rotted from the inside out. The corruption, the suffering, and the atrocities he witnessed while working there nearly unhinged his sanity. In those times, Roadrin's words were like a blessing to him rather than a harsh admonition.

After nearly five years of miserable existence in Sith-Thasay, Joshua could afford the steep price of sailing. He set out with a group of explorers with whom he had become well-acquainted in the gambling chambers. These were the men who came to Sith-Thasay to take chances, to bed strange women, to stake their life's savings on cards, to pull death-defying stunts in the streets while bribing the authorities not to arrest them for doing so. These were men whose pulses ground to a halt without the most potent drug of all: the thrill of skirting the line between life and death. For this reason, all fifteen members of the gang wore coats that reached their feet. On the front pocket and the back of said coat was emblazoned a yellow-white skull and the words The Dead Men.

Joshua told The Dead Men of his quest one night in a filthy dockside pub, with one hand on his money pouch, the other on a dagger. His story inspired their respect. They even wanted to make him an honorary member, though Joshua declined. Nonetheless, he still had to chip in like all the other members. Doing so, Joshua was well aware, would take the last of the money he possessed. Once he set out for the end of the world, there would be no going back.

The journey across the sea began on the following spring. For the first hundred miles or so, The Dead Men would pull into the islands along the way to hunt and gather fresh water. Yet about five hundred miles in, the expanse of dark water remained unbroken to both the naked eye and the telescope. Sickly yellow clouds filled the sky, obscuring the stars. The Dead Men, however, had no need of stars to steer. Their compasses, they told Joshua, were based on magnets the like of which were supposedly found only at the end of the world. "They'll call to each other," they told him. At this point, only Joshua's vision and the hope of redemption kept him from casting himself over the side.

They sailed for over a full year before coming within sight of land. Even then, it was a full year and a half before Joshua and the crew actually made landfall. Although the continent at the end of the world was visible, it was vast and distant. As they sailed closer, the sky gave them a foretaste of the dangers the continent offered. Flames erupted skyward, like pillars of solid fire. The earth and sea trembled with a violence that was stunning in its ferocity. The closer they came, the fainter the light of the sun became until the noxious clouds of gas that surrounded the continent like a fog obscured it almost entirely.

At long last, The Dead Men pulled into a cove. The crew eagerly scrambled onto the land, then looked about them in dismay. All were wan and pale-faced because of the lack of food. However, this land seemed even more barren than the sea.

"I will take my leave from you now," Joshua told the leader of The Dead Men. "May you find what you seek."

"And you, too," the leader said, bowing to Joshua.

With that, Joshua Kinslayer began to pick his way through the sharp forbidding rocks. He had beaten the odds and made it to the end of the world. But now that he was here, he had no idea how he would find the firebird. That night he lay on the hard stones unable to sleep for his rumbling belly and the tremors of the earth under his head. As he gazed at the gloomy sky, he saw a tail of fire dance across the sky. He sat bolt upright, adrenaline singing in his veins. It could only be the phoenix! He jumped to his feet. Heedless of safety, Joshua dashed through the maze of rocks, trying to keep the bird's tail feathers in sight. However, he came to a dead end, a cliff that would be impossible to scale without rope and footholds. The flame in the sky died away.

"No! Why?" Joshua whispered, kneeling on the ground. He wept then, bitter tears that stung his face, until sleep claimed him. The shattering of rocks like glass on the ground near him awoke him from his dead dark slumber. Joshua stumbled to his feet, his eyes wide with horror. One of the mountains in whose shadow he dozed was spewing a fountain of fire into the air. Could that have been what I saw last night? Joshua wondered. The prospect was too horrible to believe. If ever he came to believe, his last hope would be extinguished and his sanity depart. So he continued to wander the ends of the earth, sleeping by day and traveling by night, always hoping to glimpse that plume of fire. In time he came to distinguish the many flames that vied for space in the sky. There were dying stars that fell from the heavens to batter the ground in fiery explosions and the molten volcanic fire flinging through the air. And there was always that one flame that shone golden, red, and amber, the flame that led him ever farther south.

Within a decade of this harsh existence, living to follow the flame, Joshua found that he had grown old. It was something in the air that slowly aging him faster than the days should permit. Within ten years, Joshua had aged twenty. Walking for long distances, even breathing became difficult. His progress slowed to a crawl, but Joshua would not give up.

His efforts paid off one smoggy dawn when he stumbled on the firebird's roost. The sun shone pale red through the perpetual mists and fell on the flame-hued feathers of the mighty bird. As Joshua stood there, stunned at the sum of the years that had led him to fulfill his quest, the phoenix spoke to him in a voice that grated like a rumbling rockslide.

"Your search has been long."

"The pain is as though they died yesterday," Joshua admitted. "That is where I find my strength to keep following you."

"But what can I do?"

"Come to the city I destroyed. Bring back the people I love."

"What good will their resurrections do you? You are nearly on the brink of death yourself. And it was your folly that destroyed them, Kinslayer." The phoenix's words were almost Roadrin's.

A heavy ache filled Joshua's chest. Tears stung his eyes. "It is not for my sake that I have come this far. That may have been what I thought at the beginning of the journey, that I would redeem myself. But now I know...this is the only chance I have of making reparation to them. They did not deserve death. It is my wish to give back the life that was stolen from them. For their sakes, I made this journey."

The phoenix cocked its head. "It has taken a long time, Joshua Dragonslayer. But I think you finally understand that fated day, though it was so long ago... Come," he said, rising from the nest and bending down one red-feathered wing toward Joshua. "My time fast approaches. And I need you to show me the way to Palsesuit."

Their flight took almost two days. Joshua was amazed at how far his travels had taken him, despite the amount of time in which he had done them. The familiar smell of ash filled his eyes with tears once more. "There," he said, pointing at the ruins. "That is the gravesite." The phoenix alighted and motioned for Joshua to step down. The two of them walked to the very center of the village. There the phoenix spoke the words of magic.

"Thanks be to the gods," Joshua whispered, his wrinkled face radiant with the first smile it had worn in years. "Now you shall all have a chance to live again." Before the phoenix's spell was complete, however, Joshua himself died.

The phoenix shook his head and sighed. "It seems that we shall all be reborn together, then. Fate shall have her way." With that, flames erupted from the mighty bird's body and engulfed the ruins and all within it. The phoenix's scream rang out to the heavens until the flames had been burning steadily for almost a day. Then the flames died away until only the embers remained to mark the sight of wondrous rebirth.

# About the Authors:

Jenue Brosinski: Brosinski was born in Jamaica, raised in the U.S., and now lives in Germany. She has a Bachelor of Science in Business Administration from Marquette University. She is a full-time mother and housewife whose hobbies include writing and baking.

Elena Clark: Elena Clark's whirlwind life started quietly in Kentucky, where she was home schooled by her parents and competed in equestrian competitions. As a teen she moved to Russia with her family, and has spent most of her adult life traveling the world. She has a B.A. in International Studies from UNC-Charlotte and an M.A. in Russian Translation from Columbia University. Along the way, she has held jobs as a freelance translator, riding instructor, office assistant, food service employee, and gardener.

Anthony Cooke: A sixteen year native of California, Anthony came to the West Coast in 1989. He settled in the Bay Area in 1992 to begin work on his first novel, Symmetry, a black humor horror novel which was completed in early 2005. Along the way, he has written poetry and short fiction while working as a cashier, librarian, barback, and other jobs.. His work is inspired by dreams, the undercurrents in the hidden recesses of urban life, and the idea of how modern situations create constantly shifting (and conflicting) identities. His work will appear in the upcoming anthology In Their Own Words: A Generation Defining Themselves, vol. 6. Currently he is juggling working toward a degree in English and working on his second novel, a historical dark fantasy.

Deanna Marie Emmerson: This Ontario resident started writing at the age of three and hopes to someday publish a collection of poetry and short stories.

Melissa Herman: Melissa Herman is a freelance writer living in Colorado Springs with her husband and their four-legged children.

Swapna Kishore: Swapna Kishore's previous writing credits include technical books, and she has a Bachelor of Technology degree from the Indian Institute of Technology, Delhi. Recently she has started writing fiction and essays. Her work can also be found at www.flashquake.org.

Jerry Kline: Jerry Kline is the son of Jerry and Barbara Kline. He was born November 22, 1985; and raised in Maryland, before moving to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania in 2004. Currently he is attending the Art Institute of Pittsburgh for Digital Media Production. This is the first time one of his stories has been published. He remains in debt to and wishes to thank God, his family, and his friends, (especially his Pittsburgh friends), for their support of his work, (without which he would have never made it this far).

David Lawrence: A sometimes reluctant subject of this experiment called "life," David Lawrence seeks to understand and share universal truths through the looking glass of creative fiction. A resident of Southern California, he is currently working on Tav: Future Perfect, the sequel to his first metaphysical science fiction novel, 22 Stories: Falling Upward through the Tarot. If you would like to read more by this author, go to www.infinitedot.com.

Meghann McVey: Currently a junior studying Creative Writing at Louisiana State University. She hopes to write fantasy novels and teach college level creative writing after graduation.

Bob Quinn: Poetry may seem an odd choice for a 56 year old construction worker and ex-Marine, but for Bob Quinn, his "Rough Verse" is the perfect medium for storytelling. Quinn started writing after suffering from a heart attack, and now seeks to share his unique vision and style.

Ross Raffin: Ross began writing at the age of 13. At age 14 his writing was legible enough so that everyone realized that he was writing and not drawing. His first publication credit was in The Doors, a religious satire magazine. He is currently working on a screenplay. He lives in Los Altos Hills with his two dogs, a 24" television, and a pile of paper and pencils. Most recently, his work can be found at The Cynic.

Lynn Veach Sadler: Formerly a college president in Vermont, Dr. Sadler distinguished herself in academia by earning the Extraordinary Undergraduate Teaching Award and the Distinguished Women of North Carolina Award for Education. Her academic publications include five books and over sixty articles. She has since turned her attention to creative writing and is widely published in poetry and fiction. Her full-length poetry collection, Like a Dragon's Mouth, is forthcoming from Rockway Press. One of her stories was published in Del Sol Press's Best of 2004: The Robert Olen Butler Prize Anthology. Not Your Average Poet was a 2005 Silver Medalist in the University of Tampa's Pinter Review Prize for Drama.

David Stephenson: A professor at St. John's College in Annapolis, MD, he currently teaches both philosophy and music. He is currently working on the sequel to his novel The Winds of Aeolus.

Ashley Tamerline: A first year communications student who lives in Philadelphia, PA. She inherited the writing bug from her mother, who helped her learn how to read as a child by reading poetry to her.

Mark Torrender: Torrender is a writer, cartoonist, and artist who has worked on such diverse projects as British children's television and horror screenplays for indie production companies. He published a children's novel, _Buzz-The Battle of Bumbleton Woods_ , in 2001.

